Wednesday, October 01, 2003
Tuesday, September 30, 2003
A New Low?
Last night, I cleaned the kitchen as part of my post-pre-midlife crisis reconstruction. Never mind that the rest of the house is in shambles - baby steps, baby steps. So rather than maintain a tidy kitchen, the new rule is that cooking is verboten, at least until I have friends over just so that I can prove to them that I can clean a kitchen. They don't need to know that I can't maintain a clean kitchen.
So for dinner last night, I stopped by the grocery store and saw that there was a big sale on frozen dinners. Ever since I was a kid, I was enamored by T.V. dinners and all they promised: a complete, multi-course meal in one tidy, compartmentalized package. And here they were, five for five dollars! I could get salisbury steak, which was indistinguishable from the beef loaf, or I could get the barbecue pork ribs (processed pork pressed into shapes with smoke flavoring) all for a dollar a pop! As I am recently unemployed, I thought that I should examine this food avenue closely. I decided to do a comparison between the Budget Gourmet meals, a standard among post-collegians and a feisty up-and-comer, and Banquet, the number one selling brand which has been around for half a century and is owned by food monolith, ConAgra.
Last night's showdown was macaroni and cheese, an all-time favorite of mine. At 7:30, I popped in the two trays in the oven and set the timer. The Banquet mac and cheese showed promise as its ingredients were pretty much just pasta, cheese, milk products and flour, which are the basic components of any restaurant mac and cheese. It also weighed in at twelve ounces, 50% larger than the Budget Gourmet version. Lastly, it contained nearly three times the amount of sodium, so I thought that at the very least, it would be tasty in a really gross way. The Budget Gourmet recipe contained margarine (versus Banquet's butter), xanthan gum (a thickener made from fermented corn) and something called "flavoring." Also, all the sauce was piled up and frozen at one end of the tray while the bare pasta was on the other end. It looked like what a one dollar frozen meal should look like.
I started with the Banquet mac and cheese, which was done first. It had the creamy texture of box macaroni and cheese, but none of the flavor. In fact, it didn't even taste salty, just sort of generically saucy. There was no cheddar notes or any cheese notes for that matter. The Budget Gourmet fared much better, more closely resembling the Kraft version with more zest and a sharper cheddar flavor (thank you, flavoring!). Still, both pastas were overcooked and neither was very satisfying. I could palate them only when washed down with a couple glasses of Columbia Crest Grand Estates Cabernet Sauvignon from Washington, which flushed out the coating of xanthan gum from my palate.
I wish that I had just cooked. It would have taken the same amount of time and would have cost the same, probably. Basically, you make a cup of bechemel (a cup of milk, a tablespoon of flour and a pat of butter, whisked and heated until thickened) and then you start adding grated cheese until it's done, probably eight to twelve ounces. If you put a blend of sharp cheddar with mild, that'll probably be best because if you use just sharp cheddar, the sauce is a little grainy. I also add a few dashes of tabasco sauce and a teaspoon of dried mustard to add some zip. Add the sauce to a pound of boiled macaroni and then either eat it or bake it and then eat it.
But I suppose that it was just as well that I ate my crappy T.V. dinners as I was watching the finale of Temptation Island 3, the visual equivalent to a Budget Gourmet dinner. It was tasty-ish, but not really and then I just felt guilty and bad about myself afterwards.
Last night, I cleaned the kitchen as part of my post-pre-midlife crisis reconstruction. Never mind that the rest of the house is in shambles - baby steps, baby steps. So rather than maintain a tidy kitchen, the new rule is that cooking is verboten, at least until I have friends over just so that I can prove to them that I can clean a kitchen. They don't need to know that I can't maintain a clean kitchen.
So for dinner last night, I stopped by the grocery store and saw that there was a big sale on frozen dinners. Ever since I was a kid, I was enamored by T.V. dinners and all they promised: a complete, multi-course meal in one tidy, compartmentalized package. And here they were, five for five dollars! I could get salisbury steak, which was indistinguishable from the beef loaf, or I could get the barbecue pork ribs (processed pork pressed into shapes with smoke flavoring) all for a dollar a pop! As I am recently unemployed, I thought that I should examine this food avenue closely. I decided to do a comparison between the Budget Gourmet meals, a standard among post-collegians and a feisty up-and-comer, and Banquet, the number one selling brand which has been around for half a century and is owned by food monolith, ConAgra.
Last night's showdown was macaroni and cheese, an all-time favorite of mine. At 7:30, I popped in the two trays in the oven and set the timer. The Banquet mac and cheese showed promise as its ingredients were pretty much just pasta, cheese, milk products and flour, which are the basic components of any restaurant mac and cheese. It also weighed in at twelve ounces, 50% larger than the Budget Gourmet version. Lastly, it contained nearly three times the amount of sodium, so I thought that at the very least, it would be tasty in a really gross way. The Budget Gourmet recipe contained margarine (versus Banquet's butter), xanthan gum (a thickener made from fermented corn) and something called "flavoring." Also, all the sauce was piled up and frozen at one end of the tray while the bare pasta was on the other end. It looked like what a one dollar frozen meal should look like.
I started with the Banquet mac and cheese, which was done first. It had the creamy texture of box macaroni and cheese, but none of the flavor. In fact, it didn't even taste salty, just sort of generically saucy. There was no cheddar notes or any cheese notes for that matter. The Budget Gourmet fared much better, more closely resembling the Kraft version with more zest and a sharper cheddar flavor (thank you, flavoring!). Still, both pastas were overcooked and neither was very satisfying. I could palate them only when washed down with a couple glasses of Columbia Crest Grand Estates Cabernet Sauvignon from Washington, which flushed out the coating of xanthan gum from my palate.
I wish that I had just cooked. It would have taken the same amount of time and would have cost the same, probably. Basically, you make a cup of bechemel (a cup of milk, a tablespoon of flour and a pat of butter, whisked and heated until thickened) and then you start adding grated cheese until it's done, probably eight to twelve ounces. If you put a blend of sharp cheddar with mild, that'll probably be best because if you use just sharp cheddar, the sauce is a little grainy. I also add a few dashes of tabasco sauce and a teaspoon of dried mustard to add some zip. Add the sauce to a pound of boiled macaroni and then either eat it or bake it and then eat it.
But I suppose that it was just as well that I ate my crappy T.V. dinners as I was watching the finale of Temptation Island 3, the visual equivalent to a Budget Gourmet dinner. It was tasty-ish, but not really and then I just felt guilty and bad about myself afterwards.
Sunday, September 14, 2003
Cash Remembered
On Friday morning, I was shocked to hear that John Ritter had passed away. But I was truly saddened when I heard that Johnny Cash had also died. It was not a surprise as he had been plagued by complications from diabetes for years. But it was a true loss nonetheless. Though he called himself, “the biggest sinner of them all,” and had spent years carousing and drinking, addicted to amphetamines, you’d be hard-pressed to find anyone say anything disparaging about him or the amazing body of work he left behind.
So that night, I went out with some friends for an outdoor concert, which was pleasant but left me restless. Driving home alone, feeling a compulsion driven by reverence, or, more likely, the near-bottle of wine drunk at the concert, I stopped by the local bowling alley, which also houses a bar that features karaoke. Jason, the karaoke D.J. greeted me as I filled out a song request slip. I am a semi-regular here who normally sings ironic 70s ballads, but tonight I was paying tribute to a legend.
At first, I was wondering if this would be the right crowd. Most of the time, the bar is filled with a mix of blue-collar regulars and the growing neighborhood hipster crowd, both of whom would appreciate a song for Johnny. But that night, it was filled with young co-eds from the local college who were singing Brittney Spears-like songs, none of which I recognized, all of which sounded the same. Still, I thumbed through the song catalog and considered the meager four Johnny Cash songs they had. “A Boy Named Sue” was right out as it was a novelty song Johnny was never that fond of. The fact that I didn’t know it at all also was a factor. “Ring of Fire” is good but it never really moved me like “I Walk the Line,” an all-time favorite. But with that one, it’s very hard to sing the last verse, which dips so deep in tone it abuts the lower range of human hearing. That left “Folsom Prison Blues.” It’s singable, it’s one of his signature songs – how could I go wrong?
And in the party atmosphere of the karaoke bar, I didn’t go wrong. I did my best to replicate Johnny’s throaty timbre, and people danced and applauded in remembrance. As I stepped off the stage, a square-shouldered Latino man with a thick gold choker around his thick neck stopped me and said, “That was fantastic, man. It was like Johnny was up there. You were channeling him.” I said my thanks, but the man continued gushing – obviously he was a little drunk to compare me, a lumpy Chinese guy in an orange plaid button-down from Target with the Man in Black. Still, who was I to stop him? This was Ralph. His shorter, quieter friend, Robert, was also appreciative, insisting that I shake his hand. Ralph spoke to me more saying, “Man, you should have sung ‘I Walk the Line’ or ‘Ring of Fire.’ Those are my favorite.” I explained that I had added ‘Ring of Fire’ in the cue and would be singing it later. But he added, “I mean, your song was great. You know me and Robert were in Folsom Prison. Johnny is like my idol!” I was both slightly alarmed and flattered at the same time. For me to impress Johnny Cash’s core audience was a feat. Yet, I couldn’t help imagining what crimes these two might have committed to get them into Folsom State Prison and how long they had been out and what they were capable of doing to me. Robert asserted repeatedly that I had to sing “Ring of Fire.” With his muscled arm around my shoulder, I suddenly felt performance anxiety. What if I sang it badly? What if I messed up the words? I mean, I can just read them off the screen, but maybe there’s a key change I don’t know about.
At this time, Robert leaned back into our conversation saying to Ralph, “You tell him we were in Folsom?” Robert nodded and told him I was going to sing again. They both insisted that they buy me a beer. I politely declined, but they were adamant. They shoved money in my hand. So, I compromised. I bought a Budweiser and gave it to Jason, the D.J. I explained to him that it was courtesy of the two Johnny Cash fans who had been in Folsom Prison. Jason’s eyes widened and he tried to turn it down, but I just left it at his console.
At this point, I would have loved to leave, but I had to sing “Ring of Fire.” There was no getting around it; my audience demanded it. As I waited, sitting in between Ralph and Robert, they told me how this was there first time there and was it always this jumping and which nights did I go there. At long last, I was the last song of the night, before Jason sang his closing song. I stepped gingerly towards the stage and took the warm microphone, squinting at the lyrics as they lit up on the T.V. screen. But when the opening trumpets of “Ring of Fire” played, I shed all worries and sang for Johnny. I sang as low as my vocal cords could take me and got lost in the song. “It burns, burns, burns. That ring of fire. Ring of fire.” There might have been a couple slip-ups in tempo and I may have been a little off key, but it didn’t matter. Ralph and Robert congratulated me as I left the stage. They looked as if I had just given a heart wrenching eulogy for their mother; I was their new best friend. Still, I wanted to make a quick exit. I shook both their hands again and said my good nights.
I felt that in my own semi-drunk, extremely hokey karaoke way, I had done something honorable. I was happy that I could pay tribute to a musical hero and that there were others who were as appreciative as I was of his music. As I walked out the door feeling sad for Johnny’s passing, yet glad for his legacy, Jason paid tribute to another lost legend in the final song of the night. He sang a headbanging version of the “Three’s Company” theme song.
On Friday morning, I was shocked to hear that John Ritter had passed away. But I was truly saddened when I heard that Johnny Cash had also died. It was not a surprise as he had been plagued by complications from diabetes for years. But it was a true loss nonetheless. Though he called himself, “the biggest sinner of them all,” and had spent years carousing and drinking, addicted to amphetamines, you’d be hard-pressed to find anyone say anything disparaging about him or the amazing body of work he left behind.
So that night, I went out with some friends for an outdoor concert, which was pleasant but left me restless. Driving home alone, feeling a compulsion driven by reverence, or, more likely, the near-bottle of wine drunk at the concert, I stopped by the local bowling alley, which also houses a bar that features karaoke. Jason, the karaoke D.J. greeted me as I filled out a song request slip. I am a semi-regular here who normally sings ironic 70s ballads, but tonight I was paying tribute to a legend.
At first, I was wondering if this would be the right crowd. Most of the time, the bar is filled with a mix of blue-collar regulars and the growing neighborhood hipster crowd, both of whom would appreciate a song for Johnny. But that night, it was filled with young co-eds from the local college who were singing Brittney Spears-like songs, none of which I recognized, all of which sounded the same. Still, I thumbed through the song catalog and considered the meager four Johnny Cash songs they had. “A Boy Named Sue” was right out as it was a novelty song Johnny was never that fond of. The fact that I didn’t know it at all also was a factor. “Ring of Fire” is good but it never really moved me like “I Walk the Line,” an all-time favorite. But with that one, it’s very hard to sing the last verse, which dips so deep in tone it abuts the lower range of human hearing. That left “Folsom Prison Blues.” It’s singable, it’s one of his signature songs – how could I go wrong?
And in the party atmosphere of the karaoke bar, I didn’t go wrong. I did my best to replicate Johnny’s throaty timbre, and people danced and applauded in remembrance. As I stepped off the stage, a square-shouldered Latino man with a thick gold choker around his thick neck stopped me and said, “That was fantastic, man. It was like Johnny was up there. You were channeling him.” I said my thanks, but the man continued gushing – obviously he was a little drunk to compare me, a lumpy Chinese guy in an orange plaid button-down from Target with the Man in Black. Still, who was I to stop him? This was Ralph. His shorter, quieter friend, Robert, was also appreciative, insisting that I shake his hand. Ralph spoke to me more saying, “Man, you should have sung ‘I Walk the Line’ or ‘Ring of Fire.’ Those are my favorite.” I explained that I had added ‘Ring of Fire’ in the cue and would be singing it later. But he added, “I mean, your song was great. You know me and Robert were in Folsom Prison. Johnny is like my idol!” I was both slightly alarmed and flattered at the same time. For me to impress Johnny Cash’s core audience was a feat. Yet, I couldn’t help imagining what crimes these two might have committed to get them into Folsom State Prison and how long they had been out and what they were capable of doing to me. Robert asserted repeatedly that I had to sing “Ring of Fire.” With his muscled arm around my shoulder, I suddenly felt performance anxiety. What if I sang it badly? What if I messed up the words? I mean, I can just read them off the screen, but maybe there’s a key change I don’t know about.
At this time, Robert leaned back into our conversation saying to Ralph, “You tell him we were in Folsom?” Robert nodded and told him I was going to sing again. They both insisted that they buy me a beer. I politely declined, but they were adamant. They shoved money in my hand. So, I compromised. I bought a Budweiser and gave it to Jason, the D.J. I explained to him that it was courtesy of the two Johnny Cash fans who had been in Folsom Prison. Jason’s eyes widened and he tried to turn it down, but I just left it at his console.
At this point, I would have loved to leave, but I had to sing “Ring of Fire.” There was no getting around it; my audience demanded it. As I waited, sitting in between Ralph and Robert, they told me how this was there first time there and was it always this jumping and which nights did I go there. At long last, I was the last song of the night, before Jason sang his closing song. I stepped gingerly towards the stage and took the warm microphone, squinting at the lyrics as they lit up on the T.V. screen. But when the opening trumpets of “Ring of Fire” played, I shed all worries and sang for Johnny. I sang as low as my vocal cords could take me and got lost in the song. “It burns, burns, burns. That ring of fire. Ring of fire.” There might have been a couple slip-ups in tempo and I may have been a little off key, but it didn’t matter. Ralph and Robert congratulated me as I left the stage. They looked as if I had just given a heart wrenching eulogy for their mother; I was their new best friend. Still, I wanted to make a quick exit. I shook both their hands again and said my good nights.
I felt that in my own semi-drunk, extremely hokey karaoke way, I had done something honorable. I was happy that I could pay tribute to a musical hero and that there were others who were as appreciative as I was of his music. As I walked out the door feeling sad for Johnny’s passing, yet glad for his legacy, Jason paid tribute to another lost legend in the final song of the night. He sang a headbanging version of the “Three’s Company” theme song.
Monday, January 27, 2003
Senor Fish
Tonight, my friend, Andrew, came by to look at my new house. He liked it. As a reward for his driving way the hell out here, I took him to Senor Fish (though he paid). Senor Fish is a family owned taco joint with locations in South Pasadena, Downtown and Eagle Rock and it does have the best fish tacos in town. They have a fish taco sampler that includes a salmon, swordfish and tuna taco, all grilled, with slices of avocado on top. The plate also includes a piquant side of ceviche. It's a sublime feast that is unparalleled. And they also have deep-fried Baja-style fish tacos, which are also fantastic served with a mayonnaise sauce and cabbage. I have yet to have better fish tacos. Next time I'm going to try the famed scallop tacos.
We brought in a six-pack of Orchard Street Brewery Pale Ale, which was surprisingly good. It's at Trader Joe's for $4.99 and it's crisp and hoppy. The hops have a nice floralness to them, which I love. Fresh-tasting, bitter and refreshing, it was the perfect companion for the fish.
Tonight's was a far cry from last night's desperate seafood meal. It was after the Superbowl, which I watched while I painted the dining room. I was starving but I had no food in the house except for a box of Kraft macaroni and cheese and some frozen scallops from Trader Joe's. So I did what any normal person would do. I added the scallops to the mac & cheese. I'll just say this: adding the scallops did not elevate the Kraft dish to any sort of gustatory heights. I'll also add that I'll never buy Kraft mac & cheese again. I used to eat it as a youngun, and after seeing The Pianist I bought a few boxes for comfort food (when you see The Pianist, you become preoccupied with food). But it brought little comfort. Salty, gooey, bland and not at all satisfying - scallops or no scallops. I could argue that I was trying to add class to a meal that comes out of a cardboard box, but in reality, I was just desperate to get calories in my body. It was a new culinary low for me. Please don't tell anyone.
Tonight, my friend, Andrew, came by to look at my new house. He liked it. As a reward for his driving way the hell out here, I took him to Senor Fish (though he paid). Senor Fish is a family owned taco joint with locations in South Pasadena, Downtown and Eagle Rock and it does have the best fish tacos in town. They have a fish taco sampler that includes a salmon, swordfish and tuna taco, all grilled, with slices of avocado on top. The plate also includes a piquant side of ceviche. It's a sublime feast that is unparalleled. And they also have deep-fried Baja-style fish tacos, which are also fantastic served with a mayonnaise sauce and cabbage. I have yet to have better fish tacos. Next time I'm going to try the famed scallop tacos.
We brought in a six-pack of Orchard Street Brewery Pale Ale, which was surprisingly good. It's at Trader Joe's for $4.99 and it's crisp and hoppy. The hops have a nice floralness to them, which I love. Fresh-tasting, bitter and refreshing, it was the perfect companion for the fish.
Tonight's was a far cry from last night's desperate seafood meal. It was after the Superbowl, which I watched while I painted the dining room. I was starving but I had no food in the house except for a box of Kraft macaroni and cheese and some frozen scallops from Trader Joe's. So I did what any normal person would do. I added the scallops to the mac & cheese. I'll just say this: adding the scallops did not elevate the Kraft dish to any sort of gustatory heights. I'll also add that I'll never buy Kraft mac & cheese again. I used to eat it as a youngun, and after seeing The Pianist I bought a few boxes for comfort food (when you see The Pianist, you become preoccupied with food). But it brought little comfort. Salty, gooey, bland and not at all satisfying - scallops or no scallops. I could argue that I was trying to add class to a meal that comes out of a cardboard box, but in reality, I was just desperate to get calories in my body. It was a new culinary low for me. Please don't tell anyone.
Thursday, January 23, 2003
Movie Nuggets
The other night, I saw The Pianist. It's a fantastic movie. From the moment it begins it sucks you into the ghettos of Warsaw and makes you feel pangs of hunger, even though your guiltily chewing on popcorn. It makes you feel cold and helpless, even though you're sitting on plush seats in a climate-controlled multiplex. It's such an honest and real movie, it makes Schindler's List - which is a good movie in its own right - look like a theme park. The difference is, the Spielberg movie is about heroes and hope. The Polanski movie is about surviving and pain. Both are valuable, but for me, The Pianist is so much more resonant. It's interesting that the California dude who becomes a directing wunderkind and ends up making hit after hit makes a movie about heroes and the dude whose mother died in a concentration camp and whose wife was killed with their unborn child makes a movie about pain. True, he is an admitted child rapist, but his movies are still great.
Last night, I saw Far From Heaven, which is equally impressive in its artistic vision. Every aspect of it from the color scheme, to the dialogue, to the acting style, to the titles is so deliberate and evocative that it must be exerienced to be appreciated. Filmmakers like Todd Haynes and Roman Polanski help reinstill the beauty and value of the film medium.
The other night, I saw The Pianist. It's a fantastic movie. From the moment it begins it sucks you into the ghettos of Warsaw and makes you feel pangs of hunger, even though your guiltily chewing on popcorn. It makes you feel cold and helpless, even though you're sitting on plush seats in a climate-controlled multiplex. It's such an honest and real movie, it makes Schindler's List - which is a good movie in its own right - look like a theme park. The difference is, the Spielberg movie is about heroes and hope. The Polanski movie is about surviving and pain. Both are valuable, but for me, The Pianist is so much more resonant. It's interesting that the California dude who becomes a directing wunderkind and ends up making hit after hit makes a movie about heroes and the dude whose mother died in a concentration camp and whose wife was killed with their unborn child makes a movie about pain. True, he is an admitted child rapist, but his movies are still great.
Last night, I saw Far From Heaven, which is equally impressive in its artistic vision. Every aspect of it from the color scheme, to the dialogue, to the acting style, to the titles is so deliberate and evocative that it must be exerienced to be appreciated. Filmmakers like Todd Haynes and Roman Polanski help reinstill the beauty and value of the film medium.
An Epiphany
Today, I had an epiphany. The day started out depressing me, and got worse when a friend started telling me about my ex-girlfriend's new boyfriend. And then I had lunch with a friend who just sold a script for a zillion dollars (we split the check). Then, while I was driving home, ruminating about both, it hit me. I need a car stereo. A while back, mine was stolen (or at least, the all important faceplate was, leaving the CD mechanism behind). Since then, as I drive, I tend to ruminate. And hum. And sing the same verse from George Jones' "She Thinks I Still Care" and the same two lines from "Baby Got Back." Specifically, "Big sisters I can't resist 'em, Red beans and rice didn't miss 'em."
I mean, come on. I live in Los Angeles. I spend 10.5 hours a day in car. When the stereo was stolen, I made the foolhardy assumption that a car stereo was a luxury. Like cable T.V. Or wine with a cork. In fact, a car stereo is a necessity; it's like air or DSL or (for 80% of America) cable T.V. It keeps you company. It's an instant friend. It distracts you from whatever's weighing on your mind. And if you turn to AM or NPR, it informs you.
I need a car stereo. I need morning radio with its sirens and horns to keep my spirits up and my mind on the sunny side of the street. I need an afternoon dose of Tom Leykis to get me back on track on how I should feel about women. I need to hear top 40 to anesthetize my frontal lobe to external stimuli.
So tomorrow, I'm going to Fry's and I'm going to get a car stereo, damn it. You just watch me and soon I'll be cruising down the 101 while listening to the classic rock station singing "Ventura Highway" by America at the top of my lungs. See how you like it XXXXXX, who doesn't have the balls to tell me that she's dating someone new. See how you like it, XXXXX, who leaves me paying the tip while he drives off in his Range Rover.
Boy. I really need that car stereo.
Today, I had an epiphany. The day started out depressing me, and got worse when a friend started telling me about my ex-girlfriend's new boyfriend. And then I had lunch with a friend who just sold a script for a zillion dollars (we split the check). Then, while I was driving home, ruminating about both, it hit me. I need a car stereo. A while back, mine was stolen (or at least, the all important faceplate was, leaving the CD mechanism behind). Since then, as I drive, I tend to ruminate. And hum. And sing the same verse from George Jones' "She Thinks I Still Care" and the same two lines from "Baby Got Back." Specifically, "Big sisters I can't resist 'em, Red beans and rice didn't miss 'em."
I mean, come on. I live in Los Angeles. I spend 10.5 hours a day in car. When the stereo was stolen, I made the foolhardy assumption that a car stereo was a luxury. Like cable T.V. Or wine with a cork. In fact, a car stereo is a necessity; it's like air or DSL or (for 80% of America) cable T.V. It keeps you company. It's an instant friend. It distracts you from whatever's weighing on your mind. And if you turn to AM or NPR, it informs you.
I need a car stereo. I need morning radio with its sirens and horns to keep my spirits up and my mind on the sunny side of the street. I need an afternoon dose of Tom Leykis to get me back on track on how I should feel about women. I need to hear top 40 to anesthetize my frontal lobe to external stimuli.
So tomorrow, I'm going to Fry's and I'm going to get a car stereo, damn it. You just watch me and soon I'll be cruising down the 101 while listening to the classic rock station singing "Ventura Highway" by America at the top of my lungs. See how you like it XXXXXX, who doesn't have the balls to tell me that she's dating someone new. See how you like it, XXXXX, who leaves me paying the tip while he drives off in his Range Rover.
Boy. I really need that car stereo.
Tuesday, January 07, 2003
Sunday, January 05, 2003
Who the Hell Is This Guy?
I'll eventually tell. I've been working nonstop for 14 hours and I'm a little beat. Plus, there's a rager of a windstorm out right now that cause a short brown out that shut down my computer. Now something in my house is making a burning smell, but I can't figure out what it is. Oh well. What, me worry?
My friend, Brad, is a D.J. in San Francisco at a college radio station. I hadn't heard from him in awhile, and I heard something had happened to him, so I called him. He was smoking in bed and fell asleep. His lit cigarette started a fire that burned down his apartment. He escaped with third degree burns on his back and arms, but poisoned his lungs. He was on a respirator for four weeks, unconscious. Then, two more weeks in the hospital. When he woke up, he tried to get up and fell down, splitting his head open.
The one good thing about the ordeal is that he quit smoking. Four weeks unconscious helps one get over the nicotine cravings. We decided that he should write a thick self help/quit smoking book that only has writing on the first page, "Close this book, place a lit cigarette on top of it and fall asleep."
But he's back home recouperating and there's some talk of a benefit concert, for which he feels rather sheepish, A) because he has trouble accepting help; and, B) he started the damned fire. But I told him that he needs all the help he can get. Plus, if the Radar Brothers, Richard Buckner and Grandaddy play - as promised - then I'm there.
All right. Now I'm a little freaked out because I swear the smoke smell is stronger. Must go hunting with a fire extinguisher. Fire engines throughout the neighborhood. I just moved in here. Give me a break. Maybe it's some other poor soul whose house is on fire. Is it wrong of me to hope that's so? I'll help put out...
Marty
P.S. I'm drinking a non-vintage wine from Gundlach-Bunschu or however it's spelled. It's their "Bearitage", which just means a blend of leftover grapes. Still, quite tasty. Crap. Fire. Forgot. Bye.
I'll eventually tell. I've been working nonstop for 14 hours and I'm a little beat. Plus, there's a rager of a windstorm out right now that cause a short brown out that shut down my computer. Now something in my house is making a burning smell, but I can't figure out what it is. Oh well. What, me worry?
My friend, Brad, is a D.J. in San Francisco at a college radio station. I hadn't heard from him in awhile, and I heard something had happened to him, so I called him. He was smoking in bed and fell asleep. His lit cigarette started a fire that burned down his apartment. He escaped with third degree burns on his back and arms, but poisoned his lungs. He was on a respirator for four weeks, unconscious. Then, two more weeks in the hospital. When he woke up, he tried to get up and fell down, splitting his head open.
The one good thing about the ordeal is that he quit smoking. Four weeks unconscious helps one get over the nicotine cravings. We decided that he should write a thick self help/quit smoking book that only has writing on the first page, "Close this book, place a lit cigarette on top of it and fall asleep."
But he's back home recouperating and there's some talk of a benefit concert, for which he feels rather sheepish, A) because he has trouble accepting help; and, B) he started the damned fire. But I told him that he needs all the help he can get. Plus, if the Radar Brothers, Richard Buckner and Grandaddy play - as promised - then I'm there.
All right. Now I'm a little freaked out because I swear the smoke smell is stronger. Must go hunting with a fire extinguisher. Fire engines throughout the neighborhood. I just moved in here. Give me a break. Maybe it's some other poor soul whose house is on fire. Is it wrong of me to hope that's so? I'll help put out...
Marty
P.S. I'm drinking a non-vintage wine from Gundlach-Bunschu or however it's spelled. It's their "Bearitage", which just means a blend of leftover grapes. Still, quite tasty. Crap. Fire. Forgot. Bye.
Saturday, January 04, 2003
Saturday Night's All Right for [insert self-deprecating witticism]
Working on a deadline tonight. I don't know why I have work due on a Sunday, but I do, so this will be brief.
This afternoon I went for dim sum in Monterey Park, where all the Chinese people in Los Angeles live. My first visit was such an eye opener because I had never seen so many businesses with just Chinese writing and I grew up in the San Francisco Bay Area. We went to NBC Seafood, which is big and loud and has a television network sounding name. Here's a little tip: go to dim sum at a place that either has "Ocean" or "Harbor" or other sea-related terms in the name or go to one that shares the name of a big television network. For instance, in Chinatown, you've got ABC and Ocean Seafood, which are the best ones there. VBC (what the hell does that stand for?) went out of business a few years back and Empress Pavillion is just O.K. Then, in Monterey Park, there's Harbor Village, Ocean Star and NBC - all top notch. I should sell this info, it's so damned useful.
Anyhow, if I had to choose between the network-named dim sum and the maritime-named dim sum, I'd go with the maritime. Ocean Seafood and Ocean Star are my two faves. NBC was good for the most part, but there were a few bland dishes - some sort of bun thing and a couple dumpling things. But they've got chicken feet galore, if that's your poison; two different kinds, even. Having raised chickens as a child, I've seen what they step in and I don't necessarily want that near my mouth.
Then I went to see my cousin play in a basketball game. He goes to a Division III NCAA school, which I guess means they don't get sexy, nubile cheerleaders to spur on the crowd. So I had to watch the game. They won.
On a personal/personals note, I went back onto the online dating website and saw my ex-girlfriend's ad with a photo. She looked incredibly beautiful on it and it ruined my day. I was supposed to have lunch with her tomorrow but I cancelled. And of course, the woman I saw on the site to whom I sent that irresistably charming note didn't answer me.
Sigh. Back to work.
Working on a deadline tonight. I don't know why I have work due on a Sunday, but I do, so this will be brief.
This afternoon I went for dim sum in Monterey Park, where all the Chinese people in Los Angeles live. My first visit was such an eye opener because I had never seen so many businesses with just Chinese writing and I grew up in the San Francisco Bay Area. We went to NBC Seafood, which is big and loud and has a television network sounding name. Here's a little tip: go to dim sum at a place that either has "Ocean" or "Harbor" or other sea-related terms in the name or go to one that shares the name of a big television network. For instance, in Chinatown, you've got ABC and Ocean Seafood, which are the best ones there. VBC (what the hell does that stand for?) went out of business a few years back and Empress Pavillion is just O.K. Then, in Monterey Park, there's Harbor Village, Ocean Star and NBC - all top notch. I should sell this info, it's so damned useful.
Anyhow, if I had to choose between the network-named dim sum and the maritime-named dim sum, I'd go with the maritime. Ocean Seafood and Ocean Star are my two faves. NBC was good for the most part, but there were a few bland dishes - some sort of bun thing and a couple dumpling things. But they've got chicken feet galore, if that's your poison; two different kinds, even. Having raised chickens as a child, I've seen what they step in and I don't necessarily want that near my mouth.
Then I went to see my cousin play in a basketball game. He goes to a Division III NCAA school, which I guess means they don't get sexy, nubile cheerleaders to spur on the crowd. So I had to watch the game. They won.
On a personal/personals note, I went back onto the online dating website and saw my ex-girlfriend's ad with a photo. She looked incredibly beautiful on it and it ruined my day. I was supposed to have lunch with her tomorrow but I cancelled. And of course, the woman I saw on the site to whom I sent that irresistably charming note didn't answer me.
Sigh. Back to work.
Friday, January 03, 2003
Friday Night MADNESS
First let's clear things up. I am a well-adjusted person. I have a stable family life. I have good friends to rely on. I have an active social life. Active-ish, maybe. Yet it's Friday night and I'm at home listening to Neil Diamond and Barbra Streisand singing "You Don't Bring Me Flowers" while browsing the online personals. Ooh. Wait. Now it's Bread's "Everything I Own." It's Friday night MADNESS.
The online personals can be a great device to give one the illusion that they are actively pursuing a social life. You look at available singles for hours and maybe you fire off a couple of emails and maybe you get a response or two. But for the most part it's like this: person A likes Dave Matthews, which counts them out, person B looks fat in their picture, the one hot one never answered your email, etc. So you never actually go out on a date, but you feel as though you tried because you invested all that time. And you keep on trying. But it's all a farce because you aren't actually taking any real risks. It doesn't mean anything unless you put yourself out there in the flesh and face the likelihood that you are going to be painfully rejected. But because you can't really be humiliated when you're hiding behind the anonymity of the Internet, typing bawdy limericks and sending pictures of yourself with the acne scars Photoshopped out is fun and addictive.
I have spent weeks combing personals sites in the past. Wasted hours sorting through photos. Agonized over the phrasing of my personal profile. It's exhausting. Then there was a point when I kept seeing the same photos over and over again and seeing the same profiles with different photos. I said to myself, "These people are losers," until I realized I was one of those losers. So I stepped up and went on a couple dates before concluding that it's easier to meet normal single people hanging out with friends.
Which brings us to tonight. Where are these so-called friends I supposedly have? The truth is, I had to do work tonight but thought I'd take a little break to do a quick scan. After all, it's been a few months since I've looked at online personals. Just a peek. Honest. Then right back to work. And after some searches, I ran across an ad that caught my eye so I sent off an email. What's the big deal? It's like an alcoholic at a New Year's party saying, "What's the harm in one glass of champagne?" Plus, I can say that I'm working on not being single in 2003, right? Hey, I'm the first to say that I'm a big fat hypocrite.
On a more pleasant note, this afternoon I had to pick up my sister and niece at the airport and as payment, I was treated to sushi in Little Tokyo, which is on the edge of Downtown L.A. We went to Hama Sushi on Second, which is a very low key place that's not too expensive, but the sushi is sublime. The uni (sea urchin) there tastes like the offshore breeze on a foggy morning. They lightly sear their albacore and add a pinch of green onion and ginger on top. That was my sister's favorite. All the sushi there is fantastic. The only thing I've never been impressed by there is the ankimo (monkfish liver), which is not bad, merely unremarkable.
I suppose now I should explain why I am listening to Bread, the Little River Band and the like. It's a shameful confession - I'm trying to increase my karaoke vocabulary. There. I said it. That was harder to say than saying I'm staying home on a Friday night or that I like to bugger sheep. To further explain, these are songs from my past that I've always liked but don't know remember well enough to sing in karaoke, so I downloaded a few of them and have been listening to them. I'm not practicing or anything, I'm just reminding myself so I can sing more than the three songs I always go for at the local bar. No matter how I explain it, it's pretty lame.
Which is worse? Being a creative anachronist or being a karaoke whore? I think they are pretty close in their levels of lameness. But I read on someone's weblog that it's a great way to meet chicks. It must be true because it's on the Internet. And that's why I'm going to wow them singing Olivia Newton-John's "Hopelessly Devoted to You." If that's not a show-stopping babe magnet, I don't know what is.
First let's clear things up. I am a well-adjusted person. I have a stable family life. I have good friends to rely on. I have an active social life. Active-ish, maybe. Yet it's Friday night and I'm at home listening to Neil Diamond and Barbra Streisand singing "You Don't Bring Me Flowers" while browsing the online personals. Ooh. Wait. Now it's Bread's "Everything I Own." It's Friday night MADNESS.
The online personals can be a great device to give one the illusion that they are actively pursuing a social life. You look at available singles for hours and maybe you fire off a couple of emails and maybe you get a response or two. But for the most part it's like this: person A likes Dave Matthews, which counts them out, person B looks fat in their picture, the one hot one never answered your email, etc. So you never actually go out on a date, but you feel as though you tried because you invested all that time. And you keep on trying. But it's all a farce because you aren't actually taking any real risks. It doesn't mean anything unless you put yourself out there in the flesh and face the likelihood that you are going to be painfully rejected. But because you can't really be humiliated when you're hiding behind the anonymity of the Internet, typing bawdy limericks and sending pictures of yourself with the acne scars Photoshopped out is fun and addictive.
I have spent weeks combing personals sites in the past. Wasted hours sorting through photos. Agonized over the phrasing of my personal profile. It's exhausting. Then there was a point when I kept seeing the same photos over and over again and seeing the same profiles with different photos. I said to myself, "These people are losers," until I realized I was one of those losers. So I stepped up and went on a couple dates before concluding that it's easier to meet normal single people hanging out with friends.
Which brings us to tonight. Where are these so-called friends I supposedly have? The truth is, I had to do work tonight but thought I'd take a little break to do a quick scan. After all, it's been a few months since I've looked at online personals. Just a peek. Honest. Then right back to work. And after some searches, I ran across an ad that caught my eye so I sent off an email. What's the big deal? It's like an alcoholic at a New Year's party saying, "What's the harm in one glass of champagne?" Plus, I can say that I'm working on not being single in 2003, right? Hey, I'm the first to say that I'm a big fat hypocrite.
On a more pleasant note, this afternoon I had to pick up my sister and niece at the airport and as payment, I was treated to sushi in Little Tokyo, which is on the edge of Downtown L.A. We went to Hama Sushi on Second, which is a very low key place that's not too expensive, but the sushi is sublime. The uni (sea urchin) there tastes like the offshore breeze on a foggy morning. They lightly sear their albacore and add a pinch of green onion and ginger on top. That was my sister's favorite. All the sushi there is fantastic. The only thing I've never been impressed by there is the ankimo (monkfish liver), which is not bad, merely unremarkable.
I suppose now I should explain why I am listening to Bread, the Little River Band and the like. It's a shameful confession - I'm trying to increase my karaoke vocabulary. There. I said it. That was harder to say than saying I'm staying home on a Friday night or that I like to bugger sheep. To further explain, these are songs from my past that I've always liked but don't know remember well enough to sing in karaoke, so I downloaded a few of them and have been listening to them. I'm not practicing or anything, I'm just reminding myself so I can sing more than the three songs I always go for at the local bar. No matter how I explain it, it's pretty lame.
Which is worse? Being a creative anachronist or being a karaoke whore? I think they are pretty close in their levels of lameness. But I read on someone's weblog that it's a great way to meet chicks. It must be true because it's on the Internet. And that's why I'm going to wow them singing Olivia Newton-John's "Hopelessly Devoted to You." If that's not a show-stopping babe magnet, I don't know what is.
Thursday, January 02, 2003
A Rant About File Sharing
Who out there uses file sharing software? I do. I use Kazaa. And though I know it's wrong and it's illegal, I use it to get pirated materials. For instance, earlier, I remarked on how I was listening to Keith Fullerton Whitman, whom I read about at www.pitchforkmedia.com. It's great stuff, and I wouldn't have known it until I downloaded it illegally and listened to it. As a result, I purchased two copies of his album and kept one for myself and gave one to my brother-in-law.
To me, that's the great benefit of filesharing. You can try before you buy. I've done it many times. Because of this, I bought the Dixie Chicks for my father and the Transplants for my sister. File sharing is great for that and I don't imagine that Tim Armstrong or Natalie Maines would have a problem with me doing what I have done. But file sharing, I've discovered, is also great for fringe pornography.
I think the first time I discovered this was when I was looking for Mulan online and typed in "Disney." When you run these file sharing applications, you type in a keyword that pulls up all the corresponding files. And in between Mickey Mouse's "Steamboat Willy" and "The Lion King" was wedged in, "Pool Table F*ck." Whoever encoded this bit of "cinema" decided to add Disney in their list of keywords to add to its distribution abilities. You see, if one encodes a file for the computer and posts it for downloading, the file sharing software can't interpret whether a file is a film clip of a sports blooper or whether it's a hot remix of a popular song and thus it allows the encoder to add keywords. An enterprising pornographer will add common words to his keyword list to have it come up more often. For instance, if, while running Kazaa, you type in "Angelina Jolie" to find out what she's been in, you'll get a list of online movies that includes, "Angelina Jolie having Sex," which is just a clip of pornography. Likewise, you can innocently look for movies that include the keyword "happy," and get a listing for the Britney Spears video, "Born to Make You Happy," in addition to the whole line of "Slap Happy" movies, which consists of men physically abusing women while they receive sexual gratification.
So of course this is reprehensible. It is appalling that someone is trying to sell movies showing people being abused. I don't care if it's consenting adults, it's still perverse and exploitative. However, I don't think that one can restrict most of the file sharing software. It embodies the ideals of the internet: a free exchange of information.
That said, imagine what it must be like if you input keywords in a file sharing search engine that you know will yield kinky results. Just download kazaa or limewire or whatever and enter in "hot sex," "bestiality," "rape," "snuff film" or any other violent act you can think of and files will emerge. For these movies, the I-waves need to be patrolled. The fact that I can spend ten minutes online and get child pornography proves that there is a huge failure in the system to control the Internet.
Please understand, that I'm a huge believer in free speech and the freedom of the Internet, but I also believe that there are many who take advantage of this privilege. Like it or not, Kazaa, Limewire, Gnutella and the like facilitate the proliferation of pirated video games, illilcit pornography, illegally copied movies and many, many violations of privacy (try "revenge" as a keyword while searching for videos). The system should punish those who trade these files.
But then this begs the question: Should the soccer mom who shares the Eagles' "Take It Easy" on her filesharing software be punished in the same way as the scum who took pictures of the junior high school locker room and shared them online? I'll bet Glenn Frey would say yes. Both are stealing. Both are committing breaches of trust. Both are human violations. Yet why do I have no problems stealing copies of the Eagles' library to burn onto CD for my mother? And yet get disgusted when I see "Nude Teen Cheerleaders" in a search result? Well, the answer is pretty easy. Glenn Frey ain't starving and his reputation won't be sullied because my mother plays "Witchy Woman" in her Taurus stationwagon, especially since she has every Eagles album on vinyl at home.
So the easy end to my rant is I don't know what the solution is. Protect me and my mother and crucify the perverts? Maybe. But Joe Walsh, Glenn Frey and Don Henley have a totally different take on the situation. As does Larry Flynt. As does Pat Buchanan. But we should all think long and hard about the ramifications of file sharing, how we can control it and what is "fair." I'm just thankful for Kazaa for without which, I never would have learned about the Pillows, the original version of The Ring, Battle Royale and, of course, Keith Fullerton Whitman.
Who out there uses file sharing software? I do. I use Kazaa. And though I know it's wrong and it's illegal, I use it to get pirated materials. For instance, earlier, I remarked on how I was listening to Keith Fullerton Whitman, whom I read about at www.pitchforkmedia.com. It's great stuff, and I wouldn't have known it until I downloaded it illegally and listened to it. As a result, I purchased two copies of his album and kept one for myself and gave one to my brother-in-law.
To me, that's the great benefit of filesharing. You can try before you buy. I've done it many times. Because of this, I bought the Dixie Chicks for my father and the Transplants for my sister. File sharing is great for that and I don't imagine that Tim Armstrong or Natalie Maines would have a problem with me doing what I have done. But file sharing, I've discovered, is also great for fringe pornography.
I think the first time I discovered this was when I was looking for Mulan online and typed in "Disney." When you run these file sharing applications, you type in a keyword that pulls up all the corresponding files. And in between Mickey Mouse's "Steamboat Willy" and "The Lion King" was wedged in, "Pool Table F*ck." Whoever encoded this bit of "cinema" decided to add Disney in their list of keywords to add to its distribution abilities. You see, if one encodes a file for the computer and posts it for downloading, the file sharing software can't interpret whether a file is a film clip of a sports blooper or whether it's a hot remix of a popular song and thus it allows the encoder to add keywords. An enterprising pornographer will add common words to his keyword list to have it come up more often. For instance, if, while running Kazaa, you type in "Angelina Jolie" to find out what she's been in, you'll get a list of online movies that includes, "Angelina Jolie having Sex," which is just a clip of pornography. Likewise, you can innocently look for movies that include the keyword "happy," and get a listing for the Britney Spears video, "Born to Make You Happy," in addition to the whole line of "Slap Happy" movies, which consists of men physically abusing women while they receive sexual gratification.
So of course this is reprehensible. It is appalling that someone is trying to sell movies showing people being abused. I don't care if it's consenting adults, it's still perverse and exploitative. However, I don't think that one can restrict most of the file sharing software. It embodies the ideals of the internet: a free exchange of information.
That said, imagine what it must be like if you input keywords in a file sharing search engine that you know will yield kinky results. Just download kazaa or limewire or whatever and enter in "hot sex," "bestiality," "rape," "snuff film" or any other violent act you can think of and files will emerge. For these movies, the I-waves need to be patrolled. The fact that I can spend ten minutes online and get child pornography proves that there is a huge failure in the system to control the Internet.
Please understand, that I'm a huge believer in free speech and the freedom of the Internet, but I also believe that there are many who take advantage of this privilege. Like it or not, Kazaa, Limewire, Gnutella and the like facilitate the proliferation of pirated video games, illilcit pornography, illegally copied movies and many, many violations of privacy (try "revenge" as a keyword while searching for videos). The system should punish those who trade these files.
But then this begs the question: Should the soccer mom who shares the Eagles' "Take It Easy" on her filesharing software be punished in the same way as the scum who took pictures of the junior high school locker room and shared them online? I'll bet Glenn Frey would say yes. Both are stealing. Both are committing breaches of trust. Both are human violations. Yet why do I have no problems stealing copies of the Eagles' library to burn onto CD for my mother? And yet get disgusted when I see "Nude Teen Cheerleaders" in a search result? Well, the answer is pretty easy. Glenn Frey ain't starving and his reputation won't be sullied because my mother plays "Witchy Woman" in her Taurus stationwagon, especially since she has every Eagles album on vinyl at home.
So the easy end to my rant is I don't know what the solution is. Protect me and my mother and crucify the perverts? Maybe. But Joe Walsh, Glenn Frey and Don Henley have a totally different take on the situation. As does Larry Flynt. As does Pat Buchanan. But we should all think long and hard about the ramifications of file sharing, how we can control it and what is "fair." I'm just thankful for Kazaa for without which, I never would have learned about the Pillows, the original version of The Ring, Battle Royale and, of course, Keith Fullerton Whitman.
Day 2
Today, my friend, Andrea (Andy), told me that she believed that the first day of the new year defined the rest of the year for you. If that's truly the case, this year will prove to be a craptastic year. I lost my dog, I spent the day feeling helpless, useless and stressed, and I didn't get laid. But, day two was a marked improvement. I woke up and got ready for my daily run - got dressed, stretched out, checked my email. But, almost as an afterthought, I went to the pound to see if D.J., the missing dog, was there.
Now I hate going to any sort of animal shelter because I tend to want to take home every animal I see, but lo and behold, the very first cell I saw contained none other than Dog Junior himself, looking very contrite and ready to come home. The best news to come out of this all is that D.J. now has his shots (he's a year overdue) and he's now licensed. And it was cheap. It'll cost just about the same to get Butternut vaccinated and licensed. She got vaccinated today and wasn't happy about it at all. Oops. I'm lapsing into boring pet talk.
To celebrate D.J.'s emancipation, I took him, Butternut, Andrea, and her husband, Phil, on a hike through Arroyo Seco, a verdant trail featuring trees, nature and, despite the name, a creek filled with water. We followed that with fish tacos at Senor Fish and then a shopping spree at Target. I bought many plastic recepticles. I had a meeting after that for a show I'm putting up for which I prepared Swiss cheese fondue. I can't put into words how excited I was about this meal.
I recently dated this woman, Abby, who is super cool and kept mentioning how much she wanted a fondue pot. So after poo-pooing all the offerings at Sur la Table and Crate and Barrel, I searched on eBay and won a mustard yellow fondue pot - never used - from the 1960s. It's supercool and included many, many forks. And because Abby dumped me for saying "yay" too often and because (to protect my own ego), I was about to dump her for not letting me say "yay," I kept the pot for myself. I poured a couple cups of cheap white wine into a pot of grated Swiss and Gruyere cheese along with a clove of garlic, a few tablespoons of white wine and some of the necessary Kirsch and added the whole molten mass into my (my) new fondue pot. It was a hit. Does that make me a bad person to take a gift intended for another person and use it as my own after they dump me? I think not. It's not as though I took one engagement ring rejected by one woman and giving it to another.
With my fondue, I shared a bottle of a Penfold's grenache/syrah/mourvedre from some bin with an arbitrary number, like "Bin 3" or "Bin 744." I have no idea where it was from, but it was kind of rough around the edges. It's a shame because the 1999 Rosemount GSM (Grenache, Syrah, Mourvedre) is one of my alltime faves. But you really shouldn't be drinking such a fruity red wine with cheese fondue anyhow. It needed some Alsatian dry white, but what does anybody know about those kind of wines?
My friends and I made short order of the Penfold's and I opened a $1.99 Charles Shaw cab which proved to be just fine after two glasses of hearty Australian wine. I still maintain that it's watered down, but it's wine, right? Anyhow, I came away from this night thinking that regardless of what Andy (Andrea) says, this will be a fine new year. I have a new outlook on life and a new fondue pot and my dog is free after his spastic escape after being spooked by fireworks. It inspires me to write haiku:
Loud noise makes dog run
But next year will be diff'rent
He'll take sedatives.
Marty
P.S. Maybe next time I'll talk about more of my background.
P.P.S. While writing this, I was listening to Keith Fullerton Whitman, whose album, Playthroughs, is a work of genius. It's his solo guitar fed through many analog synthesizers which makes for some of the most amazing atmospheric music ever. I could listen to it over and over again. I recommend it to anyone who likes that kind of stuff and doesn't need to sing along with music to enjoy it.
Today, my friend, Andrea (Andy), told me that she believed that the first day of the new year defined the rest of the year for you. If that's truly the case, this year will prove to be a craptastic year. I lost my dog, I spent the day feeling helpless, useless and stressed, and I didn't get laid. But, day two was a marked improvement. I woke up and got ready for my daily run - got dressed, stretched out, checked my email. But, almost as an afterthought, I went to the pound to see if D.J., the missing dog, was there.
Now I hate going to any sort of animal shelter because I tend to want to take home every animal I see, but lo and behold, the very first cell I saw contained none other than Dog Junior himself, looking very contrite and ready to come home. The best news to come out of this all is that D.J. now has his shots (he's a year overdue) and he's now licensed. And it was cheap. It'll cost just about the same to get Butternut vaccinated and licensed. She got vaccinated today and wasn't happy about it at all. Oops. I'm lapsing into boring pet talk.
To celebrate D.J.'s emancipation, I took him, Butternut, Andrea, and her husband, Phil, on a hike through Arroyo Seco, a verdant trail featuring trees, nature and, despite the name, a creek filled with water. We followed that with fish tacos at Senor Fish and then a shopping spree at Target. I bought many plastic recepticles. I had a meeting after that for a show I'm putting up for which I prepared Swiss cheese fondue. I can't put into words how excited I was about this meal.
I recently dated this woman, Abby, who is super cool and kept mentioning how much she wanted a fondue pot. So after poo-pooing all the offerings at Sur la Table and Crate and Barrel, I searched on eBay and won a mustard yellow fondue pot - never used - from the 1960s. It's supercool and included many, many forks. And because Abby dumped me for saying "yay" too often and because (to protect my own ego), I was about to dump her for not letting me say "yay," I kept the pot for myself. I poured a couple cups of cheap white wine into a pot of grated Swiss and Gruyere cheese along with a clove of garlic, a few tablespoons of white wine and some of the necessary Kirsch and added the whole molten mass into my (my) new fondue pot. It was a hit. Does that make me a bad person to take a gift intended for another person and use it as my own after they dump me? I think not. It's not as though I took one engagement ring rejected by one woman and giving it to another.
With my fondue, I shared a bottle of a Penfold's grenache/syrah/mourvedre from some bin with an arbitrary number, like "Bin 3" or "Bin 744." I have no idea where it was from, but it was kind of rough around the edges. It's a shame because the 1999 Rosemount GSM (Grenache, Syrah, Mourvedre) is one of my alltime faves. But you really shouldn't be drinking such a fruity red wine with cheese fondue anyhow. It needed some Alsatian dry white, but what does anybody know about those kind of wines?
My friends and I made short order of the Penfold's and I opened a $1.99 Charles Shaw cab which proved to be just fine after two glasses of hearty Australian wine. I still maintain that it's watered down, but it's wine, right? Anyhow, I came away from this night thinking that regardless of what Andy (Andrea) says, this will be a fine new year. I have a new outlook on life and a new fondue pot and my dog is free after his spastic escape after being spooked by fireworks. It inspires me to write haiku:
Loud noise makes dog run
But next year will be diff'rent
He'll take sedatives.
Marty
P.S. Maybe next time I'll talk about more of my background.
P.P.S. While writing this, I was listening to Keith Fullerton Whitman, whose album, Playthroughs, is a work of genius. It's his solo guitar fed through many analog synthesizers which makes for some of the most amazing atmospheric music ever. I could listen to it over and over again. I recommend it to anyone who likes that kind of stuff and doesn't need to sing along with music to enjoy it.
Wednesday, January 01, 2003
A Second Beginning
Hello. This is my first (second) blog entry. I say first (second) because I just spent a good deal of time on a post that, when I pressed the post button, never posted. So I write again, except this time, much more succinctly.
I am writing this weblog because, gosh darnit, I have something to say. And that thing is... Alas, it's nothing of substance. Just a lot of nonsense.
This year, my resolution is to be less indulgent. I could have picked something about being more diligent, but I do work hard, except when I lapse into indulgence. So, I will be less indulgent in 2003. You see, I need to be more successful and make more money this year because I just bought a house and have no steady form of employment. And when you're 34, you should start to make something of yourself, don't you think?
So far the year has started out with a bang. Last night, I went to my friend, Sergej's house for some mild pre-New Year's indulgence and he had his first asthma attack since he was a child. He was miserable and so everyone felt bad for him. And when I came home, my eldest dog (of two), D.J. had run away after being spooked by some neighborhood fireworks. He had chewed through some fencing I put up and then broke a metal chain that held a gate shut and let himself out. When he's panicked, there isn't a backyard that can hold ol' D.J. But his escape made this morning's unindulgent plans I had made moot because I had to print up and post fliers.
The printing part proved to be extremely trying. I spent two hours rummaging through the garage looking for a printer cord. See, I'm not quite moved in and there's all this junk lying around, but you'd think I'd be able to find a damned USB cord, right? See, I'm kind of a tech-nerd wannabe and it seems that every gadget I buy comes with a USB cable I toss in some box. And yet, I could not find one, despite my hours of looking. Had I spent two hours labeling my boxes and packing carefully, I might have found a cable faster, but that's not how I did things in 2002. Just wait until you see all the changes I'm going to make in 2003.
Of course the USB cable was tucked by itself into some little box, packed underneath some towels, because everyone knows that terrycloth and USB cables go together. And so I printed the flier, "LOST - black lab mix who's friendly but afraid of fireworks. Please call Marty." So far, no one has. And yes, at one point he had a tag, but it fell off. And believe it or not, just five days ago, I ordered him a new one. I'll bet I get it tomorrow. But don't worry about D.J. He's a survivor. He's probably drinking coffee and smoking big cigars right now in some rich person's living room, resting by a glowing hearth.
Me, I'm a wreck. When I went to Von's to post signs, I left my bank card in the ATM machine ("A new one will arrive in 10 business days"). The only pleasure I've had today is the pasta I made, which cures all: a sliced onion, garlic and mushrooms, sauteed. Lightly wilted escarole and radicchio. All tossed with fusilli and a bigass handful of freshly grated Parmesan cheese. I made it my recently completed kitchen. I'm great.
It's actually not quite finished and I'm not really great. But I'm almost finished. I spent the latter half of the evening fitting shelving paper. Just have to unpack dishes now, I think.
Wow. My first weblog entry is spectacularly boring. Shelving paper? Unpacking dishes? Jesus. Sigh. With my pasta, I indulged (oops!) in a glass of Charles Shaw Sauvignon Blanc, which has received all this press recently because it sells for $1.99 and people love it and buy it by the case. To me, it's just O.K. I think that wineries have to pay more money the more alcohol a wine they sell has. And I think that to keep costs low, they deliberately make the Charles Shaw low alcohol. As a result, it always tastes watered down, but for $1.99, it's fine. Right now, I'm enjoying a Napa port from Heitz, which is not bad.
All right. My original entry had much more wit and now I just want to get to sleep. More later. Like who the heck I am. Why I'm doing this. What this eight day week is all about. Why corn and SUVs are bad. But first I must sleep. I have to go to the pound tomorrow to find D.J. Poor Butternut, my other dog, doesn't know why it's been so boring today. She ain't too bright. I'm going to have weird dreams tonight.
Hello. This is my first (second) blog entry. I say first (second) because I just spent a good deal of time on a post that, when I pressed the post button, never posted. So I write again, except this time, much more succinctly.
I am writing this weblog because, gosh darnit, I have something to say. And that thing is... Alas, it's nothing of substance. Just a lot of nonsense.
This year, my resolution is to be less indulgent. I could have picked something about being more diligent, but I do work hard, except when I lapse into indulgence. So, I will be less indulgent in 2003. You see, I need to be more successful and make more money this year because I just bought a house and have no steady form of employment. And when you're 34, you should start to make something of yourself, don't you think?
So far the year has started out with a bang. Last night, I went to my friend, Sergej's house for some mild pre-New Year's indulgence and he had his first asthma attack since he was a child. He was miserable and so everyone felt bad for him. And when I came home, my eldest dog (of two), D.J. had run away after being spooked by some neighborhood fireworks. He had chewed through some fencing I put up and then broke a metal chain that held a gate shut and let himself out. When he's panicked, there isn't a backyard that can hold ol' D.J. But his escape made this morning's unindulgent plans I had made moot because I had to print up and post fliers.
The printing part proved to be extremely trying. I spent two hours rummaging through the garage looking for a printer cord. See, I'm not quite moved in and there's all this junk lying around, but you'd think I'd be able to find a damned USB cord, right? See, I'm kind of a tech-nerd wannabe and it seems that every gadget I buy comes with a USB cable I toss in some box. And yet, I could not find one, despite my hours of looking. Had I spent two hours labeling my boxes and packing carefully, I might have found a cable faster, but that's not how I did things in 2002. Just wait until you see all the changes I'm going to make in 2003.
Of course the USB cable was tucked by itself into some little box, packed underneath some towels, because everyone knows that terrycloth and USB cables go together. And so I printed the flier, "LOST - black lab mix who's friendly but afraid of fireworks. Please call Marty." So far, no one has. And yes, at one point he had a tag, but it fell off. And believe it or not, just five days ago, I ordered him a new one. I'll bet I get it tomorrow. But don't worry about D.J. He's a survivor. He's probably drinking coffee and smoking big cigars right now in some rich person's living room, resting by a glowing hearth.
Me, I'm a wreck. When I went to Von's to post signs, I left my bank card in the ATM machine ("A new one will arrive in 10 business days"). The only pleasure I've had today is the pasta I made, which cures all: a sliced onion, garlic and mushrooms, sauteed. Lightly wilted escarole and radicchio. All tossed with fusilli and a bigass handful of freshly grated Parmesan cheese. I made it my recently completed kitchen. I'm great.
It's actually not quite finished and I'm not really great. But I'm almost finished. I spent the latter half of the evening fitting shelving paper. Just have to unpack dishes now, I think.
Wow. My first weblog entry is spectacularly boring. Shelving paper? Unpacking dishes? Jesus. Sigh. With my pasta, I indulged (oops!) in a glass of Charles Shaw Sauvignon Blanc, which has received all this press recently because it sells for $1.99 and people love it and buy it by the case. To me, it's just O.K. I think that wineries have to pay more money the more alcohol a wine they sell has. And I think that to keep costs low, they deliberately make the Charles Shaw low alcohol. As a result, it always tastes watered down, but for $1.99, it's fine. Right now, I'm enjoying a Napa port from Heitz, which is not bad.
All right. My original entry had much more wit and now I just want to get to sleep. More later. Like who the heck I am. Why I'm doing this. What this eight day week is all about. Why corn and SUVs are bad. But first I must sleep. I have to go to the pound tomorrow to find D.J. Poor Butternut, my other dog, doesn't know why it's been so boring today. She ain't too bright. I'm going to have weird dreams tonight.
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