Recently my parents came to visit from Pittsburgh.
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It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year! Part 1
December 28, 2000
It’s the most wonderful time of the year! Part 1
Hey, I’ve been busy (and by busy I mean lazy) that is why I haven’t written any original content lately. But I decided that these count as writing samples so I better get my butt in gear.
So, I went home for Christmas. Just like the song says “I’ll be home for Christmas…To Pennsylvania for some homemade pumpkin pie.” Except that I hate pie crust and I don’t think my mom made any pumpkin ones, so really I just went to PA.
I was flying AirTran, which was only slightly better than the flight Indiana Jones took with the crates of chickens in the back, simply because I didn’t have to bail out in an inflatable raft. Why do I bother trying to save myself a few extra dollars by opting to fly Bob’s Discount Airbus when I can fly a “normal” airline and actually get home before it’s time to leave again?
Per usual I arrived at the airport in plenty of time to make my flight. Also per usual, the entire Chicagoland area was there as well. My flight was to depart at 10:45 am. It was 9:15. I made it through the throngs of people to the baggage counter. I had to check a bag, which I normally hate to do but it was the Christmas and I had a lot of crap with me. I checked in and the clerk wrote “Gate B3” and circled it. I even double checked the gate number on the monitors because the ticket agent looked shifty. So I went to gate B3. There were only a few people waiting and I was happy. Then I noticed the sign read ATA. Wrong gate! [And so it begins…] I asked the talking haircuts at the counter where my gate was “I don’t know, you are at the wrong gate.” No kidding.
I tried to explain that the ticket twinkie wrote down the wrong gate and that the monitor was also incorrect. The Fantastic Sam’s rejects just scoffed and said “Try further down.” Thanks. You could have given me help but you’ve given me so much more. I continued down the terminal until I found my gate. D86. Not even close. It was packed. People were everywhere. All the seats for full and there was still about 30 people standing. Everyone had a steamer trunk of luggage and a screaming baby. My hate began to set in.
According to the monitors everything was still on time. I scanned the area for a forgotten seat. None to be found. Then an old lady got up to go to the bathroom. I waited the requisite 15 seconds then snatched up her chair. “Move your feet, lose your seat, Grandma!” At least I was now sitting.
It turned out that the 7:45am flight still hadn’t left – that means my flight was going to be delayed. [Must control fists of rage.] The man sitting across from me had his 14 year-old niece with him. She was a typical teenager and succeeded in irritating everyone around her. Including her uncle. She kept signing the chorus to Nelly’s E.I., “ungele, ungele, moma E.I., E.I. uh-ohhhh!¹…” over and over and over again. Her uncle finally asks her to knock it off. Then he sends her on a scavenger hunt all over the airport. “Go to gate A1 and tell me time that flight is leaving,” or “Go find out if there is a flight number 123.” Etc. Each time she would be gone for about 10 minutes and we would get a breather.
About 3 seats down from them was a living Sears Family Portrait. This family consisted of a giant burly man with a leg cast and a bad back. A hyper woman with a mullet and reading glasses from Phar-Mor and a very quiet 4 year-old in a stroller. The woman was very loud and annoying. She was telling everyone that they missed the 6:15 flight and now are on standby for the 10:45 which has now been delayed until Noon. She then said to some random passenger in reference to her son, “He’s been good this whole time. We’ve been in this airport for 5 hours and he hasn’t been fussy or cranky.” “That’s more than I can say about you.” her husband chimed in. She then gave him a death sneer and said “See what I have to deal with?! Oh…but I love him. He’s all mine!” I’m not making this up. Dear God, I wish I was.
Next we get an announcement from the ticketing agent that the flight to Atlanta is due to arrive in 10 minutes. Also the flight to Pittsburgh is due to arrive in 12 minutes. They both have to come to the same gate so whichever one gets here first, will be the first to leave. They are hoping for a 30 minute turn-around on the first flight. This is never easy, is it?
Everyone is waiting to see which flight will come in first. Maybe if they had more than one gate they wouldn’t have this problem. The hairdo gets on the intercom: “It looks like a flight has just arrived.” Silence while everyone is poised in anticipation. “It’s pulling up to the gate now. It’s the flight to…” Will it be my flight? Will it be the flight to Atlanta? Why does she have to wait until the plane actually pulls up, do they not have computers? Look for the answer in Part 2.
¹ Those lyrics come directly from the Nelly site
It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year! Part 2
December 28, 2000
It’s the most wonderful time of the year! Part 2
Where was I? Right, which plane was coming in first? Of course, not mine.
So I was stuck there for at least another 30 minutes. At least. My 10:45am flight left Chicago at 1:30, which means to go to Pittsburgh at 4:45. So while I’m waiting for my flight finally arrive and the Atlanters (Atlanteers? Atlantians?) are boarding, some random guy starts talking to me. Why? What do I look like, “The Boy Who Could Make Smalltalk?” I was not interested in the weather, sports, politics, etc.
The ticket lady starts to make an announcement and some airport employee opens an emergency exit door setting off the alarm. It was an ear-piercing screech accompanied by a flashing light. I can’t even explain how obnoxious it was. It took 15 minutes for them to turn it off. --- Finally, I am on the plane. It is a tiny plane. There were 30 rows of 2 and 3. I am in the window which is good. However, the seat is so small that the back of the seat in front of me was resting on my nipples. I couldn’t even sit with my knees straight out in front of me. They had to be angled to the side. Next to me sits down a reasonably normal looking guy. That is, until he opens his mouth. He turns to some other guy across the aisle and says (and I quote) “Hey, did you see that chick in the back row? She is hot. Go back and take a look, huge knockers!” So the moron pretends to go to the bathroom and comes back saying, “Yeah. She is hot, I’d do her.” Thanks. Why not go up to this hottie and say “I’d do ya,” and see what she says. I am so sure she’d love that. Perhaps you’d even score, big man. It pains me to see that there are still people like this. What a bunch of idiots.
So, the plane is up and running and the flight attendants are giving us their spiel. I always pretend I am paying attention to their performance. I feel bad, they have three responsibilities, pointing out the safety precautions, dispensing beverages and saying “B’bye.” So the least I can do is feign interest. I am glad I did because they were awful. First of all there were two of them and they weren’t in sync with each other let alone the vocalized instructions. They kept getting farther behind and then had to scramble to catch up. By the end, one finished about seven seconds ahead of the instructions, while the other was five seconds behind them. If this was my first flight, I would have been very confused. For all we knew, the air masks would deploy when the seat belt sign came on and I think the exits were located in the seat back pocket in front of me.
--- Fast forward to Friday night. My sister had tickets to see Andy Williams in concert. Yes, Andy Williams. He is that old guy that sings Christmas songs, mostly. So I was going with her – it was going to be a nice, relaxing Holiday concert. It was at the A.J. Palumbo center which is Duquesne University’s basketball arena. The show was set to start at 7:30. We left the house at 6:15 just in case there was traffic or what-not, which is a big lead, considering the place is less than a 30 minute drive. Little did we know there was Penguin game. We were cruising along just fine until we hit the mother of all traffic jams trying to get through the Armstrong tunnels, (one of many sets of tunnels in Pgh, for you out-of-towners.) We came to a halt then slowly began to inch into the tunnels. We ended up getting stuck right before the bend in the tunnels. We sat there for about 40 minutes. We couldn’t get anything on the radio (being deep inside a hillside and all) and so we had to resort to listening to tapes. The only music selection that was in the car was some old New Kids on the Block tape. So we listened to “Hanging Tough” and “The Right Stuff.” We were starting to get concerned because the concert was set to start in about 20 minutes and we were still stuck in the stupid tunnel. The only song Jessica wanted to hear was “It’s the most wonderful time of the year.” If we were to miss that she would be disappointed.
Finally we start moving. It takes a while but we get to the venue and park. We are only about seven minutes late. No big deal, right? Wrong. We missed the first song entirely, which was “It’s the most wonderful time of the year.” Bah Humbug! So we find our seats on the risers. They weren’t actual seats, they were bleachers. Some 95 year-old woman and her mother had our seats so we just sat a row behind. I looked around and saw that even if you added mine and Jessica’s ages together, we were still about 50 years younger than the average person attending.
The concert turned out to be pretty fun. It was something different and Christmas-y. I was in a good mood. Then we go to get the car. We were on level 7. Everyone was trying to leave at the same time, the elevators weren’t working and so we had to walk. It took us one hour to get out of the parking garage. At least we had the radio this time so a lot of car dancing to that Shaggy song took place.
Afterward, I dragged Jessica to Pegasus. One of Pittsburgh’s lone gay dance clubs. It was the first time there for both of us. Queer as Folk it ain’t. We parked in the $3 pee-pee garage (pee-pee because of the smell, not because of the gayness) and walked down Liberty Ave to the club. It was 10:30. We were the first ones there. Literally. We decided to get a drink and wait it out. Next a bunch of queens came in and plopped themselves in front of the bar. We chatted and waited. Then finally by 11:15 it was crowded. They had the fugliest go-go boys dancing on pillars. The DJ kept saying “Please do not touch the go-go boys.” Trust me, you don’t need to tell me twice.
Jessica and I were minding our own business when the creepiest man alive came over and was hovering around us. We made quickly retreated to the dance floor. Then we happened to run into the only other straight woman there and struck up a conversation. She was at her brother’s wedding and had to leave the reception because of “all the hybrid no-necks running around doing the YMCA.” I liked her. All in all, a fun evening.
Part three will be my story about Christmas Eve church service and why it took me two days to get back to Chicago.
It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year! Part 3
December 28, 2000
Christmas Eve Service
So here we are, Christmas Eve. We have to go to church. It’s a one time a year thing for me and quite frankly, that is one time too many. But now I can kind of look forward to it because I will end up seeing people from high school that I only see once a year. Well, not really.
The only people I look forward to seeing at church are Meghan Coulehan (nee Boyle) and Heather Webb (but I think she is married now.) Unfortunately, I didn’t see either.
We went to the 11:00pm service at Baldwin Community United Methodist Church. Long name, short service. We got there relatively early – 10:40pm. Yet, it was so crowded from all the perennials that we had to sit in the front row! No, I was not pleased. The front pew means that not only did we have to walk all the way down the ¼ mile aisle but I will have 500+ pair of eyes burning a hole in the back of my head. Also Reverend “super-boring” Aupperle will pick me out to smite.
So, I dressed up in my most fashionable “I-live-in-Chicago-now” outfit from the Gap. Which is dumb because they have just as many, if not more Gaps in Pgh than in Chicago. So we sit in the front row and even though my parents know better than to let my sister and I sit next to each other (even after all these years) we prevail. I grab my bulletin (it’s like a program with a picture of poinsettias on it, for those not in the know) and a pencil and decide to take notes. Now, I am going to decipher my notes almost 4 months later and see what happens.
First up: the ugly Christmas tree. It is covered in Chrismons. Do you know what Chrismons are? I bet Catholics don’t. I’ll explain. Methodists are a trashy people. They make Christmas tree ornaments out of Styrofoam and glitter. You think I am kidding? I am not. I am sure they are meant to represent something and I am sure I am going to go to Hell but I am already going there for so many other reasons I might as well get in the VIP section.
Okay, imagine taking a piece of Styrofoam (not the good kind, the really porous, brittle kind), cutting into the shape of a manger or a star or some Frankincense or something. Then taking Elmer’s glue, pouring it on the non-biodegradable, CFC filled Jesus and dumping ½ a bottle of gold glitter on it. Then with a pencil poke a hole in it somewhere and use red yarn to make a hook to loop over the tree branch. Repeat process until you have enough trash to cover a 14 foot tree and marvel in its Christina-Aguilerity. Viola!
So, we are face to face with the Christmas trash tree as the service begins. The Reverend Dr. Snooze-Alarm goes through the usual rigmarole and I am trying to occupy myself. Since we are in the front row, I can’t even make fun of people’s clothes. At least not yet. I reach into the back of the pew in front of us (okay, we were actually in the second row but no one was in front of us, so by default…) and I find a “Hello my name is…” sticker. This harks back to the time in the late 90’s when then church thought that new comers would actually wear one of these and introduce themselves. Two words: Puh. Lease! So I take it and write a name in the space. I then stick it to my sister’s leg. She looks down and reads “Hello, My name is…Pam Dawber .” This, of course, elicits much giggle from her. She is trying to stifle her laughs, which of course make it worse. I am getting much pleasure from this. My mom smiles because she knows I am a trouble maker and my dad frowns. Hee hee. Good times.
So after that, I look in the bulletin and see that it is time for the monologue. That is actually what it says, I have it here in front of me, The monologue. I know that is what it is called but it just sounds funny. Alas, it was like a Jay Leno monologue – long and pointless. Boo! But it really wasn’t his fault. I mean, we had just heard about the Immaculate Conception and really, how can you follow that?
Communion time! Methodists are also lazy, we make them bring the communion to us. None of this "getting up and waiting in line" crap. In fact, they continue preaching while the ushers bring around the num-nums. Religious multi-tasking. We had just come from a big family gathering at our house so I was pretty stuffed. “Body of Christ? No thanks. I’m full.” Unfortunately, I have to take one. Unlike the Catholic Communion, our “host” isn’t a Necco wafer. It’s actually a very tasty short bread. A Divine Lorna Doone. Yum. Who knew the body of Christ was so delicious! Afterwards of course, you must wash it down with the Blood of Christ. I want to start singing the Cure song “I’m paralyzed! By the Blood of Christ!…” Of course that wouldn’t go over so well. “Jason! Stop singing!”, “But I was just making a joyful noise unto the Lord.” Oh well.
So, I take the little plastic shot glass of grape Hi-C as the waiter…I mean, usher, passes it to me. And of course I grab the one that some delinquent altar boy decided to shove in the hole as hard as possible (true story). It’s stuck and the usher is growing impatient. I tug at it and it shatters sending grape juice and plastic shards everywhere. Okay fine. Ha ha, God. You got me. Good one. I take another as my sister and mother laugh.
After snacks it's nap time, I mean, The Sermon. After that, the Greeting, where you turn and shake hands with the alcoholic and his wife who’s wearing a silver lame patched sweater who have been alternately singing and breathing in your ear the entire night, and then the Offertory (i.e. Heavenly donations.) Then we all sing (or mouth) Silent Night as the whole church lights candles. Again, since we are in the front row, our candles melted all the way down and hot wax was dripping all over us. THANKS A LOT, JESUS!
After Gloria Patri (that’s a prayer, not a person) it’s over. Yay! Now I can frown at all the people wearing jeans. I mean have some respect, for God’s sake!
It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year! Part 4
December 28, 2000
My baby takes the morning train...
So, does anyone even care happens in Part 4 of my Christmas ordeal? It's been over eight months and I can barely remember. I will tell you this much. My flight was set to leave Pittsburgh (on AirTran) at about 5:00 PM. We are running late because of the weather and traffic and I am getting nervous. My dad decides to park at the farthest away spot possible. I mean, I think I could have walked home from the parking space.
I run into the airport, serpentine my way through hundreds of perms and Steelers jackets and make my way up to the ticket counter where I need to check some luggage. There are about 30 people in line and two ticketing agents. I am waiting and waiting. And waiting. I have about 45 minutes until my flight leaves. The line is not moving and I am getting nervous. Then one of the ticketing agents leaves! Leaves! Bitch, where are you going? Get back here! Go smoke your Benson & Hedges on your own time. I never got closer than 8 people from the desk because I waited until twenty minutes before my flight was going to leave and I knew I’d never make it if I stayed.
We run off to the gate which requires us going through metal detectors (I beeped twice –how dare I where a belt!), take the Willy Wonka Tram to the airside terminal and get to the gate before the flight is about to leave. According to the various monitors and the board at the gate, it is set to leave on time. We get up there and the woman is like “Oh, that flight is delayed until at least 11:00 pm. Probably cancelled. Have a nice day. …Next?” If my parents hadn’t been there, I would have said the F word so long and loud that the Amish in Lancaster would have heard me and held an emergency meeting. Why is it delayed?, because of weather somewhere between Pittsburgh and Chicago. Damn that Indiana! I knew I never liked that state.
So now I am freaking out. Should I wait until 11:00 just to find out that it is cancelled? Should I go home and try again tomorrow? Should I strangle the next person that looks at me cross-eyed? We hang around for a bit while I start to have a nervous breakdown. Slowly from the inside out. We decide to leave and try back tomorrow. What pisses me off most is that you can call AirTran, read the departure monitor and view the board at the gate and they all saw “on-time”. WHY!? On our way back to the car I am still flipping out (not outwardly, but silently imploding from anxiety.) I decide that I MUST get back to Chicago even if I have to steal a car or rent a donkey. I get a brainstorm – Amtrak! I’ll take the 11:00 pm train and get into Chicago the next morning at 8:00 am; having slept on the train I will be refreshed and calm and then I can go straight into work. Obviously I was delirious to think such a plan would work.
I call Amtrak and the ticket is like $70 or something. Fine. My parents just want to get me out of their hair, so they are all for it. I book the train over the phone and we go home.
---Time passes---
We drive down to the train station. It is not like Union Station in Chicago. It is like a junior high school locker room replete with the requisite smells. I am already beginning to dread this decision. We get there; I get my ticket and am told that the train is one-hour delayed. This is punishment because I was goofing off in church, isn’t it? We wait in the yellowed train station and watch two episodes of Barney Miller with the sound off. Finally the train arrives but they don’t tell us which track it is on. It ends up that the train also switched tracks and names. We find this out about 30 seconds before it is about to leave the station. I hop on and wave good-bye. Ahhh…time for a nice relaxing train ride. I must be a glutton for punishment. Have you ever taken a 9-hour train ride? It is not relaxing. First of all it is impossible to sleep in the seats. They are nice seats, big, reclining with a footrest, but not good for sleeping. I think over the whole trip I got 3 hours of sleep, if that. I woke up at every stop and there are dozens of them. Crapville, Pennsylvania. Crappierville, Ohio. Supercrapsburg, Indiana. Then of course it gets light at 5:30 and you are awake for good.
Somewhere around Cowtown, Indiana a family of five gets on the train. Mom, dad, and three little boys under the age of seven. They sit across the aisle from me. The youngest boy just kept saying “tree!” every time he saw a tree, which was 50 every second.
We get delayed even further because a cow or a person or a Yule log is blocking the tracks. We finally get to Chicago at 10:30 am – 2 hours and 30 minutes late. But it isn’t over yet. For some reason they decide we need to back into the station! Let me out here, I will walk. We pull way over into the west side and sit for 40 minutes while they switch the tracks. I can see my office building – please for the love of all things holy, just pull into the station!
Now, I need to mention, it is Monday and I need to go to work. Yes, I am going straight from the train to my office. Union Station is across the street from my office and I rush over and get to my desk at 11:25. I haven’t eaten, slept or bathed in hours. I look like road kill and I have to sit at my desk and read message board posts about Days of our Lives for the next six hours. It was the longest day of my life.
So, that is the ordeal that was my Christmas vacation. Why is it that when I travel somewhere it is such an ordeal? I am never leaving my apartment again. I just hope that when Brad and I fly to Savannah/Hilton Head next week we don’t have any problems. Yeah, right!
New Orleans Part 1: Getting There is Half the Fun!
December 8, 2000
New Orleans Part 1
Getting there is half the fun!
Hello. Brad and I took a trip down to New Orleans, Louisiana (NOLA) last week.
We left on Friday Dec. 8 and were scheduled to return on Monday Dec. 11 -
but that was before Stormageddon hit Chicago. More on that later.
The trip was a lot of fun. Neither of us had been to NOLA before and we weren't sure what to expect. We had two flight vouchers on Vanguard airlines. So our airfare was free. We also were going "off-season", so our hotel, The Queen and Crescent, was super-cheap as well. I mean, like over $100 off a night. SCORE!
Vanguard flies out of Midway airport here in Chicago. For those unfamiliar with Midway, it is the armpit of the airports. They are remodeling and expanding it, which means more annoyances for the passengers. To get to Midway from our apt. we need to take the redline to the orangeline. That was surprisingly no problem. Once we get to Midway though, you have to trek 10 miles from the subway to the terminals. You used to have to go through a pedway for about 3 minutes, then across a walkway in the parking garage and them another short pedway and you were there. Now, you have to go through the initial pedway with only one moving (well, it was broken) sidewalk (unacceptable). Then you go through the parking structure, around 13 SUV's, past a rude parking attendant, around 3 columns, do a three-point turn to the left, past a trixie and her bf making out, then down a loooong walkway. Next, you leave the parking garage (mind you it was freezing cold and my roller luggage has a gimpy wheel that makes it want to tip over constantly) then down another long hallway. 30 minutes later you enter the "under construction" part. It is never reassuring to see the workman with goggles, masks and Outbreak suits and me walking through the same cloud of vaporized asbestos with just a coat on. We then passed a tree made of fake poinsettias, then across some Donkey Kong bridge. Afterwards we have to answer a series of riddles from a troll. If we pass (we did) we get to swing from vines across a pit of alligators then run from a giant, perfectly round boulder that was chasing us because Brad foolishly had the wrong amount of sand in the bag when he took the golden idol. FOOL! We made it past that and (this part is true) we then had to walk outside and cross the street. The crossing wench waved us across and stopped traffic in the already busy airport drive. Then you enter the terminal from the farthest point away from your destination. It took us 87 minutes. I was grumpy(er).
The flight was fine - except the be-yotch wouldn't let us take our luggage on the plane. Actually she was really nice about it. I slapped her anyway just to show her who is boss. She checked it at the gate and I just know that some union-mob boss (Tony Santos?) stomped on it a few times for good measure.
All Vanguard flights now have to connect in Kansas City (I don't know which one either.) [Missouri! How many times do I have to tell you?! - Brad] And back to me, focus...thank you. They all have to connect in KC. Going to Buffalo from Pittsburgh? Connect in Kansas City. Minneapolis from Chicago? Connect in Kansas City. Yes, I know it's literally hundreds of miles out of the way, but you paid $83 round-trip, so shut up. Well, Chi to NOLA via KC makes some sense. So we were supposed to change planes. After a refreshing snack of ginger ale and Cheez-its (no peanuts) they inform us that this plane will be going on to N'Awlins so we don't have to either disembark or alight the aircraft (that is what she said). That is both good and great, with a smidge of bad thrown in because there has to be.
My fear is that since they put "transfer tags" on our luggage but now it doesn't need to be transferred that they will take our luggage off the plane, thinking it is supposed to be going somewhere else. I suppose a sane person would say that they aren't idiots and that is their only job so they should be good at it. Well, I say that I assume every person is an idiot until I meet them. If my only job was to stand in the cold and load other people’s luggage on and off of planes, then some of it is going to be "accidentally" misplaced.
We land in KC and take off again. More Cheez-its. Finally we land in New Orleans. In case you are wondering, it was 75 minutes from Chi to KC and 110 from KC to NOLA. Brad chooses to disembark the plane, while I opt for alighting because it sounds so much more theatrical. I did it with a flourish.
We make out way over to baggage carousel number 10. We wait and wait and wait and everyone gets their luggage but us. (to be continued...)
Hide the giant lube jar! The parents are coming!
My boyfriend and I live in the heart of Boystown
and by now my parents are used to what they refer to as "the lively
activity" that goes on nearly 24/7.
When they
first visited years ago, I was more worried about my surroundings and
made sure everything was "parent friendly." I would reddup the apartment
(that's Pittsburghese for "a quick clean") and do a scan to make sure
there weren't any nude male screen savers on the computers, a dog-eared
copy of the "Gay Kama Sutra" on the bookshelf or a 30-gallon jug of
lubricant on the dresser.
Read more.
Bedroom is a two-way street
A relationship is a two-way street.
One person gives a little and takes a little, and
the other does the same. There are also certain agreements made in a
relationship because one person doesn't like a particular chore. For
example, the guy might clean the litter box and the woman will vacuum,
or one person will kill the spiders and the other will dust the
tchotchkes. Or the husband will hunt dinner and the wife will cook it
up--hey, that's how the Ingalls family operated.
But
this sort of arrangement can get sticky in the bedroom. If one person
is tackling a big chore and the other is simply reaping the rewards,
there's a problem. That's why I was surprised when a friend of mine,
whom I shall call "Bob" to protect his identity and use a name with a
double-entendre, said he refuses to perform oral sex on his girlfriend
but expects her to pleasure him that way. How is that fair?
Read more.
How much 'Sex' can one person take?
I have a love/hate relationship with "Sex and the
City."
I loved the TV show but hated the first movie. So
I was a bit concerned about the "SATC2" movie that opened last week;
would this film be better or worse than the first?
I
had seen most of the episodes of "SATC" when it aired on HBO from 1998
to 2004. Say what you will about SJP's constant puns, Samantha's
over-the-top sexcapades and the girls' drag queen-inspired wardrobes,
it's a fun way to pass 25 minutes of your day--except when the character
of Mr. Big in on screen, and that's where my apprehension begins.
Read more.