#ate de jong

[pierppasolini]

Drop Dead Fred (1991) // dir. Ate de Jong

[haveyouseenthismovie-poll]

[theinsatiables]

Reviewing Cult Classics: Drop Dead Fred

"This is easily one of the worst films I've ever seen," said Gene Siskel. What did he know anyway? He was only one half of a powerhouse movie critiquing duo that had been actively giving expert reviews for 30 years. Is it possible that he and everyone else overlooked the importance of mental health and protecting your peace, along with the quiet reveal about Fred’s true identity when so harshly rating the cult classic, "Drop Dead Fred?"

Fred is Elizabeth Cronin’s imaginary friend from the past who reappears after she suffers through a series of life shattering events. His chaotic nature makes him appear to be a nuisance who everyone tends to wish would just drop dead. His obnoxious antics consistently embarrass Elizabeth until she remembers his importance to her childhood. Through Fred’s special breed of support and encouragement, Elizabeth musters up enough courage to dump her cheating husband, Charles, and part ways with her manipulative and controlling mother. Considering the deep dive this movie journeys, a basic plot explanation simply isn’t giving what it needs to give, so let’s try another route.

Mental health is an overarching topic in the film, and it is easy to spot the tells if you pay close attention. Having a manipulative and controlling mother seems to be the free gift with birth; everyone has one. Some parents may blame concern for their meddling and this could very well be true, but imagine having a parent tell your five-year-old self how you never do anything right.

The verbal abuse Elizabeth suffers at the hands of her mother has likely stunted her growth into adulthood, which can be seen in the stark contrast between her friend Janie's appearance and Elizabeth’s seventies Holly Hobby style; ankle length frumpy floral dress with white socks and shiny black doll shoes. Is it possible she is suffering a form of arrested psychological development, meaning she remains stuck at the time of her childhood trauma? This would explain why she appears to be immature during the earlier years of her marriage, the person who has been gaslighting Elizabeth throughout his entire affair with Annabella.

Then there’s Fred.

After her husband’s infidelity left her all alone, Elizabeth moves back to her mother’s home, where she is treated as a child by being banned from the living room carpet that has been roped off. It is at this point when Fred makes his return to discover a grown up Lizzy Cronin. The first “game” he pulls her into is using dog waste to destroy the very area she was told to stay away from. The next morning, she wakes to find her mother vigorously scrubbing the excrement from the carpet. For an imaginary friend, he sure did get the assignment. No one puts Lizzy in the corner.

Lizzy Cronin’s struggles first take shape at age five, when she is forced to create Fred as a defense mechanism against her mother’s abuse. 

During one of many flashbacks, we get a first look at young Lizzy’s relationship with her imaginary friend. Fred can be seen waking her up in the middle of the night to play robbers and slips a handmade striped sweater over her smock nightingale nightgown. Their adventure includes stealing silverware and smashing in a window, to which Fred exclaims how much he loves the breaking noises. When things go south, she recalls to Fred how her mother told her she never does anything right. This kind of self-doubt in a child can be damaging. Luckily, Fred is right there to remind Lizzy of just how great she is and encourages her to unapologetically walk in her truth.

Elizabeth's next memory of Fred takes her back to the most painful time in her life as a child. She was locked in her bedroom by her mother and placed under the care of a terrifying nurse after being taken to a child psychiatrist to discuss the dangers of Fred’s presence.

Dressed in a replica of the nightgown from her childhood, she remembers a time when her mother’s verbal abuse was so upsetting that Fred made an appearance and suggested they make a mud pie to cheer her up. Unfortunately, the dish was served using fine china and left a mess everywhere. Her imaginary friend then flees into Lizzy’s jack-in-the-box for safety. When her mother enters the room, she finds the mess and angrily pries the toy from her daughter's grip, leaving her in tears and begging for her friend. She then proceeds to tape the box shut and forbids Lizzy to open it, threatening that she would crush him to death. 

As an adult, Elizabeth discusses with Fred how much she suffered from his disappearance, telling him that after he left, "all of the life, spirit, and Fred went out of me." He then encourages her to flee from her mother’s watchful eye to attend a party her husband hosting. Elizabeth breaks the glass window in her bedroom, exclaiming how much she loves the breaking noises, and she and her imaginary friend escape. Although she is now an adult, and Fred has spent half of the movie hilariously condemning her for growing up, the two seem to have more in common than they know.

Once Elizabeth has won back Charles, the courage she gained takes a back seat to his manipulative ways when he convinces her to take the pills the psychiatrist prescribed to help phase Fred out. While Fred tries to warn her about the ill motives of her husband, she doesn't listen and begins to take the pills. For every pill she took Fred suffered through painful stomach cramps that slowly crippled him. When the romantic dinner Elizabeth prepared for Charles is revealed to be a mud pie, she threatens to take the last pill that will end his life. After overhearing Charles' plans to continue his affair, Elizabeth ends up developing a similar pain to what Fred us suffering from on the floor next to her. When Fred tells her to leave her husband, she confesses she is afraid of being alone.

Coming to terms with the reality of her feelings sends Elizabeth on a journey of freedom that starts with her becoming one with Fred as he walks her through her most repressed fears. When she arrives at an eerie replica of her mother’s home, she is immediately faced with a sinister version of her husband, whose advances she must reject in order to pass the first test. In the last task she finds her mother’s terrifying profile standing guard at her bedroom door refusing to let her in. With Fred’s encouragement, Elizabeth vanquishes her presence by shouting that she is no longer afraid of her.

Upon entering the room, she finds her five-year old self taped to the bed, frees her younger self, and discovers she must return home without Fred. Elizabeth no longer needed his physical form because she realized that Fred had been a part of her all along. 

She was Fred.

When Elizabeth returns, in true Fred fashion, she breaks up with Charles by dumping the dinner she had been preparing all over his head and wipes a booger on his cheek. When she returns to her mother’s home to make a final attempt at discussing her childhood trauma, she is met with the same verbal abuse that was used to tear her down as a child. She immediately made the decision to walk away from the very person who had been responsible for years of fear and anguish. Once her mother realized her daughter was leaving her life forever, she confessed her own fear of loneliness in an attempt to get her to stay, to which Elizabeth advised her to get a “Fred.”

If Elizabeth was her own imaginary friend all along how do we explain the little girl at the end who seems to have her own Fred? Simple. Fred is merely a physical manifestation brought on by the need to protect oneself from something. Whether it's a motherless child who is consistently being left with nannies or a woman who finds herself taking her loneliness out on her own daughter. Everyone is capable of creating their own Fred; it's called an alter ego.

Looking back at the movie, “Drop Dead Fred,” proves how beautifully complex the film truly is. Much like life, there are connections just waiting to be made in order to fully understand who we are and bring us to a place of healing. What may have been disregarded or harshly rated once before can now fully shine in the realization that our trauma and mental health is deserving of respect and a safe space to work through it with grace.

As for Elizabeth and Fred, perhaps the best part of their relationship was that he never gave up on her and gave her the strength she needed to call the "mega beast" out on her manipulative pile of shit.

-Tracee Carter

[abs0luteb4stard]

✵ W A T C H I N G ✵

[doubtfultaste]

Highway to Hell (1991) directed by Ate de Jong

[schlock-luster-video]

On June 4, 1992, Drop Dead Fred debuted in Germany.

[roseshavethoughts]

A Chaotic Blend of Comedy and Pathos: Review of Drop Dead Fred (1991)

A Chaotic Blend of Comedy and Pathos: Review of Drop Dead Fred (1991)

Synopsis- Upon encountering a series of tragic events, Elizabeth frees her imaginary friend, Drop Dead Fred. However, chaos ensues as Fred tries to make Elizabeth smile. Director- Ate de Jong Cast- Phoebe Cates, Rik Mayall, Ashley Peldon Genre- Comedy | Fantasy Released- 1991 ⭐⭐⭐ Rating: 3 out of 5. Drop Dead Fred is a curious film—a madcap comedy wrapped in a surreal psychological story.…

[nightmaretist]

PARTIES: Ingeborg LOCATION: Wicked's Rest TIMING: Current SUMMARY: Inge leaves town

Going away had become a staple in her life from the moment she separated from Hendrik and found her way west, to Amsterdam. In the four decades that had followed, Inge had left place after place, turning her back on cities and countries with increasing ease. But it was never really easy, no matter how lackadaisical she pretended to be. It was especially hard when it didn't feel like much of a choice. 

She'd been considering changing Wicked's Rest for a different city for a while now, admittedly. But the walls were closing in faster than she liked and the bloody bitemarks on her legs were just more proof of that. The amount of hunters who she figured were just lying in wait was too large as well and besides, what was there to do in this town that she could not do elsewhere? The teaching position was so-so, but it ate away from her time spent creating art. There were friends, but she had friends elsewhere too. There was the gap left behind by Debbie, a festering wound even more painful than those left by Wyatt's teeth. 

It was time, the way it was always inevitably time.  

It had been time, back in Antwerp, when Inge had witnessed a hunter chopping off Sanne's head. She had ran into the astral that time, rushing to a plane of existence where no axe could get to her. She had played it over and over again, that image, and only returned to their once-shared appartment to gather her most important belongings before fleeing south, to the crowds of Paris. In that capital she had stayed no longer than three months before there was the hot breath of hunters in her neck, so off to Nice she went. Bordeaux, next. Across the ocean to England and then across a larger ocean, to the Americas. In Mexico she'd enjoyed her time until her neck had been marred with the scar left there by Elena Cortez and she'd fled north again, with few belongings but her life. That was always the most precious thing to cling to. 

The years had continued on, as had the places she'd come and gone. Switzerland, Venice in 2003, and then copious of European capitals as she moved through them as Nika Beinhacker, famed sculpturer. That identity had to be destroyed eventually, though, and soon enough she was herself again. Inge de Jong, returning to the Netherlands, to the hospital and running away from the scene as soon as the funeral of her only daughter was concluded. 

She tried to collect something from each city, but it was not always an option. Sometimes she ran with just the clothes on her back and the few belongings in her bag, and memorabilia were discarded. These days she was clever enough to have a few storage boxes scattered around with some of her things, but even so. Things got lost in the wind. 

This time, though, she was doing it right. Quick, but right. She was gathering her things, ordering a moving van to drive the most precious materials up to New York, where she'd move in with Mona and delve into the vibrant nightlife that Dance Macabre could never claim to imitate. She was trying to say goodbye, though it was never really goodbye — at least not for those who would live as long as she did. It was a good thing, that most of the people she'd learned to value in Wicked's Rest were as undead as her, but there were a few she knew would come to grow old and pass while she remained unchanging. Maybe, then, it was best to leave now, before she grew all the more fond of Anita and her mourning would weigh even heavier than it inevitably would. 

And Inge intended to return periodically, she really did. As a mare it was easy to come and go as one pleased, but she needed her homebase changed. There were things lurking behind corners here. Crocodilian dreamers, hunters whose brothers she'd hurt or who'd deceived her, ghosts that killed indiscriminately. Wicked's Rest would just become a place she visited from time to time, making reappearances in the lives of Anita, Leila and Ariadne as she pleased.  

So her things were packed by the movers. Her appartment was empty. Her studio sold. Her contract at the university ended. She'd seen the people she cared for one last time as an inhabitor of Wicked's Rest and left them her forwarding address. All that was left to do was get in her car and drive off. 

In her car, Inge felt a level of uncertainty that came with saying goodbye. There was also, more dominantly, a feeling of concern. What if someone was to stop her from leaving now? If all her intentions to not die in this godforsaken town were for naught, and she'd still be caught underneath someone's axe or between someone's teeth or even that same sword once more? If she'd still had a functioning heart, it would have been hammering all the way through her drive out of town, but it remained as still as it always was. 

It wasn't until she'd moved past the Maine stateline that she felt comfortable enough to turn up her music and sing along as loud as she could, the next destination on her horizon a mirage full of promise and potential. 

[caltropspress]

DISPATCHES FROM 2ND ST. STUDIOS: Fatboi Sharif & DRIVEBY in session

I went to DRIVEBY’s apartment in Jersey City because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of documenting musical exxxprrrimentation, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. I knew witnessing Fatboi Sharif in the studio would be morbidly rewarding—I felt it in my critik’s skull-and-crossbones (memento mori, pirate flag, poison pictogram). It was New Year’s Day in the year of our Lord Have Mercy 2024, and I had to pull myself away from a tree documentary that had, sadly, begun to disappoint. I had opened a stocking-stuffed box of Goobers and was reluctant when Sharif sent the invitational text. I had settled in for the night. But it was my idea to watch the man work his black magikal esoterika hammer-don’t-hurt-them-witches recording session, so I’d be a real punk to rebuff the offer. I got into the Toyota and headed down Route 3 toward Jersey City. I was on the 1&9 in no time—the truest highway to hell, if one ever existed. Ate de Jong could never scout such a location. AC/DC roadside appliance wasteland. Potholes pave the way, but in a De Nah Soul manner. I finished eating the Goobers in the car, by the palmful, and lost one to an erratic lane merge. I motherfucked and shitted at the thought of a chocolate stain on my upholstered driver’s seat, or worse, the seat of my pants. My dad delivered Blimpie’s for thirty-plus years in Jersey City, long before it became Brooklyn-of-the-West, so I know parking spots there are at a never-dream-of-’em premium. I parked several blocks away from DRIVEBY’s studio and cloven-hoofed it while huffing brick air. Texted from outside, but Sharif was already ushering me through a wrought-iron gate (suitable for guttings and impalements) and into the basement apartment: DRIVEBY’s 2nd St. Studios. That gate was like an entrance into a secret garden—overblown and overflowin’ with a riot of root rot, weeds, and (of course) crumbling-but-still-grumbling gargoyles, most with the medieval motif of mooning jutting out from the church buttresses. DRIVEBY’s had a William Shatner’s TekWorld comic next to his speaker. Dusty keyboards lined the floor. Sega Genesis cartridges, a Sharp boombox, and the requisite vinyl collection on bowing crates completed the scene. The space stored antiquated and dead media—ghost machines humming and haunting.

⤧

Sharif told me he’d be recording some tracks for his upcoming album with Blockhead, something for Bigg Jus, and several features. When I arrived, he was in the middle of recording one of the Blockhead tracks. The mic and the iso shield were directly inside the door of the apartment, and I sat on the couch to the left of that. Sharif would be spitting at me, beyond me, as he did his thing—an intimate setting, to say the very least. Beans of Antipop Consortium sat on this same cushion months earlier, I thought. They recorded “Sex With the Leopard Print Lady” here. While I pondered the legacy of stylist berzerkers of past and present, Key & Peele played on the television in front of me. I wanted to make myself scarce, invisible as possible, Brundlefly-on-the-wall, non-participatory, so I watched the “Laron Can’t Laugh” sketch on mute and registered how Laron’s noiseless convulsions and eventual shriek expertly pantomimed Sharif’s vocals. These layers of silence allowed me to hear some of what Sharif was spewing forth and commit it to memory. He spoke of avenging the death of Candyman. The words loom like Tony Todd—tall as a ponderosa pine in a Cabrini-Green courtyard. Caroline crossed eyelids…90 degree pressure… Closing in on 400 degreez, but we’re talking below zero. The winter of our disconnected selves. Sharif tells DRIVEBY he wants his voice to sound “fucked up.” He’s snorting, super sinusy. He wants to cultivate a specific sound—it coats the inner concavities of his skull. He just needs to externalize it into a self-portrait in a convex DAW interface. “The soul establishes itself,” John Ashbery writes. Sharif is shoeless, I should add. He’s black socked as he cuts the song’s first of three adlib tracks. The first is completely muddled, barely audible—a grumbly grumble grumb. The second is a helium-huffed high pitch mania. The third, a yell—“the banshee,” as DRIVEBY calls it. Sharif slackens the headphone wires and walks across the room. He does “the banshee” from as great a distance as possible. You’ve no doubt heard the banshee adlib track before (B.A.T. for short, as in, the hematophagic vampire bat). If you’ve heard a Fatboi Sharif recording, you’ve likely heard a hotly desperate and deranged voice coming from the depths of a hellmouth—sinners swallowed and still writhing, quasi-alive, anticipating rigor mortis. DRIVEBY captures the natural reverb. Sharif asks him to put distortion and echo on the last word of the verse. 

⤧

Fatboi Sharif was reading lyrics off his phone, but by then he was Loosifa loose—engaging me, inviting me to dialogue, reveling in the job.  His feet are light and nimble, like McCarthy’s Judge. He says that he will never die. And, you bet, he dances in light and in shadow. He’s a craftsman and possesses an engineer’s ear, an ant-infested and severed one he probably plucked from a manicured lawn in Scotch Plains, NJ, Jeffrey Beaumont style. For the second verse of the song, he makes an alteration and decides to end the verse earlier than he had written it, stopping at the phrase “role model” because he likes the “swing of it.” Okay, Nuke Hellington. I see you, Benny Badman. A natural performer, the recording session reflects both technical know-how and impassioned delivery. He doesn’t quite lose himself as he does on the stage (or the audience floor where he so often ends up), but he’s unequivocally locked in, as he kids say. Locked in a room with padded walls, more apropos. On the next, he requires a seemingly endless run of retakes. I begin to wonder if my presence is a burden, a distraction. But the session keeps its devil-may-care air intact. Still, Sharif has a sonic vision he yearns to achieve. He won’t settle for less. He eventually gets the take he desires and tells DRIVEBY he’s gonna do three adlibs. These two men work in harmony to develop their songs of disharmony. They’ve been boys, and so that keeps the chemistry alchemical for the duration. Open and honest, DRIVEBY tells Sharif that three tracks of adlibs is “too many.” FUCK THAT! Sharif shouts at him. Sharif wants the adlibs to sound beneath everything—six-feet deep, or “buried alive and will come forth later in uglier ways” (unexpressed emotions, that is), as Freud or a Freud-fraud once wrote. Sharif wants echoes. He wants to sound like he’s a signal coming in and out of the radio as you drive through the night. These are the requests he makes, delicately selected from his mental doom board as DRIVEBY adjusts the mix, adds effects. “Do you do a lot of vocal mixing on the spot?” I ask. Sharif shakes his head, points to DRIVEBY slumped over his computer monitor, clicking and dragging, random access memory maybe lagging: “He’s on his Bob Power shit.” Listening to the playback, Sharif tells me he wants to be like Joker in the children’s hospital scene. What kinda clown carries a fuckin’ gun?! I’m waiting for the next Sharif release, crossing my fingers into an arthritic mass of flesh and bone in hopes of his cover of “If You’re Happy and You Know It” appearing on the tracklist. 

⤧

DRIVEBY puts Joker on the TV. It’s the bus scene; he can’t stop laughing. He hands a fellow passenger his card: Forgive my Laughter: I have a Condition. Sharif still sleeps to beats. He’s told this story numerous times to various media outlets, and so it’s beginning to take on the tone of lore. But it’s not. Even wilder, he’s not listening on headphones as he sleeps; he blasts the beats on speakers. Sharif prefers to record late, well into the wee hours of morning. DRIVEBY’s couch often becomes Sharif’s bed. “He’ll have the same beat on for five hours,” DRIVEBY explains. He’ll be in his bedroom, unable to sleep. Sharif grins and tells me, “That’s when I’m in the mindfuck.” Sharif reapproaches the mic. Another Blockhead track. “He told me he made this one especially for me,” Sharif says. The beat sounds like a Gregorian chant in a cavern. Beware of the Shroom Monster. Sharif has managed to amass an intimidating number of releases over the past several years while not indulging us to excess. He’s conservative with his run-times. Clocks ain’t shit to him. Many of his projects are EP-length, but categorizing them in any terms would seem to discredit his ingenuity. As the session unofficially ends and we settle into more casual conversation, Sharif implores DRIVEBY to play selections from their unreleased album, currently on ice like a corpse. I listen and hear of an exorcism of Antoinette, of Elvira and death resurrections, of Basquiat painting in Transylvania, crossroads, and plosive sonic samples from The Pagemaster—a film I have absolutely no recollection of but DRIVEBY speaks almost as highly of as his Fantastic Damage instrumental CD-R. OneShotOnce shows up, presumably for a session, but not before he and Sharif pillage DRIVEBY’s fridge. They feast on cold chicken while I gather myself to leave. 

Images: Astronomical table detail from the Almanach Purpetuum of Abraham Zacuto (c. 1500)

[shiningwizard]

Drop Dead Fred (Ate de Jong, 1991)

As a kid i think i tried to like this more than i did due to my worship of all things Rik Mayall. Now i find i readily and openly like it more than i ever had due to how touching it is and how complete and fluid it is as a movie. That uneasy to swallow split between heavy subject matter and Rik Mayall's relentless and grating buffoonery perfectly explicable by when this trauma and sadness was caught and the only thing that has ever helped it at any age. No one else could have played that part. I'm sure others could have played Phoebe Cates' part but i'm so glad she's here. Not only is it one of her best performances, i now realise it's one of her only leading roles and it's some amount of deserved providence that it's a good one in a moderately successful movie. Although i guess not critically successful, which is something she really could have used.

[balthazar-sketti]

Highway To Hell (1989/1991)

Dir. Ate de Jong

[ridethepunkhorse]

Highway to Hell (Ate de Jong, USA, 1991)

[salanaii]

Learn Korean with me - Week 10

Day 1: Let's Speak Korean - Chapter 5 - Restaurant

자리있나요? Ja ri iss na yo Is there a seat (available)?

몇 명이세요? Myeoch myeong I se yo How many people is it?

네명입니다. Ne myeong ib ni da It’s 4 people.

예약하셨나요? Ye yag ha syess na yo Did you make a reservation? = Do you have a reservation?

아니요,안핸어요 / 네, 했어요. A ni yo, an haen eo yo / ne haess eo yo No, I did not. / Yes, I did.

몇시로예약하셨나요? Myeoch sir o ye yag ha syess na yo What time did you make the reservation for?

한시요. / 한시삼십분이요. Han si yo. / han sis am sib bun I yo. It’s 1 o/clock. / (Literal) It’s 1 o’clock and thirty minutes.

이쪽으로오세요. I jjog eu ro o se yo Come (to) this way, please.

이자리괜찮으세요? I ja ri goaen chsnh eu se yo Is this seat okay?

혹시테이블은없나요? Hog sit e I beur eun eobs na yo Don’t you have a table, by any chance?

메뉴를주세요. Me nyu reur ju se yo Give me the menu, please.

추천해주세요. Chu cheon hae ju se yo Please make suggestions/recommendations.

매운 것/단것좋아하세요? Mae un geos/dan geon joh a ha se yo Do you like something spicy/something sweet?

매운것잘몰멋먹어요. Mae un geos jar mur meos meog eo yo Can’t eat spicy things well. = (I) can’t eat spicy food.

이거드셔보셨나요? I geo deus ye bo syeoss na yo Have you tried this?

어떤요리인가요? Eo tteon yo ri in ga yo What kind of dish/cuisine is it?

마늘이 / 양파가들어있나요? Ma neur I / yang pa ga deur eo iss na yo Does it have garlic /onion in it?

뭘로만든건가요? Mwor ro man deun geon ga yo (Literal) With what is it made?

얼마나걸리나요? Eor ma na geor ri na yo How long does it take?

시간이좀걸립니다. Si gan I jum geor rib ni da It will take a little time (to cook).

양이얼마나되나요? Yang I eor ma na doe na yo (Literal) How much us the portion?

둘이먹기에충분해요 / 부족해요. Dur I meog gi e chung bun hae yo / bu jog hae yo It’s enough (for) two to eat. / It’s inadequate.

음료수는어떤종류로하시겠어요? Eum ryo su neu neo tteon jong ryu ro ha sig ess eo yo (Literal) What kind of beverage would you like to go with?

어떤게있나요? Eo tteon ge iss na yo What kind of thing (=beverage) do you have?

주스로할게요. Ju seu ro har ge yo I’ll go with juice.

그냥물이요. Geu Nyang mur i yo (Literal) It’s just water = Just water, please.

젓가락 / 포크 / 숟가락 / 냅킨주세요. Jeos ga rag / po keu / sud ga rag / naeb kin ju se yo Please give me chopsticks/ a fork/ a spoon.

주문하시겠어요? Ju mun ha si gyess eo yo Would you like to order?

주문도와드릴까요? Ju mun do wa deu rir gga yo May I help you (with your) order?

시간을조금주금더주세요. Si gan eur jo geum ju geum deo ju se yo Give me a little more time, please.

주문하신음식나왔습니다. Ju mun ha sin eum sig na wass seub ni da (Literal) The dish you ordered came out.  = Here is the dish you ordered.

이건제가주문한게아닌데요. I geon je ga ju mun hang e a nin de yo This is not what I ordered.

다시확인해주세요. Da si hwag in hae ju se yo Check again, please.

사진과너무다른데요, Sa jin gwa neo mu da reun de yo It’s too different from the picture.

주망장을불러주세요. Ju mang jang eur bur reo ju se yo Bring me the chef, please.

음식이식었어요. Eum sig I sig eoss eo yo (Literal) The food has cooled. = The food is cold.

음식에서이게나왔어요. Eum sig e seo I gen a wass eo yo (Literal) This came out from the food. = This was in my food.

음식이너무짜요 / 싱거워요. Eum sig I neo mu jja yo / sing geo wa yo The food is too salty / bland.

이건어떻게먹나요? I geo neo tteoh ge meog na yo How do you eat this?

음식언제나오나요? Eum sig eon je na o na yo When does the food come out?

왜이렇게오래걸리죠? Wae I reoh ge o rae geor ri jyu Why does it take this long?

주문이들어갔나요? Ju mun I deur eo gass na yo Did the order go through?

계산서를주세요. Gye san seo reur ju se yo Please give me the bill.

잘먹었습니다. Jar meog eoss seub ni da (Literal) (I) ate well. = Thanks for the great meal.

정말맛있었어요. Jeong mar mas iss eoss eo yo It was really delicious.

배가불러요. Bae ga bur reo yo Stomach is full. = I’m full.

포장되나요? Po jang doe na yo (Literal) Please wrap the leftover (meal). = Can I take this out.

남은음식을싸주세요. Nam eun eum sig eur ssa ju se yo (Literal) Please wrap the leftover (meal). = I’d like a doggy bag, please.

[signalwatch]

PodCast 251: "Drop Dead Fred" (1991) - a SimonUK and Ryan Episode Watched:  08/28/2023 Format:  Amazon Viewing:  3rd? Decade:  1990's Director:  Ate de Jong For more ways to listen Ryan and his imaginary British friend delve into their respective inner children and try to figure out who is responsible for all the mess. We take a look at an early 90's cable staple! SoundCloud  The Signal Watch PodCast · 251: "Drop Dead Fred" (1991) - a SimonUK and Ryan Episode YouTube Music: Drop Dead Fred Suite - Randy Edelman  SimonUK's Cinema Selections! The Signal Watch PodCast · SimonUK Cinema Series https://ift.tt/eN5aiLP via The Signal Watch https://ift.tt/NWRtp8c September 03, 2023 at 09:33AM

[doubtfultaste]

Highway to Hell (1991) directed by Ate de Jong