I just got an email from JetBlue thanking me for my patronage on yesterday's flight from Ft. Lauderdale and giving me a $15 voucher "as a gesture of apology and goodwill." Apparently the in-flight DirecTV was broken, and they're compensating me for my un-TV'd time at a rate of five bucks an hour.
I didn't notice, busy as I was watching My Cousin Vinny as it aired on the seatback monitor in front of me. Apparently via some heretofore unknown satellite provider other than DirecTV?
Evs. I'm not looking this gift horse in the mouth. Merry Christmas to you too, JetBlue.
I just got an email from JetBlue thanking me for my patronage on yesterday's flight from Ft. Lauderdale and giving me a $15 voucher "as a gesture of apology and goodwill." Apparently the in-flight DirecTV was broken, and they're compensating me for my un-TV'd time at a rate of five bucks an hour.
I went to the Bust Craftacular this weekend, and if I learned one thing there, it is that — if ubiquity means passe — feathered headbands are so over. Seriously, every third vendor was selling a birdlike headpieces that looked exactly like this, and they were all claiming they were handmade. I smell a rat-like bird.
But the real point here is that, as with most things trend-related, I am only now jumping on the head-embellishment train (it leaves the station going 45mph towards Denver). So what's a girl to do when she wants to put something ridiculous on her head, but doesn't want to go the plumage route? Bows, motherfucker.
embellished headbands by helenr
in related being-late-to-the-train news, I made a polyvore account. Feel free to buy me any of these, at any time (except for the one I already own, but am too chicken to wear, thus implying I should probably not get too financially invested in this trend).
Mia emailed this clip to me this morning, and because I am a fancy-pants iPhone owner now, I watched it before I even got out of bed. Needless to say it has made my entire day a thing of magic and awesomeness.
Yes, kids, that's Aimee Mann singing "Winter Wonderland" with special surprise guest John Krasinsky. In harmony.
Of all the diets getting thrown at my face every time I turn an internet corner, I'm really not planning on using this one:
Not that I have anything against Oprah. But even beyond flagrantly spelling her name wrong, I'm not sure she's the right choice for a "flat-belly" diet.
Some clicking and page-jumping and various bits of internet ephemera have led me, of all places, to a car website. And kids, holy crap, I am in love.
It's weird, of course, because I am a non-car-owning person who does not care about cars, preferring instead to focus on important matters such as restaurant-industry gossip and my liquid eyeliner collection. But The Truth About Cars is freaking awesome. It's everything you want in a life partner: smart, wry, a soupcon of profane.
Mr. B is thinking about buying a Prius (he recently grew a beard, and today he bought an iPhone, so it's the logical next step), so I looked up TTAC's Prius review. Not kidding: it's one of the best reviews I've read. About anything. Ever.
Sort of proves the philosophy I've long espoused that it's not what you write about that matters, it's how you write about it. Because I could not give less of a shit about cars, and yet somehow I've killed the last forty-seven minutes reading about nothing but.
me: hey. what is the french preposition for "behind"
me: like opposite of avant garde
Adam: means behind, literally
me: derriere garde? really?
me: that sounds like a diaper
Adam: maybe "apres-garde"?
me: there we go
One of the most fun dates Mr. B and I have ever been on (and yeah, I know, it is ridiculous that we still go on dates even though we are totally in that phase of relationship where I can tell by his breath whether he's woken up with a cold or not, but we like going out so sue us) was to this event called Draw-A-Thon. (NSFW! Thar be naked people!)
Here was how it worked: It would be late in the evening on a weekend, and you went to the back room of a bar, and you scrounged a seat, and you pulled out your sketchbook and your pencils and you drew pictures of the naked ladies (and occasional naked dude) who were posing exaggeratedly on a dais in the middle of the room. Also, employees of the bar periodically came around and took your drink order. Also, spectacular music played, in particular Zombite, which you all should immediately listen to.
So look, does that not sound like the most awesome evening ever? Naked people, beer, a veneer of legitimate artistic endeavor. Spectacular. And I made some really great pictures, and got a little better at resolving my eternal difficulty with knees. And Mr. B and I were both like, oh my god, we have to go to this constantly.
But then it stopped being at the bar, and started being at a long string of "art spaces." And the models got skinnier and skinnier and scarier and scarier, and the themes got weirder and more Freudian, and we kept trying to bring friends, and out-of-town guests, but for some reason no one wanted to go draw naked people at midnight, and for one reason or another we never really made it back.
I'm on the email list, though, and I think that today's email has sort of answered the reason or another. Because this Saturday's Draw-A-Thon is themed Santa's Satan's Sex Slave Shop:
Yes! we are having another Draw-a-thon, a satirical play on Santa, slavery, capitalism, Miss's no cloths, nude elves, female reindeer's, nude carolers, and off course the Grinch that stole sex-mass. 2 rooms short and long poses, and a special priced draw-a-thon for the holidays $17 online and $20 at the door.
Live music by Epileptic Peat
Call me a prude (you're a prude!) but I am a little unsettled by this. Not so much that I can't handle nude elves and what is apparently a wild stampede of rogue apostrophes (she attacks the grammar!), but a band called Epilectic Peat? That sounds like the fake band that the teenage son joins in a Very Special Episode of a mid-80s sitcom. Not the place for me.
(Mr. B notes that now that I've written critically about this event, we are obligated to go to it. To which I note: maybe.)
Lollerskates: On the blog I get paid to write, there are advertisements. And right now, for me, they are alternating between ads for some bullshit "lose 10 lbs in 5 days" diet, and ads for Ambien.
This is hilarious because Ambien causes sleep-eating, which leads to weight gain! And then the weight loss ad is all "lose the weight!" Get it? Contextual humor!
Update: There are also sidebar ads for Tyson chicken. Not sure how that fits in, except that maybe if you have Tyson chicken in the freezer, you will sleep-eat it? Zomg.
NotCouture says that this is "The 'new' french manicure with a contemporary sophistication by Yves Saint Laurent, white on the bottom and navy blue tips."
I DIY an approximation of this look every day, simply by having completely bare nails with obscene amounts of dirt and ink underneath. Score!
me: oh my god
me: i am actually crying
me: full on crying
Elsa: oh nooooooooo
Elsa: me too
me: IT IS TOO MUCH
Elsa: here are things i have cried at:
Elsa: actually voting
Elsa: all the old people in line with me at the polls who lived through segregation and probably thought there would never be equal rights, much less barack obama
Elsa: obama voting
Elsa: a video of obama
Elsa: thinking the phrase "president barack obama"
me: your list of things that make you cry is making me cry
I was at the drugstore last night getting a needle and thread so I could sew myself an Alice in Wonderland pinafore out of old white tshirts (seriously, this plus the pig butchering thing places me strictly in the Pioneer Woman Of Today file) when I was emotionally assaulted by a bag of candy.
Specifically, High School Musical Milk Chocolate Flavored Strawberry Pop Rockin' Candy (full name), which is (surprise!) a milk chocolate flavored substance (apparently not real milk chocolate) containing strawberry pop rocks. Each disk of chocolate is embossed with the HSM logo and is packaged in your choice of White Secondary Characters, Black Secondary Characters, or Protagonists.
[I took some pictures of my own, but they were horrible due in part to being taken using my phone, and in part to my entire body is shaking from the pop rocks exploding in my stomach. So this one is from here]
File this one in the same category as the bleeding Sharpie dress, except make a note that this one is not actually wearable, due to the fact that the balloons filling the garment more or less preclude the simultaneous presence of an actual human body.
[Philip Toledano, via NotCouture]
Last night I went to a pig butchering class at The Brooklyn Kitchen. We watched Tom Mylan (the in-house butcher at the previously-discussed-in-this-space restaurant Diner) hack up a half-carcass and here is the thing: I love Mr. B as much as I ever have, he is a perfect man and strong and smart and witty and kind and extremely attractive. But Tom Mylan is the new love of my life. This is a guy who debunked the myth of the peaceful, earth-respecting, biodynamic farmer by saying "They're all like Christian libertarian dudes."
Tom on using pig skin in your sausage: "Don't use it unless you warn your friends first. And then they're gonna go home from dinner and blog about your skin sausage!"
Tom on why Josh Applestone of Fleisher's says he can't stop butchering: "I can't stop — it's such good therapy. I'd be divorced. I'd be a heavy-drinking divorcé."
Tom on the joys of a slow-braised pig tail: "It's a chicharrone with a meat surprise in the middle!"
Not only that, but my fridge is now full of some freshly-butchered pork belly, top round, and fatback. Swoon.
If you're a high school student who blogs, you're now eligible for a $10,000 blogging scholarship. If you win, it is quite possibly the only time in your life when your blog will earn you money:
At College Scholarships.org we believe that everyone deserves a shot at a decent education. And we love bloggers. Not for the least of reasons, because we blog, and the founders of this site makes a living as bloggers. :)If you define "bring on large scale social change" as "share pictures of hamburger cookies," then I entirely agree.
We believe passion is important. As the world gets more competitive, those who are passionate about what they do, and work close to their passions, will be able to become and stay successful even as technology and automation eat away at many business models. Those who are willing to share their experiences with the world help make the world a better place, even if most bloggers only consider blogging a hobby.
We believe those who freely express themselves are far more likely to find their true passions and connect with people to bring on large scale social change.
I keep having great luck at grocery stores. Like, for example, this showed up in my life while I was getting lunch today:
This is, as you can see, Lovely Halloween Pocky. It is pumpkin flavored! Sadly for everyone, it doesn't actually taste like pumpkin.
And yet, weirdly and wonderfully, it contains pumpkin!
In conclusion: I am grateful for both October and Japan.
It's a mere 82 days to my birthday, and here's something to add to the list of Stuff I Want: A night's stay at the Guggenheim:
From October 25 through January 6, guests can reserve an overnight stay in Revolving Hotel Room, a work of art created by artist Carsten Höller, at the Guggenheim Museum.
Revolving Hotel Room is an art installation comprising three outfitted, superimposed turning glass discs mounted onto a fourth disc that all turn harmoniously at a very slow speed. During the day the hotel room will be on view as part of the Guggenheim’s theanyspacewhatever exhibition, which runs from October 24, 2008–January 7, 2009. At night, the art installation becomes an operative hotel room outfitted with luxury amenities.
Rates, based on single or double occupancy, are:
$259 student rate on Monday evenings (with valid school ID)
$549 for Sunday and Tuesday–Thursday
$649 for Friday/Saturday
$799 on holiday weekends
Check-in: after 6:30 p.m. on arrival day
Check-out: no later than 8:30 a.m. on departure day
Guests will have access to a bathroom and shower and will be provided with towels, robes, slippers, and other bath amenities to make their stay comfortable.
Continental breakfast will be served.
Let's ignore for a moment that it has been nearly two years since I expounded on my distaste for Marisha Pessl, and that therefore this little kernel of resentment for someone I have never ever met has burned within me for far longer than is unembarrassing. This is important news: I have recently learned that the author photo on her novel, published when she ws 27, was taken when she was in college.
I'm not sure if it's the schadenfreude or the parallels with assholic online dating behavior or what, but suddenly I feel all happy and shiny about the world.
I can't for the life of me remember who it was who was listening to tons of The Bird And The Bee recently, and who I wanted to show this amazing Mac-driven music video to. So I'm going to hope that whoever it was has found this website and then had the presence of mind to hit play.
To really, really drive home my non-observance of Yom Kippur this year, here's what I just bought at Whole Foods:
IS THAT A HAMBURGER?!?! you are saying to yourself right now. And if you answered yes, you would be wrong!
Because that is NOT A HAMBURGER. That is a MINIATURE MAPLE-PUMPKIN WHOOPIE PIE that has been DECORATED TO LOOK LIKE A HAMBURGER.
It was about an inch and a half in diameter. I say "was" because i don't know what its current diameter is, because it is chewed up and in my tummy.
Today is Yom Kippur, the Jewish day of atonement, and as a result of that fact I spent some time this morning weighing whether to skip out of work today. This, even though I am more or less entirely nonreligious, and don't believe in any sort of god, and feel antsy and uncomfortable whenever I am near prayer, and feel, contrarily to the popular portrayal of these activities, more guilty about attending religious services than I do about not attending them.
So it was sort of a consolation to read Greg's defense of working on Yom Kippur. Hank Greenberg, the 30s-era baseball player who became famous for refusing to play on Yom Kippur, apparently has a granddaughter named Melanie. And Melanie thinks that all Jewish baseball players should sit out playing today, as a show of solidarity. Greg, meanwhile, thinks that idea is not only offensive, but destructive:
I would argue, in fact, that sitting out games today when you’re not even religious could actually forward an anti-Semitic idea — that is, that Jews always remain a people apart. Being a regular player, though, does just the opposite.I know which one I chose. Not that walking into work today involved any thunderous applause. That I was aware of. Or that was audible to the human ear.
But maybe that’s because I think baseball is a force for good, and religion is, well…
Greenberg writes that while her grandfather “would not be met by the roar of the stadium crowd, he was greeted with thunderous applause and a standing ovation when he walked into temple.”
I know which one I’d choose.
1. Things I have in common with Scarlett Johansson:
- we have both ridden in an elevator with Benicio Del Toro.
2. Things I do not have in common with Scarlett Johanson:
Now you know how to tell us apart.
As soon as this election is over I will get back to blogging about what I'm making for dinner and the rare English supine and how much I hate everyone's clothing, I swear to god.
In the meantime!
I love it so much.
Intrepid friend-of-RSGo Amy sent over this image, saying she thought it would intrigue me:
And oh my god it does, especially because what red-blooded woman would not want a broadly grinning sequined Barack Obama over her boobs? Answer: None.
[via, and hilariously the email came exactly as I was reading this]
Dear my parents & work superiors, this post contains explicit sexual references!
me: "Sarah Palin look-alike for an adult film to be shot in next 10 days. Major adult studio. Please send pix, stats etc. ASAP Pay: $2000-3000 No anal required."
me: i imagine instead the sarah palin lookalike will be, instead, fucking the united states in the ass.
Adam: that would be a superb image
Adam: perhaps lake superior would be the hole
me: perhaps, like, a rain puddle in kansas city
me: to maximize pain and damage
Adam: its true
Adam: i am sure the internet will provide this video immediately
me: i don't actually know about these things, but doesn't $2-3000 seem kind of low?
Adam: i guess depends how long filming takes
Adam: if it's two days, that's pretty solid
Adam: esp.if 9-5, because you can still hook in the evening
me: or shoot moose
Peperami, a UK Slim-Jim-analog, has probably the most astonishingly, deeply weird product website I have ever seen in my entire life.
The Peperami Meat Retreat (caution, plenty of sound) takes us into an Arkham-esque asylum for "twisted meat": salami products so insane that they have been committed for their (and presumably our) protection, all to a soundtrack of lunatic laughter and desperately pleading talking sausages with British accents. Various user prompts include such tempting descriptions as "Rendezvous with this psychotic salami and he will reward you dearly."
It is also one of the first times I have seen the phrase "freaky little sausage" and "if you can't handle the meat, you're asking for abuse" used in purely food-related contexts. Erm. As it were.
Let it never be said that my superficiality does not give me a real-world advantage!
For example: Sarah Palin wears earrings shaped like the state of Alaska. They look like little golden chiclets trailing fish poop:
Even if she were not the earthly incarnation of Shiva, Destroyer of Worlds, I would look at her Alaska-shaped earrings, worn to meet the president of freaking Afghanistan and be all LADY, YOU LACK THE SELF-AWARENESS TO ACCESSORIZE APPROPRIATELY, THEREFORE I DO NOT TRUST YOU TO RUN A COUNTRY.
That being said, I should point out that my t-shirt today has rainbow pom-poms sewn to the neckline. BUT THEY ARE AWESOME.
I've been having kind of an episodic debate with someone about climate change. Episodic because every time we butt heads over it, we both get so cranky that we realize the subject is just not worth engaging in. And the engagement happens because, specifically, this individual is a self-defined "person who, while he acknowledges that global warming is happening, has not ruled out the possibility that it is just a natural part of earth's self-regulating process and we should probably stay the heck out of it until there is more conclusive evidence." Whereas I define his position as "a large pile of guano."
Surprise surprise, I am not the world's most levelheaded person when it comes to certain lines of argumentation. Especially on something like climate change, about which I admittedly know almost nothing except osmosed conventional wisdom from various outlets like the NY Times and The Internet, which tend to run along lines of THE PENGUINS ARE SO CUTE. So while I am rock-solid in my belief that, yeah, global warming is both real and our own damn fault and also bee tee dubs worth doing stuff to stop, I am not so hot at actually coming up with coherent arguments against this dear guy's beliefs except I CANNOT BELIEVE YOU BELIEVE THAT OMG OMG OMG. Which is not fair.
The one thing I can do, and this is maybe too deeply ingrained, thanks to years of philosophy and logic and debate, is dissect the structure of someone's arguments and take it apart on methodological grounds. Which rarely goes over well, let me tell you, but goes over just about as badly as possible when I shift gears from "I take your climate change denial personally! And am going to cry now!" to "Hey btw did you notice how your argumentation precisely mirrors the shit that is pulled by the creationists?" Because at those moments he gets very very very mad at me and then I wind up feeling deeply bad about myself for pulling this low blow of comparing this irrational belief held by someone I know and eat brunch with to an irrational belief held by mittelamerican crazy scheming insano-bots.
The point of all this is: I am not the only person in the world who sees the evolution/climate change denial parallels! And this article was on Digg so obvs it is a legitimate contribution to the human canon.
my friends had a cheeseburger-eating contest and I might have made a video of it, set to possibly the greatest song ever discovered searching for "cheeseburger" on the iTunes music store:
Here's what I'm doing tonight:
6pm: Having dinner at The Olive Garden, where I have not been in years, home of the $8.95 endless pasta bowl, with free salad and breadsticks.
Harry Potter Daniel Radcliffe LIVE! NUDE! ONSTAGE! in Equus, from the front row of the balcony.
How on earth can your night in any way remotely compare?
My problem with this commercial is not that it's sponsored by the Corn Refiner's Association and that it is promoting the non-horribleness (note: not benefits!) of High Fructose Corn Syrup, and that their method is "pre-scripted characters cannot think of a reason not to consume HFCS, therefore there is no reason not to consume it!"
Rather, my problem is that the boyfriend, at the end, asks about the girlfriend's red popsicle, "You only brought one?" And then the camera pulls out wide and shows that they are sitting in the middle of a really really large park.
YOU CANNOT BRING A POPSICLE TO A PARK. THE POPSICLE WOULD MELT. You can buy a popsicle at a park. But you cannot BRING a popsicle TO a park. GOD.
I just had this long string of emails with Mr. B about where to have dinner tonight, and it started with him saying "want to go to that diner-y place?" and me saying "which one?" and we back-and-forthed trying to figure out what the heck this diner-y place was and it turns out that the restaurant, all along, was Diner. The restaurant called "Diner."
Not sure if this is a Who's On First moment, or a Thank God I Majored In Philosophy moment. Both?
I vet user reviews. Here is one that I rejected:
Africans' don't have the same customer service expectations as Westerners, and they have not internalized the notion that "time is money", hence they are not as speedy and efficient. Those who dine out a lot are going to be disappointed if they expect the same level of service as they get elsewhere. You have to be very patient if you want to enjoy this place there is a big cultural divide to overcome. I think the staff has to be retrained, with new waiters and some better focus all around.People. Why must people suck so much?
posted by Helen at 17:16
p1: i am in the middle of a pregnancy scare!
p2: did you miss your full stop
p1: not yet
p1: but there is a chance there will be a run-on sentence
p2: i am trying to figure out what "semicolon" would be a metaphor for in context
p2: perhaps one of the late, only-sorta periods for a menopausal woman
p1: partial-birth abortion?
p1: the chicago manual of style is no good at a time like this
I would deeply like to bring out the mockery guns for this:
Vegans of Color, tagline: "Because we don't have the luxury of being single-issue," a blog whose every entry reads like my classroom experiences at Smith, and whose title reads like a photo that long-ago appeared in the Vice do's and don'ts of a lesbian clown in Toronto holding a sign reading "Lesbian Clowns of Toronto."
But I am going to hold off for the time being. Because I have a cold and my head is too fuzzy to concisely reiterate the same old "holy jesus hell, people" argumentation. Also I belong to a facebook group called "Heterosexual Meat-Eaters Club" and that is the actual literal diametric opposite of this blog, and so perhaps I have already engaged (and completed) the debate.
I have a cold.
This is not terribly special, and it is not the worst cold I've ever had. But it's a little after 10pm and I'm feeling fuzzy-headed and I want to go to bed, but there's that whole sneezing thing, and the drippy nose thing, and the post-nasal drip thing, and so I go into the bathroom to wash my hands (because as a doctor friend of mine just pointed out, hand hygiene is critical) and I think to myself "I will take some medicine!"
It is not until I open the door of my medicine cabinet that I realize that inside my medicine cabinet? There is no medicine. There is a lot (a lot a lot a lot) of makeup. There is a lot of ludicrously expensive skin care objects. There are enough pairs of tweezers to see my eyebrows through menopause. But there is no actual medicine in my medicine cabinet.
I am that girl. That girl? Is me. When did this happen? When did silver glitter eyeliner move in to the space where NyQuil is supposed to be? ARGH.
Joseph: we just got a wrong number call from someone in prison.
Joseph: i feel bad.
Joseph: they wasted their call
me: oh no!
me: that's horrible
Joseph: i know!
Joseph: like, it was collect
Joseph: and the name was, blah blah im in prison
Joseph: but i couldnt accept the call just to tell him he had the wrong number
Joseph: ok, should i?
Joseph: he's calling for the third time
me: don't accept!
me: it could be a scam?
Joseph: yeah, possibly
me: like a nigerian $15.00/minute thing
Joseph: the phone number id just says "prison"
me: yeah, um, prisons don't actually do that
me: not that i know firsthand.
me: but it's the operating theory by which i live my life.
I am going to use this space to dump a little bit of context-free vitriol that didn't really fit in a post I did for that blog I get paid to write. La la la. I get to pick what I post here because this is my special area of the internet.
We realize that the schtick of the Huffington Post is that folks who you'd never expect to be writing one of these newfangled "blog" things (on the surfable 'net, no less!) put fingers to keyboard and poop out a musing on the topic of their choice. Ninety-eight percent of the time, this is prefaced by some sort of self-aware introductory paragraph in which the HuffPo blogger plays out something like "I read [political/fashion/movie/food] blogs, of course, but I've always taken them with a grain of salt..." And the writer goes on to deliver some sort of opinion that we, the readers, are supposed to understand is in fact more nuanced than those silly little professional bloggers, simply by virtue of the fact that the writer is so above it all, so removed from the unwashed masses of the internet, and then we the readers should be interested and grateful in what this non-internet person has to say to us from their lofty existence in the real world (cue unironic, dated use of "meatspace.") The other 2% of HuffPo contributors are actual bloggers who know how to use the internet, and they are generally really psyched to be writing on a site with so much traffic, to the point where they will defend the pseudo-intellectual blather that surrounds them.
posted by Helen at 18:03
Last night I had a sex dream about Barack Obama.
To be fair, it was not a complete sex dream, in that we did not actually have sex. But there was some very intense hugging, and grabbing of hips, and he very obviously had plans for what he and I would be doing later on that day.
It also took place in a synagogue, during services. And I kept seeing Michelle out of the corner of my eye and getting really nervous that I was breaking up his family and that his daughters would hate me.
And yes, I read the New Yorker article on candidate dreams, and no, I was not prepared for this one.
The online store Delias, pinnacle of chic in my high school days, is having a contest in which the prize is "a year's worth of Converse Chucks," i.e. 12 pairs of the shoe.
This is just wrong. A year's worth of Chucks is not 12 pairs. It is one pair, that you bought four years ago, and will wear for the next two years after this one. A year's worth of Chucks is one-seventh of a pair of Chucks. Duh.
posted by Helen at 12:40
Breaking news! I
am totally not racist totally hate white people!
This is according to an online psychological test out of the University of Chicago, where you view 100 scenes, each containing a black or white man, each holding either a gun or something inoffensive like a cell phone or wallet. You hit [/] to shoot and [Z] to holster, and the computer measures your response times.
Nick Kristof at the New York Times is a mega-racist. Or, okay, maybe not a mega racist, but, as he says:
I shot armed blacks in an average of 0.679 seconds, while I waited slightly longer — .694 seconds — to shoot armed whites. Conversely, I holstered my gun more quickly when encountering unarmed whites than unarmed blacks.In comparison, my hot enlightened unracist self had a completely inverted setup: I shot the gun-totin' black guys after a delay of .641 seconds, whereas I waited only a scant .600 to blow away the white dudes. And on the flipside, I only needed .641 to ID that a man of color was not holding a gun, whereas I needed .646 to ascertain that of a white guy.
You can take the test here. You can feel smug or guilty about your results, meanwhile, wherever you darn well please.
Look, we all knew Orson Scott Card was a shit. He destroyed the Ender series by turning it into this weird, overlong meditation on the nature of power and masculinity and religion, and in every interview he's ever given he seems utterly convinced of his own superiority over the world. And now, unsurprisingly yet still unfortunately, he's given this deeply awful editorial to the Mormon Times in which he rails against same-sex marriage in ways that are ably destroyed by the folks at AfterElton.
This is just sort of newsworthy, but I'm also posting it here because it's a leadup to something else I want to talk about vis a vis our hateful little
UtahNorth Carolina-dwelling sci-fi author here. I've got to do some rounding up of research and coherent writing before it'll go up here. Hold your breath? Hm.
Update! Lina corrects us: "OSC lives in North Carolina.
he is Utah-dwelling only in the sense that he wears special underpants on his brain."
Aloha, readers of this website who are my mom and my boss! I am about to talk about sex!
Well shoot, now I have ruined my punchline. Anyway, the point is, this:
ÔSCILLATION - Vibrating Infinite Powermascara"Press the button and experience a breakthrough sensation" indeed. Get it? IT IS BASICALLY A SEX TOY. That contains mascara. Saves some room in the purse, though, I suppose. Do you desperately, deeply need it? You can buy it — for one day only! — here. And I will make fun of you — for many days! — here.
What it is:
The first vibrating powermascara by Lancôme.
What it does:
This revolutionary mascara provides 7000 oscillations per minute for ultimate lash transformation. Press the button and experience a breakthrough sensation in application. In one easy new gesture, let the vibrating brush combined with an exquisitely smooth formula wrap every lash up to 360 degrees.
What else you need to know:
With ÔSCILLATION Vibrating Infinite Powermascara, your lashes will instantly appear ultimately extended, exceptionally separated, and spectacularly multiplied in number.
God, I hate being The Girl Who Does This, but you should probably go read this post over at the blog I get paid to write. BECAUSE IT IS ABOUT THE GOOGLE COOKBOOK. SERIOUSLY. GOOGLE. HAS. A COOKBOOK.
me: i feel bad about hating elliott smith
me: because he's dead
Adam M: yeah, you're an asshole
Adam M: dude stabbed himself
Adam M: how can you hate that?
Adam M: he was so tortured
me: he was bored to death by his own music?
me: he was like "at least the act of stabbing is a form of percussion"?
me: ok that was not nice, i apologize
Adam M: no, but it was really funny
Leila: are you engaged?
Leila: never mind
me: WHAT THE HELL
Leila: amanda read your away message
"I just love Butterfly Blue! I can't stop givng it rave reviews! I tell everyone about this place! I can't wait to have my wedding party there in September!!! The owner has such a wonderful spirit!!!! I suggested to my bible study group to hold our class there next week! See you there!"(meanwhile)
me: IT IS IN QUOTES
me: IT IS FROM THE INTERNET
me: I DO NOT BELONG TO BIBLE STUDY
me: i am horrified by you
Amanda: i'm a little horrified in myself
I am kind of obsessed with the Brooklyn Cyclones. I love the little-league earnestness of the games, the youthful insouciance of the players (hey there, first baseman Ike Davis), the deeply Marty Markowitzian sense of Brooklyn micro-pride.
But particularly what I love are the theme nights. Virtually every evening is something fun: Asian-American heritage night, LEGO Bionicle Battle night, the inexplicable Salute to the Pork Rind.
At a recent game, Mr. B and I were browsing the upcoming evenings. Medieval Times. Bring Your Bike night. Power of Attorney Night.* Nut Free Night.
"Nut free night? Is that when, like, you don't wear underwear?"
"Maybe it's a typo and it's 'free nut' night, and you get free peanuts?"
No. It turns out it is a night when they don't sell peanuts, so those with deathly nut allergies can watch low-level minor league baseball without keeling over in death. But because of my new career as an investigative journalist, I wanted more info. So I called the Cyclones (seriously! I actually picked up the phone!) and asked for some detail.
The nice lady who picked up the phone seemed a little confused by my request for more depth on this whole Nut Free Night concern, but eventually got to the point:
"You can bring your own peanuts, but we're not going to be selling them."
So basically they are willing to pass the liability on to you. Anyone dies of a peanut allergy on Nut Free Night? Not the Cyclones' problem.
Whether you choose to wear underwear that evening is, however, up to you.
*What the hell is Power of Attorney Night? If you have an answer, you win.
Dudes. ACTUAL NEW YORK TIMES CONTENT:
Becky Lee, 39, a Manhattan photographer, declined when a friend asked her — and five other attendants — to have their breasts enhanced. “We’re all Asian and didn’t have a whole lot of cleavage, and she found a doctor in L.A. who was willing to do four for the price of two,” said Ms. Lee, who wore a push-up bra instead.and later:
Samantha Goldberg, a wedding planner in Chester, N.J., recalled a bride who asked her attendants to get professionally spray-tanned for a Hawaiian-theme reception.Skin Deep: It’s Botox for You, Dear Bridesmaids [NYTWTF]
Alas, two women were claustrophobic and couldn’t bear standing in a tanning capsule. “They asked the bride if they could use regular tanning cream from a salon,” Ms. Goldberg said. The bride refused; she wanted everyone to be the same shade. The women ultimately declined to be bridesmaids.
This two-part tasting bowl, commissioned from Sèvres by the Crown specifically for the farm, was designed for the Queen to partake of the farm's fresh milk and is said to be fashioned from a cast of her own breast. The artists adorned the tripod with the head and hoofs of a goat, the Queen's favorite animal. In 2004, Sèvres produced these two special bowls directly from its original moulds. An 18th Century original resides in the museum at the Sèvres manufactory.
Bowl 5" x 5.25 diameter.
Un peu de recherche Google indicates that the Queen in question is Mme. Marie Antoinette. Also, if anyone gets this for me for my birthday (T minus 173 days!), I will honestly not know what to do with my facial expression.
Look, kids, I am not one to walk around staring at people's asses. Or rather, I am not one to walk around staring at people's asses and then taking my camera out of my bag and surreptitiously taking a picture of said ass, and then posting the picture of the ass on the internet. In fact, the one time I did it, my not-yet-boyfriend was so horrified that he almost considered not becoming my actual-yes-boyfriend, and the future as we've known it so far was almost destroyed.
In the immortal words of Britney Spears, Oops... I did it again. And by "oops" here I mean "with complete intentionality, also a little bit of jumping up and down at the awesomeness." BECAUSE. BECAUSE, DUDE, LOOK:
Do you know where this lady was standing? She was standing TWENTY FEET FROM MY APARTMENT. Just chilling in the doorway of the Chinese takeout place. Having those pants on. THOSE PANTS THAT DECLARE HER ABSTINENCE.
I am starting to believe in god.
After a court in the UK ruled that Pringles are not, actually, potato chips, astute reader and demander-of-pictures Kat has asked me "dude, what the hell is actually in a Pringle?"
Ask, my dears, and you shall receive a fully bullshat answer:
According to Google, the ingredients on a container of pringles minis reads:
DRIED POTATOES, VEGETABLE OIL (CONTAINS ONE OR MORE OF THE FOLLOWING: CORN OIL, COTTONSEED OIL, AND/OR SUNFLOWER OIL), WHEAT STARCH, MALTODEXTRIN, SALT, RICE FLOUR AND DEXTROSE.
CONTAINS WHEAT INGREDIENTS.
ingredients are generally listed in order from most to least. since we know (from the trial in britain) that there is potato content of about 42%, then that means that all the other ingredients together must equal 48%.
my guess is that this is similar in composition to potato chip cookies (no, seriously, a real thing), which have the basic proportion of 1 part potato to 1 part nonpotato flour to 1 part sugar to 1 part fat. Of course, since pringles are more interested in being potatoey rather than sweet, I think we could eliminate a lot of the sugar element (here, maltodextrin) and redistribute some of the nonpotato flour to the potato side.
So at 42% potato, with the next ingredient being vegetable oil (the fat), let's say 40% of the content is the oil -- probably hydrogenated (solid-state) when making the batter, plus the absorbed hot fat in which the chip is fried. That leaves us with 18% to fill with wheat starch, maltodextrin, salt, rice flour, and dextrose.
It's unlikely that the maltodextrin takes up 8% or more, because it's most commonly derived from potatoes, and - while I'm not sure that would count as "potato product" - let's say that Pringles doesn't want to take chances and bring their total potato content up to an even 50%. So let's say 10% wheat starch, 3.5% maltodextrin, 2% starch, 1.5% rice flour, and 1% dextrose.
It says something about where my tastes lie that when I first saw this picture from KIPlog:
I thought it was some sort of pasta thing covered in a flurry of parmigiano, and my mouth watered. And then when it turned out to be funnel cake covered in sugar, I was all "no, dude, but thanks anyway" and turned my attention to other, more pressing issues.
So wow. I'm a professional blogger now, health insurance and all. And in light of that, the usual circumspection that I maintain here (no truly horrific sexual imagery, no sailor-quality swearing, no trade secrets about the workplace) actually seems a bit liberal in comparison to the basic rules that tend to come along with blogging on someone else's dime. Not that I'm censored. But there are some turns of phrase...
me: i am going to write a post about [food-related thing that enrages me] at some point, though possibly it will wind up on RSGo because i don't see how i can do this without assloads of vitriol
Leila: oh, i think that's fine. you should do it for your national post
me: can i really use the phrase UNLESS YOU ARE A FUCKING RETARD in allcaps a lot of times?
Leila: you probably cannot say either fucking or retard
Leila: but synonyms are a delight!
me: sexing disabled person?
Leila: effing dumbass
Leila: i would also support
Everyone's favorite fashion expert, Ms. Lady, is MIA. I almost emailed her this link with a bolded, underlined, YOU SHOULD BLOG ABOUT THIS note, but then decided heck y'alls, I'll do it myself.
I am super-obsessed with marker bleeding. Not, like, it is the first thing I think about when I wake up in the morning, or even so much that I think about it on a once-a-day schedule, but more that whenever I encounter it, I have this deeply-felt moment of GOD THIS IS SO WONDERFUL, WHY AM I NOT DOING THIS? And normally this is a feeling I have with regard to art of the wall-hangable variety, but oh my goodness now it is happening on a DRESS, to wit, fernando brízio's marker-pocket-washable-thingy dress:
This is super-mega-awesome. It really is. You can put markers in the pockets in any pattern, wait an hour for the bleed to form, wear it in good health, and then wash it clean to start anew. If I were the kind of girl to Do Things, as opposed to just Think Things, I would totally be going out to try this myself, probably using permanent markers, probably not sewing pockets into the shift. In fact, Mr. B got me a set of markers last year, and I wonder if this would be a good use for them...
Today I saw the musical Grease, on Broadway, starring the winners of the NBC reality show/talent contest/travesty of entertaininment Grease: You're the One That I Want, and also Taylor Hicks, winner of FOX's American Idol, and also at the intermission point my Grandma pointed out that Mister I Am Going To Simultaneously War With Helen Over The Armrest And Also Play With My iPhone During The Whole First Act was in fact Daniel Dae Kim, aka the Asian dude on ABC's Lost.
I have seen zero episodes of any of these shows, but the 50s nostalgia that the show engendered in me, plus the fact that the reality show stars onstage were all in fact sort of awesomely talented have conspired together to make me feel very reinvigorated about the state of network television in America.
Also I made lamb dumplings tonight and they were awesome, and this is an unrelated fact but I am going to have to talk about food more on here for reasons I will reveal when I am psychologically prepared to Admit To The Internet a fun fact about my life.
Oh mah gah.
Kmart has been trying to revamp their clothing offerings to compete with folks like Target, whose trend-driven garments and designer collaborations carry a certain high-low cachet among the sorts of people who, like me, spend more cumulative hours thinking about what to wear on a certain occasion than they actually spend in said outfit at said occasion. Blah blah market share etc.
ANYWAY. Apparently Target has been catering to the "brazen slut" segment of the clothes-buying population, and Kmart is going to put them in their disease-and-low-moral-infected place, and they are going to do it via these pants:
Just to make sure you are really getting this, these are cropped sweatpants from the juniors department that say, in the kind of bubble letters I used to write my name on the inside of my Lisa Frank folders in 4th grade, TRUE LOVE WAITS.
The product description:
Whether she is lounging around the house, going to practice, or doing her chores. These soft athletic style crop pants will keep her comfy. Perfect for wearing with her favorite sweatshirt or tee. These athletic pants boldly proclaim just where she stands by pointing out that "True Love Waits" in a large screen print on the front and back of these pants.First off, "Bold abstinence screen print" is a feature, one that is listed between the drawstring and the elastic cuffs, and that is ridiculous. BUT IT GETS BETTER. Because when you turn the girl wearing these pants around, do you know what it says in bright bubbly juvenile letters over her bright bubbly juvenile butt? IT ALSO SAYS, AGAIN, TRUE LOVE WAITS.
* Drawstring waist
* Bold abstinence screen print
* Elastic cuffs. Cotton/Polyester blend
* Machine washable
I can't decide, here, whether to end on the hilarious irony of having a junior's department shopper's ass (demographic age range: 12-18) essentially saying "I know you're staring at me, lechy old mister, but you're gonna have to make an honest pre-teen out of me before you can tap this word-adorned butt." Or to end on the observation that this product has exactly two user reviews, resulting in a score of 2.5 of 5 stars, indicating that perhaps for one of these two users the pants did, in fact, maintain abstinence, meriting five stars. WHILE THE POOR SECOND USER FOUND HERSELF AFLAME WITH GODLESS HARLOTRY. And now is forced to shop at Target.
(via Shakespeare's Sister)
On a certain day, at a certain bar, when I had consumed perhaps too many beers on a perhaps too-empty stomach, I decided to tell my oh-so-brilliant friend Gregory that he seemed, to me, like the Jewish Malcolm Gladwell, what with the whole British Empire-born, Canada-raised, poofy-haired writerness. I meant this as a compliment.
Today after work, walking through the West Village on my way to have New York's most overrated pork buns at Fatty Crab, I ran into the non-Jewish Malcolm Gladwell, which is to say the actual real true Malcolm Gladwell, himself, whose hair is indeed quite as poofy as it appears in photographic representation.
Of course here by "ran into" I mean "almost body-checked due to walking speed," not "encountered socially and had a pleasant conversation with." That being said, this is a meaningful story not because of the how losery it might be to recognize New Yorker writers on the street (very), even media-prominent ones (slightly less very) with very easily identifiable hair (only a little).
It is meaningful because at first glance, I actually thought it was Greg, and almost inadvertently did that horrible thing where you say hello to a famous person while unaware that the reason you know their face is that they are famous, and not some dude you went to camp with.
So one of the posts near the top of the screen on my Firefox right now is the inevitable Jezebel commentary on The Whole Emily Gould Thing, written by their flagship voice, Moe Tkacik, who I generally love and want to smother with friend-cuddles distilled into self-conscious, standoffish drink-buying.
Except that Moe is friends with Emily. And her post takes the position of "hey, we all like to overshare," and "trust, kids, I know Emily personally and she is an excellent person, so no harm no foul."
This, to me? This sucks. I don't want to read a friend defending a friend. My beef with "Exposed" isn't that I think Emily sounds like a bad person (I don't) or that I don't write that very sort of stuff myself (I do! Though not in the Times). My beef is -- well, it's pretty well outlined here.
My beef with the Jezebel post, on the other hand, is this: When I read Moe's post and then go off to groom and ride my hyperbole horse, it starts to look pretty similar to some Beltway suit saying "George W. Bush? You know, we all do some pretty shitty things. And George is human like all of us. But over the last year I've really gotten to know Mr. Bush personally, and had dinner with him and his wife, and they're really very lovely people. He's only human." Which is to say, being a very nice person does not excuse completely failing to rise to your platform, Miss Gould. And Mr. Bush. For that matter.
After I read the Jezebel post I had these thoughts and I actually went back to bed and said them out loud to Mr. B.** and he was like YOU SHOULD POST THAT and because it isn't even noon yet on Memorial Day I am going to blame the simple fact of this ludicrous analogy on my sleep-addled brain. And now Mr. B. is wandering in the living room singing the "Good Morning" song from Singin' in the Rain, so I have to go be awake now.
**On the phone! We don't live in sin! Okay that is a lie. It was in person but we don't live in sin, we only Spend The Night With A Change Of Clothes in sin.
. Sent at 4:34 PM on Thursday
me: here is what i am doing
me: (this is INCREDIBLY pathetic)
me: in an epic attempt to avoid work, i copy/pasted the entire text of Emily Gould's nytimes article into ms word
me: it's 7900-odd words
me: i am editing it down to modern love length: 1500-2000
Cassie: are you going to submit it as your own?
me: i'm just seeing if it helps it suck less
Cassie: that is hilarious
me: it can be a testament to my powers as an editor
Cassie: maybe it will distill the suckery into one, incredibly potent little suck pill
. Sent at 4:37 PM on Thursday
me: ok, i give up
me: i can't keep doing this simply because i cannot read this again
me: it is so painfully boring that i want to die
Cassie: that is totally valid
Imagine my surprise when I clicked over to Sart this morning and saw that his Style Profile was none other than The Guy Who Plays Banjo During Sunday Brunch At Union-Smith Cafe in Brooklyn, a.k.a. someone I have eaten several meals within several feet of, and have in fact put a dollar or sometimes two into the cap of, depending on how absorbed I was in his music vis-a-vis my plate of roasted asparagus and bacon and soft-cooked egg (nb: swoon).
So this is kind of exciting, and gives me hope that some day The Sartorialist will see me, a paragon of stylishness in my jeans and v-neck sweater and flats, and be all YOU ARE MY MUSE, I MUST PHOTOGRAPH YOU and I will be all ain't no thing, due to having eaten brunch to the soundtrack of one of your earlier subjects, and then I will be a princess in a castle with seventeen ponies and a magical bathtub filled with moonbeams.
note: googlestalking reveals that Michael Arenella (his name!) does not actually play brunch at Union Smith anymore, and has in fact transferred his banjo and dulcet singing voice over to Bar Tabac, which some people hate.
The last time I accused myself of being a socialite, it was because I was attending this incredibly foofy food-world-related event that involved mad dashes to the tasting tables of dozens of restaurants, but did not - wtf - include a really awesome gift bag.
Last night I went to an event that was similar, in many ways, except that it DID involve a really awesome gift bag, and that was excellent. It also involved Berkshire pork pate sandwiched between two pieces of crispy dark chocolate with sea salt (from Blue Hill), potatoes with ramps and black truffle from Casa Mono, black bread with sea urchin and jalapeno (picture! [from Grub Street]) from Jean-Georges, and oh what is the point of listing the infinity of wonderfulnesses, because all it will serve to do is make you jealous of me, which will make you hate me, which will leave me an empty and unloved shell of a girl. Suffice to say that I ate brilliantly well (and, if the empty glasses of tamarind margarita are to be counted, drank not so badly too), and I came home with a giant gift bag of completely useless crap but that's okay because it was a gift bag, and while my rising socialite star is not really an excuse for my posting absence, it is at least a diverting and annoying enough story to make you forget, briefly, that I left you, and instead focus on how bile-raising it is when I go do cool things and then talk about them in public.
Two notes, though:
First, to the lady with the really nice haircut who was standing near the Casa Mono table: At a foodie event, full of chefs and foodie-groupies and food professionals and other horrible types, it is considered somewhat atypical to be very loudly asking your companions THEY SAID THIS HAS RAMPS. WHAT IS A RAMP? IS IT THIS BROWN THING? IT TASTES LIKE A MUSHROOM. THIS RAMP TASTES LIKE A MUSHROOM. FYI: that was a truffle. Other FYI: you were there during the VIP preview, which indicates that you spent $375 on your ticket. It escapes me how you can be the sort of person who thinks it is worth spending $375 for an event like this and yet does not know the difference between a ramp and a truffle. Unless you are like me, and attended via the largesse of your employers, which might be the case with you, in which case I back off a little but not a lot because WHO DOES NOT KNOW THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN A RAMP AND A TRUFFLE?! (Don't answer that.)
Second, to the organizer of the silent auction: It is really cute that you decided to have a package called "Brooklyn Eats," made up of two dinners: one at Grimaldi's, located in Brooklyn, and one at New Leaf Cafe in Fort Tryon Park, located in Manhattan. Nice.
Up next: Tonight I am going to a black-tie dinner at the Waldorf-Astoria where a seat costs more than half my rent (again, kindness of strangers). Baby's First Gala! That should totally be a christmas ornament.
Let me just say first, with pride, that I just made a margarita from scratch for the first time in my life. And by "from scratch" I do not mean that I grew the agave personally or even farmed my own salt. What I mean is that instead of buying Jimmy-Buffett-branded margarita mix I instead bought Cointreau and a giant pile of limes, and I mixed things using a jigger in order to generate the correct proportions.
Let me say secondly, with embarrassment, that I have had ONE SIP of my margarita, via a twirly straw because why not, and as a result there is tingling under my fingernails on my right hand and I am blinking a lot and if I hadn't gone back and corrected all the typos that originally appeared in this post you would just not have freaking believed me. I have spelled my games.yahoo logon name incorrectly FOUR TIMES before finally getting it right by only letting my pointer fingers do the typing. I am fairly confident that I am about to have my ass handed to me at online euchre.
Note: OH MY GOD how much awesome would be contained in Warren-Buffett-branded margarita mix? Answer: SO MUCH.
A lot of people I know are publishing books lately. Because I am a good friend, and want to support them, I am buying their books. This is also because I know that were I to ever publish a book,* I would want every single person I have ever met in my life to buy a copy, so in order to maintain my karma I must Do Unto Others.
Of course, because I have the inside dish on the sausage factory, I know that my support of their literary careers means that my friends are receiving (in the best cases) only about 10% of the cover price, which is like maybe $2, and in most incidences are probably getting much less. That is, assuming their advances earn out. Which I am assuming, because I love my friends, and want them to succeed.
BUT. I was thinking. And what I was thinking was: instead of me spending like three years writing a book, and complaining to you about the process of writing the book, and agonizing over finding an agent to take me, and forcing you to come to bars to celebrate me getting an agent and then again to celebrate me getting a publisher and then again to celebrate the book being published, and me cajoling you into buying it, and you being forced to pretend that you read it whenever you see me, and me pressuring you in subtle and not-so-subtle ways to give it an awesome user review on Amazon, and you then realizing that actually you have to read the book, because what if I've included a character that is a thinly-veiled version of you?
Instead of all that? You could just mail me a check for $2, and we could never speak of this again.
*It would be a book about an overly-critical article of clothing that likes to cook and has a obsession with grammar.
Note: None of this is in any way intended to imply that I do not like going to bars with my friends in celebration of their books. On the contrary, there is little I like more than casually mentioning that I am friends with the sort of people who live the sort of lives that justify writing a memoir before the age of 30. I just assume that no one would ever want to indulge this sort of behavior in me.
Last night we were all sitting around making fun of Fergie's extremely horrible theme song to the Sex and the City movie "Labels or Love," and making fun of the people who surely must exist (are they in the midwest? This idea was floated and I am ashamed to admit that even though I am from Chicago I did not defend my people) who will take unironically lyrics like "No emotional baggage, just big bags filled with Dior" and "Relationships are often so hard to tame / A Prada dress has never broken my heart before."
And in the course of making fun of these people we were saying thing such as "Let's go shopping--GIRLS NIGHT!!!" and "Oh mah gah I am DYING over your COACH BAG" and then I said "I'm having a FASHION EMERGENCY" and everyone stopped talking and laughing and looked at me expectantly and I was all "what?" and they were all "well, what is your fashion emergency, Helen?" and i was all "that was a joke in line with the jokes we were all making" and they were all "oh. um. because that is something we are all pretty sure you would actually say."
And now I feel, yet again and with much vehemence, that I need to reevaluate my life.
I am a giant fan of Unfamiliar Fast Food. By this I basically mean that while I am bored by the standard McD/Wendy's/BK trifecta of ubiquity (with an exception for chicken nuggets), and am only very mildly excited about B-list counters like Arby's and White Castle, I will drive seventy-five miles out of my way in a snowstorm on my way to the birth of my own child to go to a fast food restaurant whose name I haven't heard before. When I was in LA last summer my major objective was to eat at at least one of In-n-Out, Carl's Junior, Jack-in-the-Box, and Del Taco. The fact that I visited none of these, and instead spent my time driving around in a convertible and visiting Legoland and consuming margaritas at Venice Beach, meant that, essentially, the trip was a giant failure.
My deep love for Unfamiliar Fast Food is so deep and such an essential fabric of my being that, a few months ago, Mr. B declared that he had a very special surprise for me and took me, by car, into the wilds of northern New Jersey, where he proceeded to pull into a mall parking lot, take me into the mall, up an escalator flight, to a food court that had a Chick-Fil-A, where he proceeded to buy me a sandwich. I love this man.
The rabid followers of Chick-Fil-A will completely grok that a single incidence of exposure to this chain leads to a case of I Need More Fried Chicken Sandwiches Now Please, which is unfortunate considering that I am in possession of neither a car nor an NYU student ID (the only Chick-Fil-A in the city is in the NYU student center), and it is unseemly in a grownup mature relationship for a girlfriend to beg and plead for her boyfriend to take her to the food court of the mall that is an hour away for dinner. So I am, as the kids say, fucked.
EXCEPT. Perhaps as a person in possession of DVR I missed some massive commercial fanfare, but DUDE. McDonald's has a Southern-Style Chicken Sandwich, which plenty of other bloggers have noted is a point-by-point replica of the classic Chick-Fil-A sandwich, down to the limitation to only two slices of pickle. And there is a McDonald's approximatly 100 vertical and 50 horizontal feet away from where I am sitting RIGHT NOW. Which most of the time is cause for much annoyance and holier-than-thou on my part. BUT TODAY IT IS AWESOME AND WONDERFUL AND A CAUSE FOR JOY.
I shall report back.
Because I am on basically every restaurant mailing list in the entire city of New York, but notably because I am on the mailing list of Essex, which is (omg) on Essex street, I just got an emailed invitation to an upcoming wine tasting dinner. Restaurants do this a lot. A fancy tasting menu in the price range of a factor-of-ten birthday dinner, generally built around a region or theme or wine purveyor. I've never actually gone to one, largely because I have neither the financial nor social wherewithal to arrange weeks in advance to go to a hundred-ish-dollar dinner celebrating, like, The Rare Alsatian Chartreuse Beet Prepared In Twelve Courses or whatever.
Anyway I get these emails all the time, not because I am special but because I am overly trusting and give out my email address to anyone who asks. And this one is particularly, spectacularly stupid. The menu looks nice and the price, at $75, is not entirely ludicrous. But:
So ok. Um. Short of the fact that they do in fact have a cinco de mayo in Spain, by virtue of the fact that el cinco de mayo is the day that comes after el quatro de mayo (fun fact: I had to count up to four in my head in Spanish, and started out doing it in Hebrew and got confused), there is absolutely no connection between Spain and the celebration of Cinco de Mayo. Cinco de Mayo celebrates a battle between Mexico and France. Cinco de Mayo is an American celebration of Mexican-American heritage and identity. Spain? Is not Mexico. Not all people who speak Spanish are the Same. Freaking. Nationality.
So why, genius party planners at Vinous Events, and presumably intellectually functional managerial staff at Essex, did you not choose to celebrate Cinco de Mayo with wines from, I don't know, Mexico? Is it because Mexico does not make wine? OH WAIT NO. They acknowledge on the menu, in an ungrammatical and weirdly informal way, that Mexico does!
I do not get it. Jesus H. Christ, folks, this is completely moronic.
On another critical and hyperfoodsnobby note: the part of the invite that I didn't crop out (which is here), lists the menu. The menu includes a mini-paella served in a tortilla shell. I am willing to bet the cost of this dinner* that by "tortilla shell" they do not mean the Spanish version of tortilla, which is a potato-and-egg tarty-omelety-esque thing (which is, as it happens, included in the next course), but that rather they mean one of those fried bowls that help make the Taco Bell taco salad tip the scales at close to 2000 calories, and which are not a Spanish food but are in fact a Mexican food.
I am in fact almost tempted to go to this dinner to find out, but it costs the same as the swan shirt plus shipping, and the swan shirt does not make me want to punch people for failing to use wikipedia in a time of need.
*I will, in fact, bet the cost of this dinner. If anyone has any way of disproving the corn-or-flour tortilla hypothesis, I will buy you $75 worth of the Mexican foodstuffs of your choosing.
Analysis: murderous Islamic leader will not be missed
Thanks for that insightful headline, Times of London.
I don't know why all I can really think about anymore is clothing (or maybe, more accurately, why suddenly I am powerless to stem the near-constant flood of clothing-related thoughts, whereas before I could shove it aside for periods of time sufficient to have in my life e.g. earned a BA in philosophy, successfully negotiated a lease, and acquired and thus far retained a career in a non-talking-about-clothing-related field). Whatevs. I want this shirt:
It has a sequined swan* on it, lined in red sequins which I have decided are the blood of its enemies. Also I could buy twenty of them for the cost of the Bottega Veneta dress.
Tomorrow: something deep and intellectual! That in no way relates to fabric! That I have not come up with yet!
*FUN FACT: the actress Swoosie Kurtz's first name is a reference to a cross between a swan and a goose and an airplane. This is not a lie.
It has come to my attention that, through a series of indirect relationships and events, I am going to personally profit from the Miley Cyrus wrapped-in-a-bedsheet Vanity Fair photo scandal. Which: awesome.
At the vending machine in my office, a 12-ounce can of Diet Dr Pepper is $1.00, and a 20-ounce bottle of Diet Coke is $1.50. This means that the incredibly beautifully painfully delicious Diet Dr Pepper is 8.3¢ per ounce, and the nice and okay Diet Coke is 7.5¢ per ounce.
The question which I have not been able to answer for the last freaking hour, resulting in tremendous thirst and personal frustration, is whether the difference in awesomeness is worth a marginal 0.8¢ per ounce.
Update: It turns out that, yes, it is. Excitement in the mouth!
Other update: I was pretty sure that "excitement in the mouth" was a Jerkcity reference from the depths of my geeky subconscious, but Google points me only to weird-yet-hilarious Pokey the Penguin.
Update son of update: Okay so. It is a Jerkcity reference after all.
Triple-threat A Lady (she's brilliantly smart, brilliantly dressed, and I suspect is one of the people in the world who could school my butt on Scrabulous) has passed along an blogmemethingaroo that requires me to tell you six unimportant things about me, and then assign this to six more people. Okay, so it isn't required in the sense of horrible things will happen if I don't do it. But damn if I haven't been posting here with serious frequency lately, so I am not going to turn down an opportunity to keep the streak going.
N~E~Wayz. Oh gross I just typed that. But I couldn't resist. Anyways.
One: I have this deep yet irrational belief that whatever I do next in my life will be the thing that I do for the entire rest of my life until I retire or die. Career-wise. As a result, I feel paralyzed about making any future-related life decisions.
Two: I have this very bad habit of doodling women's faces whenever I have paper and pen in front of me. Occasionally I will attach the heads to very, um, Barbie-esque bodies. This has made for raised eyebrows during workplace meetings.
Three: I hatehatehatehate overwrought presentations at restaurants. I don't like to feel like I'm sullying someone's aesthetic vision by taking a bite of my chicken. Sometimes I will order pasta or soup just to avoid fancy plating.
Four: My feet are wimps. Every single pair of shoes that I own, including Converse All-Stars and other forms of sneaker, has given me blisters. Right now my left heel is covered with a spectacular latticework of band-aids.
Five: I assign character traits to numerals. I can talk at length about them, and their relationships to each other. Five is a total asshole.
Six: In my mind, I will not truly be an adult until I have bought my first non-secondhand couch. Not that I have even bought my first secondhand couch yet.
Passing the damn thing forward:
and whichever 2 of you are the first to do it in the comments.
Bonus Seven: sometimes I sign my emails "xoxo Gossip Girl" and I am not ashamed of that fact.