I Eat My Homework

On the road again...

2007-11-08T20:28:00.000-05:00

It seems that my fella has launched himself and his band into the 21st century, and started a blog of their current, 22-hour-old tour. Congratulations, honey.

I'll be checking in on the shenanigans and rampant beard growth. Y'all should too.

Speaking of rampant beard growth, Tal and I saw Band of Horses at Toad's Place in New Haven. Man, those guys have some serious beards (see left). Also, they kicked ass. I wish they had more than an hour of material to play.

Going to the chapel...

2007-11-05T10:28:00.000-05:00

Here by popular demand is a picture of the finished wedding cake. It's a butter cake with raspberry filling and Swiss meringue buttercream icing, covered in vanilla-flavored ivory fondant.

The ribbons aren't edible or anything... my decorating skills aren't very advanced.

The wedding itself was lovely. The groom walked down the aisle to an acoustic version of Fugazi's "Waiting Room" played by his groomsmen.

This is a picture of me at the reception, taken by Bridget:

....clearly after a glass or two of champagne.

The cake went over very well and good times were had by all.

Next project, two cakes for a CD release party/art show. One of them has to be vegan. So that'll be an interesting challenge.

If I knew you were coming, I'd have baked a cake.

2007-09-29T15:12:00.000-05:00

Oh, there is nothing better than spending the whole afternoon in the kitchen on a breezy fall day.

I have recently taken on the assignment of baking a wedding cake for a friend from work. Like, a proper one. With tiers and whatnot.

I expect I was asked to undertake this sort of thing due to the success of a cake I baked for another work friend, Juliana, who was married this summer. Observe:

It's the one in the center. I used the red velvet recipe from the NYT, which was actually from Elisa Strauss's (a fellow Vassar girl, whom I've met and who's lovely) Confetti Cakes cookbook. Let me tell you, it is divine. Better than (and I hate to draw lines in the buttercream here) the Cake Man Raven's Red Velvet (sorry, Raven, more cocoa makes it better). The cake was three layers, a deep red with a perfect soft texture and moist crumb. My mother backseat-iced the cake, and had the brilliant idea of decorating with nasturtium flowers, so it turned out beautifully.

Anyway, it was pretty and delicious, if I may be so bold, and I'm sure that combined with my willingness to bake for the sheer joy of focusing deeply on a rather precise task, led to Rosamund putting aside my inexperience and asking for me to think about baking up a wedding cake all proper-like. Think about it? I confess, I spent a good half hour in the wedding section of the bookstore, flipping through photos of cakes and I was sold. The precision involved in putting together a tiered cake, icing it, AND covering it with fondant (so smooth and pretty!) is almost more exciting than I can handle.

Today I endeavored to experiment a bit with a cake recipe. I haven't found a published recipe that stirs me, so I kind of tinkered with some existing ones. I'll elaborate more on the details of this experiment once I cut into the thing and eat it, but until then, here's the trial cake, just out of the oven:

The silvery band wrapped around the pan somehow makes the cake rise straight and remain relatively flush on top when you pull it out of the oven. I have no idea how, but I'm loving it (though it does mean fewer cake scraps to eat whilst icing). Also, I got a bottle of "Cake Release" from A.C. Moore (a wonderful and slightly terrifying store), which appears to be made of liquid genius, as the cake popped right out of the pan with no fuss and no leavin's to speak of.

Stay tuned for more photos as the practice cake and the real deal progress.

Baby, you can conjugate me all night long.

2007-09-26T13:19:00.000-05:00

I was alerted to the following music video, T-Pain's "I Like the Bartender" by Mark, who is very smart and certainly up on all the hottest new tracks. OK, so it's probably not new. But it's still awesome.

The words that speak to me most? "She made us drinks to drink. We drunk 'em, got drunk."

I expect, if pressed, young Tal would concur that dating me is very similar, glamour-wise. I wear short-shorts whilst pouring beers (it helps me show off the sweet bruises from walking into the beer cooler and knocking heavy ice buckets into myself). Also, he keeps it real by drinking triple shots of Patròn with lime. In fact, I think I might start calling him T-Pain.

In other bar news, the fall beers are in.

From our taps, I enjoy:

- Pennichuck's Big O. Nice malty flavor as ever, with a certain sweetness I'd forgotten about since last year.

- Long Trail's Harvest. Delicious, smooth, and a gorgeous dark color.

I also like:

- Brooklyn's Oktoberfest and Smuttynose Pumpkin Ale.

Top of my list to try is Red Hook's Late Harvest (while we're at it, let's enjoy the bartender character on their website. Look how he polishes glasses and points cheerily at imaginary customers out in cyberspace!)

I do not enjoy: Peak Organic Pale Ale. OK, I know it's not a fall beer, but I drank a few yesterday, and I must say, it smells suspiciously of (bad) pot. Also, when it repeats, it tastes of pot. Very weird. And kind of fulfilling people's notion that organic beers are made by stoner hippies on communes in Vermont.

I am in the business of breaking promises, jaws.

2007-08-27T13:03:00.000-05:00

I broke my promise to Josh's butt (see previous entry), and for that I am sincerely sorry. However, it's not because I've been sitting around eating bonbons and wathching soap operas. No indeed. My summer has been chock-full of excitment since I returned from Scotland. I ventured north to Vermont to see a kickass Wilco show with my fella, witnessed some nuptials, dealt with car and cat repairs, and endured some harassment with the local constabulary.

Somehow I managed to find time for all of the above in between many many fun though occasionally stressful bartending shifts.

One of the downsides of tending bar in a place with no public transport is that you have to be extremely careful about how much you serve people. I am legally responsible for every person who has the pleasure to quaff a pint in my bar (we now have Boddington's on tap, btw... very exciting). This, because I'm compulsively responsible when it comes to jobs, can take it's toll and I get nasty and suspicious of nearly everyone who bellys up to the bar. I card people, shut people off, and this summer marked the first time I took away someone's pint (THAT was really not fun... and I didn't serve it to her in the first place, and boy did she have some mean thoughts to share with me). If you couldn't tell already, you can purchase alcohol in New Hampshire, you can drink it, but you CANNOT be drunk. I'm not a doctor or anything, but I have yet to work out the math on that. If any of y'all figure it out, I'd be happy to hear your thoughts so that I might explain it to surly customers who are hell-bent on getting visibly wasted in my presence.

I haven't yet thrown someone out of the bar, but I have a feeling that that's my next step and then I'll really be the tough broad slinging pints in the neighborhood bar. I'll let you know how that goes.

But enough boring nonsense about me not wanting some drunk asshole sending me to jail (or getting my broke ass fined). The benefit of my job is that I get to see lots of live music. Of course, I'm experiencing a fair number of bands well outside of my usual tastes, but it's all part of that potpurri of small music venues.

A couple of weeks ago, I had the miraculous fortune of bartending during a show by SeepeopleS (weird name, I know). Miraculous because we don't tend to get indie rock bands at Harlow's. They're from Asheville, North Tobylina, and they're pretty great. Please enjoy the following musical video:

Not too shabby atall. They're also very nice guys with decent taste in beer. And their live show kicks ass.

I think that brings me mostly up to date. Soon I'll be posting about my fall efforts in the kitchen (now that it's not hot, I don't feel bad turning on the oven), including my experiences with home canning. Wooo!

...I would walk five hundred miles...

2007-07-15T10:15:00.001-05:00

Well, it took me a long time, but for the sake of Josh's butt, I have uploaded a metric shit-ton (or, in this case, tonne) of photos from my shenanigans abroad in Scotland.

Here is photographic evidence that Scotland has nice weather on occasion. This particular photo was taken looking down Bridget's street toward the sea.

A view of St. Andrews from the beach. We went walking along the beach on a nice (um... not rainy) afternoon. There were loads of washed-up dead jellyfish. I did not take pictures of those because they are gross and the view of St. Andrews is pretty. So there.

This is "The Old Course," and grown men who are devotees of the game called "golf" have been known to weep in its presence.

The day after I arrived in Scotland, we rented a very small car and set off on a whirlwind driving tour of the country. The little Ford KA served us well, from Loch Lommond, to Oban, to Inverness and Dalwhinnie.

Here is Loch Lommond, a very nice loch indeed.

This is me, driving. On the left side of the road, seated on the left side of the car, shifting gears with my left hand. It took a little getting used to, but I'm pleased to report I did not kill us or frighten any natives. I did, however, have a run-in with a surly motorcyclist who expected me to drive half in the other lane so he could get by me on the right. Instead, I simply changed lanes a short time after he came screaming up behind me, and he treated me to some colorful language yelled through my window whilst driving at high speeds on the A9.

Here is the view of the harbor in Oban, a really beautiful town on the west coast of Scotland.

We drove all day long the first day and elected to stay in Oban that night. We had a nice dinner and some local beers, and since it was still light out at about 9:30pm, we elected to take a walk towards the outskirts of town. We came upon a ruined castle that was apparently on private property, though we found a gate standing ajar and scrambled up a hill to get a closer look.

This is the wall below the castle, where we found the "no castle access" sign. Suckers.

Here's the castle from up close.

A pretty stone cross.

The pretty stone cross made me blurry.

A picture of we two scofflaws, upon breaching the castle wall and walking around inside. Bridget would be the tan one. I'm so pale, I can be seen from space.

The castle from the road below.
Here's our hostel, which had a lovely view of the water. It was my first dormitory hostel experience. We slept on slabs of concrete and listened to a woman snoring like a diesel engine.

On the second day of our power tour of Scotland, we had absolutely breathtaking weather. There really is nothing like Scotland on a sunny day. This is a view of the Great Glen taken from from the Commando Memorial.

Here's a picture of some of the many wild rhodedendron bushes growing along the road.Our first stop that day was Eileen Donan Castle, which you may remember from such films as Entrapment.

It was quite the twisty, turny road out to the castle. Here's Bridget at a tiny gas station where we stopped to mail postcards.Eileen Donan Castle. We felt very naughty indeed because we simply stopped to take pictures and skipped the exhorbidant cost of going inside and looking at furniture recreated to make the place look like the castle would have been back in the day.

Then, we were off to Loch Ness.
....and Urqhart Castle.

Somewhere along the way, we stopped for tea and oatcakes with a fine selection of Scottish cheeses. Mmm. Cheese.
Then, from Loch Ness, we pressed on north to the battlefield at Culloden, outside of the city of Inverness. In case you were curious, Inverness has an extremely stressful number of big roundabouts, and they should consider paring down a bit.

Sadly, the battlefield was in the middle of some lawnmowing and general sprucing-up, so we couldn't get over to the Clan Headstones to have a look. But, this cottage was there the day that marks the end of the Clan system and the Jacobite rebellion.

The battlefield.
A flag that shows where the Jacobites were... or was it the English? Well, we couldn't really walk up close enough to tell.

From Culloden, we took a short jaunt down the road to the Clava Cairns. A really old and pretty pile of rocks put in order by some people who lived a very very long time ago.

This is the road leading to the Cairns. It was frighteningly narrow. On our way back to the main motorway, we were nearly flattened by a "lorry" carrying a bunch of wrecked cars. That was fun.

From Inverness, we were back on the road to St. Andrews. The drive through that southernmost bit of the Highlands was breathtaking.

This picture was taken on a really long highway exit leading to Dalwhinne, which we're pretty sure isn't even a one-horse town. They have the eponymous distillery and that's about it.

All in all, Scotland from a Ford KA is pretty awesome. Sadly, we had to return our little friend, and our trip to Aberdeen to visit Bridget's friend Claire was facillitated by public transport.

It rained like the dickens in Aberdeen, and we spent much of the time in Claire's gorgeous home outside of the city, but I did take some photos of the Gray City from the safety of the art museum's entrance.

Once back in St. Andrews, we managed to rustle up some decent weather for a day trip to Crail, a ridiculously picturesque fishing village a short bus ride away.

Later, on a walk around town, I could not resist the siren song of a touristy phonebooth picture. You'll notice some young hoodlum has scrawled "Gays" on the window. Ah well.

This is the ruined cathedral just down the street from Bridget's apartment.
Butts Wynd. Ha ha. Butts...

This is the ginormous Toyota Landcruiser that my parents rented when they arrived for graduation week. I piloted this vehicle on Scotland's winding roads with the help of a Hertz NeverLost navagatrix.

We went to Falkland Castle...Where people use musical instruments as planters...

...and then to the famous Anstruther Fish Bar, where they make the UK's best fish 'n' chips. The chips were a bit on the soggy side, but the fish was truly amazing. As was the line to the register.
We concluded the trip in Edinburgh, where all four members of my nuclear family (Hayley remained in NH to hold down the fort while the chipmunks relaunched their offensive on the house) stayed in one hotel room. It was not a particularly large hotel room.

This is the enormous monument to Sir Walter Scott.

Downtown Ediburgh near the train station.

I guess I sorta burned out on the photos towards the end of the trip, but rest assured I'll post a few more gems soon (no, really, Josh. I'm turning over a new leaf on this, I swear). It was a fantastic trip, aside from getting very ill on the flight to Boston from New Jersey. Then there was the shock of returning to actual summer weather, as opposed to the 45 degrees we were enduring in Scotland.

Now I'm back to working my tail off behind the bar, and generally avoiding being parked in front of a computer for long stretches.

Hast ye back, ya wee cunt.

2007-06-15T04:45:00.000-05:00

Greetings all from Bonnie Scotland!

I'm here in St. Andrews with Bridget, living it up before she graduates from "Uni" next week. We got back yesterday from a whirlwind driving tour of the west coast and highlands, with stops at Loch Lommond, Loch Ness, the Eileen Donan castle, Oban, Inverness, Culloden, and the Clava Cairns.

We covered 500 miles in a little Ford KA (we like to say "cah"... makes us think of home). We split the driving, and when I was at the wheel, Bridget very helpfully sang the following:

Except it was more like "to the left, to the left...keep the car to the left." It was some kind of miracle that I didn't routinely turn on the wipers with my right hand when I needed to be shifting gears with my left.

Good times were had by all. More tales of hijinks on the A82, A9, etc. and pictures of this amazingly beautiful country when I return home.

One brief anecdote before I sign off, though: the gentleman who rode with us to the Enterprise office the other day is called Mr. Treblecock. I am not making that up.

Ooh, snap!

2007-05-16T15:21:00.000-05:00

It's a rare day indeed when I find myself wanting to high-five Christopher Hitchens. I tend to get sucked into his Slate column every now and then and find myself unable to finish it as I click away, muttering to myself.

Today, however, his column is about Jerry Falwell and it's fantastic. Sassy, yet lucid (perhaps because he's not writing about the Iraq war). He refers to Falwell's "carcass" in the lede, so right off you know it's going to be good. He later refers to his "sausage-sized fingers." Sadly, he does not probe how the man's head looked like a nutsack...

Oh, and the content of the column is actually quite good as well. It's very much in the vein of Old Hitch's new book (so far as I can tell), and while I do not consider myself an atheist, I find I agree with Mr. Saucy's point of view after reading this and catching his chest hair-revealing Daily Show appearance. I definitely think that it's a crock that a person with "Rev." before their name gets some kind of credibility without first having to pass some kind of nutjob litmus test.

Anyway, well played by Hitchens. Ranks up there with his Vanity Fair piece on James Joyce, in my book.

I also run on Dunkin'.

2007-05-09T15:37:00.001-05:00

Hey, so, did you know? It's, like, summer out there these days.

One of the best things about living in the Northeast is watching the seasons change, and not just because it's funny to say "leaf peepers" in the fall (giggle... it's also funny to refer to the soothing sounds of peepers peeping away around here after the spring thaw).

Of course, my favorite herald of spring is the resurfacing of the gross and weird expandable shark that Claire buried in the snowbank outside my front door:

I'm not sure that this photo accurately conveys the grossness of the expandable shark. After a month or so buried in an icy snowbank, it had expanded in some places and not in others. Eeeew.

But, as I said, the shark heralded the coming of warmer climes... and then, true to New England form, we had a big ass snowstorm, and a whole bunch of rain and now... NOW the season has changed from Mud to Black Fly.

This means driving with the windows down and, if you live in New England, stopping ever hundred yards or so to purchase a swimming pool filled with iced coffee at Dunkin' Donuts.

It's been quite some time since I last lived and drove around my native New Hampshire and you really cannot swing a dead cat around here without hitting a Dunkin' Donuts. Yes, I know that many other places have them, too, but here in N'Hampshah and Taxachusetts, the chain's ubiquity is quite remarkable. And thank gawd, because I really don't feel right unless I've consumed at least 8 gallons of the stuff each day. The hot coffee is passable, mind. I'll drink it happily. It's not the same as the black gold that comes out of my mom's Jura Happy Coffee Miracle Machine from Switzerland, but it'll get my eyes open and brain functioning in a pinch. But the iced coffee... that's a different story entirely. It is liquid joy. I think that with my next iced coffee cistern purchase, I should be offered stock options. And possibly also a bunch of balloons. That'd be nice.

Happy Spring-Summer (thanks, global warming!), all.

Overheard at Crappy Woburn Sandwich/Salad/Noodle Bar

2007-05-08T12:39:00.000-05:00

Woman: Yeah, they're having a guest speaker at the school today, and I guess it's going to be Rosa Parks. And I'm wondering how some school in Reading got Rosa Parks to come speak.

Maybe she should focus on where her public school system found the money to raise the dead.

Beer me that beer, please.

2007-05-03T14:25:00.000-05:00

I've been receiving some complaints regarding my delinquency.

I don't have a particularly good excuse for being away from the blog, aside from the fact that I have spent a goodly portion of the past few weeks driving all over the northeast and there isn't much excitement in that. Unless you count the two parking tickets I received in Brooklyn because I'm not quite capable of dealing with alternate side parking like a native.

The trip to Brooklyn was fantastic, however, and I was very fortunate to have the dining company of Josh and Erin as I gorged myself all over the city.

Instead of loading up on Brooklyn Brewery beers this time around, I made a trip to Bierkraft with Josh, where I purchased some bottles from the venerable Victory Brewing Company of PA. We can't get that up here, you see. As the weather warms, my palate yearns for hops. So, Hop Devil seemed a logical choice. I'd never tried it, and I was quite pleased with it, I must say. It's hoppy all the way through with a nice bitter kick at the finish. I definitely recommend it.

Meanwhile, stay tuned for a backlog of photographs.

Thursday night? Thursday night!

2007-04-25T15:35:00.000-05:00

Attention New York City dwellers:

What are you doing tomorrow?

Are you going to be at The Annex, drinking and dancing with me, your favorite New Hampshirite*?

'Cause that's what you SHOULD be doing.

For one night only, Roots of Creation (New Hampshire-dwelling reggae-rock band and friends of yours truly) will be playing a show on the LES and I'll be in town for the occasion. It promises to be a nice, sweaty, dance-y show, so do come out and let me buy you a beer in celebration of my brief return to those sunny shores of Fistiana.**

The details:

Roots of Creation w/Spiritual Rez and Giant Panda Guerrilla Dub Squad
at The Annex
152 Orchard St. (btw Stanton and Rivington)
Convenient to the F (and JMZ, but who takes that?) at Delancey
Tickets are $10, my sparkling company is free
It begins at 8PM sharp. Late enough for you to go home after work and get pretty for me. Early enough for us to continue the post-show debauchery in other assorted establishments in the five boroughs before I turn into a pumpkin.

Come on out, kids. Because there really is nothing like a Friday morning workday hangover.

_______
*I may not be your actual favorite New Hampshirite. And I'm OK with that. *sob*

**Tobs, I'm going to try my level best to get back down there for your visit as well. Fingers crossed that I get my speeding ticket fine reduced so I can do that. If not, you might have to stop by New Sheenashire to collect me on your Huffy...

I'll have it in my veins, please.

2007-04-03T15:27:00.000-05:00

Dear People of the Internet,

Something wonderful has happened.

Saturday night found me behind the bar, slinging beers and the odd Toasted Almond (the smell of which gives me a hangover). I was all by my lonesome back there, so things were moving at a feverish clip when the Otter Creek Stovepipe Porter (fabulous beer, btw) kicked. Pretty hard, too. It nearly hit the ceiling and splashed merrily across the bar. Anyway, this prompted the old run to the beer cooler for a keg change, my first such foray of the shift.

Down the stairs I trot, fellow waitress Chelsea in tow (she was desirous of a Keg Changing 101 refresher course). I pull open the door, and what is nestled among the Harpoons, Pennichucks, and Magic Hats?

That's right. A whole keg of delicious Brooklyn Lager. Brewed, if my two times on the brewery "tour" serves me, in Brooklyn. Brooklyn Lager! From Brooklyn! In the beer refrigerator at my place of employ (while I'm not exactly a bar-hopper here in the great state of NH, I have yet to see my beloved Brooklyn beer anywhere on tap or in a store)!

Scaling back my hours at the bar has meant that I'm a wee mite out of the loop as far as what's coming on tap, what's leaving, what bands are playing, etc. So, when I do work, keg changes are kind of like Christmas morning.

On Saturday evening in the beer refrigerator, my excitement could only have been greater by walking into the beer cooler to discover Clive Owen, shirtless (naked would be just weird... I mean, it's a giant refrigerator), sitting atop the keg of Brooklyn Lager, clutching a giant bag of money with which to pay off my student loans.

Chelsea patiently watched as I hopped up and down, screeched, and then hunkered down to awkwardly hug the keg like a lost twin.

Then, ever the professional, I recovered myself and we transformed that Otter Creek Stovepipe Porter into Magic Hat's Circus Boy (a MH that I actually like...such that I've...*gasp* purchased it!). So the Brooklyn Lager is waiting in the wings for its big moment. We have the nice weighty tap handle and everything.

Happy Beermas to me!

Happy Opening Day!

2007-04-02T10:06:00.000-05:00

Oh man. It's spring at last!

It's the little things, really.

2007-03-28T09:22:00.000-05:00

Remember my affinity for the minutiae of daily life? Well, the love affair continues, and I'm going to subject y'all to it...again.

Many of my friends and associates are off gallivanting in various exciting places like Turkey, Jamaica, and the dirty South. Others, like Tobs and Bridget, are accomplishing things like master's theses. Hayley's getting into college and turning 18 (you lascivious 20-something wolves in my acquaintance can just wipe the smirks off your faces...I will cut you.).

But what, pray, have I been doing with my time lately?

Sunday, I enjoyed the company of three of my favorite people during a family outing to Boston's MFA. Hayley and I commiserated on always being ravenously hungry while perusing the MFA, which makes enjoying those still life paintings of fruit and whatnot really, um, visceral. Luckily, after taking in some cultchah, we concluded the day at Legal Seafoods. Blue Point oysters were consumed, among many other Legal delights.

Monday is when things really got bananas, though. I tend bar on Monday nights and for some reason, eleventy billion kegs needed to be changed during this week's shift. Unfortunately, of the eleventy billion, one was full (really fucking heavy) and another was half full (still pretty damned heavy). I enlisted the help of a coworker with the former, and managed to drop the latter on my foot later in the night. Not my toes, thank God, but the top of the foot, where that bone sticks out. This wasn't fun, mind, though I did happen to let loose a restorative string of expletives shortly after I hauled the damned thing off my poor foot. Then I limped around the beer refrigerator, cursing the person who sent back their unfiltered IPA for being "too cloudy." Granted, I don't think a beer should look like orange juice, but dammit we had a half keg left!!

The night wasn't a total loss, though, because I had a Monday NY Times and a few quiet spots in the shift to work on the crossword puzzle. I like Monday's NYT puzzle because I can finish it more often than not. This week was special, though, because I started and finished it... in INK. This was a pretty big deal, as I'm a mechanical pencil devotee. You might say the experience knocked me dead. I felt pretty grown up. I really should have saved and scanned the puzzle in question so everyone can get the full force of my triumph, but I used the page to wrap a birthday gift and it's now long gone.

I'm not quite ready to join the ranks of Jon Stewart, Bill Clinton, and Ken Burns and use ink daily, but it'll do in a pinch on a Monday. I still have yet to finish a Wednesday on my own (someday I'll do it.. and it'll be awesome). And I doubt I'll ever time myself, as this person does (in part because I can't do them that fast).

Who says continuing on as usual (while other people do fun or productive things) isn't awesome?
Oh, I know. It's a nonstop thrill ride.

INK, people. Ink.

______
Those who don't want to pay for the Times puzzle and need the occasional fix should try out The Onion's puzzle. It's punny, full of pop culture references mixed in with the highbrow—an all-around winner. My thanks to Carl for bringing me around on it. I have survived many a slow afternoon in the office as a result.

Three cheers for Hayley.

2007-03-25T19:01:00.000-05:00

Dear People on the Internet,

My baby sister (pictured to the right, in full patriotic regalia... you can see she's not really a baby at all, but I was 8 when she was born...) has been accepted to college!!!!!

She's the coolest girl ever, so I am naturally delighted for her, and for the venerable Boston institution that may find themselves with the pleasure of her well-dressed company come fall.

The losers in this scenario? Dickslap-lyan and Ass-deis Universities. Yeah, that's right you jerks. Stick it!

Also, I'll be very sad because she will take her awesome wardrobe to college with her.

Well done my darlin'.

What is "Who are the marketing wizards who came up with that one?"

2007-03-23T10:55:00.000-05:00

It would seem that we're entering the part of boyfriend season when the mating dances are performed. Just when I thought it was safe to cease creepily reading about people with whom I attended high school (who now have spouses and children and are working on higher degrees and probably also have mortgages) and log out of StalkSpace, True.com hits me yet again with a remarkable bit of advertising.

I can't embed it, but I did find a permanent (I hope) link for your viewing horror. Go have a look...I'll wait.

....Ok. Did you give your eyeballs a good long soak in some lye? So, let us review together. "Jakeluv" is alone. In his bedroom. He appears to have "arty" posters of musicians behind his stereo. You are given the impression that he wants to talk to you. We know this because he lights a candle and dances.

Alone.

In his bedroom.

To the camera.

And then, the thing de la resistance, he points at you. You! You're the one he wants.

So why don't you talk to him? lol!

As Tobs might say, gentle fuck. Really? I don't think I really need to go into the necklace that swings as he cavorts about, nor the rapist/Matt Clement chin beard.

This is just insulting. Am I meant to find this appealing? Why, in the name of God would any reasonable woman ever be turned on by watching a strange man dance alone in front of his webcam? Creepy-wise, this is the Internet equivalent of being ground up on by a strange dude on a dance floor.

Which leads me to an anecdote from the weekend: Some strange dude came up to me from behind on the dance floor at a bar in Northampton. I believe he was desirous that we share a bump and grind. His fatal error was skipping past the conversation in which he asked my permission to approach me from behind and press his body against mine. I was therefore forced to elbow him in the chest (he was a bit shorter than I am), which sends the very clear "No touching!" message. You'll be pleased to learn that I managed not to spill my Dogfish Head 60 Minute IPA during this maneuver.

All the news that's fit to drink.

2007-03-20T15:33:00.000-05:00

I suppose you could say that I'm just now shaking out the cobwebs from a St. Patrick's Day bender. Last year I went all out with my St. Patty's post, but for whatever reason, didn't have it in me this time around. Before I launch into a very late roundup of the weekend's beer-related thoughts, please enjoy this video of the Dubliners playing "The Irish Rover" with The Pogues.

Shane McGowan. Wow. Just wow.... Anyway, where was I? Ah yes. I pulled a shift waiting tables on Saturday, which was at once fun and frustrating. Fun because people were jovial, frustrating because they wanted to be jovial and hang around while I waited for them to pay me so I could escape to the wilds of Northampton, MA to get MY beer on.

The thing that amused me most about the wannabe-Irish boozing crowd (no, it was luckily not like the UES wannabe Irish boozing crowd, well-documented here) was their drinks of choice.

Granted, there were a fair number of straight-up Guinness (or, according to Tobs, "Gayness") drinkers in the mix, keeping our lovely bartenders busy drawing shamrocks in the head. In my section, however, the most popular drink was by far the Black & Tan.

The Black & Tan, while a delicious beverage (and wrong as it may be for a stout to float, it is pleasing to the eye and ever so much fun to pour), is named for the paramilitaries who shored up the Royal Irish Constabulary when it came to squashing the IRA and Sinn Fein's declaration of an Irish Republic.

Now, while I'm aware that the common wisdom is that St. Patrick's Day has something to do with whacking snakes or something, I do find it a little humorous that people can shout "Erin Go Bragh" whilst hoisting the drink named for a group of people who did their darndest to keep Ireland under British rule. I mean, snakes aside, people like to celebrate their Irishness or wannabe-Irishness on that day by getting plastered (conveniently forgetting about the despair and so forth).

I considered suggesting these people opt for a Half & Half (Guinness and Harp Lager), but decided to keep the trap shut. I did manage to disabuse people of the notion that they wanted to drink Harpoon's Hibernian, so it wasn't a total loss. We also have Smithwick's on these days, and while I object to its color while you're pouring it (weird muddy brown during the "cascade"), it settles into a nice deep amber color and is quite tasty.

Win a Date with Some Weird Dude!

2007-03-14T09:32:00.000-05:00

This ad (or one like it... there's also a dude with a knit hat and a dude with a lot of tattoos... covering their demographic bases, I guess) has been popping up a lot on my MySpace logout page lately.

Uh... Boyfriend season? I'm aware of the whole "springtime-is-coming-so-make-with-the-flirty
-like-in-Bambi" business, but for some reason I'm getting some funny images in my head regarding the season for those elusive boyfriends.

Firstly, I am from New Hampshire, so when I see "___ Season" my line of thinking turns toward weather and/or hunting. In this way, boyfriend season comes before/during Mud Season and dissipates by the end of Black Fly season? Or is it still boyfriend season during Mosquito Season? I mean, they obviously hibernate during the winter, so that's out...

Then there's the idea that it's boyfriend season, as in you can hunt them with perhaps a bow and arrow (oh, how classical!) or high-powered rifle. In which case, how does one stalk the creature? On horseback, riding behind a pack of baying foxhounds? Do you set up in his house under a pile of clothes/boyfriend detritus and wait for him to show up and lick up the salt (or, you know, beer...Fritos, what-have-you) you spread on the floor?

The thing that really creeps me out, though, is how similar it seems to the dreaded "Bathing Suit Season." And, knowing MySpace, it seemed just as likely (before I saw the True logo) to be advertising some manner of diet pill. "Get those winter pounds off, ladies! Boyfriend season is around the corner."

Either way, the Match.com and True.com full-frontal MySpace assault is weirding me out. Match has these bizarre little videos of "regular guys" receiving titillating messages from "regular girls (or so we would assume)." One of these guys appears to be 12. The other, reads a message whilst removing a button-down shirt and stroking his five o'clock shadow (don't worry, there's a t-shirt underneath). Both smile creepily, and the camera angle makes it seem like they're looking right at me. I find I am neither intrigued nor titillated by this (this spoof video, however, is hilarious) so much as uncomfortable and a little intruded upon.

I certainly don't frown upon online dating (whatever works...or provides the best emotional scars/stories to tell your friends at the bar), but I thought MySpace already had that function built in...for free...so why would I be inclined to pay someone to hook me up with the likes of Lil' Fella and Scruffy the Date Rapist?

The final thought on the matter is that I'm obviously in a demographic that gets thrown these ads (due to being young and a lady). I am therefore curious what other information MySpace uses to place the ads. My "single" status" Do my "interests" indicate that I would be more likely to click on Scruffy the Date Rapist's little home video?

I hope that it's not that sophisticated a system... but at some point it could be, and isn't that fun? So, I turn it over to you, bloggy folk. Do those of you "In a Relationship" end up with these disturbing videos? Are you free of the "boyfriend season" blight? And guys - what do the ladies look like?

Meanwhile, I've heard it's time to dust off that high-powered rifle and/or start popping dexatrim and running in place late at night. Boyfriend Season's just around the freakin' corner.

Ahem.

2007-03-08T09:31:00.000-05:00

Happy Birthday Claire!!!!!

By my calculations, this is the 8th time I've said that to you. I've known you for a pretty long-ass time.

Remember this?

I look forward to being in Brooklyn for this year's Birthday Bowl-Stravaganza. I will pour a celebratory Rolling Rock on your head and you can tackle me for old times' sake.

Is it spring yet?

2007-03-01T09:42:00.000-05:00

We might also call this post "Staving off the Stir-Crazies," because, while it is now March, there is still snow on the ground and I still have to wear a coat (that is a magnet for dog hair...oh what a Sisyphean task it is to roll the sticky lint thingy over it before I leave the house) when I go outside. I mean, sure, sledding with your pals in the front pasture is a rockin' good time, but now we're in the dirty-snow phase of winter. But, oh, wait. We're supposed to get a fresh 3-5 tonight.

So, in an effort to not go out of my mind, I'm enjoying the little things. For instance, it is currently February vacation 'round these parts, so there is a blissful dearth of rush-hour traffic. For Gil, it's a good parking space, for me it's a commute at more than .05 mph. Normally, this would be another sign of growing up, but before I got on the road this morning, I was awoken by my mother (it's not a normal thing... I had forgotten to set my alarm). There I was, in pink flannel jammies and retainer, blinking groggily as she opened shades and threatened to sing "Rise and Shine." This was actually kind of fun in a "whoa-I-just-woke-up-in-the-wayback-machine" sort of way.

And the other small pleasure that I find sustaining is the ability to find pretty much anything on YouTube. I'm just a few search terms away from reliving the glories of the World Cup, which can do wonders to banish the cold. But today's big YouTube score is the following short film called Foutaises, by Jean-Pierre Jeunet. Its English title is Things I Like, Things I Hate, and it features Jeunet's cult actor Dominique Pinon (brief sidebar: I once saw Pinon at Zuerich airport. He is very short and, um, distinct-looking). It's all about small things that one hates and likes, a theme that found its way into Jeunet's Amelie and A Very Long Engagement.

It's only about seven minutes long. Enjoy. I'm off to pop some bubble wrap.

For anyone who's interested (mostly Josh)...

2007-02-25T22:53:00.000-05:00

We have Harpoon Hibernian Ale on draft at the bar.

My review..... meh.

Predictable, really, considering Harpoon's tendency to occupy the gross-to-meh spectrum.

If you want a real Irish-style red ale, I'd avocate seeking out the Pennichuck Engine 5. It's delicious.

Sneak in all quiet-like. Like a fish.

2007-02-23T11:05:00.000-05:00

It seems to be in fashion to choose an official fish these days.

Therefore, I hereby declare the awesomely-named Patagonian Toothfish (fuck those assholes who renamed it "Chilean Sea Bass") the National Fish of my blog.

Not only is it a delicious mercury-steeped treat (I know, I know, I must lean toward vegetarian fish), but it is in part responsible for the landing of a record-breaking colossal squid.

Calamari rings the size of tractor tires. I imagine those would be a bit on the chewy side...

Whoa there, Wild Thing.

2007-02-22T14:07:00.000-05:00

Hey kids! This post marks the official beginning of Sheena's Opining About the Red Sox Season. We are 39 days and 53 minutes away from Opening Day. I'm sure y'all are just as excited as I am.

Anyway,Boston.com (and indeed the whole region) is all a-twitter over "Dice-K," but for me, the matter at hand is Jonathan Papelbon's hair:

Yes, he's going for the "Wild Thing" association, which I dig, but somehow it doesn't fly as well during spring training. Here he just sorta looks like a rapist trucker. I think the mojo-enhancing power of weird hair should be reserved for the regular season, but that's just me.

Meanwhile, observe the clever conversion of a Damon jersey.

Stay tuned through the season to read more about my thoughts on Red Sox grooming habits and occasionally the manner in which they play the base-ball.

She's a squirrel-crushing, deer-smacking, driving machine!

2007-02-21T12:17:00.000-05:00

This month finds me at a new job (in addition to twice-weekly beer spilling), parked at a desk and delighting in spreadsheets, invoices, and trying to get rid of phone solicitors. I know, you're wondering how I can handle all of the glamor in my life. I tell ya, it's rough.

The fun thing about living in the country, aside from the lack of good pizza or New York Times delivery, is that you must drive. A lot. To get anywhere. The bar is about 30 minutes (as the Sheena drives) from home. The new office is across state lines in Massachusetts, just a stone's throw from Boston. Ginger and I are going for some sort of Volvo mileage record.

I usually take Rte 93 all the way from Manch-Vegas to my office. This way, while I must counterintuitively drive north in order to go south, I can usually haul Volvo ass once on the highway.

This morning, I had an appointment too far to the south in NH to justify the north-then-south route. So, I manned up and went from 101A (lots of lights and assholes), to Rte. 3, to 95/128 (New England's most confusing highway). From there, I planned to hop onto my good friend 93 to get to my office. I had never done this on purpose before, but I figured that if 93 North has an exit to get onto 95, I could certainly get to 93 S from 95 north of Boston. Makes sense, right? Or, at least it makes sense to a non-Masshole who's not yet a full cup of coffee into her day.

As it turns out, getting to work is overrated. Why drive to my destination when I can burn a whole lot of the gasoline I purchased yesterday by taking a jaunt through the Metro-Boston area? What is a Wednesday morning without driving the length of the Tip O'Neil tunnel south to north? A wasted Wednesday morning, that's what. I was thisclose to picking up the phone, calling in stupid, and going home to pout.

I guess I'm not yet the commuting champion I thought I was. I suppose it was an instructive experience, but when you've already spent an hour in the car, it becomes difficult to correct your navigation error patiently. I did, at one point, scream "What the fuck is going on?" as I passed an exit for Walpole, which is south of Boston. This is the second time 95 has bested me (the first time, I drove to Waltham on my way to Beverly from NH (trust me, it was stupid)).

I suppose the more time I spend tooling around the commonwealth, the more likely I'll be able to realize my potential for asshole driving. I look forward to the day when I can blithely make a left-hand turn around someone from the right.

The troubling thing? I think watching the needle edge further down the tank might be worse than getting felt up on the N train. Is that weird? Yeah. Thought so.

____
In case anyone's wondering about the photo and title theme of this post, I had the Canyonero song stuck in my head during a pitiful daydream that involved piloting the mighty Hubertus over the highway median.

Nothing says "I love you" like a dead rodent.

2007-02-14T23:08:00.000-05:00

Today, I received the best valentine ever. His Gusness killed a mouse and laid it at my feet. It was very romantical. I plied him with Greenies, and he spent the rest of the afternoon lolling on his favorite perch looking pleased with himself.

I'm pleased that Gus is taking another crucial step towards becoming a real cat. We'll be working on the outdoors business more when it gets warm again. There's no convincing him to go out in the cold, much less the snow.

Oh yeah, we've had a metric shit-ton of snow. I don't know if anyone heard any excitement over the mystifying appearance of winter weather in February. It came, saw, and bitch-slapped us around a little. The snow is all light and feathery, which makes for easier clearing, but it's been falling fast pretty much all day.

Even more exciting than the first proper blizzard of the winter, is the first Brooklyn-New Hampshire visit of 2007. Carson has dusted off his best black turtleneck sweater in anticipation. I expect there'll be a fair amount of eating, drinking, lounging... and perhaps a little romping in the snow?

And I think I speak for everyone when I say that we'll wish Toby were her.

Oh la la! C'est super-cool!

2007-02-09T10:45:00.000-05:00

It seems likely that I'm going to get some back-sass on this, but I'm firmly of the opinion that everything is cooler in French (and in France in general, those folks know how to live, talk about the War all you want). No, it's not some kind of Stockholm Syndrome after years studying French. I do not wake up in the middle of the night screaming "Où est la bibliothèque?!"

So, it's no surprise that I'll play and replay "C'est la mort" by Stereo Total because I like the nonsensical lyrics... in French. Nor should it surprise you that I'm a devotee of Clotilde and her blog, Chocolate & Zucchini. First of all, the subtitle of her soon-to-come book is "Daily adventures in a Parisian kitchen." Now, THAT sounds cool. Mostly because the implication is before the adventures in the kitchen, there are adventures in the Parisian markets which are wonderful and embody everything that food shopping should be (tactile, local, daily, social... I could go on. Now imagine talking about some neat purple carrots with a vendor... in French. See? Automatically cooler.). Of course, in my head, Clotilde is cooking in the kitchen from Amélie, and shit, I wanna do that (even though I currently cook in the most rockin' kitchen in which I've ever had the pleasure to wield a Wüsthof, it's not, you know, in France).

Clotilde's recipes allow me to indulge the crazy on a few levels. First, she tends to title recipes in French, which gives me permission to write them in The Book of Greatest Hits as such without feeling like too much of a tool. Second, when baking her cakes and whatnot, I bust out the old metric digital scale, thus engaging in a deliciously precise baking process (Seriously. Fuck cups. When are we living? Le Moyen Age? I cannot tell you how crazy I feel scraping sticky ingredients out of cups for recipes; "But. If. I. Don't. Get. It. All. Out. The. Finished. Product. Won't. Be. Right." And then my mother doses me with a glass of Malbec and I forget to set a timer and it's all ok.).

But more than anything, it's just that culinary terms are so much better in French. My favorite example is the bain-marie. It's the hot water bath in which you bake your crème brûlée . It's the pan of boiling water that melts your chocolate. It's also, very poetically and awesomely derived from an alchemy term, according to Wikipedia. I previously thought it meant "Mary's bath" as in the Virgin, but I guess I was wrong. It turns out that it's awesomer, invented by an alchemist called Mary the Jewess.

Now, you tell me, would you rather bake a crème brûlée in a bain-marie or a hot water bath? While we're at it, is not crème brûlée more appetizing than burnt cream? You may argue that the French makes it all seem so impossibly grandiose, but I think that's what makes it so great. You think that crème brûlée is some insurmountably difficult dish, but it turns out it's just a soft custard baked in a hot water bath (it's the torching that makes it fun and grand, and gives you that wonderful crack when you break it with a spoon).

Today's awesome French culinary term, as learned from C&Z: abricotage. This is the method whereby French patisseries get the pretty shiny glaze on tarts and whatnot. It apparently involves heating some apricot jam with a little water until it's thin-ish and spreadable. The combination, aside from adding a pleasant fruity flavor, sets up and makes the confection look like a work of art.

Abricotage sounds so much cooler than "paint with melted apricot jam," no?

So, in honor of abricotage and the bain-marie, and because it uses both, it seems that I'll be attempting this cake for Sunday dessert. Thanks Clotilde!

For a good time, please don't call me.

2007-01-31T00:23:00.000-05:00

Message received at my MySpace account on Monday at 8:10am:

"Subject: hi

Body:

24 m concord nh , new to the concord area but going to be leaving soon and wanting to get together with a nice gal before i leave for boot camp. your very cute i'd be willing to pay over a grand to hang out with you for an hour or two and i'm dead serious"

My first thought: "I could sure use a grand."

My second thought: "Agh!"

It doesn't seem to be spam. I'd rather not get into the particulars of the dude's profile, as I fear he'll find and kill me. But Jesus H. What, exactly, about my silly MySpace profile indicates that I'd be willing to "hang out for an hour or two" in exchange for money? The unmitigated gall! And don't you try to prey on my patriotism, sir. It'll get you nowhere. Furthermore, if I were to be a hanger-outer-for-an-hour-or-two for hire, I certainly wouldn't deign to "hang out" with a man who doesn't punctuate.

In conclusion, I do not own very cute.

PS. How much more than a grand?

PPS. Just kidding, Mom.

How to Pick Up Your Bartender

2007-01-30T22:59:00.000-05:00

It's a full-service establishment around here, and don't you forget it.

Allow me to tell you what to do (and what not to do) when you find yourself smitten with the barmaid (I suppose it could work for the barman as well, but most of the anecdotes that spawned this list are from my experiences and my sister's tales of working behind the bar in Scotland, and we're both ladies, y'see).

First off, I suppose it warrants mentioning that since men seem to find women in the beverage service industry very appealing (guys, correct me if I'm wrong here, but this is what I've heard), so you should probably keep in it in mind that she deals with a lot of douches throwing themselves her way, so you'll need to work pretty hard to prove you're not one of said douches. There are a few easy ways to do this.

1.) Be careful with the tipping. Too little and she thinks you're an asshole. Too much and it seems like you're trying to buy her attention. Always tip fairly ($1 per drink, maybe more for cocktails. Probably lots more if you order sissy cocktails.), with the occasional sympathy over-tip if you go in on a really busy night and feel bad for her. This is something a bartender appreciates over time, which brings me to...

2.) Cultivate status as a "regular." We like regulars. They are comforting. We know they don't get out of control, we know they don't run out on bills, and they're not going to go for the reach-around if we run down to change a keg (all of those things are unappealing in a dude, by the way, so don't do those things). Also, a bartender is much more likely to chat with a regular than some one-off dude who waltzes in and throws a wad of money on the bar and then expects she'll take him home. Also, being a regular means coming in for non-busy hours, which is more conducive to chatting with a non-busy bartender.

3.) You are what you drink (in that we remember what you drink). Don't drink sissy drinks. Nothing with "Breeze" in the name. In fact, you should get into the theme or specialty of the establishment itself. Some young men once asked me to select their beers for them, which was great. It allowed me to nerd out about Julius Echter and Fuller's ESB. Chances are, the bartender enjoys a tipple herself, so it's a nice icebreaker to ask her opinion on a beverage selection. There really is nothing worse than rattling off the tap list and getting hit with the old "I'll just have a Mich Light." I, in my growing beer snobbery, have begun to expand my disdain toward guys who unadventerously go for the Bass Ale... yes, it's a solid beer, but c'mon! Live a little!

4.) You may notice the spot where she's spending a lot of time washing glasses. The sinks may necessitate bending over at the waist. Do not sit in front of that spot. You will be able to see right down her shirt. She will know that you can see right down her shirt. She will find that it creepy if you sit there.

5.) No matter where you're sitting, don't stare. You won't be able to will her into conversation with you. You'll only succeed in augmenting the feeling of being a caged animal. Wait until she comes by to check on you to make light conversation. Once you cultivate the regular status, familiarity will grow and you'll be in business.

6.) Don't get wasted and ambush her. Don't get wasted and stay as she's closing the place down. Don't leave your number unsolicited. If you get wasted, you should probably keep to yourself, because she's going to remember the idiot things you said even if you don't. This harks back to my cardinal rule for picking up chicks: do not be more wasted than she is if you really want to score. This is tricky because bartenders are stone-sober. Or, they're supposed to be (at least in N'Hampshah).

7.) Take a friend. Become regulars together. This will help you to avoid sitting at the bar and silently waiting for her to talk to/look at you (which is creepy.... at all times, you want to avoid being creepy.). I don't tend to engage men who are solo at the bar (fearing the creep factor), but a pair or small group is manageable.

Above all, I think the important thing is that you must crawl before you can walk... befriend before you go for the digits. There are plenty of guys who hit on lady bartenders in alarming ways. Don't be that guy.

As an extra special bonus, I have a few important "Overheard From Behind the Bar" guy-to-girl pick up (or take home) lines that I'd like to share as a cautionary tale (be ye not so ridiculous):

"Mmmm. You smell fertile. No, seriously. That's a compliment."

(I am not making that up. I really overheard that. I very nearly puked into my sink. The sad thing is, the dude had only had two beers. )

"You're gorgeous. I just want you to know that."
"We don't need to have sex. We could just hold each other."
"I'm not just a one-night stand. I need love to get erect."

(These gems are all from one very wasted dude. I am also not making them up. It should be noted that in the latter line, he sort of pronounced it "luuuv." You'll be pleased to know, however, that the gentleman went home alone.)

My opinion matters.

2007-01-29T09:43:00.000-05:00

In descending order, my favorite winter ales:

1. Smuttynose Winter Ale - Oddly enough, I first tasted it in Brooklyn. I fervently wish we had it on tap at the bar, but alas. We already have two winter ales, which leads me to...

2. Long Trail Hibernator - Great one. No weird spices or flavorings. We've had it on for a while, and it's consistently popular.

3. Woodstock Inn Brewery Wassail - Not too bad. Again, no flavorings commonly associated with fancypants winter ales. It tastes strong, though the abv isn't on the barrel, so I can't confirm how strong it actually is. I definitely prefer other Woodstock offerings over it, like the Red Rack Ale and Old Man Oatmeal Stout.

And now, the yucky winter ales:

Harpoon Winter Warmer - Ick. Too sweet. I am, for the most part, unimpressed with Harpoon. I really dislike the IPA (I had an awkward moment last week when I ranted againest the Harpoon IPA to a ground of friends and they all looked at me like I'm nuts, because they all inexplicably love the stuff.). It kind of reminds me of Rolling Rock, in that it tastes like beer-flavored soda.

Magic Hat Roxy Rolles - Automatic disdain for being from Magic Hat (though I do like Fat Angel). A customer described it as "tastes like hops and that's about it." This proves my theory that Magic Hat beers are by and large one-note.

That's right. All of the tea.

2007-01-25T22:14:00.000-05:00

Jeez. It's pretty chilly out there. Am I right?

I have to say, I hate being a slave to the car, but it sure makes the recent frigid temperatures a little easier to take.

Anyway, you should all congratulate me on surving my bout with the Norwalk Virus, or as we of Harlow's have come to call it, "The Double Dragon" (I'll allow you to explore the possible genesis of that name on your own). It was pretty fucking horrible. Hayley nicknamed me "Corpsey," and everyone in my family offered sympathy and bottles of Coke, all whilst vocally hoping to avoid infection themselves (thanks Mohans!).

"But wait Sheena," you say, "Isn't Norwalk Virus that terrible gastrovomititus thingy that people get on cruises?"

Yes. Yes it is.
"But you're in New Hampshire, right?"

That is correct.

"WTF?"

Well, children. New Hampshire is a lot like a cruise ship. Except fewer people, warmer clothing, and fewer Broadway medley stageshows. Also our soundtrack isn't Iggy Pop.... Yeah, I don't know why Norovirus is running rampant through Southwestern New Hampshire. I expect that I got it because the dirty dirty public comes into the restaurant and spews their diseases all over innocent little me. And then they leave me a lousy tip for my trouble. My handwashing vigilance has increased hundred-fold in the aftermath, let me tell you.

After spending several days weak as a kitten and exhausting all of the HBO OnDemand offerings, I was back in action in time to bowl very badly at our staff holiday gathering (late because we serve the rest of y'all at your staff holiday gatherings) and drink several very restorative Molsons. Between frames, I watched those Pats lose spectacularly in an almost Red Soxly fashion. I hear some people in New England were upset for a few minutes, but now we're mostly all over it. It's my understanding that many of the Patriots were suffering from the Double Dragon whilst preparing for the game against the Colts. If that's true, I must say I feel sorry for them. It was a Herculean labor not to weep like a child when faced with climbing a flight of stairs, so I can't imagine attempting to play that there "American football."

In other news that matters just to me, my iPod has recovered from the iNorwalk iVirus or some such. The cure? Bridget hit it. A lot. And then it came back to life. Huzzah!

Stay with me and next week you'll find a long-overdue post of the instructional variety.

40 lashes with a wet oak leaf... please.

2007-01-08T20:00:00.000-05:00

I am back in New Hampshire after a delightful trip to New York. Getting home was a bit of an adventure, involving a dead car battery, AAA, and four and a half hours with non-functioning heat or radio.

Surprisingly, not even the sight of my hands frozen into gnarled blue claws on the steering wheel could get me down, because I started 2007 with The Platza (insert dreamy sigh here).

Tuesday afternoon found me at the Russian and Turkish Baths in the East Village with Claire and Erin. It was Erin's maiden voyage into the public bath (I'm a big fan), and we two veterans were eager to show her a good time and perhaps sweat out some of those New Year's Eve poisons in the process. We have discovered, in recent months, that the platza is the difference between a good time in the Baths and a superlative bathing experience.

The best thing about the Russian and Turkish Baths is its unfussiness. The changing rooms are separated by a partial wall (such that a dude once called out "God Bless you" when I sneezed), the towels are a dull beige and the staff a somewhat surly bunch of Russians. You can decide whether you want a massage or scrub or whatever when you get into the Baths.

The relaxing unfussiness translates into the treatments as well. The platza is a treatment whereby you allow yourself to be gently beaten with a bunch of soapy oak branches in an extremely hot stone room. Sounds fun, right?

The first time we did it, Claire and I both found it somewhat unpleasant (in a very pleasant way, if you catch my meaning) while it was happening, but fantastic once it was over. You're in the hottest room in the baths, facedown with a towel on your head. The towel is cold, which helps you breathe, but you aren't able to see what's going on and whether the Orthodox Jewish men in there are watching you get scrubbed up and bent around like a pretzel. And the heat. It's so incredibly hot in the Russian sauna, if you take too deep a breath, you wonder if you're going to cook your lungs, and just as you're about to leap up and run screaming away from the bossy Russian man of Mongolian extraction, the hot room, and the voyeurs, the aforementioned bossy man pours cold water over you and you are restored. He cracks your back, scrubs you with leaves, and drags you around the place by the hand like a petulant child, and you let him. It's an overheated, sweaty kind of Stockholm Syndrome.

We knew it'd be different last week when the young man who approached us to offer the treatment smiled. He was barrel-chested, tattooed, and sporting a big gold cross around his neck. We wondered if perhaps he intended to [gently] beat the fear of God into us. We prepared Erin for the torturous element of the Platza. The bossing, the bending, the possibility of burns. Then we sent her in first. Fifteen minutes later, she emerged, mouth agape.

I went next. Instead of bossing, this fellow barely spoke. The same frantic feeling came over me after a few minutes in the heat, followed by the same relief upon a cold dousing. He was gentle at the right times and rough at others. It was all quite.... intimate. Except for an audience of old men.

Reduced to a limp heap of contentment, I found myself wishing I could say "So, can I call you sometime?" in Russian.

When Claire emerged from her turn, my suspicion was confirmed. This guy is the Platza King. No, there is no "happy ending" on offer at the baths. He's all business... but with a smile. And a giant gold cross around his neck.

Praise be.

On the road again...

2006-12-28T21:08:00.000-05:00

Tomorrow, I depart for Brooklyn after work. I look forward to a solid four days of forgetting that I don't live there anymore.

To the left, you'll note my new EZ-Pass, purchased after frustrating toll lines during my last trip (also, I decided it was time to enter the 21st century, though I have had fun paying for a 35-cent toll entirely in pennies).

Ginger has been freed of detritus. I am in possession of a New Year's Eve frock and my contributions to Beer Christmas. Now, if I could just motivate myself to pack.

Look out, bitches... here I come!

Stinky Whizzleteeth also likes good grammar.

2006-12-19T23:48:00.000-05:00

As promised, here is my post about The Thing That Made Me Happy to the Point of Joyful Tears.

My, ahem, charming compulsiveness has reared its pretty head. You all know by now that I like my English written all proper-like, with each apostrophe placed with pride and certainty.

I, like other folks on this Internet Machine, feel inclined to point out violations against our mother tongue (though they tend to be quicker with the acerbic wit, and less reliant on the ranting and raving).

Behold, a common violation to my peace of mind:

I took this photo at a local supermarket this evening while my sister look on, puzzled.

Whomever began the trend of making the word "items" a general, uncountable noun is, in a word, a jerkface.

This sign blazing above me (as I purchase fewer than ten items at the local grocery store) is troubling.... enough to make me wince as I accept my change. The fact that this widely-accepted, easily-corrected error is also the title of some crappy movie (I assume it's crappy because they failed to employ a person with half a brain who could steer the enterprise through those shark-infested waters of usage vs. convention) swings the needle over into apoplexy.

So, in that store, I try to keep my purchases large and my eyes averted.

Just down the road a piece, though, there is a fine supermarket establishment whose prices are a little high, whose chili peppers are incorrectly sorted (an Anaheim and a Serrano should not be in the same basket... HELLO?), and whose checkout lines are stocked with Rachael Ray magazines. They have all of the elements I wish to avoid in my food shopping experience.

However, while collecting ingredients for holiday cookies the other day, I caught sight of what may well win this place my business for life:

Hosannas from the highest! Isn't it beautiful? Yeah, I think I need to do a little dance....

So, you see, I reward the worthy even as I chastise the feebly literate. Someone at that coporate headquarters pulled their heads out of each others patoots long enough to listen to the shrill cries of losers like me. And for that I thank them from the bottom of my cold cold heart. I wished I could have danced with the pimply-faced bagger in the bakery aisle without being hauled away given antipsychotics. Because 10 Items or Fewer? It's a beautiful thing.*

*ha ha**

**Yeah, I don't get out much.

Wha Happened?

2006-12-18T13:40:00.000-05:00

Yes, changes are afoot. I've gotten into this "re-do your blog in Beta" craze.

I'm trying the new title on for size... a cheeky reference to my delusions of culinary grandeur, you see.

Anyway, bear with me as I find the time to futz with the template (those titles to the right are terrifyingly large... I'm gonna work on that, I swear) and post things that might amuse or titillate (Oh, who am I kidding... things that amuse and titillate me and maybe also Claire, but mostly in that indulgent way).

I haven't dropped off the earth, it's just a little crazy 'round these parts.

There's a couple of things I simply must post about soon, namely "How to Pick Up Your Bartender"(an offshoot of earlier instructional posts) and also "The Thing That Made Me Happy to the Point of Joyful Tears."

Who's excited? Just me? Well, stay tuned.

Big Dude, Little Dog

2006-11-30T12:00:00.000-05:00

As promised, heartwarming photos of dudes with Carson.

First, my uncle Dennis:

And a great one of Josh:

As he mentioned, Josh and I had a lovely visit, which involved some fine beers at Strange Brew, breakfast at a diner where there's Scripture on the back of the menu, and plenty of dog-related hijinks.

Here is Josh, settling down with his bunkmates. He woke up with at least two of Carson's toys in his bed.

We've decided that we're going to move to Paris to become garbagemen.... 8 weeks of vacation!

No no no.... Thank YOU!

2006-11-28T23:42:00.000-05:00

I suppose I'll get in on the action of post-Thanksgiving wrap up. When we left off, I was still in the shopping and prepping phase. The day itself began with a brine.

Here's that lovely delicious turkey bath. Water, kosher salt, honey, a lemon, an orange, whole cloves, bay leaves, and peppercorns. After putting the brine together on Wednesday morning, I rushed off to a double shift (on the craziest bar night of the year, in fact).

After surviving lunch and dinner, it was home again to make some stuffing. This is when things got a little tricky. I was a leeetle tired, a touch hurried, and just a smidgeon preoccupied with the desire to get the hell into bed. Add one crusty loaf of sourdough, one dull-ass bread knife, and instructions for a 1/3 of an inch dice, and you get:

A rather nasty slice through my left index finger. The good news: I stopped cutting before I sawed off the tip of my finger. Also good news: my knife-weilding hand is fine (though it would take a really special someone to cut their knife hand... or a really special knife), so my ability to continue in my Thanksgiving cookery role is shaken, but holding on. Bad news: Bleeding. Bleeding a lot. I was luckily too angry by the delay to get all woozy as one might when one sustains a nasty cut to the finger. My anger manifested itself in me running around the downstairs at 11:30pm, clutching a paper towel to my finger, screeching obscenities. It was at this moment that I decided to enlist my mother, a skilled Nurse Practitioner, who'd just gone to bed.

Me: (At the bottom of the stairs, tentatively, but with some urgency) "Mo-om? I cut myself pretty badly."

Mom: (Appearing on the landing in her bathrobe, trepidatious) "What?"

Me: "Yeah, pretty bad. With the bread knife."

Mom: (she has not seen it yet) "Jesus Christ!"

Me: (ascending the stairs, arm outstretched) "Do you think I need stitches? Please tell me I don't need stitches."

Mom: (looking at finger) "Jesus Christ Sheena!"

- It should be noted here that my mother is not a blasphemer by hobby, but rather finds taking the name of the Lord to be steadying in the face of her idiot children hurting themselves, thereby worrying her. Her bedside manner with her real patients is impeccable. With us it's a little adversarial.

My mother ruled that stitches would be useless for the type of wound, a ____ion (one of those medical words she throws around and I forget), expertly anointed and wrapped my finger in bandages, and scolded me soundly. Luckily, my middle name didn't enter the equation at all, so I know I'm not in too much trouble. She warned that the finger would "Throb like a mo-fo" (she was right... ) and told me to stop what I was doing and get some sleep for Christ's sake.

I finished assembling the stuffing nine-fingered (sorry Mom... had to be done) and retired.

Thanksgiving morning, with my finger thumping away, we welcomed cousins, aunts, uncles, and grandmother to the melee of meal preparation. Dad handled the musclework of getting the turkey from its briny bucket to the roasting rack, while I sliced brussels sprouts and Hayley chopped mushrooms. My cousins were put to work on the pies:

Here is Shayne, assembling a Tarte Tatin (with pears instead of apples)

Here, my cousin Corey helps Shayne with the Tarte.

Naomi displays the caramel pumpkin pie filling.

Here's the bird, right out of the oven, perfectly crispy and golden thanks to the convection setting.

And the turkey's friend, Prime Rib:

Here's my uncle Mark, enjoying a prime rib chew:

Generational portrait!

Much food was eaten and good times were had by all. Many thanks to my impromptu army of sous-chefs.

Tomorrow, I'll post about a Joshie weekend, and two new installments of Big Dude, Small Dog.

Over the river and through the woods, down Everett Turnpike we go!

2006-11-20T23:29:00.000-05:00

Thanksgiving is upon us, and I've spent the last week or so poring over cookbooks and Gourmet, taking polls of the family, and skulking about my local grocery stores in preparation for the big meal.

We're having quite a lot of extended family over, which should be fun, and since I have these pesky cooking aspirations, I volunteered to spearhead the planning and preparation of our first Stateside-as-a-family (less my younger sis, whose Scots university doesn't give Tryptophan-and-Football Day off, oddly enough) Thanksgiving feast.

While I certainly don't mind the planning or the cooking, finding some of the ingredients and equipment has been challenging. A 10-inch deep-dish fluted quiche pan for the pumpkin pie? Not going to happen. I have to accept that and take the ceramic pie weights and steel pastry scraper I found today as sufficient consolation. Furthermore, I'm dealing with the lack of one-stop shopping. Our mildly-fancy grocery store does not carry brussels sprouts or shallots. Or more than one variety of wild mushroom. I'm just going to have to move on with my life, suck it up, and drive all over hill and dale in search of these things. Nevermind my pointless quest for cooked, peeled, and jarred chestnuts. I'm going to roast and shell those suckers myself... perhaps imparting an interesting smoky flavor to the stuffing? Or maybe the shells will cause my fingers to bleed... either way, it'll be nearly impossible to keep from eating them instead of reserving them.

The matter of the turkey is fully in hand, however. The bird arrives from Vermont tomorrow, will be collected Wednesday, and subsequently submerged in a honey salt brine. I can hardly wait to unleash our convection oven goodness on it.

You may wonder what the photo has to do with anything, aside from showcasing my kitchen-nerdiness.

Well, as promised, I test-drove the much-ballyhooed Bittman bread recipe, with quite delicious results (if I may say so myself). I am therefore quite pleased that I have 25 pounds of flour to work with over the next few weeks as I slow-ferment some carby goodness as frequently as possible. I have to say, I was frightened by the thread on Kitchen, but I never should have doubted The Great Minimalist. As we speak, I'm fermentin' up a wheatier version of the original recipe to bring to a potluck tomorrow. We'll see if I got the proportions right, gluten-wise... it'd be bad form to show up at a dinner gathering with a hockey puck masquerading as bread.

Oh, the other element of the picture is my super cool squeeze-handle flour sifter. My Gram gave it to me, as the squeezing motion is bad for her arthritis, and I'm in love. We've had the same crank-operated one for ages (an heirloom on my mother's side), and there's a hole in the screen, rendering it pretty well useless. This new one has me sifting flour even if the recipe suggests it as optional.

So, what's everone else up to for the holiday? Planning to eat anything exciting? Be sure to stop on by the farm for some leftovers. Between the turkey and the roast beef, we're going to have a full fridge for ages. Joshua, I'm looking at you. You know how I feel about leftovers. Don't let me down.

I think I might be in a codependent relationship.

2006-11-15T23:02:00.000-05:00

With a Chihuahua, that is. He waits for me to come home at night, sleeps under my covers or around my neck, and just this evening followed me into the bathroom and camped out on the mat while I took a shower. It's getting quite intense.

In other Carson news, I'm going to begin posting my photo series, "Big Dude, Small Dog." I have a few shots of the little guy being held by men, and, well, I can't keep them to myself. Furthermore, any men who find themselves near me, a camera, and The Dude, would do well to smile and say cheese.

So, here are those inaugural photos (courtesy of Gil):

Here are Seth and Carson, engaged in a meeting of the minds.

Here, Chris has discovered how the Chihuahua is fully-poseable.

Not bad, right? Come Thanksgiving, I'll likely be able to trick my uncles and family friends into picking him up. Stay tuned.

Sooo.... I'm back in New Hampshire. I was going to post a lengthy treatise on the New York weekend's activities, but realized there are only so many ways you can write about eating, drinking, and sleeping before you start to seem like some kind of lazy, lushy glutton. I could also write about the magical land of Berlin, located in (The Interminable State of) Connecticut, where Mapquest took me needlessly on the drive home. I saw many strip malls (featuring Home Depot, Chile's, Panera Bread, Staples, etc.), Adult DVD and Video stores , and traffic lights. I also nearly ran over a hitchhiker (by accident).

The highlight of my return is the mysterious resurrection of my iPod (might have to rename it "Lazarus," from "The Pookah McPhellimey"....oh, I'm a nerdlinger. You'd better frickin' believe it.). Seriously. I don't know what happened, but I do know that I won't have to scan through a million radio stations playing James Blunt and Nickleback. And that makes me unimpeachably happy.

Sometime soon I'll give you denizens of the Interweb a rundown of my most recent trip the Russian and Turkish Baths, unless Claire beats me to it. At the moment, I find I'm in the throes of fighting off a nasty cold. I may enlist my mother and her laryngoscope to determine whether there are, in fact, hedgehogs living in my throat. Mean little hedgehogs with fiery spines. 'Til then, it's grapefruit juice, AirBorne, and lemons for me. All that Vitamin-C has the extra effect of activating my adamantium blood. Excellent.

Tomorrow, with any luck (and hedgehogs willing), I'll get cracking on a loaf of Bittman's slow-fermenting bread. Then, I'll put my oar in here. Stay tuned. Come on over if you'd like to be a guinea pig.

Ground Control to Major Tom

2006-11-09T22:15:00.000-05:00

Tomorrow I leave the newly-blue state of New Hampshire for the delights of Brooklyn. Though I'm sad I didn't have my shit together to get down there to coordinate with Toby's visit, I'm excited to visit with all y'all New York folks.

I will have presents, an oil-changed car, bells on, etc. I will NOT have a working ipod or a New York Driver's License.

Yes, there have been changes afoot up here. First off, you may have heard, the Democrats have taken full control of New Hampshire. House, Senate, Governor. This is the first time the Dems have been in charge across the board since likely before the Civil War in this state. Crazy, no?

Oh, and then there's the thing about Democrats taking control in Congress. That's pretty cool, too.

In more inane news, I'm now a registered NH voter, licensed NH driver, and I have a notarized document indicating that I'm a legal resident of New Boston, which my dad had to sign at the Town Clerk's office. New Hampshire needed to be absolutely sure that I'm not a terrorist. Today I waited in line for forty-five minutes to swap my NYS license. I started to get pissed off about the wait and then remembered that I had to wait over three hours to swap my old NH license at the Herald Square DMV.

So, tomorrow afternoon it'll be me, Ginger, and good old I-84.

Diwali is a festival of lights....

2006-11-06T10:22:00.000-05:00

I was tempted to congratulate myself on posting so hot on the heels of my last effort, but then I realized that these photos are a week old and, well...

Anyway, here are some pictures of my compatriots at work on the night of Halloween and a few from the previous Saturday, which was Halloween, (drunkenly) Observed For the Purposes of Partying. The chronology may be a little bitched up, but stay with me.

Here's Dan[imal], the nighttime grill cook. His official costume on Saturday night was Clean Sanchez, superhero who fights crimes of the sexually perverse. His Halloween night costume was hat-based to avoid long sleeves catching fire and whatnot, so he sort of looked more like a Gay Mexican. Here he displays a plate of chicken nachos.

Here's my boss, Aeva, and her mother, Jess. At 14 months, Aeva is deeply enamored of skeletons and scary witches, but Jess's chicken costume was more than she could take. She ran away when Jess made her first appearance....

Aeva, as you can see, was dressed as a laser of cute. So... much... cute.

Here's Chelsea, dressed as a pink bunny. Heather, in the background, was an elven archer, replete with pointy ears.

Jen, a beer wench.

Mike, sporting another hat-based costume. It's at a jaunty angle, to the north-east.

Izzy's barber-shop quartet-style hat.

John, dressed as "Random things found in the restaurant's office." Smashing.

Josh told fortunes whilst washing dishes.

Jay, one of the fabulous bartenders, as a sleepy cowboy. Sure can't quit him.

Amy, a woodland fairy. She also had pointy ears.

Here's Aeva, again, inspecting our decorations. Note how she's not frightened of the witch hiding behind the tree.

This is me, perhaps the day after Halloween, sporting one half of The Great American Hat Swap of 2006. Mike took my awesome tweedy hat on tour with his band, and left this Fidel-ish one in exchange. It's a new plateau in our friendship, you see.

Rewind to Saturday. Bridget, jetlag up the wazoo, dressed as Little Red Riding Hood and ready to party.

I got all pirated up and off we went to see aforementioned local band play in Manch-Vegas. Here's an extreme close-up at the show.

Juliana, decked out as a fabulous Cleopatra.

Then I got distracted and didn't take any more blog-worth photos.... so let's fast-forward back to Halloween and the super cute parade of children that went by the restaurant in the middle of the day.

Here's a kid dressed as Gene Simmons from KISS, mugging for the camera.

A cowgirl, replete with horse. Soooo cute.

Here's another good one... a praying mantis.

And, the thing de la resistance: a tornado! He has little matchbox cars and whatnot glued to body of the tornado. He was a rather intense little kid, and the costume was a bit unweildy, but I tip my cap to him. Very cute and creative, considering the eleventy billion kids in Darth Vader outfits.

mm mmm good.

2006-11-03T09:37:00.000-05:00

On my days off, I try to do a bit of cooking. A stew, some cookies... something to exercise the stove and my culinary mind. I'm thinking about imposing a sort of Iron Chef challenge upon myself (a couple of ingredients and away I go) one of these days, to start getting a little creative. Then perhaps I'll post the results here...

Anyway, here are a few pictures of my latest kitchen efforts.

One of the many benefits of a giant stove, is the ability to roast all of your Anaheim chiles at the same time. These little beauties later went into a beef stew.

Here's a Guinness Gingerbread, set to cool on the empty beer bottle. I've had a request for the recipe, and I wish I could take credit, but it's from epicurious.com. I tend to use the bundt pan,
because it's pretty, but a loaf of it would be easier to transport to parties or potlucks. I also double the amount of cardamom (duh). Also, since the recipe only calls for a cup of stout, you get to drink the rest of the bottle (a nice perk).

Stay tuned... I've been cooking up a storm for an upcoming house party, so I'll be posting pics of those things eventually.

Many days late, a couple bucks short.

2006-11-03T09:13:00.000-05:00

So, here are a few pictures from the lovely Columbus Day visit of Claire, Erin, and Seth. I didn't have my shit together to take pictures all through the weekend, so these are just a selection from the apple picking trip. Erin is not feature in these, as she was "visiting" her "sister" in "Boston" that day.

Here's Claire, doing her best William Tell's son impression in the lovely Mapadot Orchard in my town.

Seth, juggling apples. Show-off. I managed to drop an apple onto my own head off of a branch. Now THAT takes talent.

Here are Claire and Seth, desperately trying to tell the difference between Monroes and MacIntoshes. We later threw some Corlandts into the mix. It was chaos.

As you can tell, it's very nice up here in New Hampshire... dontcha want to visit???

The road to hell is paved with 10% tips.

2006-10-20T00:18:00.000-05:00

Oh mercy. Much time has passed between now and my last post. Not a whole lot has happened, except a wonderful visit from Claire, Seth, and Erin and more waitressing shifts than you can shake a stick at.

I've been lax mostly because my post-shift hours are being absorbed by episodes of The Wire on DVD.

To make my life seem thrilling and fun, I'm going to do a little "by the numbers" rundown of what's been up here up nawth. Also, if you scroll down from here, you'll find a few posts with pictures of the past two NH trips (some courtesy of Gil and Claire). I've been fighting with Picasa and Blogger to post the damned things, so do check back a couple of times over the next day or so as I beat them into submission.

So, without further ado and in no particular order, here's the condition my condition is in:

Number of customers I shut off tonight (my first time shutting someone off): 2

Number of two dollar bills currently in my possession: 2

Number of times I rattled off our beers on draft, within earshot of three tables' worth of people: 3

Yellowjackets I killed during one lunch shift: 4

Yellowjackets I found doing the backstroke in the dregs of cup of coffee on our patio: 6

Gentlemen customers who suggested I sit in their lap: 1

Gentlemen customers in whose laps I've sat: 0

Dyson vacuum cleaners acquired by the family: 1

Dyson vacuum cleaners with which I am a little bit in love: 1

Average number of animals in my bed at night (excluding me): 3

Record number of animals in my bed at night (excluding me): 4

Geophysicists with whom I've conversed: 1

Number of times I've heard children yelling "Five-O! Five-O!" when encountering police cruisers: Approximately 100 (related: Did you know that Southern NH is waaay overpoliced? You heard it here...)

Number of Guinness Ginger Cakes baked: 1

Number of quality days in the kitchen since last posting: 1/2

Number of food publications in which I am behind in my reading: Too fucking many.

Number of albums recently acquired that are making me very happy: 3 (Bonnie "Prince" Billy's Master and Everyone, B"P"B and Tortoise's The Brave and the Bold, The Decemberists' Crane Wife), with my compliments to Seth, a prep cook at work, and Newbury Comics.

Number of times my iPod has crashed in the car, making me very unhappy: Eleventy billion (ballpark)

Driver's licenses acquired by my little sister, Hayley: 1

Driver's license photos in which my little sister Hayley looks drunk, fat, drugged or otherwise hideous (as is how one normally looks in said photos): 0 (wtf?)

Dead camera batteries in my room: 2

Gross bug in the bathroom that must go undocumented due to dead camera batteries: 1

Number of weekend shifts between me and some quality reading and cooking time: 2

Likelihood reading and cooking time will be thrown over for The Wire: high

Reader complaints I hope to have answered by tonight's posts: 3

2006-10-19T23:24:00.000-05:00

2006-10-19T23:00:00.000-05:00

When you send a gang of dudes out into the woods in the middle of the night to get firewood, you may find they come back with dead trees taller than themselves. You may also find that they make quite the ruckus in the process. Then, there's the occasional splinter the size of a two-by-four.

The other thing about building campfires with a bunch of dudes is that they become determined to get the thing burning higher and hotter than any campfire you've ever seen. I do believe we were able to do some smelting over this one after we'd finished making our s'mores.

This is me, whittling a marshmallow-roasting stick. Shortly after this photo was taken, the boys wrestled me to the ground, took away the stick, threw it into the fire, and then ran around the fire beating their chests and howling at the moon.

2006-10-19T22:51:00.000-05:00

Y'know what's fun? Building campfires. Also, nearly setting your shoes on fire (Bridget) by said campfire.

It's also fun to take group photos by campfires. Here's a picture of me 'n' the sisters, looking very much from the same gene pool:

And then the gang, less Gil who is operating the photopicture machine:

It's hard to say "leaf peeping" without giggling.

2006-10-05T21:51:00.000-05:00

Well, we're neck-deep in "leaf peeping" season here in New England. It's not quite peak foliage yet, but we're getting there, so it's time to batten down the hatches and prepare for slow drivers, directions-seekers, and people who just want a Mich Light, but only after hearing what we have on tap (happened to me again yesterday). I'm not really complaining, as the "peepers" (giggle) keep the tips a-streaming in, but dear God. A Mich Light (or, heaven forfend, Ultra)? Listen to the voice of reason (me), and have an Otter Creek Stovepipe Porter. It's fucking brilliant, and you and I will respect each other in the morning. Sigh.

But, you can see why people are flooding across our borders to have a looksee. It's very pretty.

The highlight of yesterday's double shift was pouring my first real Black & Tan. Oh mercy me, it was fun. And... AND the dude (who's actually a chef) said it was the best Black & Tan he's ever had. Perfect halves, perfectly separated (looked like they were made of gelatin), perfect finger's width of head. I really outdid myself (such that I fucked up his second one... too much Guinness). I didn't take a picture, but there were witnesses. It was a thing of beauty.

In other news, today was Gus's first foray into the great outdoors. Observe his Gusness, surveying his new kingdom:

It was a trying week for Gussy. He was unceremoniously stuffed into a carrier (not the same one as before, mind you, but he still escaped it... should have named him Houdini) and brought to the vet on Monday. He got locked in the attic twice, and then I cruelly lured him outside to explore. Though, I turn my back for two seconds and he disappears into a crawlspace (I assume.. he may have just disapparated) under the porch. Oops. He eventually emerged, covered in dirt and cobwebs, only to find another crawlspace in our creepy cellar a few hours later. Needless to say, he's been quite intrepid in his exploration of the farm.

In other news, the "companion oven" in our bitchin' stove has a proofing setting. That means I can let bread dough rise in a warm, draught-free environment. Pretty hot, right? I've put it to the test and it's pretty awesome. Dad and I have agreed that we'll call the oven The Piano, after the wood-fired oven of Jacques Pepin's apprenticeship. It's quite a bit fancier, but given how we regard it, it seems appropriate.

So, if anyone comes up here peeping at leaves (teehee), stop on by. I've got loaves of Molasses Oatmeal Bread.

Wicked long day.

2006-09-27T22:52:00.000-05:00

For you non-New Englanders, I must apologize. I am reintroducing the word "wicked" into my vocabulary these days. As much as possible, actually. It makes me feel at home. It's not unlike how, in New York, I could say "Excuse me" to someone on the subway in such a tone that what I was really saying was "Hey, you're a [wicked] shithead." These are the little things we do to feel settled and connected to our surroundings.

Anyway, on to this post's main [inane] feature.

Today was my first double shift, meaning I worked from opening to the end of kitchen service. It was, as the title indicates, a wicked long day. My dogs were really barking (that's what real waitresses say, right?) by the time I sat down in the driver's seat of my car at 10:35pm (12 hours after I left it).

It was pretty busy day for a Wednesday, and I had quite enough to handle when, shortly after the lunch rush was tapering off, I got a huge splinter in my right index finger. It was from one of the baskets we use for serving sandwiches and whatnot. It was also my second splinter in a week (the last splinter before these two had to have been when I was, like, six). It hurt. A whole lot.

Tweezers were produced by a fellow waitress, and one of the cooks was pressed into service as an impromptu surgeon. Poor fellow. We've only just met and he found himself digging around in my index finger for a piece of wood the size of a rail tie, while I covered my eyes with my unmolested hand, yelping like a big sissy crybaby. "Just take it out!" I screeched between yelps. I sweated, whined, and felt nauseated. Mike, the cook, apologized profusely and finally removed the offending sapling.

Some hydrogen peroxide, triple antibiotic ointment, and a Snoopy BandAid later, I felt much improved. I told everyone the harrowing tale, and informed them that our long national nightmare was over before they even knew it'd begun. Everyone seemed qui te gratified that I bore the strain with such a stiff upper lip.

In other work-related news, I have a few tips to the dining public:

1) Tipping on a credit card. Granted, it's not optimal as we your servers get taxed on that money, but we don't begrudge you the convenience. However, if you're going to try to get your tab to a nice round number, I'd humbly suggest leaving a tip with a random bunch of change only if the total tip if over 20%. Otherwise, your server may well shake their fist at your back as you leave. Similary, random pocket dumpage is lame. Yesterday, I received a fistful of change, an opened perfume sample (Dior's Pure Poison), and a soda can tab. I can't pay any bills with those things, people.

2) Give a heads up before you change tables. We divide the restaurant into sections, and you may be messing with the system if you move. It's fine if you do move, just let us know. It's odd to discover that the table you were serving has mysteriously disappeared.

3) I'll make it my business to be friendly, helpful, and charming. If you do the same, I guarantee I'll be running by to check on you just to hear your voice and see your smiling face. Sounds stupid, but a little friendly rapport goes a long way to getting some top-notch service (we get treated like hell by so many other people... why don't YOU try to restore our faith in humanity?). However, if you're a moody attractive man dining solo, it's likely I'll be harassing you just to see what your Byronic deal is, so you know....

4) I've discovered that I love carding people. I feel drunk with power. So, if you look, like, under 60, you'd better have some ID. I love looking for those holograms. Also, looking at IDs is a lot like looking at license plates on a roadtrip; wicked fun.

I'm actually rather enjoying the waitressing. It's hard work, I'm not sooo great at it yet, and the rewards are too often squarely resting with people whose aim it is (or seems to be) not rewarding you very much. BUT, it's a nice place, and I have this smiling face awaiting me when I get home:

Hard to argue with that.

Another day, another shitty bottled beer.

2006-09-20T21:54:00.000-05:00

So, I've been waiting tables at a pub here in New Hampshire. I've only worked 5 shifts, and while I'm not really good at it yet, it's interesting (after 5 shifts... I imagine that will soon morph to "annoying" and then later, in several months, perhaps "soul-crushing") to be serving the drinking public. I'm interested in what people drink.

According to the liquor class we had this week, 35% of wine coolers consumed in the U.S. is by underage drinkers (the other 65% would be.... people with no taste buds?).

Also according to the liquor class from this week, the number 1 purchased edible good in New England is Budweiser beer. Number 2 is Bud Light.

The pub where I work has many more interesting beers than Bud and Bud Light (though we do have those in bottles). I enjoy rattling off what we have on draft, and even utzing people into drinking some of my favorite brews. And I'm always confounded when they slip through my grasp and drink swill. Sample conversation from today:

Customer: "What do you have on tap?"
Me: "Guinness, Harp, Bass, Newcastle Brown Ale, Hoegaarden, Pennichuck Engine #5 Red Ale (brewed locally, and my personal favorite), Wolaver's Organic Brown Ale, Geary's Hampshire Special Ale, Long Trail IPA, and Harpoon Oktoberfest."

A handsome selection, no? Surely you can find something there to wet your whistle? Just wait...

Customer: Pause. "I'll have a Mich Light."

Then he took his fork and poked me in the eye.

OK, so maybe everyone has a right to drink what they like, but jeeeez. Mich Light? To our regular patrons' credit, we have some sophisticated beer drinkers in our midst. The 9% Geary's HSA is a staple on our taps. And for every person I encourage into the local Engine 5, there are another two who've had it and love it.

In other beer news, I poured two pints of Guinness yesterday and they both came out perfectly. Like, perfect head and everything. It was awesome.

In non-beer news, here's the view from one of the windows in my room:

I also took this picture to document Carson's war of attrition to become Gus's friend. He has two approaches: 1) bark and make gremlin noises until Gus runs under my bed, and 2) Inch closer to the cat as he sleeps and then pretend to be asleep as well. This is an occurence of the latter.

Here's the first shot, which is pretty close for a cautious cat and an excitable Chihuahua.

And then, five minutes later:

Shortly after this was taken, I believe Carson fell back on the barking and gremlin-noise approach, so Gus went under the bed to wait it out. I expect Carson believes that Gus will eventually give up on this "run and hide" nonsense as long as he's persistent. I'll keep you updated on how it goes.

And finally, my "thing de la resistance." This sign was spotted by me when Hayley pulled the car over this evening on the way home from driver's ed. Apparently we neglected to put the top down all the way, so the car was dinging indignantly (you see, the visibility is better in the convertible when the top's down, and Hayley's learning to drive, so we want everything to be as visible as possible, even if that means freezing my butt off in the passenger seat). I took the picture without the flash, because I was afraid somone would come running out of the shop thinking I was some kind of terrorist (in a black hoodie, chaufferred in a Volvo convertible by a 17 year old student driver). It didn't come out all that well, but I hope you can read it.

Yes. That would be the "It's Never To Late" bridal shop.

Well, they got the apostrophe....

Today is your birthday...

2006-09-20T08:14:00.000-05:00

Joyeux Anniversaire to mon chere Joshua.

If I were in Brooklyn, I'd bake you a cake and pour a beer on your head. So, we'll raincheck that.

Meanwhile, isn't that a nice photo?

Happy Birthday Joshie! Gus and I will toast your health tonight!

Keeping it real in the 603.

2006-09-17T23:02:00.000-05:00

So, it was my first weekend in the new environs. I did a lot of unpacking, and my dad and I moved a lot of things up to the attic. I complained about his moving technique, he told me to quit whining. It was like old times.

I don't have shades on my window yet, but I do sometimes have painters just outside my windows at 7am. That's pretty jarring.

I did quite a bit of cooking over the weekend. Bread pudding, baked cod, Tarte Tatin, madeleines, etc. Basically, I used a whole lot of butter and was lulled into a trance by our gorgeous oven's gentle hum. The best thing was charring chiles (directly on the flame) for Friday's beef stew.

Here's a picture of the Tarte Tatin (recipe from Mastering the Art of French Cooking... thanks Seth!!) I made for dessert tonight:

It was pretty tasty. I was a little discouraged by the difficulty in rolling out the shortcrust pastry, but recovered with a successful unmolding. The integrity of the apple slice spirals held up, and while I think I can master it after a few more attempts, I was pleased by this first effort.

Switching gears (to the gross, as opposed to the tasty), I am adjusting to the bug aspect of country life. It's the time of year when black flies come inside, and we have a plethora of them as we're on a farm. Hayley and I have a running kill competition going. So far she's got 32 to my 24, but I'm going to catch up while she's at school (Sshhh don't tell!). As far as I can tell, every fly you kill morphs into two flies.

Also, while going through the back hall to the laundry room, I encountered this jaunty fellow (or lady):

I don't think I've ever seen a praying mantis in person before. Cree-py. I mean, not cockroach creepy, but there's something very odd about the way they move when you try to unsettle them. I tried to get him onto a ruler, the better to transport him outside, but he wasn't having it. Then, when I returned to the laundry room this morning, he was perched on a towel, which I then carried outside.

He was quite attached to the towel:

It was only after I started taking pictures that he started to mosey off into the bushes behind the barn.

The final bug-related thing I have to share is this spider:

Unfortunately, I don't think this photo really does justice to the bizarre shape and configuration of this particular arachnid. We don't know what kind of spider it is, but about 10 of them (they are enormous... just keep that in mind) rule the entrance to our cellar.

That's right. Cellar. No harmless cement basement in this old house. The floor is mostly dirt, there are canning accoutrements stored there, and it is as good for causing arachniphobic nightmares as it is for storing wine.

My mother and sister got a couple of these big guys with the vacuum, but like the flies, two jumped in to take the place of each of their deceased comrades.

The bad news is, the cellar door is a few short steps from my room. I can hear them pounding on the door in the middle of the night. I'm afraid they are well beyond toilet paper, or even spider grabbers. I fear the Tennis Racquet of Death would meet its match. This is definitely the sort of spider that would kill you, fuck your wife, and burn your house down before moving on to conquer Russia in the dead of winter. And it (along with its spider army) is a few short steps from my bedroom.

In other non-gross news, I went driving with Hayley (in my mom's delightful convertible) today. For two whole hours, we cruised the back roads and bustling urban centers of our region. And, by some miracle, I did not fall asleep. She did very well. Pulled off an excellent right turn on red (hoooray New Hampshire!) and didn't lose her cool if I ever fell behind on my coaching and instructing.

I'll leave you with this thought: It is fucking beautiful up here right now. Perfect, perfect weather. The smell of freshly cut hay is in the breeze, there are wild turkeys strutting the pasture. Even Gus is enjoying his new environs (Though I imagine he could do without Mick following him around or Carson barking at him to play).

Over the line!

2006-09-17T20:32:00.000-05:00

It's many days late, and possibly a couple of sales-tax-free dollars short, but here are pictures from my last (for a while) evening of adventures at Melody Lanes in Brooklyn. The Rocks were closed, the barkeep was in fine form, and we were ignoring the full day of moving that awaited us.

Chris taunts Seth with the sweatshirt he'll never part with. Or maybe he's flashing him. Hard to tell, really.

Me, after one in many discouraging frames. Perhaps I consumed too many Rocks? Inebriation affects one's bowling performance, eh? Curse you, cheap beer!

Claire displays the tools of my undoing.

Megan and Gilhouse. Aw.

Then we had a session of up-close face pictures. Obviously. In and of themselves, they probably won't seem weird or funny, but know that each of these two photos was part of a series of like six abortive efforts at a decent up-close face pictures (the things you do under the influence, I tell ya).

Yeah, not sure why the foot is in this picture....

Megan selects her weapon.

Digital photography reveals that Chris does not, in fact, have pupils. Just like Little Orphan Annie.

In conclusion, good times were had (as usual), and drunk people shouldn't have cameras.

OK, Tobs. I think it's time we got cracking on a playlist (or, you know, "tape") that makes it worse. We can work on it tomorrow when you and Ol' Muddy come over to play euchre. I'll make some popcorn balls. You guys bring the mulled cider.

Drive courteously. It's the New Hampshire way?

2006-09-12T17:59:00.000-05:00

Well, I made it.

I now officially reside in New Hampshire. Today, our house was approved for occupancy, which is handy, and the furnace man is currently hooking up our heat (thank GAWD). He doesn't have the grates to put over the ducts, though, so we won't have anything to prevent Gus from climbing into said ducts and cooking himself until tomorrow, which is not handy.

We arrived after a rather hellacious journey from New York. His Gus-ness did not take to being crated behind the passenger seat. After spending the first ten minutes of the ride howling piteously he escaped from the top-load door of the carrier and proceeded to run around the car, wailing. We were in the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel, and I tried not to swerve into the barriers on either side while trying to keep the panicked feline from crawling a) under the pedals, b) onto the dashboard, or c) up the side of my face. I managed to soothe him enough in my lap, and though he was panting (mouth open, tongue lolling... a very scary face indeed) and cat hair was flying all around the interior of the car, we were not dead from a horrific wreck. Every time I got him calm, he'd freak out again and attempt escape through a cracked window or pace around the back.

Oh, also he scraped his belly in the escape, so he bled on my jeans.

After getting out of the city (I preferred my chances of chasing him down in a rest area rather than on a city street), I pulled over and resecured Gus in the carrier (I used his discarded collar to tied down the lid... that'll teach him). He continued with the yeowling for some time, but eventually fixed me with a baleful stare and settled into a stupor.

The kicker, of course, is that within an hour of arriving in his new environs, Gus climbed into a heating duct and went for a little jaunt and had to be coaxed out, sooty-pawed, with treats.

What would such a trip be without a little adventure?

Here's the man himself, peering out from the safety of my comforter. He's already succeeded in scaring the hell out of the Chihuahua. Now, if I could just convince him to eat or drink something.

I'll post more pictures soon (I have some from the weekend's activities). I'm a bit overwhelmed with new-job and new-house stuff.

We went to a house, an unfinished house, in the coun-tray.

2006-09-06T07:26:00.000-05:00

Phase One of my move to New Hampshire was this past weekend. I was fortunate enough to woo some members of the gang into making the long drive through the interminable state of Connecticut to the family home for a weekend of camping in the front pasture, roasting marshmallows, and sleeping all together in an enormous tent while bears and pig-dogs rustled around for leftover s'mores outside.

We did a lot of eating and we put my mother's Jura coffeemaker through its paces. The whole weekend is really something of a tweaky, caffeinated blur. I'm sure the others will post more (and better) photos when they're not busy with "schoolwork." I only have a few photopictures, as I spent a lot of time christening my dad's restaurant-grade gas range and convection oven (*swoon*).

Here are some pictures from dinner on Saturday. We had all local vegetables (sweet corn, wax beans, zucchini, new potatoes, and tomatoes) to accompany some gorgeous roasted chickens (cooked side by side in the remarkable convection oven). It was delicious.

Here are Seth and Claire, about to tuck in to the sumptuous meal.

Here are Josh and Erin, hiding in a smoke cloud.

Here is my younger sister Hayley. Isn't she puurrrty?

Mick creeps up on Chris, who is napping at the table.

Here Claire is weilding the Electric Fly-Swatting Tennis Racquet of Death. Despite the phrase "Not a toy" printed on the handle, almost everyone took a turn sticking their fingers through the plastic webbing.

Here's Josh and his newest, littlest friend.

Seth playing with the dogs.

Gilhouse and his poker winnings.

We had excellent weather on Monday, so we went out for a tramp through the woods. We found some salamanders and the dogs went wading in every gross muddy puddle they could find.

Here are Chris, Claire, and Seth, off to see the wizard. Claire was hoping the wizard could make her taller.

Here is Gil helping the dogs find some gross mud puddles.

New Hampshire is awfully pretty. Who wants to move there with me? Anyone?

Toby, please don't kill yourself.

2006-08-27T14:12:00.000-05:00

This weekend, while attempting to pack for The Move, I stumbled across a still-packed box from the last move (a year ago), which contained my photo albums from "The First 18 Years of Sheena" and "Sheena, the College Years." This was a delightful surprise, because for some reason, I thought these albums were somewhere between Switzerland and New Hampshire (via Antwerp).

Naturally, as I have but a week to pack up my few worldly goods (mostly books), I abandoned the packing enterprise entirely and spent the rest of the afternoon scanning selections from the albums. I look at is as important archival work. We need these things to be digitized, so that we may humiliate each other with the drop of an email. Join me for a trip down memory lane.

This is the photo that started it all. It's documentation of the fairly frequent toasting that happened on our hall. Do note Toby's trucker hat. Also, the arm in the foreground belongs to Seth. I have a picture. Of Seth. Before I remember having ever met him. This was very strange for me, as I tend to remember things like this. No matter. The gent in the red shirt is Gilhouse (before he was Gilhouse), and the yelling fellow in yellow is Josh.

Here is Young Sheena, hard at work studying Political Theory or French or some such. Look how fresh-faced and energetic she is!

Claire and I lived together in a giant double, Gilhouse lived next door (and gamely kept us in hours of Ninetendo 64 and Simpsons episodes on VHS) and Josh lived down the hall. Toby sprung fully formed from the head of Zeus. He was wearing this coat:

The boys are standing in front of my desk. Important to note (aside from the sexy pose being struck by the gentlemen) is the college decoupage decor (yeah, that's a photo of Kid Rock from Rolling Stone on my wall. I very much do not want to discuss it.)

Here is a Young Joshua, bringing me a gift of flowers. He found them in the trash, and proceeded to cavort around the room, spraying dead petals all over my carpet. He's such a thoughtful fellow.

This was taken at the end of freshman year. Me 'n' Josh. Awwwww...

Ok, so the chronology is all off. Here's a picture of Josh and Claire (when she was a smoker... gross!) dancing.

Susannah, Claire, me and Brooke before a semi-formal party of some kind. I think it was the one in which I had an entire beer poured down my back by some dude from my English class.

This is me. On Claire's bed with her teddy bear, Gunther. I am wearing overalls. That's all I've got.

Toby and I, before the primary colors parade, apparently. I used to have very short hair.

Sophomore year. One of the many physical assaults I endured from Claire. I'm pretty sure I was trying to distract her from a surprise party (Claire? want to confirm this?), so I took a beating for the team.

Susannah, on an especially idyllic Founder's Day (the annual Vassar bacchanal).

Claire pinched Jonathan's hand in the chains of the swing shortly before this picture was taken. What a jerk.

Charlie's Angels for Sophomore year Halloween. Three other girls dressed up as the "new" Charlie's Angels. We were way cooler.

Heavens to Bessy!

2006-08-22T09:58:00.000-05:00

Sometimes I get some incredibly dull PR pitches at work. Sometimes I get PR pitches that don't have anything to do with our magazine. Sometimes I get things like this, from Endtime Ministries (seriously, that's the name):

" Press Release: The Prophetic Cow
For Immediate Release
August 21, 2006

THE PROPHETIC COW

The cow** that could blow up the world?

There is a prophecy in the Bible, which says that Israel will build her Third Temple just prior to the beginning of the Great Tribulation. Religious Jews believe that the temple cannot be built until a qualified red heifer is properly sacrificed. This belief comes from Numbers chapter 19 in the Old Testament.

Rabbi Chaim Richman, Executive Director of the Temple Institute in Jerusalem and a member of the newly reborn 70-member Sanhedrin, recently revealed to Endtime Ministries, “We now have a red heifer. Her location is being kept secret for security reasons.”

Israel now has a qualified red heifer! This is Israel’s first qualified red heifer since the Second Temple era nearly 2000 years ago! What a blockbuster announcement!

So how could a cow potentially blow up the world? The offering of a qualified red heifer will clear the way for the building of Israel’s Third Temple on the Temple Mount. Israel’s Prime Minister Ehud Olmert has openly stated that he intends to establish Israel’s final borders with the support of the international community. That’s what the present war in the Middle East is all about. Once this is accomplished, the only remaining issue in the Israeli-Palestinian conflict will be the status of Jerusalem, and, more specifically, the status of the Temple Mount.

When religious leaders in Israel previously thought they had a qualified red heifer, reporters suggested that this could result in WWIII. Why? Because they knew this red heifer would pave the way for the building of Israel’s temple. They asserted that Muslims around the globe would unite on the Temple Mount to stop this development.

That red heifer of ten years ago developed white hairs in her tail, causing the Jewish rabbis to determine that she was unacceptable. Those same rabbis have now ruled that the present red heifer meets the Bible’s requirements and could be sacrificed at any time.

Get the full story about the red heifer in the newly released issue of Endtime Magazine. In this blockbuster issue, Endtime Ministries President Irvin Baxter reveals the details in the article, Red Heifer Ready Now. "

Of course I was hoping that the release would detail what the subtitle indicates; that there was in fact some kind of explosive cow that could be detonated and cause beefy destruction. Sadly, it's the usual crackpot business of bringing about the apocalypse. Which, I really think deserves a wider vote, you crazy people. I will give credit, though. In spite of the content of the release being nuts, the way it's written is quite lucid. You even provide the information I need to pursue this story about the explosive cow.

I am redacting all the standard PR contact info here, because I'm not about to go encouraging these people, but I'd like to note that they have, not only a magazine, but a website and an online shop as well.

I must say, you End Time people may want to reconsider this "shotgun approach" to pitching. We certainly do not cover this kind of news (much as I'd love to, mind). May I recommend "Hey, Let's Bring About the Apocalypse!" Quarterly? Rolling to Jerusalem Weekly? The Religious Zealotry Picayune-Times?

Either way, I'm getting nervous. Perhaps I should invest in some Armor of God PJs.

___
**For this post's hidden track (if you will), do click on the picture for a Wikipedia entry on what I may do for entertainment during my New England sojourn.

Please Excuse Our Appearance While We Overhaul Our Lives

2006-08-21T06:46:00.000-05:00

As you may have noticed, my bloggy productivity has been way down these days. Preoccupied, I guess, with the impending Big Move to NH.

Yessirree. If you hadn't read the news elsewhere, be aware of it now, the Sheena Train will be leaving NYC for a goodly amount of time. Much as it pains me to leave a city and job (not to mention gang of friends/brothers-in-arms/enablers) that I quite enjoy, it is time to forge ahead, save a bit of money, and with any luck, attend culinary school next fall.

Granted, those who know me by the blog won't find this heart-wrenching at all (just know that instead of subway incidents, I'll be writing about my growing road rage).

Next month, Gus and I head up to the wild yonder. I'm hoping he can realize his dream of becoming a real cat (with a barn in which to hunt mice and stalk chickens) who eschews a litter box for the outdoors and sleeps in the nighttime rather than busying himself with putting his head in my trashcan.

We'll be joining the likes of Tobs and Ol' Muddy as denizens of "Not-New-York." It's a wild and crazy place, so you can expect documentation of our antics and reassimilation into the Mohan clan.

The blog will likely change around a bit, but don't be escurred. It's still me. Unsolicited Advice & Opinions 'R' Us. Expect pictures of Gus, gushing missives about darkness at nighttime, and lengthy treatises on spanking new kitchen in the family homestead.

In the meantime, I'll do my best. But it's hard to sit down and write cleverly when you feel numbly sad and generally anxious.

Ooh. Bringing down the mood. Sorry about that. Here, watch this silly video (note: I do not sanction the amount of time in the pan/level of heat he uses when he cooks these pancakes... they are overdone, by my standards).

Sit down and eat something. You're all skin.

2006-08-15T08:45:00.000-05:00

Saturday was quite possibly the most gorgeous day of the whole summer. Lots of sunshine, but dry, cool, and breezy. Claire and I biked down to Sahadi's on Atlantic Ave. If you live in Brooklyn and you've never been there, I highly recommend it. Their chickpea flour is excellent (no dead flies like the place across the street... though you should always sift it anyway), and they have lots of interesting snacks and nuts and flours, and good prices on coffee beans.

Once back from the market, I spent the rest of the afternoon cooking. It was glorious.

Then it was off to Gil's for some BBQ-ing and drinking of Schaeffer. Also, all of the mosquitoes in the Brooklyn area came by to sample the blood from my ankles and feet. An excellent vintage.

At about 10pm, we were off to Melody Lanes, site of past exploits and diplomatic outings. Can you believe that Gil had never experienced the beauty of Melody (replete with the Numa Numa song on the jukebox)? Surely you can see why we did it. We did it for Gil.

Josh enjoys a Rolling Rock, the local specialty.

What bowling night photo set would be complete without a picture of Claire's guns?

Josh closes his eyes and wishes for a spare.

Claire has a good vantage point for some of the best bowling we've ever seen.

As you can see, Seth rolled a masterful 300. This was especially impressive because he was not there for most of the frame.

Ok, in reality a computer glitch was recording every turn as a strike.

Here, Gil demonstrates the proper reverse-bowling procedure.

Claire emulates his form.

I lodged the ball in the gutter. It was pathetic. I was trying to get there.

Oh, the humiliation.

Later, Claire gives the internation hand signal for "Congratulations, you rolled a fake strike!" And Gil tells me to steal third.

Hershfelder tries to get there with a patented "overhand" manuever. Followed by a knuckle and a pinch. It didn't work.

Gil and his new friend, Big Black Ball.

Once again, victory in Sunset Park.

Posted by Picasa

Also: "Christ, what an asshole."

2006-08-10T10:37:00.000-05:00

Found this via Gawker and threw up a little bit in my mouth.

Peter McBride can take off his polo shirt and maintain his preppy image. McBride, 22, has a Polo pony tattooed on his chest. The idea came to him as he was waiting in line behind a man at a D.C. tattoo parlor: "I noticed his polo shirt and made my decision."

Before I read the article, I thought perhaps that this young man works or models for (which doesn't make it better, just slightly understandable. a wee bit.) Polo. No, he's just a douche, is all.

While the piece sorta manufactures a trend wherein people are getting logo tattoos, the fact that anyone does it is pretty disturbing. I mean, really? Who's going to have sex with this man with that thing on his chest? He has the logo of a thing to be purchased and worn with the collar popped.

I mean, sure. Plenty of people get idiot tattoos (a young man with whom I went to high school made up a nickname for himself, then had it tattooed on his bicep in Gothic lettering. He later had the Superman logo tattooed on his other bicep.). But he can look like a douchebag for a fraction of the money and none of the pain.

Since I read Until I Find You, and became the only of-age member of my immediate family to remain un-inked, I've been pondering what I'd put on myself indelibly. A line drawing of James Joyce in profile? Angel wings on my shoulder blades? Calvin peeing on the face of Derek Jeter? Some kind of "tramp stamp?" Or just some kanji whose meaning I don't know?

In all honesty, I've been thinking about a drawing of the Brooklyn Bridge.

One of the benefits of summer is the tattoo-watching. Seen any good (or terrible) ones lately? I swear, you can't swing a dead leprechaun in this city without hitting a tattoo of Celtic knotting.

Reading is FUN-damental (to "getting there")

2006-08-08T07:12:00.000-05:00

This is a full week old now, but I've been drawn away from the bloggy-verse lately, busy melting into the sidewalk. Anyway, forgive me, but I felt this appropos of our discussion on picking up young ladies, though this could certainly be useful for we women looking chat up men (or other women... whatever you're into). Many thanks to Seth for the reporting on this one.

The Guardian's Culture Vulture blog has an entry about judging/smiling/hitting on people based on what you see they're reading.

For those of you troubled by the lingering idea (instilled in youth by parents obsessed with the benefits of "enjoying the sunshine") that a life spent reading is a life half-lived, your worries are over. Not only does sitting with your nose in a book positively influence others' opinion of you, it could actually - get this - lead to sex. A third of those surveyed said that they "would consider flirting with someone based on their choice of literature". It's finally official, people. Reading is hot.

But before you trip off to the park clad in your most fetching sun hat and clutching your copy of the latest Jilly Cooper - be warned. Not just any book will do. Erotic fiction, horror, self-help books and the dreaded chick-lit were all, in fact, deemed turn-offs when it came to love between the covers. The genre most likely to help you pull - the itsy-bitsy-teeny-weeny yellow polka dot bikini of the books world - is the classics, followed by biography and modern literary fiction (think Zadie Smith and Sebastian Faulks, rather than Dan Brown and Martina Cole). Forget the gym: if you want to raise your dating game, head down to your local library and start borrowing.

Too true. Nothing leads to romance faster than brushing hands with someone reaching for the same Camus novel at the library. The brilliant thing about cruising the reading populace of a city like New York, is that you have a built-in conversation starter AND a sort of gauge of what kind of person they are. While I don't know that I've ever been hit on with my reading material as the impetus for attack, I'm intrigued by what my reading material says about me.

For instance, would the cute boy across the subway be intrigued/moved if he saw me weeping quietly over the first chapter of The Teammates, or just weirded out? No, no, don't answer that.

Of course, it all leads back to the theory that you are what you like. When invited to a person's home for the first time, you peruse the bookshelves, look at the DVD collection, examine the CDs. Though you couch this vetting as a friendly self-tour, really you are trying to determine if your new friend or paramour is some kind of wackjob or sap or a fan of Jewel's poetry.

It's all very unfair. Some of us may not have seen many seminal works of popular cinema, and some of us may think that The Time Traveler's Wife sucked ass. That doesn't make such a person a social pariah.

So, what books are total dealbreakers? What ones have you stripping your clothes off on the spot?

I'll start.

What gives me pause: A Million Little Pieces (ew. Who can tolerate that style?), books about the Yankees (obviously), anything by Jack Kerouac (again. ew.), and while I'll not brush aside readers of Safran Foer or Franzen, I'll think, "well, you read, that's good... but that's a bit, you know, obvious." Most poetry (I do like poetry, just not in a bring it for the commute, sort of way. And, if you can concentrate on a Wallace Stevens collection for that long, you may well be just a teense too serious for me).

What I find endearing: Harry Potter (I hate myself for it, but it's true), C.S. Lewis, The World According to Garp, Vonnegut, Sedaris, Chabon.

What'll likely have me gagging for it, if you will: The Cider House Rules, The Dubliners, ANYTHING by Flann O'Brien (The Third Policeman and At Swim-Two-Birds especially), Halberstram's books on the Red Sox, J.M. Coetzee, Chabon's Summerland. Steinbeck's Travels with Charley.

We'll all pretend that this post isn't a non sequitur.

2006-08-07T11:03:00.000-05:00

Photo representation of the weekend's activities, as captured by Seth:

That's right, people. Marty and Tera know how to party, 'cause they supply h-o-t headgear for their guests' sartorial pleasure.

We danced late into the night like wood nymphs on Coors Light.

But before that, we grilled at Will's. He has a wonderful backyard that is full of bugs who want to eat me alive. Here is a video of Will lighting the grill. Next time, I think a little less liquid oxygen.

In other news, I'm feeling a little guilty about my love of air conditioning in the face of this tuggy weather.

Take these broken wings and give up first place....

2006-08-02T10:23:00.000-05:00

The Red Sox suffered a disappointing loss yesterday. And it's that part in the season when we long time fans succumb to anxiety, depression, and rage. It's the latter half of the season, we picked up exactly nothing in the way of pitching before the deadline, the heart and soul of the team is due to be out for at least a month. The Hated Ones picked up Abreu and Lidle for a pittance.... need I go on?

But, we're not going to self-flagellate quite yet. Because we Red Sox fans do indeed find solace in little distractions. Observe (note that the voices you are hearing are those of my beloved NESN announcers Don Orsillo and former Red Sox Jerry Remy... Jerry's the one with the thick NE accent):

How to Pick Up Chicks (As Told By Same)

2006-07-27T14:49:00.000-05:00

I'm going to make a brief foray into service journalism (ahem, after a fashion).

As a young lady who occasionally wears cute outfits and smells nice, applies lip gloss, and attends gatherings wherein there is consumption of alcoholic beverages, I have had a fair amount of exposure to the romantic or lascivious overtures of men.

Over time, it has become clearer to me, gentlemen, that there are some of you out there who know what you're doing in the talking-to-women department, some of you who blunder into success, some of you who strike out swinging for the fences, and some of you who should probably be medically castrated. I have gathered a fair bit of anecdotal intelligence in these matters. This, combined with my greatest qualification (I am a girl, so I know how girls think....this is what makes us invaluable resources to you, the hapless male) and my propensity for grueling social analysis should, I hope, shed some light on that most shot-in-the-dark event: The Pick-Up.

First off, since we're all friends here, let me just say that this advice likely does not apply to unsavory women (read: sluts). I don't advocate pursuit of such females. Nor do I think they really warrant the extra effort. If you wish to pursue the lesser woman, by all means... offer to buy her a Bacardi and Coke, gesture at your clever t-shirt slogan and raise your eyebrow suggestively. Just be sure to hit the condom machine in the men's room before you drag her drunk ass home, mmkay? No, what you'll read here will help you in the wooing of actual women.* Ones with brains in their heads and beer in their refrigerators.

The Subtle Art of Chatting Someone Up

1. Assume that she is not stupid. Give us a bit of credit, gents. It's likely that our social wherewithal is more finely tuned than yours. Gather your wits about you and assume she has all of hers, that'll make the conversation livelier. And speaking of your wits about you.....

2. You should probably not be drunker than she is. That can only end poorly. Of course, we all know that the sauce lubricates these situations considerably, so I'd shoot for 1.5 beer's worth of buzz (adjust to accomodate your body mass and tolerance). This way there's something in your hand, you have a beverage that will eventually need refreshing (bonus tip: you're so in if she offers to buy you one, and it's pretty awesome to offer to get her one as well), but you are lucid and attentive (to more than just her breasts. The stare-at-the-chest thing is overdone. Which handily brings us to.....).

3. Do not be obvious. You are not a bear. She is not a bunny. Seriously, the times I have been successfully "picked up" are those in which I did not realize it was happening right away. I'm not suggesting a spy games level of subterfuge here, but rather, behaving like an adult who wishes to converse with another adult. We are all aware of the undercurrent at bars and parties where there are people of both sexes, so there's really no need to saunter up and try your best line. Lines are gross. Sauntering is gross (while were at it, you shouldn't sidle either).

This is where I admit that matters get sticky. It is difficult to not be obvious when you're trying to chat someone up. However, it is possible. Based on my experience, not being obvious was a happy accident for the gentlemen in question. However, I think it is completely possible to manufacture this comfortable and natural way of approaching strangers into whose pants you could see yourself trying to get. (Side note on directness, an approach favored by some: I agree that the "I'm cute, you're cute, let's hook up" approach has its devoted practitioners and its efficacy has been shown in controlled laboratory environments. Warning: You have to be really good in order to pull it off without seeming like a dick. Either you do it serviceably well and may therefore be assumed a troublesome player-type or you're blundering into "Oh, that's sad, he thinks he's picking me up in a 'direct, cut-the-bullshit manner' that he really cannot pull off"-territory. You have to look like George Clooney or have the kind of overwhelming charm that could make you an accomplished scab salesman. No joke. Utter frankness is an advanced maneuver, which, when performed in a ham-fisted manner, can come off creepy and cocky as hell. No semi-sober intelligent lady wants to date or sleep with an arrogant bastard or an unrepentant womanizer. Unless he looks like George Clooney.)

My best suggestion would be to avoid situations where you're going in as if to a suicide mission in the Mekong Delta. Consider the players. You, her. Who does she have around her? Friends? New acquaintances? Are they women or men? This is where your own women friends become invaluable (I hope you're reading carefully, Idiot Brigade). We are much better at sussing out the vital details of the people in a room than you are. We can perform quiet and effective recon, help you to weed out the taken, the psychotic, the slutty. Not only that, but our mere presence makes it obvious to young ladies you may desire that you are not a creep. Your wing woman may well be your best asset. You and your wing man look like a couple of dudes on the make. And while we all enjoy flirtation and sexual intrigue, two men winging for one another is... say it with me now... obvious. And that is not what you want to be. Furthermore, your wing woman adds an element of intrigue that may pique your paramour's curiosity. "Who is that girl? Is she with him? Well, dammit, pay attention to me! I'm cuter than she is!" And she'll get a little thrill of victory when the wing woman makes herself scarce so you can focus on her. See? The ladies engage in a bit of healthy competition now and then, no reason you can't indulge it.

So, you're slightly buzzed, you have a lady friend with you, now what? Mingle! Engage the target-lady's group as a group. See? We're all just people talking. Make eye contact with her and smile, but don't make a beeline right away (see notes on sauntering and sidling). Be confident. Even if you think you're punching above your weight, don't act like it. Forget that defeatist attitude! If you engage her first as an intelligent human being (contrary to some reports, girls are people too), she'll take notice and think "This guy's pretty cool. I enjoy talking to him. I find intellectual stimulation to be sexually stimulating." and then she'll be willing to find a corner booth or spot at the edge of the crowd to engage in a tête-à-tête.

4. Ok. You've got her alone (high five!). Don't get too drunk and don't get creepy (See #3. And remember #1. Still stands). If you have followed my advice and engaged her as a person first, this should go smoothly. You're making eye contact. You're listening. You're remembering that she is not stupid, so you're not talking down to her (I have been spoken to as if I were a silly girl in a pinafore more often than I'd care to remember.... needless to say, those dudes saw the back of me but quick). You're not behaving like a sycophant (almost as irritating as condescension because... it's an obvious ploy to get into my favor. See #3).

Here, I'd like to offer some tips on female behavior. It is true that a girl who is not interested or is taken will seem to flirt or whatever and then pleads "being friendly." This happens. I do not understand it. I, for one, being apprised of the "being friendly" conundrum, do my best to avoid engaging a guy one-on-one for very long if I am not interested in him at all (if I'm not sure, I'll stick around and see what happens). I'll incorporate someone else into the conversation or excuse myself. Your female friends may be able to help determine whether it's a friendly or flirty situation, but sometimes the distinction exists only in the lady's head. Yeah, sorry 'bout that (Ladies: I know, we ought to be able to talk to a guy without him thinking we're going to sleep with him, but knowing how their minds work, shouldn't we just put in the extra effort to make sure our intentions are clear?)

That said, there are some good signs: if she touches you or leans into you, basically breaks the personal space barrier, you should feel relatively confident that you're in business (or, you know, bidness). If she offers to buy you a drink or accepts a drink from you, also a good sign. She wants you a bit drunker! Sweet! If she ignores her friends or neglects to do further mingling she doesn't want to abandon you to the crowd. Also, if she wanders away but comes back to you, you're in good shape. It's safe to say that if she's interested in you, she will make herself as available as possible for you to seal the deal (get a number, make plans, what have you).

On sealing the deal (or, why put a stamp on the letter and never mail it?): If you just want to sleep with someone that night, you should not get a number and make vague allusions to getting together at a later date if she has bowed out of going home with you. That is lame. If you make your intentions relatively plain (you've been talking to her for the duration of the party, you're physically close and flirting and whatnot, it's obvious you either want to see her again or take her home.), she'll either concur ("yes, let's hang out, here's my number," OR "yes let's get out of here and make with the love") or bow out because her intentions weren't synch with yours... though I don't suppose there's a man on this earth who wouldn't adjust his intentions tout suite if the young lady just wanted to take him home.

Basically, we're aware of when the ball is in our court... it's just very important for you to actually hit it to us. You dig?

Here's your cut-and-keep recap:

1. She is not stupid.
2. Don't be drunker than she is.
3. Don't be obvious. Treat her like a person (see #1) first. Intellectual stimulation is SEXY!
4. Once you've laid the groundwork, don't get creepy. Slurring out compliments of her décolletage is not advisable, nor is it classy. A little of the touchy is good, especially if she touches you first, but don't molest.
5. Do make your intentions clear. We'll try to do the same. Unless we don't (sorry... a woman can be a mysterious creature, and I cannot speak for all of them, sadly.).
6. We will make it easy for you to seal the deal. So seal the deal, jackass.

I turn the discussion over to you, good people. Most appalling attempted pick-up ever? Best practices?

__________
*This is true based on highly unscientific research among a handful of my women friends, so ladies please feel free to chime in. Because, if much of this is just how one should approach me, well, what's the point?

Remember Cupcake?

2006-07-26T10:35:00.000-05:00

I don't know if she stops by here very often, but I saw this while drooling over Williams Sonoma's website and I thought "Hot damn this is made for Ms. Cupcake."

You see, it's a cupcake that looks like an ice cream cone!

For thirty bucks the pan can be yours. Also, they have a very pretty lavender KitchenAid Professional mixer.

You can't fool me.

2006-07-25T17:26:00.000-05:00

I'm on to Them. Whomever They are.

They thought they could get us to overlook an idiot spelling choice because Will Smith is in this movie with his very cute son and sometimes people (myself included) enjoy subpar movies (um... Bad Boys II) wherein Mr. Smith runs around. The three-piece suit in this picture tells me that there won't be any running around to speak of. And while the cockles of my heart are heated to a faint glow by watching the misters Smith onscreen together in the trailer, I will not be swayed. No sir.

I don't know why. Probably the same reason that there is (or was, God willing) a tv show called "Numb3rs" or a that someone got away with the second L in "Lucky Number Slevin" being written as an upside-down 7.

And the reason for those things happening? I'm not sure, but it could be head trauma or heavy drug use. It's difficult to believe these people are allowed to operate cars or vote.

Close encounter

2006-07-25T09:08:00.000-05:00

This morning, I was forced to come to grips with this truth: my headphones and book do not make me invisible.

Ok, so I knew this back when one of those spa certificate canvassers tried to engage me near Madison Sq. Park in spite of obvious asocial accoutrements like headphones and sunglasses. At that point, the last evasive maneuver (yelling "No no no no no!") had to be taken.

But this morning, I was on the Uptown 6, blinking in the general direction of my book and listening to music. I felt a tap on my arm, and a woman asks me what time I have. Or rather, that's what she seems to ask me (I have those wonderful ear-plugging headphones). I take out one earbud, to be polite, while I show her my watch (it was 8:50am and I'm too sleepy–thanks West Coast baseball!–to speak or read an analog watch).

As we examine the face of my watch together I realize that I know this woman. I have overheard her commiserating on the N train in a non-indoors voice. Upon looking for the source of this voice a few weeks ago, I had noted her big hair, her drawn-outside-of-the-lines lipstick in watermelon pink. Oh yes. This lady has intruded upon my morning reverie before, though never quite as directly.

She clutches her heart. "Oh thank gawd I'm not going to be late."

I smile and go to reinsert the earbud as the doors close and we lurch out of 14th St.

"They're terrible at this job. They mark you down if you are one minute late. But you know me, I need my money from this job. I haven't been there that long."
"Really? Wow." She is standing so close to me, is speaking with such familiarity, that in my morning haze, it takes me a minute or two to realize hey wait no I don't.

"I have to help my mother pay for the airconditioning bill. It's so hot you know I can't sleep without the AC. I looked at the bill last month and it was $280. So we're splitting it three ways, me, my mother, and the tenants upstairs (gestures upwards, to indicate said tenants occupy the higher region of the subway car). She said 'Give me $80,' my mother says. She's so good to me. Really takes care of me, you know? I'm divorced."

I stare. We're not even at 23rd Street.

She then goes to tell me about how terrible her bosses are (they don't care she has to commute from Brooklyn, whether fellow workers are pregnant–by the way, she worked up until she was 8 months pregnant... her son is now 23), how a good man is hard to find (women's lib spoiled them all).

When we arrive at my stop, I know more about her than I do some of my close friends. Also, she has touched me (twice) and called me ma'am (thrice).

I kept my composure and did not pound on the subway door, begging for escape.

And listen, I'm not a mean person, really. It's just that early morning commiseration should be short and ideally wordless, unless you are an attractive man. Though, even then, wordless might be best. Nothing spoils your idea of the attractive man (or woman) on the subway quicker than coversing with them.

Bored? Read this.

2006-07-21T13:25:00.000-05:00

Notes on "Sweet Child O' Mine," as Delivered to Axl Rose by His Editor.

via McSweeney's.

Desperately Yours

2006-07-21T10:00:00.000-05:00

Slate's cover stories today are all about summer camp. My favorite bit in Timothy Noah's You Are How You Camped:

People (like myself) who didn't enjoy camp tend to have a problem engaging in organized activities of all kinds. Later in life we often become criminals or sociopaths. The more respectable among us often become journalists. If we're extremely bright or creative (or aspire to be), we may become writers or scholars or artists.

Shocking as this may be, I fall into that category. I did not like summer camp. I was a nervous child, so being surrounded with unfamiliar normal children plunged me into my own personal Lord of the Flies hell.

Granted, I do remember two semi-positive camp experiences. I went to Girl Scout Camp in New Hampshire with a friend of mine from home. The week went by quickly, and though I didn't love such forced group activities as swimming lessons on a cold and cloudy day, we had a pretty good time. The following summer, we were signed up to go to another camp together, this time on the Seacoast, but she bailed on me at the last minute, and I had to go alone.

Now, that was one hellacious camp experience. I was surrounded by strange children, adult counselors who didn't seem to like children in the first place, and very bad camp food. Especially offensive to my culinary sensibilities were the boxed mashed potatoes. The idea. There were no cool rustic cabins with bunks (my first camp had that... I liked that, reminded me of the movies). Just a big carpeted conference room where we slept as a group (though I just stared at the ceiling and counted the minutes until I didn't have to be surrounded by strangers who were not as offended by powdered mashed potatoes as I was.

We were dragged from pillar to post for all manner of group activities. The least pleasant of which was a boat ride out to and hike on one of the Isles of Shoals (Star Island, I believe). The exhaustion and windburn resulting from this jaunt inspired me to write a pathetic missive (closed with the phrase in the subject heading... yeah, that's right) to my parents, asking (nay, begging) to be collected immediately (the aforementioned child-hating adults would not let me use the phone). The letter did not reach my parents until I was already safe at home. Funnily enough, it was in the mailbox along with a letter I'd written before the hated boat trip, saying that things were fine. Naturally, they held onto it and occasionally quote tracts from it during family gatherings (not even two trans-Atlantic moves have parted it from them... lucky me). I imagine it'll comprise a wedding toast or two one day.

After that, I no longer told myself or my parents that I liked camp. There was a conservation retreat with my 6th grade class, but that hardly counts as I knew everyone, my teachers were there, and the counselors were from such exotic places as Australia. Also, we got to climb a ropes course.

I've long thought that there should be a camp for people like me. We could just hang out with our friends and siblings, not be forced to do anything. In my ideal camp I could alternate playing with my sister and reading.

Really, my ideal camp is just staying home. No money spent. No sleeping bags, no mean girls. More frequent showers, no latrines. No boxed mashed potatoes or swimming in crappy weather with uncomfortable color-coded swim caps. No gimp lanyards.

Of course, I still like summer camp movies (especially Wet Hot American Summer...if it counts, being a parody... I'd totally go back to summer camp if Michael Showalter was there). They allow me to imagine what it's like to not be intimidated by other kids or annoyed by organized activities.

Garlic: It's what's for dinner.

2006-07-20T12:05:00.000-05:00

Well, it's been too hot lately to eat, much less cook, but a slight break in the heatwave yesterday allowed an intrepid group of Brooklynites to enjoy the fruits of the Union Square Greenmarket.

I tied on my Küchenchef apron, and with the very capable sous-chef Mr. Chris, I produced this:

The dark romantical lighting doesn't really do justice to the colors, but it was a rather tasty Free-Form Polenta lasagna with broiled vegetables (I got the idea from a Food Network recipe, though I didn't really, you know, follow it).

The most exciting thing, to me, was the tomato sauce. I found some gorgeous vine-ripened tomatoes (they actually taste of tomato... it's quite remarkable) at the Greenmarket, and broiled them with some garlic scapes (just the bulbs... it seems as though you can use the stalks for things, but I'm a little nervous about it... they seem really woody), salt and pepper and a bit of olive oil. Then into the blender for a really nice sauce that works at all temperatures.

The garlicky flavor of that sauce combined with a garlicky pa amb tomàquet starter and we had the stuff leaking out of our pores (basically, we were creating my father's personal hell) by the time we moved to the movie portion of the evening.

The feature was Black Orpheus, which was good, though I fell asleep about halfway through. Luckily, I was awake for the impromptu Carnivale-style dance party around Seth's apartment.

In spite of a shower, vigorous toothbrushing and listerine-ing, I was still feeling steeped in garlic this morning. Awesome.

But dinner was a success (many thanks to Claire for taking the cameraphone picture). There's something to be said for vegetables straight from the farm, even if they are a little pricey when you add it all up.

Next time, I'll roast peppers myself (couldn't find any and had to go for the jar...), and try out more layers with some fontina cheese. Also I'd make way less polenta (we're now drowning in the stuff... and a full pot of boiling polenta could result in injury, like a drop soaring out of the pot and hitting your foot and causing you to dance around the kitchen cursing.. not that I'd know about that). Also a eensy bit less garlic. Hoo-boy.

How do you say "sexy beast" in German?

2006-07-18T11:24:00.000-05:00

So, my jet-set (though not yet the "old Chevrolet set") sister Hayley is in Sardinia to visit a friend. We don't have to explore the jealousy that comes with writing that statement.

Anyway, she left me a (very calm, under the circumstances, if you ask me) message on the cell phone.

Apparently, she saw Michael Ballack, Germany's captain and midfielder, coming out of a restaurant or a club or something.

Point is, my sister saw him. And she said he's super-tall and gorgeous and everything she thought he could be.

Sadly, she did not walk up to him and talk to him in German about being a big fan (which would have been adorable), nor did she attack him with a chloroform-soaked rag and stuff him into her suitcase to bring home as a souvenir for her loving oldest sister (which would have been optimal).

Pity, that.

Choose life, choose a car, etc.

2006-07-17T10:25:00.000-05:00

Hot enough for ya?

Gawker described the weather as a "motherchristing heat wave," which I find appropriate. Toby has reported that the heat in N. Tobylina is "fucking prehistoric." It's unbearable in New Hampshire, the family claims. It pretty much sucks everywhere. Except Helsinki, it would seem. Perhaps it's time for a group trip to Scandinavia? A tour of North Sea ports? A little organ music? Tattoos? Cloudberries?

Oh, wait, that's right. This is 'Murrica and we don't take long vacations. Instead, many curses and a lot of creative blaspheming are required to describe the heat as we schlep into our delightfully frigid offices each day, sun bearing down on us like some scary bearing-down thing.

Last night I broke down and we installed my air conditioner. I had been managing well enough with the cold-shower-and-window-fan system, and the nights have been cool enough to make the apartment tolerable when we get home from work.

But a delayed hangover (necessitating a long day spent prone on the couch) yesterday made it abundantly clear to me that summer is actually here and I might roast alive (though I suppose it's better than being caught in the Spider Revolution). I think this, July 17th (since the AC was put into the window at 12:30am... thanks Claire!), is a personal best since I've been in New York (not counting the first summer, when we had no air conditioning at all).

I tell you, when I turned the thing on and that musty, stored-in-a-closet air conditioner smell filled my little bedroom, I trembled with pleasant anticipation.

And as I crawled under the covers, my room now chilly and dark, I daresay I allowed a "Oh sweet Jesus... YES" escape my lips. When I awoke this morning, all memory of my life before had vanished. How did I get on without this beautiful machine?

Breathe your sweet Freon breath upon me, O wonderous contraption!

And like that, I was hooked.

Granted, we watched Trainspotting over the weekend so I have addiction on the brain, but oh man. I emphatically choose AC! I hate myself for it. I am going to liberal hell, but it can't be helped. It's just too wonderful. I tried to get by with popsicles and thinking cool thoughts. Yesterday I distracted myself with many many episodes of The Office on the DVR (Toby... are those two kids going to work it out? If not, will Jim/John Krasinksi marry me please?).

One day, when I have a summer home somewhere in northern Maine near the coast, I'll just open the windows and eat lots of gazpacho during any brief hot spells.

Until then, put it in my veins. We seem to be in for the long haul now, kids. It's beer, popsicle, and gazpacho season.

Jesus my back hurts.*

2006-07-11T12:52:00.000-05:00

Let's take our mind off it by remembering the weekend of Toby (who documented the antics rather well, I think... as did Josh.).

A highlight for me was our afters gathering, at which time I (in spite of having consumed many beers beforehand) wielded a blender and skillet quite handily to produce life-restoring crêpes. Now, I'm not given to bragging about too many things (driving instructor ability is one), but I make some damn fine Frenchy pancakes. I think it's the Québécoise ancestry (while the Irish ancestry allowed me to soldier forth to make said crêpes without being hampered by alcohol). Granted, my flipping could use some work, but they still taste pretty great.

This is an amusing photo, taken by Toby, of the chef enjoying the fruits of her 3:30am labors:

Lest there's any confusion, we did not set out a chair for Gus. Rather, he stole it from Deirdre after she was lured away by Obie's feline charms (or possibly the crêpes... either way). Of course, I find it a bit creepy that he and I are displaying the same rapt attention in the same direction. Either someone was talking to us, or there was a giant piece of packing tape stuck to the wall (Gussy loves his packing tape... it's his favorite snack to barf up on my floor at 5am).

Anyway, it was a good night. I was only experiencing mild back pain then, whereas now I feel as if my right arm is being ratcheted up to my temple via the scapula. Unpleasant. Et tu, Aleve?

_____
* Also, I'm a hack.

Belatedly yours.

2006-07-10T12:15:00.000-05:00

Some photos from Fourth of July in New Hampshire.

This is the view from the deck of my aunt and uncle's lake house. It's on an island in Lake Winnipasaukee, the largest lake in NH.

This is my cousin Corey and the well-traveled (and wildly popular among the cousins) Chihuahua, Carson. Carson enjoyed harassing Corey's family dog, Hazel (a Golden Retriever), frightening off a couple of Boxers, sitting in the bow of a motorboat, and being fussed over by the girls. He did not enjoy swimming quite so much.

After a lovely barbecue and some swimming and sunning, we were driven back to the mainland by my (other) aunt and uncle (who live on the lake year-round... pretty sweet). I took some pictures of the fam during the journey. This is my beautiful mother:

This is Bridget with the pater familias behind her.

The lake at dusk:

On the day of the 4th, we convened, along with other New Bostonians, at the Fourth of July Parade. The theme for the floats was "games." As usual, the Rev. "Woody" Woodland of the Presbyterian Church provided excellent commentary throughout the event.

This is my cousin Mil, her husband, and their adorable baby.

This is Hayley, striking a pose on the bridge in a very patriotic hat.

Pretty horses (they were pulling the Molly Stark cannon)

Some of the floats:

Some tractors (I think they were promoting a John Deere expo, if memory serves):

Only you can prevent forest fires.

This is a man in a banana suit. B-A-N-A-N-A-S.

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Give it a little shoe.

2006-07-07T09:43:00.000-05:00

[Parental] revelation upon turning 25, #346:

I am legally able to take my youngest sister, Hayley, driving.

Hayley, whose fine soccer sock-purchasing work you may remember, is 17, repatriated, and not yet licensed to drive. When she left Zürich, she was used to legally purchasing beer, criss-crossing Europe on clean and punctual trains, and associating with teenage boys who know how to dress themselves. Needless to say, she's in for a little culture shock. Not the least of which is driving around the great state of New Hampshire.

Luckily, she had me to shepherd her through one such adventure. She hasn't had any driving practice since last summer, so we opted to take my dad's shiny new (to him) Volvo to the parking lot of our local elementary school. I drove there from the farm, and as we came into town, I put on the turning signal, which didn't light up or make any clicky noises. I remarked to Hayley that this would make it extremely difficult to remember to turn off the turning signal.

We got to the school and swapped places. This is Hayley tolerating my documentation of the event.

Then we took a little spin around the school. I instructed Hayley in the basics of driving, such as backing out of parking spots, letting the car pull you through a curve, dooring pedestrians, and menacing old ladies in crosswalks. Then I asked her to perform a left turn into the lot, and when she put on the turning signal... no clicky noises or lights. At this point, we agreed that perhaps we should investigate whether the turning signals were working at all. They were not. Hayley parked the car, opened the hood, and I fiddled with the fuses. This is me fiddling with the fuses:

I replaced a fuse, dropped an extra one into the wheel well (oops), and we tested the lights. They worked! I'm a genius!*

We got back into the car and drove around the school some more. Then I was bored with that and felt that Hayley offered sufficient proof of being able to distinguish the brake from the gas. So, I decided to make a tour of some of New Boston's pretty back roads.

This is where the adventure part came in. First off, we drove over a branch that subsequently got caught in the undercarriage. Alert driving instructor that I am, I had Hayley pull over and put on the hazard lights while I shimmied under the car to free it (note: this was after I thought that the noise was just a malfunctioning AC fan).

I have to say, I am a fantastic driving instructor. Calm, helpful, with lots of positive reinforcement. I also incorporated the best command ever uttered (by my godfather, John) during my practice driving experience: "Give it a little shoe." This suggestion is best made during one of the standard new-driver achingly slow turns. Similarly, "You're in the ditch" or "Get out of the bushes!" may be applied when the student is hugging the shoulder, for fear of getting nicked by oncoming traffic.

Anyway, on to our continuing adventures. After the branch incident, we had to avoid a doe standing in the middle of the road. Deer are honestly like mosquitoes these days... EVERYWHERE. I had to avoid three, all told, during my weekend at home.

Then, Hayley had to drive around a turtle, who was strolling across the road with a cloud of flies around his head. Gross. Here's the turtle as we approached him:

And as we passed him:

All in all, the lesson went well. She's got a ways to go, but I think Hayley's going to be just fine after this crash course in driving alongside the flora and fauna of New Hampshire.

________
*As it turns out, I'm not actually a genius. Rather, the wonkiness of the turning signal and lights is caused by the key (one of those laser-cut jobbies) making a poor connection in the ignition. Now, if the lights don't work, you can just jiggle the key to make it work. My dad solved this after we fiddled with fuses together for a while.

You mean... the two hemispheres of my brain...are... competing against each other?

2006-07-06T16:14:00.000-05:00

I suppose it's no secret that I make it my business to bake and cook tasty things so my friends and associates will put up with my pissing and moaning about violations of grammar, punctuation, and style. Sure, I'll annoy the bejesus out of you talking about apostrophes, but then I'll make a blueberry cake. It's easy to forgive my little idiosyncracies, right? RIGHT?

Ahem, anyway. Two recent attempts on my sanity include the movie title "A Scanner Darkly," and the Adidas tagline "Impossible is nothing."

A Scanner Darkly. I'm aware that it's based on a book of the same title by Philip K. Dick . And wikipedia has a nice explanation of the title's origins:

The "scanner" of the title is a holographic recorder/projector on which the main character views clips of his own life but doesn't recognize them. It is also a reference to a Biblical verse in 1 Corinthians 13 that includes "we see as through a mirror darkly", and thus refers to the main character's weak grasp on reality. Ingmar Bergman's 1961 film, Through a Glass Darkly, lifts its title from the same passage. Furthermore, the initials of Scanner Darkly are also the initials of Substance D.

...and yet. The lack of verb combined with the usage of an adverb really sticks in my craw. As in matters of Nair and playing basketball with an injured thumb, this is why I have a cell phone, people. Call me up and I'll dispel any confusion regarding a questionable course of action (and while you're at it, remind me to put on my goddamn sunblock). Granted, the book was written before I was born. But every time I see the movie poster, I have a little shudder of disgust. And, if Philip K. Dick thinks he's too good for verbs in titles, I become wary of reading his book. So there.

And on to the Adidas campaign. Sweet fancy Moses do I love these ads. But the tagline?

Impossible is nothing.

Barf barf barf.

What in the hell does that mean? OK, so in that meeting, they were thinking of going with "Nothing is impossible," a perfectly respectable tagline and sentiment. But then some chucklehead said "Oh, you know what would be edgy? If we switched that around and made it into not English!" And then the bossmanorlady was like "Oh, that's sounds cool (because he/she doesn't want to seem out of touch with the kids). Let's do that." And everyone agreed because they didn't want the bossmanorlady to think that they weren't edgy.

I hope to God that someone in that meeting died a little inside as they saw that getting finalized. Because, though I love (LOVE) the Impossible Team featured in the ads, they are sucking my will to live with the tagline. Go out and play soccer, kids! Nothing is impossible! Except for you being able to communicate effectively in writing one day, because your elders (who presumably passed English in school) don't care. Or fuck up the language on purpose (I'm looking at you, "Two Weeks Notice").

_____________
I know that I'm not writing about punctuation violations here, but I wanted an excuse to bust out the photoshopped Victory. You missed her, admit it.

___________
Also, as a bonus, you should ask Claire to recite her imitation of Keanu doing the line that is the title of this post. It's not to be missed.

That's what I call a good old fashioned Irish fry-up.

2006-07-06T09:38:00.000-05:00

So I'm back, parked at a computer, after a long weekend's sojourn in New Hampshire with my newly repatriated family.

I took many, many pictures of cousins and their adorable children, New Boston 4th of July parade floats, and of course, family canines.

The low point of the weekend was the major frying my skin sustained (in a ridiculous pattern, that shall remain undocumented here). As the Spring Greyskulls know, I am a sunscreen fanatic. I neglected to apply it on the 4th and now I'm paying for it. In my defense, I'd left my bottle of super awesome sunblock on my dresser in Brooklyn as I was hauling ass to Port Authority for the 8am bus on Saturday morning.

So, I'm carrying around a bottle of aloe gel with lidocaine in it. I can't tell you how much I enjoy putting the sticky Dep-like stuff all over my neck and feeling the subsequent cool numbness. It rules.

You should all learn from my mistake. Never forget your suncreen!

Photographs of verdant New Hampshire and Mohan and Bourque clans forthcoming.

If all your friends were jumping off a bridge...

2006-06-29T08:33:00.000-05:00

I did the thing y. With this photo:

And it said I look like OJ Simpson. So, I hunted around the blogs for a straight-on photo (hard to find... apparently I prefer 3/4 shots), and found one from last year with Toby.

I'd like to think that this analysis refers to the both of us, Tobs.

See? We look like Cindy Crawford!

2006-06-28T14:44:00.000-05:00

Items found while moving into our new office space:

1 two-thirds full bottle of Jack Daniels

4 LifeStyles Ultra-Lubricated condoms (expiration 5/2010)

1 unopened bag of Key Foods brand long-grain white rice.

Seems our predecessors had a lot more fun in these cubicles than perhaps is sanctioned by the company?

Though I've no idea what one would use the rice for.

Year after next in Zürich (or Vienna)!

2006-06-27T08:44:00.000-05:00

Well, it ended in tears. Big delicious chocolatey tears. It still seems silly to me to end 2 hours of soccer with penalty kicks, but I suppose the fussball doesn't lend itself to infinity quite as well as baseball does.

On the plus side, I made a new friend while watching the last gasp of Switzerland's World Cup hopes. One of the office maintenance guys and I now have a relatively lively rapport centered around soccer. He's from Albania, but for some reason supports Italy. He insisted yesterday that Italy "played nice" with the USA and let them draw. But, he did join me in rooting for Schweiz because he could see how worked up I was. And, when it was all over, he rather sagely pointed out that the Swiss still get to be Swiss, while the Ukrainians must continue to live in the Ukraine (Update: In retrospect, I remember that Seth made the very same observation earlier in the day... I was too blinded by grief to remember it until now. And no, Seth is not the Albanian maintenance guy at my office).

They're a young team, though, so look out for them when they're on their home turf in 2008's Euro Cup.

Brilliant!

2006-06-26T14:04:00.000-05:00

Ok, so I found this on NYT's World Cup blog, so it may well be old news to everyone, but I think it warrants repeating.

A Brazil name generator. You too can have a cool nickname to put on your soccer jersey. Fancy footwork and world-class goal scoring abilities are up to you.

My name is Mohão. Hot. I'm totally going to put it on my NY Coed jersey with whiteout.

Make it happen.

2006-06-26T12:16:00.000-05:00

Between an office move and a good bit of work to get through (just as soon as I locate my pens and whatnot), I won't be able to supply you all with an extended discussion of the Swiss team.

I have unpacked my big Swiss flag and secured it outside of my new digs.

The only team to keep a clean sheet in group play, Switzerland is ready to take on the Ukraine. Though they'll be short Philipp Senderos due to a dislocated shoulder after the S. Korea game, I like their chances. Then again, I liked the Netherlands chances, so what the hell do I know?

The Swiss have never played the Ukraine, and they'll have a 19-year old marking Schevchenko. Should be interesting. Let's hope Mr. Frei scores early and often.

Hopp Schwiiz!!

Hopp Schwiiz!

2006-06-23T08:38:00.000-05:00

This is me wearing my Switzerland football t-shirt. I already wore it this week and it's in the laundry, so we're going to have to imagine I'm offering the Mohan adopted country my sartorial support.

The Swiss play against South Korea today and need to win or draw to go through to the round of 16.

I humbly request that this tiny Scandinavian nation make it happen. I need this one.

A few of the things I enjoy about the Swiss team: they have a set of twins–Philipp and David Degen–on the squad; the team chef travels with a hearty supply of Swiss chocolate; the team's diversity is representative of Switzerland itself (and by diversity, I mean German, French, and Italian Swiss...), leading me to wonder what language they speak on the field.

One thing they ought to keep in mind today is yellow cards. They racked up a lot of them in the match against Togo and I'd rather they didn't enter the knockout phase sans Philipp.

Sunsets, cuddling, 'Tek's batting stance.

2006-06-21T08:40:00.000-05:00

It's not surprising, considering that there are dating sites for people of all interests and persuasions, but now there's Matchingsox.com for Red Sox fans.

Granted, there may be a few among you who'd rather we date and breed amongst ourselves (though I'd argue that we'd then create a breed of super-Sox fans and therefore take over the world with our virulently attractive-to-bandwagoners brand of fanhood), and keep the talk of wicked pissah Ortiz homahs behind closed doors along with the Schill and Shonda roleplay.

While I could never date-marry-reproduce-with a Yankee fan (heaven forfend), and I have, in the past, been frustrated by men who are indifferent to baseball (or sports overall...which is funny, as it's rare a sports-loving girl finds that quality a liability), I don't think I can actively seek out a relationship with Sox fan of equal-or-greater devotion.

Firstly, there's the problem of this devotion. If he's more hardcore, is he going to give me a hassle for semi-abandoning the boys to their own devices during the World Cup? Would we shut off the game in disgust at the same time during a bad, blow-out loss? This creates an immediate assessment of your mate's level of cynicism... which may be best left for much later.

Then there's the irrational, mercurial nature of the Sox fan relationship to the team. You get two similarly impassioned people into a relatioship with one another, and I'm just sayin', there could be heated words exchanged, lamps thrown, cops called.

In the same vein, we Sox fans are an opinionated bunch. Everyone knows what's best for the team, and would be too happy to be on Theo's speed-dial. But, sadly, these opinions differ widely. I can see myself giving a fella his walking papers for believing that Edgar Renteria was anything but useless.

It is a noble endeavor, keeping the love in the Nation, as it were, but this Sox fan would rather leave it somewhat to chance. Find a nice guy who likes an inocuous National League team, like the Pirates. Then we can fight about the DH. Or maybe a Mets fan. Because if there's one thing healthier than basing a relationship on shared irrational love of 9 men, it's basing a relationship on shared irrational hatred of 9 others.

It's like I don't even know me.

2006-06-20T13:20:00.000-05:00

The World Cup has distracted me completely, and my usual obsessive following of the Red Sox has dwindled, much to my chagrin, to nothing. On the phone with my dad on Sunday, I couldn't tell him whether our boys had won the previous night. Needless to say, the pater familias was extremely disappointed in me.

I've had the wherewithal to check in with the Soxaholix every now and then, so I was shocked and pleased to see that Gabe Kapler, after a mere 9 months of post-surgical rehab (you may remember, he ruptured his Achilles tendon last year), is now back on the roster. He received a fitting warm welcome home at Fenway (picture from boston.com).

I believe that brings our Jews-on-the-active-roster total back to 3. Thanks G-d. I was starting to get a little nervous there.

Mercy Buckets.

2006-06-20T09:25:00.000-05:00

Though I uploaded it over the weekend, Blogger has finally seen fit just now to display my shiny new icon.

It's a Photoshop-ification, by one Mr. Chris, of a photo that Tobs took.

In thanks to Messrs. Chris and Tobs for the forgiving portraiture, I give you the New Hampshire Highland Games Bagpipe Band:

Ireland expects that every man this day will do his duty.

2006-06-16T23:25:00.000-05:00

Well, I'm a few hours late and a couple of dollars short on this one, but I searched my conscience and decided that Bloomsday could not go unmarked at this blog. Even if no one will read it 'til the day itself is long past (as of now, it hasn't been June 16th for several hours in Dublin, and the clock has clicked over in New York as well).

For those who have not endured my prattling on the subject, June 16th 1904 is the day on which the action of James Joyce's Ulysses takes place. Joyce is said to have chosen that date to commemorate the day he first "stepped out" with his wife, Nora Barnacle (just what made this date so special... that would be a handjob.).

Pretty hot, right?

Anyway, the traditional thing in Dublin on Bloomsday is to follow Leopold Bloom's steps throughout the city. All of my pictures of Bloom's haunts are not of the digital variety, so I'll post a little quote instead (here's hoping I don't get sued). It should be noted at this juncture, that while I do so love Leopold Bloom, Stephen Dedalus is really my area of expertise, so I'm going to go with an old chesnut here, rather than hunting around in relatively uncharted pages.

Mr Leopold Bloom ate with relish the inner organs of beasts and fowls. He liked thick giblet soup, nutty gizzards, a stuffed roast heart, liverslices fried with crustcrumbs, fried hencods' roes. Most of all he liked grilled mutton kidneys which gave to his palate a fine tang of faintly scented urine.

The man himself, ladies and gents. Our Odysseus of the mundane. I'm sure you can see why his likeness adorns my light switchplate? (The illustration of Bloom above is by Richard Hamilton, who did a series for a version of the novel... there's lots more at the Guardian. Check 'em out.)

...and yes I said yes I will Yes.

Happy Bloomsday.

Wooo! Poetry! New Hampshire!

2006-06-14T14:36:00.000-05:00

The new U.S. Poet Laureate, Donald Hall, is from Wilmot, NH.

The NYT story is here. Here's hoping he's outspoken against the Bush fils junta slashing of the NEA as much as he was against the Bush père adminstration.

He joins the ranks of Robert Lowell, Elizabeth Bishop (VC '34), and Robert Frost (also from NH).

Congratulations Mr. Hall! Congratulations New Hampshire!

2006-06-14T10:40:00.000-05:00

Since we're all mildly obsessed with soccer/football/fútbol/fussball these days, I give you:

Uglyfootballers.com - not terribly well-updated or well-organized, but pretty funny anyway. I found it because they've deemed Puyol an ugly footballer (having to do with his brow ridges, probably...).

If you're feeling adventurous, you should look at the Ugly Injuries page (it is soooo gross... don't say I didn't warn you and post irate comments). Now there's a catalogue of some seriously gross and scary injuries... ones that grown men are perfectly allowed to scream about. Puts the flopping nonsense into perspective. If you don't have a gaping effing hole in your thigh, you're fine, jackass.

France was far too French, Spain was full of Spaniards, and Poland stank of farts.

2006-06-14T09:19:00.000-05:00

I am aware that there are complex rules to the casual soccer fan following the World Cup. And, I'm trying. Swear I am.

In spite of my general distaste for US nationalism (for the past six years or so), I'm supporting my countrymen in the Cup. They fucking broke my heart on Monday, but I'm still in this thing, I'll be glued to the set on Saturday afternoon, likely cursing at the television (and uttering offensive epithets having to do with pasta and pizza and cannoli... perhaps telling Totti just what he should do with various cannoli).

My secondary team is, of course, Switzerland. A team that has never gotten a red card in World Cup play. They are unfailingly polite, to a fault, really, considering yesterday's result. It was alarming that five of them got yellow cards yesterday, though, and I'm hoping that next week they put the hurt on the Togolese and at least get cards for a reason. Though Degen (or was it Magnin?) taking Zidane down by the face yesterday was pretty great.

I'm aware that supporting Schweiz violates the rules, but I'm comfortable with my reasons (among them, there's a Swiss player whose name is Gygax. Gygax!).

After my secondary team, things get dicey for me. And it's all perhaps indicative of my still-childlike view of soccer and the World Cup. I have trouble bringing the geopolitical element in in matches that I've watched, such as:
Netherlands v. Serbia and Montenegro: OK, here I know that I should root for Serbia. But I can't. The Dutch players are dressed head-to-toe in orange. Orange! Some of them even have bright orange cleats. They have hilarious names! Ruud Van Nistlerooy? Who can argue with that? Sorry S&M, I know this your swan song together, I know you're an underdog, but I can't get on board (and Slate's Dispatches offer other compelling support for me in my confusion).

Mexico v. Iran: Yeah, I couldn't get behind Iran here.

Germany v. Costa Rica: I wanted the Germans, the WC's gracious hosts, to start off well. I thought it'd be nice for them. I'd likely be pleased for Poland this afternoon, though. They need this one. And it'd make things interesting in Group A.

Trinidad & Tobago v. Sweden: To my credit, I did right by the Trinidadians and Tobagoans. That was one heck of a match.

Spain v. Ukraine: Am pleased for Spain. Don't worry, I feel a little dirty about it, but everyone expects them to advance and get knocked out, and given their group, the Ukraine don't have all that much to worry about, right? My affection for Spain's side is super childish, as I never really studied Spanish and have only visited briefly. But... BUT, there's Carles Puyol. I've blogged about him before. I have no good reason to nuture an affection for him. He doesn't even have an X in his name, like so many other Spanish players. They do call him "Corazon De Lion" in Catalonia, though, and that's pretty cool. Also, I had a very weird dream in which he drove me around Barcelona in an early-80s Volvo station wagon (only after I had good seats at the Nou Camp for a match–though, it was a WC match, which made no sense–, of course). I figure, if the Lionheart were to get far in the Cup, it'd definitely cap off a helluva year for him.

We don't need to discuss the fact that, when not dreaming about work, I'm dreaming about the World Cup and international soccer players. Too many ins and outs and what-have-yous there.

So, basically, I'm failing at earning legitimacy as a follower of the game (aside from the getting up ass-early bit). I started out fine, with the US and Switzerland, but on a match-by-match basis, I am fickle and unstudied. Maybe next time. I mean, it took a while for me to develop legitimacy as a Red Sox fan (aside from birth, that is... I didn't "get it" for many years). In fact, you would think my prickly, Sox fan, New Englander heart would be capable of drawing lines in the sand for supporting soccer teams. But since I know so little about all of the teams, I'm easily wooed by funny names, uniforms, silly fans, and weird dreams about Catalan footballers.

I'm going to work at this thing. There's a nice pub close to my office that has Canadian commentary (I can't even tell you how much better it is than the ESPN nonsense) and numerous televisions.

For anyone who's interested, Slate's Cup Dispatches are pretty good.

ps. Red Sox: Sorry for the neglect. I've got to work out a couple of things. I still love you.

2006-06-13T15:27:00.000-05:00

Once again, dear readers: RFID: World Cup Tickets Get Smart. By me.

In my wildest dreams, I never thought I'd publish a piece with the word "hooliganism" in it. Goooaaaaallllll!

Wait, really?

2006-06-13T08:57:00.000-05:00

Once again, I ask: how did we effectively invade two separate nations thousands of miles away from us? How did we find said nations on a map?

Please read the following passage from an AP article on today's France v. Switzerland match:

"The idea of the little Switzerland, that's over," said [Swiss footballer Alexander] Frei, who thinks a win over France will put the tiny Scandinavian nation on the soccer map ahead before co-hosting the 2008 European Championship with Austria.

You read that right. Tiny Scandinavian nation. I had to reread the article a few times to be sure I wasn't hallucinating. Granted, this AP reporter is not in charge of any diplomacy, but I am shocked... shocked that no one picked up on it. Let us all briefly ponder a map of Europe. The countries in red are Scandinavia, obviously.

I need to lay down.

Update: Danke Schoen, Sanity Claus. I need to lie down (I always get that wrong... so embarassing.).

Wilkommen zum Fussball indeed.

2006-06-11T12:18:00.000-05:00

Well, I suppose it's been percolating for a while, but I've definitely got the World Cup fever. And how. Saturday morning found me bouncing out of bed at the ungodly hour of 7:45 to watch England v. Paraguay at Hamish's (many thanks again, Hamish. Please accept this token of my gratitude). Watched the mighty exciting Sweden-Trinidad and Tobago match while cleaning the apartment. This morning, while I wasn't quite as ambitious, I did stumble from bed to couch for the second half of the Serbia-Montenegro v. Netherlands match. Didn't catch the goal, but saw some a-mazing attempts and incredible run down the field by Arjen Robben.

...Just now saw the beautiful goal by young Mr. Bravo. Insipid commentary: "Bravo Bravo! Bravo indeed!" I'm going to have to disagree with Tobs on this one... I'm pulling for Mexico, rivals or not. I mean, don't we want them to advance, so that if we advance we'll meet them in the knockout round? Right?

Oh. There's another one. Iran is starting to implode a bit. Yikes.

It's going to be extremely difficult to do anything for the next month. There's at least one match I want to see each day this week, and something tells me that 2 hour lunches at 3pm aren't going to help me get shit done.

My favorite bit of commentary thus far in this Mexico-Iran match: "They call him 'The Carpet,' because he glides around defenders like a Persian carpet from ancient times."

Also he was woven into being by small children chained to looms.

Incontheivable!

2006-06-07T11:13:00.000-05:00

There's no good way to preface this. Umbrellas + free time + Claire + Seth + sneaky video-taking =

Seth thinks I should start having people sign releases. I think he should stick it.

I prefer "charmingly eccentric," thank you.

2006-06-06T14:07:00.000-05:00

Here now is the final installment of photos from "The 36-Hour Bender; Boy Are We Stupid (Or Brilliant?)."

Friday night was mussels night. After an abortive effort to save the three or four little bivalves (out of six pounds) who survived the trip from Fresh Direct (here it should be noted that six pounds of dead and dying mussels in your kitchen is unpleasant), we got fresh and kicking ones at Whole Foods, whom we coached to stay alive during the hot and stupid trip home.

The Whole Foods mussels were interesting because they varied widly in size from the ginormous to the medium, to the eensy-weensy. We determined, during the scrubbing and debearding process, that whomever found the smallest mussel on their plate would win a prize.

I am pleased to report that I won! My prize? The littlest mussel for my very own. I ate him, washed out his shell, and dubbed him Maurice Le Mignon (AKA "The Littlest Mussel").

I brought him along to the Brooklyn Brewery and bought him a tasty Pennant Ale to make up for steaming him alive in a nice wine sauce.

See how wee he is?

Here are Claire and Andy enjoying the sights and sounds of the Brooklyn Brewery tasting room.

Here are two blurry attempts at capturing a dude with an amazing popped collar. The second one is better, but we really failed to effectively capture him.

Claire and Lara in Beacon's Closet.

Seth, adorned with umbrellas:

Look! Look! A picture in which Josh is smiling!

The rather frightening phallus piñata at Lara's friend's birthday party. It sagged so dramatically because of the humidity.

Claire attempts to bob against the music. It requires incredible concentration and fortitude of will.

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Add metaphor, mix well.

2006-06-06T08:45:00.000-05:00

I could send this to Overheard, but it's too good not to share.

Friday, Claire and I were riding home together on the N train. It was completely packed, as it had rained and typical train chaos ensued. The N was running local in Manhattan, and we were in for the long haul with six pounds of Maine mussels in tow.

At 8th street, a pair of tweens/baby hipsters got onto the the train. After the doors closed behind them, the young fella said to the car at large: "I feel like a can of caviar."

His girlfriend giggled appreciatively. Yes indeed, it would seem she felt like a can of caviar as well.

Win, lose, and draw.

2006-06-05T16:14:00.000-05:00

So, I'm going to futz around with the order of the "36-Hour Bender: Boy Are We Stupid (or Brilliant?)" documentation, mostly because I'm sure everyone's aching for a Castle Grey Skull FC update, since we had a week off for the holiday.

Yesterday was our last game with Metrosoccer's Spring Coed 8-a-side league. We were scheduled to play Bohemians, a very nice bunch of folks against whom we very much enjoy playing because they do not pee on our shoes (bring in ringers to kick our asses) and tell us it's raining (that said anonymous ringers were on their team the whole time), which we always appreciate.

Anyway, we were all quite keyed up for this last match. After the previous match ending in a draw, we were hopeful. And what better way to conclude the season than play the team we like the most?

The day got off to a rocky start, however, when I realized (on the first leg of the subway journey) that I had forgotten the team's keepers gloves. I am a big, forgetful jerk. Josh comforted me anyway.

I shook it off (sorta) and we got to the field nice and early for a little bit of creative dancing. Note Claire's handsome yellow socks (borrowed from my stash from Hayley):

We were warmed up and ready to go. But where were the Bohemians? Apparently, they got sidetracked listening to the String Cheese Incident whilst smoking a strawberry-flavored hookah, because only two of them showed. So, we divided the Grey Skull squad, threw the Bohemian stragglers into the mix, and Vlad kindly reffed the scrimmage.

Here's Josh, closely followed by Kevin, who's quite stellar in defense.

Chris is apparently walking a tightrope in the box while Robbie looks on.

Claire goes ass over teakettle... I'm not sure why, as there's no one really around her.... Claire?

Josh chases down an errant ball.

Seth, the sleevéd keeper executes a mighty drop-kick.

Here's a great shot of Claire doing a throw-in.

Josh, about to dodge bullets Matrix-style.

This looks as if Hamish and I are holding hands and chasing the ball together, but really we are locked in a battle for possession. Unsurprisingly, I lost.

I collapse for a rest behind Seth "Two-Tone" Pomerantz while Alan, one of the Bohemians mans the net.

A much better view of Seth's socks, and a nice shot of he and Claire running.

This is by far the most amusing photo of me on the pitch. Sassy backward glance and everything. I look as though I have a clue, right? I think this was the point in the game that found me up front, as an only slightly feckless striker. I managed to trap and shoot one of those inch-perfect patented Mike crosses for a goal. It was pretty sweet. Slightly sweeter was Carrie (then the keeper for the sleeveless team) screaming "Get out of my house!!!" afterwards.

Here's the crew, high-fiving after our victory against ourselves. Goooo Grey Skull!

A nice Grey Skull-orange smile.

Here's a [partial] team photo.

Many, many thanks to our distinguished guest, Lara, for taking some lovely pictures for posterity and bringing some truly delicious orange slices.

Mark up your summer calendars, footie fans. There will be a Grey Skull squad tearing up the turf over in Chelsea with NY Coed. Even Vlad's excited. I had the following exchange with him three weeks ago:

Me: Hey Vlad, Are you going to ref for NY Coed on Fridays this summer?
Vlad: Yes.
Me: Great! We're going to have a team in the Championship league. So, we'll see you then!
Vlad: Oh.
Me: You couldn't get rid of us if you tried!
Vlad: Ok.

He loves us. It's just hard for him to show it.

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This is why we are the world's only super power. No, really.

2006-06-04T23:00:00.000-05:00

(Note: you may consider this Part One in a larger series entitled: "The 36-Hour Bender. Boy Are We Stupid.")

My friends and countrypeople,

As I'm sure you are aware, there are times when we as Americans are tested. We are asked to rise to the occasion, to strike a blow for the forces of good in this world. We must test our mettle and show the world what this great country of ours is all about.

I am pleased to inform you, oh readers two (or three), that myself and Claire (along with the usual suspects) are no slouches when it comes to these kinds of responsibilities. Claire's good friend (from those days abroad in London) Lara has been staying with us for a few days, and we gathered some of the troops together for a rooftop picnic on Friday evening. Sadly, it rained like the dickens, so we picnicked on the floor in the living room instead. Josh brought along his new (subletting) roommate Katrin, who is from Germany.

Aside from giving our guests a pleasant meal, we wanted to give them a true American experience. We therefore turned to Melody Lanes here in Brooklyn, site of past exploits and glories.

And so, we braved the elements and bellied up to Melody's bar for some Buckets of Rocks before we showed our friends from abroad in what manner we are known to roll here in the good ol' US of A.

Here, in no particular order, are some photos of this venture. The quality varies in proportion to my consumption of Rolling Rock (my game varied in much the same manner).

Tyler demonstrates how one selects a good bowling ball. It must be approximately the same size as your head. He then communed with the ball, asking it to "show me your wisdom."

Erica celebrates a solid roll. Strike one for America (Erica.. America. Coincidence? I think not).

Marty knows I've just rolled a gutterball.

I am displeased by said gutterball.

Josh knows all about the restorative powers of the bucket o' rocks. Also, he knows that you've got to live life to the fullest and fucking get out there and experience it. He does not, however, look like a young Lorne Michaels.

One of our international pupils, Lara, watches the action with Erica and Marty.

Katrin, a credit to her people, has just rolled a strike.

Somehow, I (at least I think it was me... coulda been some one else though... damn you, Rolling Rock!) took this picture upside down. I believe Claire was "robbed" of something.

Lara cannot believe how sophisticated we are here in America.

Katrin selects a weapon for another battle with those pesky pins.

Roomies bond over Rocks. Also, Josh attempts to put his eyeball into his beer.

Claire performs a neat arabesque. That's talent, folks. You can't teach that.

In case you were curious, I am about six years old.

The highlight of the evening, for all of us, I think, was when a child walked up to Seth and said (someone correct me if I'm wrong): "I like the way you roll."

He likes the way Seth rolls.

Firstly, duh. Everyone likes the manner in which Seth rolls.

Secondly, well played anonymous kid. Well played. You are a credit to your parents. Though it would have been way cooler if you'd said "I like the way you roll. Teach me, O wise one." Next time.

Stick a fork in him, people. Josh is done.

Good times were had by all. We really tore the place up with our bowling prowess and ended the evening on a high note by dining on White Castle at 2am in the middle of the 15-block death march from bowling alley to bed.

Mission accomplished, fellow patriots. Mission accomplished.

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Please don't feed the amateur grammarian.

2006-06-02T15:30:00.000-05:00

This is for La Cupcake, who asks: "Can you please explain the difference between guarantee and guaranty?"

Well, not really. But, I can turn to my friends and lovers at AskOxford.

guarantee

• noun 1 a formal assurance that certain conditions will be fulfilled, especially that a product will be of a specified quality. 2 something that makes an outcome certain. 3 variant spelling of GUARANTY. 4 less common term for GUARANTOR.

• verb (guarantees, guaranteed, guaranteeing) 1 provide a guarantee for something. 2 provide financial security for; underwrite. promise with certainty.

— ORIGIN perhaps from Spanish garante; related to WARRANT

guaranty

/garrnti/ (also guarantee)

• noun (pl. guaranties) 1 an undertaking to answer for the payment of a debt or for the performance of an obligation by another person liable in the first instance. 2 a thing serving as security for such an undertaking.

My guess, based on these, is that in truth, they are just variants. However, in common usage I'd say that the -ty spelling is for the noun more often than it is for the verb. Guarantee is probably the most common spelling for the verb (and also the noun, but perhaps to a lesser extent), though -ty is not technically incorrect.

However, you might check dictionaries that are specific to legal or real estate jargon, as there could be a usage of the -ty spelling specific to those fields of which I remain blissfully unaware.

Perhaps the -ty is used when you're talking about a specific kind of legal document? While we citizens would use -tee to say "She made a guarantee that she wouldn't be late for the movie." Though in that case, you'd use the verb guarantee unless you were an idiot.

Of course, now both words may as well be in Cyrillic, I've puzzled at them for long enough.

Does that help? If not, you can always write to Oxford's Word and Language Service.

In your case, young Cupcake, I'd check and see what the style is in your field and if there isn't, use -ty for noun and -tee for verb.

My love for the OED knows no bounds.

The red, blue, yellow, green, and purple badge of courage.

2006-06-01T23:14:00.000-05:00

Well, football fans, this Sunday marks the final game of the Castle Grey Skull FC's Spring season. It's a rematch against Bohemians and after our draw against them two weeks ago, we're all quite excited to inch our way to a 'W' on the scoreboard. Maybe. With any luck on our side. And God. And Vlad.

So, in honor of the event, I'm posting a photo of my last football welt (which healed some time ago), long imprisoned in my camera. It's a doozy. My best and grossest and longest-lasting to date. You'll be pleased to know that I blocked the shot in question. Note the imprint of ball and shorts. I was not allowed to perform with the Rockettes for at least two weeks. And you know I can do a killer Can-Can.

Sunday, 6/4. CCNY's concrete wasteland. Possibly in the rain. Vlad will be there. But will you?

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