Oh, Javier

There really isn't anything left to say about "No Country for Old Men" — which may be the finest Cohen Brothers movie ever (and I have seen them all) — so I won't go into detail. But too few movies lately have made me curl my toes in fear, or have shut up my fellow moviegoers and left them dazed as they walked out of the theater. The last villain to inspire this kind of desperate fear in me was Jason. In 1986. At a sleepover. Thank you, Javier Bardem.

The New York Times' best of 2007 lists came out today, and I was really surprised that it wasn't on all of them. There are very few scenes that I have witnessed that have inspired such fear in me as the one where Josh Brolin and Bardem come face to face for the first time in a rickety old west Texas hotel. I hope that these two actors — along with the irreproachable Tommy Lee Jones — get a few Oscar nods when the season rolls around.

'The Song Remains the Same'

Last night we went to "The Song Remains the Same," the Led Zeppelin concert movie about their appearance at Madison Square Garden in 1973, at the Egyptian Theatre.

Holy crap! I don't even know how to explain all the awesomeness.

It was put up on the big screen by a local rock station that gave away tickets. We happened on ours because a friend's wife didn't want to go (WTF?), which left us with a group of drunks, local celebrities, small children and innumerable stoned high school students.

In the lobby, this big bearded (superdrunk) guy was telling the story of how he moved to Boise. "Well, you know that song by Lynrd Skynrd? The one that starts out, 'It's eight o'clock in Boise, Idaho'? Yeah, well I heard that and thought Boise sounded like a cool place. So I moved."

The guy who sat in front of us had a seeing-eye dog and a jack and coke in one hand and a beer in the other, which he sloshed all over the seats. Before the movie started, he got all agitated and started yelling, "The dog drank my jack and coke! Fucking drank it!" He offered the dog his beer instead.

After a little girl who looked just like the kid from "Little Miss Sunshine" won the Zeppelin box set during a raffle and ran up the aisle clutching it to her chest as if it were the Hope Diamond, the show started. So did the smoking.

Oh my God, guys, the fantasy sequences are like the most awesome bits of kitsch you have ever seen in your life. Robert Plant as Gawain the Green Knight! Jimmy Page ages 100 years (totally realistically, too) in two minutes! John Paul Jones' bizarre Dutch boy haircut!

I have to say that the John Bonham fantasy sequence made me super sad. Here's the rest of these jackasses making epic-yet-ridiculous little movies about slaying dragons and shit and and his fantasy boils down to hanging out with his kid, racing cars, and drinking at the local pub. Aww!

Anyway, totally worth seeing on the big screen if you can do it for free. But who am I kidding? I would totally pay to see that 26 minute version of "Dazed and Confused" again. And so would the middle-aged lady behind me, who started raving, "Jesus fucking Christ! Fucking A!" every time they showed Robert Plant's package. And that happened a lot, guys. A lot.

Bordello Christmas

I don't usually decorate much for Christmas because the tree seems like the most important part of the deal, you know? But when you aren't home for Christmas green tree = fire hazard. So for the past few years my festive holiday decor has consisted of a miniature red tinsel tree and a string of sad bubble lights blinking wearily in the front window.
But that's all changing this year. Hello, bordello Christmas! My mom dragged me and my dad to a Michael's the other day. Holy crap! Who knew that Christmas had taken a turn for the tacky? After years of uber-tasteful Martha Stewart Christmas colors inspired by chicken eggs or some shit, it seems that this year's big trend is feathers. UGLY feathers. Gypsy Rose Lee feathers. The dwindling cash in my bank account stopped me from buying a wreath crafted out of feathers and jingle bells (available in both white and pink, of course) and a tree made entirely out of dyed pink feathers. A whole tree! Seriously. If Belle Watling decorated for the little baby Jesus' birthday, it would have looked like this.
Here are some of my favorites from the Internets. I know you're inspired!

Masri Sweets

My favorite bakery is a place I've never seen in a town I haven't visited for almost 10 years. But Masri Sweets of Dearborn, Mich., has become such a part of the gift-giving tradition in my family that if it ever closed I would feel as if I had lost my ring finger.

One of my dad's dear friends, an Egyptian man who is married to a Palestinian woman, started sending us the deluxe boxes of Masri Sweets many years ago. Masri Sweets is a Palestinian bakery that bears the name of its founder, Muhi-Eldeen Masri, who started selling breakfast pastries on the streets of Nablus in 1902. His son and daughter-in-law own the bakery in Michigan now.

Inside a green-and-orange box of Masri Sweets is stuff that's foreign to people who aren't fortunate enough to live in a town with a large Middle Eastern population — birds nests, made out of folded pastry and stuffed with nuts, so that it looks like a budding flower; dense ballorieh, the flat, layered squares of pistachios and bits of dough, like a very decadent frosted shredded wheat; the unfortunately named "fingers," my favorite, logs of puff pastry stuffed with cashews; heavy, sticky baklava made with either pistachios or walnuts and pastry that crunches and flakes as you bite into it; chewy burma, tiny, stringy bits of dough wrapped around a filling of pistachios; mini roses, the poofy layers of pastry that disintegrate in your mouth as soon as they hit it; and besma, an earthy mix of dough and nuts.

All that for $16.20. For reals. Even my family — the people who see an "AYCE" sign as a challenge — have never been able to finish off an entire tray.

I've never tried the rest of Masri Sweets' delicacies, like the date-filled mammoul cookies or the cheese-filled shaibeat pastry, because I'm always so sated by my regular old gift box. You can order online at masrisweets.com and they'll ship just about anywhere.

I Heart Tionna Smalls

For being the most sensible, honest advice columnist on the Internets. And for introducing the term "catbag."

Imagined monologues: Bobby Hauck

Holy shit, I am such an asshole. Seriously. Like, I have to be one of the biggest dipshits in the entire state of Montana. I have singled-handedly ruined the good vibes surrounding the sport of Grizzly football. Ok, wait, that's not entirely true. I did recruit the kid who was charged with murder earlier this year, Jimmy Wilson. He should probably take like 10 percent of the blame. He is the guy, after all, who allegedly did the murdering. That's hardly on me. But in his defense, in all my preseason meetings, I never once recalling telling the team: NO MURDER. So in the end, I guess I'm the guy who screwed up there. My bad, folks. I've already written a note to self for next year with the words NO MURDER underlined like four times. Of course, now, on the eve of the Bobcat-Griz game, a bunch of my players allegedly robbed and pistol-whipped a guy in his home. What's that? They tasered him too? Crap. That's not good. I supposed I could do what I usually do: Stonewall the media, call this an internal team matter, give the middle finger to anyone who questions the way I rule my fiefdom. That might work. After all, I'm Bobby 'Effin Hauck! But that's probably only going to hold them off for a few days. I really hope UCLA doesn't read about this. I really want that job. WWND: What Would Neuheisel Do? I wish he would pick up his cell phone. Jerk is probably strumming his guitar, looking at the caller ID and ignoring me. Typical. I need a drink. Better head to The Press Box. Don't tell Dennison where I am, ok?

Drinking on the porch

I've lived in a house with a porch for five years now. My first was a rental, and the porch shared with my landlady, which really put a damper on what I've come to realize is the single reason for the invention of the porch: drinking. Specifically, it's the ideal location for getting hammered with your closest friends during three of the four seasons. It's a good place to drink responsibly, too, say a beer or so with the husband after a day of work. But the porch's true architectural contribution is as a shelter from the elements during a drinking binge. I sunburn easily, and that's always gotten in the way of a good summer's drunk. No longer! Now that I own my home, I'm free to enjoy the porch without judgment from a landlady. Free to crack a bottle of wine and drink most (OK, all) of it while reading a book. Free to host a bbq that starts at 6, ends at midnight, and features a tub of cheap beer being emptied and then refilled by a stream of guests. My porch is so magical, it's the site of the only honest adult conversation I've had with my mother. Then we went into the living room and stopped talking -- frankly, that came as a bit of a relief -- but for 90 boozy minutes on the porch, I got to know her a little bitter. Better! Oopsy!