Last Friday night I went to see my friend, Steven, in a production of Andrew Lloyd Webber’s “Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dream Coat” (he was great as Potiphar, who made his money as a BC real estate mogul investing in – what else? – pyramids! So cute.). I wanted to bring him something to congratulate him on a job well done – but what? If he were a girl, I would have picked up some flowers without giving it a second thought. We gals are easy that way. Even the toughest lass likes getting flowers, and take my word for it, any girl who says she wouldn’t love a gorgeous bouquet is, well, let’s just say that it’d be in your best interest to take a few steps back, lest her nose gets so long that it causes you any kind of bodily harm. (As a side note for the fellas, you should know that no matter what kind of gal you’re dealing with, you really, really can’t go wrong with some classy blooms. You just can’t. And may I suggest roses? Any color will do, especially if you ask the florist to make it a roses-only arrangement by getting rid of the carnations, baby’s breath, and those weird ferny fillers. Timeless and swoon-worthy, I’m telling you!). Although some dudes do appreciate a nice arrangement, Steven is not a flower guy. I figured that he would tell me he liked them and thank me for bringing them and then let them sit in the backseat of his car until they developed that really awful rotting flower smell, and really, that’s more like a punishment than a present. So I decided that instead of flowers, Steven would be getting…drum roll…wait for it…a box of homemade cookies! When this thought sprang into my mind, I became that particular brand of really great, over the top, crazy excited usually reserved for children on Christmas morning. If I were a cartoon, a light bulb and a bunch of obnoxious exclamation points would have popped up over my head. And it wasn’t just one of those ideas that seem great at the time but then turn out badly either. Steven loved them, and I was so pleased with the final product that I took it as a huge personal victory. It was such a triumph that I thought I’d share my tips to creating a fantastic baked goods gift with you on this here blog. Without further ado:
• Presentation is key: As a longtime Food Network junkie, I’ve learned over the years that we eat with our eyes first. To me, that means making it a priority to keep the presentation interesting. I’ve seen this theory taken to the extreme (a recent episode of “Iron Chef America” comes to mind, in which the challenger plated his squab with its dead, fried talon clutching a clove of roasted garlic – interesting, yes, yet at the same time undeniably gross), but I like to keep things simpler by presenting them in an understated, unfettered manner. That’s why, when it came to Steven’s gift ‘o goodies, I picked up a 7X7X4 classic pink cake box and tied it shut with silver string finished off in a simple, shoelace-style bow. It had a very vintage bakery feel to it, and I loved the look of it. Additional advantages? It was easy to carry around till the end of the musical, and I didn’t have to worry about getting a plate or plastic container back.
• "No pleasure endures unseasoned by variety."*: To me, there’s nothing more boring than a whole lot of the same thing. Because of that, I made Steven three kinds of cookies. I heard through the grapevine that he was an unabashed chocolate chip cookie fanatic, so I made the traditional (and, in my opinion, best) Nestle recipe that comes printed on the back of every bag of chocolate chips. Then I decided to up the gourmet factor a little bit with Chocolate White Chocolate Chunk Cookies and Blue Ribbon Almond Roca Cookies. I picked those recipes because they seemed to me to be upscale variations on the classic chocolate chip cookie, and the results were fantastic. The Chocolate White Chocolate Chunk was yummy, and I liked how the dark dough and white chocolate pieces came across as sort of a positive/negative version of the chocolate chip cookies. As for the Almond Roca Cookies, anything I say about them would be a complete understatement. They were fantastic. Additional advantage? You get to try out multiple recipes and might come up with a winner or two like I did.
• Never neglect the card: The thing about the cookie box is, you can’t just shove it into someone’s arms. It has to come with a little love attached (so cheesy/so true). It’s just like giving someone money – you give it to them in a card instead of pushing a wad of sweaty bills into their hand. I found a great card for Steven that was totally apropos and just looked right nestled on top of the box under the bow. Additional advantage? Once the whole gift was completed and assembled, it was a thoroughly classy affair. Ron Burgundy would be proud.
So there you have it, my tips for creating a fantastic baked goods gift. Next time you’re hard pressed for a present and the traditional gifts seem trite or inappropriate, take my word for it and serve up the cookie box. Additional advantage? Make enough cookies to gift, then gift yourself with the leftovers.
*This quote is attributed to Publilius Syrus, who is most certainly dead but still deserves credit. So thanks, Pub - you’ve got a box of delicious cookies coming your way in the afterlife, friend.
Monday, April 30, 2007
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
Our Dodgers, Ourselves
I live in California. Southern California, more specifically. One thing that the nonnative sect usually notes about this part of state is that the weather is always pretty much the same here - fairly temperate and, more often than not, completely lovely. Even though my aversion to the whole “California girl” image is substantial (and yours would be too if you were brunette and pale and bookish), I have to admit that I love California. There’s something nice about being able to wear flip-flops every day for eleven months of the year. Forget flip-flops – how about the fact that you can enjoy a nice day at the beach for that same period of time as well? Hell, think bigger than the beach – how about the fact that it’s totally possible to, if you were tremendously motivated (and in tremendous physical shape), surf in the ocean, ski in the mountains, and go four-wheeling in the desert, all in the same day? That’s actually pretty extraordinary. So Cal is pretty extraordinary. And I count it an extraordinary privilege to get to call myself her native daughter.
Still, as closely as I hold California to my heart, enjoy her many pleasures, and defend her countless virtues to bitter and lofty out-of-staters (whose outward hate is, I believe, secret envy of the sunshine-y, carefree beauty of my home turf), I have to confess that living here has a tendency to become somewhat tedious. I guess you could say that the grass is always greener on the other side, but that’s just it – the grass is always greener in So Cal, and while the absence of changing seasons makes it an awfully nice place to live, it robs you of a feeling of time and space and rhythm and a sense of the natural progression of things. It’s hard to differentiate between the months when they’re all just an endless parade of warm days strung together one right after the next. There’s really no winter or spring or summer or fall here. It’s just one long, sunny blur until we roll over the calendars in January and start again…that is, unless you’re a baseball fan. To baseball fans, there are two seasons, and two seasons exclusively, no matter where you live: Baseball season, when nothing else seems to hold as much importance as how your team did that day, and the off season, when you sit around waiting for baseball season to start up again. And if you are So Cal born and bred like me, there’s more than a fair chance that you’re a Dodger fan. And if you are indeed a Dodger fan…well, I feel your pain.
Is there anything or anyone in the world that can take your heart, break it, and put it back together again more effectively than the Dodgers? I doubt it. But that’s what they do. They take your already half empty glass, knock it over, then fill it to the brim before downing it, again and again and again, until it occurs to you that your life as a blue-bleeder is nothing more than several minor nervous breakdowns in nine inning increments, 162 times a year. But you love it. It makes you a sadist, sure, but you love it for those moments when it makes you an optimist. And, to be honest, at the core of every Dodger fan’s soul lies a hidden optimist. You would have to be to cherish a team who will unfailingly win enough games to get you thinking that this is the year they’re going to make something big happen, only to inexplicably lose their steam come September, taking your heart and your dreams of post season glory with them. Yet even then, you can’t deny that every time Vin Scully declares, “It’s time for Dodger baseball!” you know in your gut that those are the most beautiful and comforting words in the English language. The Dodgers – they do that to you.
When the train inevitably jumps the tracks, it becomes a spectacle that’s literally painful to watch. It’s like a stab in the heart. Most people say that the ungodly traffic is the reason Dodger fans leave the games in the seventh inning; I say it’s because we just can’t stand to see how bad the damage is when the wheels come off. Either way, you have to know that we’re listening to the game on the radio as we shake our heads and battle our way out of the parking lot. Because that’s what we do – we love them no matter how much they screw things up for us. We keep coming back for more because we know, somewhere in the depths of our souls, that the Dodgers can find their way back from whatever defeats they will most certainly suffer. We might not have a lot of proof to substantiate this claim, but still we cling desperately to the hope that our injured players might get it together and Kirk Gibson their way into baseball history, that our misfit infield will somehow morph itself into a kind of Garvey-Lopes-Russell-Cey magic machine, that when our pitchers take the mound, the memory of the greats like Koufax and Drysdale will be there with them, inspiring every pitch to dance over the plate. We hope for these things because we have no other choice than to hope for these things. For better or for worse, the Dodgers are inherently ours and vice versa.
Maybe being a Dodger fan is a fantastic metaphor for life: It’s a constant, devastating, bullish struggle. You have to be steadfast and unflinching and hopeful, because if you’re not, you have no chance whatsoever of succeeding – you’ve lost before you’ve even really begun. You’ll strike out – a lot – but you have to come to your next at-bat believing that the next pitch is your pitch. You may have lost by 20 runs today, but you have to know that you can win by that many tomorrow. It’s about recognizing and appreciating the fact that you’ll have another opportunity to make things right. It’s a blank scorecard. A freshly raked field. A clean uniform. Another at-bat. Another game. Another chance to start over. Maybe that’s a kind of beacon of hope that we could all use in our lives every once and a while. I’m more than okay with letting the Dodgers be that beacon for me.
Still, as closely as I hold California to my heart, enjoy her many pleasures, and defend her countless virtues to bitter and lofty out-of-staters (whose outward hate is, I believe, secret envy of the sunshine-y, carefree beauty of my home turf), I have to confess that living here has a tendency to become somewhat tedious. I guess you could say that the grass is always greener on the other side, but that’s just it – the grass is always greener in So Cal, and while the absence of changing seasons makes it an awfully nice place to live, it robs you of a feeling of time and space and rhythm and a sense of the natural progression of things. It’s hard to differentiate between the months when they’re all just an endless parade of warm days strung together one right after the next. There’s really no winter or spring or summer or fall here. It’s just one long, sunny blur until we roll over the calendars in January and start again…that is, unless you’re a baseball fan. To baseball fans, there are two seasons, and two seasons exclusively, no matter where you live: Baseball season, when nothing else seems to hold as much importance as how your team did that day, and the off season, when you sit around waiting for baseball season to start up again. And if you are So Cal born and bred like me, there’s more than a fair chance that you’re a Dodger fan. And if you are indeed a Dodger fan…well, I feel your pain.
Is there anything or anyone in the world that can take your heart, break it, and put it back together again more effectively than the Dodgers? I doubt it. But that’s what they do. They take your already half empty glass, knock it over, then fill it to the brim before downing it, again and again and again, until it occurs to you that your life as a blue-bleeder is nothing more than several minor nervous breakdowns in nine inning increments, 162 times a year. But you love it. It makes you a sadist, sure, but you love it for those moments when it makes you an optimist. And, to be honest, at the core of every Dodger fan’s soul lies a hidden optimist. You would have to be to cherish a team who will unfailingly win enough games to get you thinking that this is the year they’re going to make something big happen, only to inexplicably lose their steam come September, taking your heart and your dreams of post season glory with them. Yet even then, you can’t deny that every time Vin Scully declares, “It’s time for Dodger baseball!” you know in your gut that those are the most beautiful and comforting words in the English language. The Dodgers – they do that to you.
When the train inevitably jumps the tracks, it becomes a spectacle that’s literally painful to watch. It’s like a stab in the heart. Most people say that the ungodly traffic is the reason Dodger fans leave the games in the seventh inning; I say it’s because we just can’t stand to see how bad the damage is when the wheels come off. Either way, you have to know that we’re listening to the game on the radio as we shake our heads and battle our way out of the parking lot. Because that’s what we do – we love them no matter how much they screw things up for us. We keep coming back for more because we know, somewhere in the depths of our souls, that the Dodgers can find their way back from whatever defeats they will most certainly suffer. We might not have a lot of proof to substantiate this claim, but still we cling desperately to the hope that our injured players might get it together and Kirk Gibson their way into baseball history, that our misfit infield will somehow morph itself into a kind of Garvey-Lopes-Russell-Cey magic machine, that when our pitchers take the mound, the memory of the greats like Koufax and Drysdale will be there with them, inspiring every pitch to dance over the plate. We hope for these things because we have no other choice than to hope for these things. For better or for worse, the Dodgers are inherently ours and vice versa.
Maybe being a Dodger fan is a fantastic metaphor for life: It’s a constant, devastating, bullish struggle. You have to be steadfast and unflinching and hopeful, because if you’re not, you have no chance whatsoever of succeeding – you’ve lost before you’ve even really begun. You’ll strike out – a lot – but you have to come to your next at-bat believing that the next pitch is your pitch. You may have lost by 20 runs today, but you have to know that you can win by that many tomorrow. It’s about recognizing and appreciating the fact that you’ll have another opportunity to make things right. It’s a blank scorecard. A freshly raked field. A clean uniform. Another at-bat. Another game. Another chance to start over. Maybe that’s a kind of beacon of hope that we could all use in our lives every once and a while. I’m more than okay with letting the Dodgers be that beacon for me.
Tuesday, April 3, 2007
3 Things: March
I would now like to introduce you to "3 Things," which I hope will become a monthly tradition around here. At the end of each month, I'll hit you with three things that I enjoyed over the course of the previous four weeks. I try really hard not to be a pimp on this blog, mostly because I heard from my pals Djay and Shug that it's really hard out there for a pimp - I've got enough problems of my own, thank you very much - but also because I don't want this space to become one big billboard (especially since, hello, no one is paying us for the shout out - we ain't no fools!). Still, when I like something, I want to share it with the people around me, so I think this is a good compromise. Here we go!
1. Movie Madness Marathon (aka, “MMM”)
Last week, Andrea and I were on Spring Break. Neither of us has ever been a big time partier, generally preferring to spend quiet time at home rather than partaking in hours and hours of weirdly loud music and wildly unentertaining people. Because of this, it’s not so surprising that our big activity for Spring Break was an event that united our shared love for lounging, cooking and eating, and watching a crap load of DVDs: the Movie Madness Marathon. We’ve done this a couple of times before, once when we knocked out the whole “Lord of the Rings” trilogy in one sitting and another time when we pushed our way through almost 75% of a season of “24.” Those were exhausting times, but they were good times. It had been far too long since our last MMM, so we thought we would take this mutual time off to resurrect it, and I’m so glad that we did.
To get the ball rolling, we first used our combined Netflixing abilities to procure three movies: "For Your Consideration" (another one of Christopher Guest’s simple, brilliant mock docs), "The Departed" (Martin Scorsese’s Boston-based tale of two men on opposite sides of the law; also this year’s Best Picture Oscar winner), and "Stranger Than Fiction" (the one where your idea that it would be great to have someone directing your life, telling you what to do and what’s going to happen to you, gets totally shot to hell). Then we decided that we’d watch them in that order as well – start with funny lightness, follow it up with weight and drama, finish it off with a nudge-on-the-chin feel gooder. Finally, we figured we would make a veritable smorgasbord of delectable snacks to nibble on at our leisure while laying around in our loungewear, snuggled up in blankets and watching movies. The result: Pure magic. It turned out to be a completely marvelous day. We saw three great movies, ate some truly delicious snackery (Blue cheese stuffed mushrooms! Ham and cheese rolls! Caprese sandwiches! Limoncello cheesecake squares!), and spent hours of quality time together. And we were in loungewear! All day long in the loungewear. I defy you to come up with anything more perfect than that.
2. Which Brings Me to You: A Novel in Confessions by Steve Almond and Julianna Baggott
A few weeks ago, I was bogged down by some heavy required reading for class, and it seemed like all the books I chose to read for pleasure were inexplicably dark (and not just, “Wow, that was sad” dark, but, “Wow, if I keep reading books like this, I’m seriously not going to be able to get out of bed” dark) as well. For the sake of my sanity, I began the arduous process of seeking out some respectable (ie, non-cheeseball) light-hearted fare. I scoured Borders and couldn’t find anything that appealed to me (thereby confirming my theory that “respectable” and “light-hearted” are mutually exclusive in literary terms). I was all set to go home, defeated, and dive right into another hide-the-handgun novel when I saw something scribbled onto the back of my checkbook: the title of a novel I once read an excellent review of, jotted down hastily in purple ink. I don’t remember the last time I had a purple pen. I don’t remember when I made that notation. I don’t remember where I read that review. But none of that matters, because I trusted myself (my purple pen-having self, my checkbook writing self) and bought that book right on the spot. As it turns out, it was just what I needed to get myself out of my depressing book funk.
Which Brings Me to You is the story of a man and woman who meet at a wedding and have an awkward semi-sexual encounter that leads to the exchange of a series of letters laying out their past failures in love and life (those are the “confessions” referenced in the title). I bought it, read it in a day, and am now actively promoting it to all my friends, family, and, of course, blog buddies. Check it out – it’s smart, witty and real, which, let’s face it, you don’t get a lot of these days.
(And also, after reading this piece about his experience coauthoring a novel and this piece about his nephews and the entirety of this book tour diary, I think I sort of heart Steve Almond. How have I never read any of this guy’s work before? He’s smart, witty and real…I'm pretty sure I read somewhere that you don’t get a lot of that these days.)
3. The Colgate 360 toothbrush
Two things I’m always in the business of: 1) Getting my teeth whiter, and 2) Keeping my breath fresh. This fantastic toothbrush accomplishes both things, because not only does it have some soft rubber bristles to remove stains and keep you plaque free, it also has this weird nubby thing on the backside of the head that cleans both the inside of the cheeks and the tongue, ridding your mouth of bacteria that causes bad breath. In short, the brush is genius. The bottom line is, my teeth are super white, my breath is odor free, and you should throw away your old crappy toothbrush and use this one instead. Also, as previously stated, we don't get any kind of payment for recommending things like this, but maybe if someone told Colgate I’d be willing to receive compensation in the form of a lifetime supply of these toothbrushes they'd be willing to pony up. After all, this blog gets over three views a day. That’s got to be worth something. Pass it on.
1. Movie Madness Marathon (aka, “MMM”)
Last week, Andrea and I were on Spring Break. Neither of us has ever been a big time partier, generally preferring to spend quiet time at home rather than partaking in hours and hours of weirdly loud music and wildly unentertaining people. Because of this, it’s not so surprising that our big activity for Spring Break was an event that united our shared love for lounging, cooking and eating, and watching a crap load of DVDs: the Movie Madness Marathon. We’ve done this a couple of times before, once when we knocked out the whole “Lord of the Rings” trilogy in one sitting and another time when we pushed our way through almost 75% of a season of “24.” Those were exhausting times, but they were good times. It had been far too long since our last MMM, so we thought we would take this mutual time off to resurrect it, and I’m so glad that we did.
To get the ball rolling, we first used our combined Netflixing abilities to procure three movies: "For Your Consideration" (another one of Christopher Guest’s simple, brilliant mock docs), "The Departed" (Martin Scorsese’s Boston-based tale of two men on opposite sides of the law; also this year’s Best Picture Oscar winner), and "Stranger Than Fiction" (the one where your idea that it would be great to have someone directing your life, telling you what to do and what’s going to happen to you, gets totally shot to hell). Then we decided that we’d watch them in that order as well – start with funny lightness, follow it up with weight and drama, finish it off with a nudge-on-the-chin feel gooder. Finally, we figured we would make a veritable smorgasbord of delectable snacks to nibble on at our leisure while laying around in our loungewear, snuggled up in blankets and watching movies. The result: Pure magic. It turned out to be a completely marvelous day. We saw three great movies, ate some truly delicious snackery (Blue cheese stuffed mushrooms! Ham and cheese rolls! Caprese sandwiches! Limoncello cheesecake squares!), and spent hours of quality time together. And we were in loungewear! All day long in the loungewear. I defy you to come up with anything more perfect than that.
2. Which Brings Me to You: A Novel in Confessions by Steve Almond and Julianna Baggott
A few weeks ago, I was bogged down by some heavy required reading for class, and it seemed like all the books I chose to read for pleasure were inexplicably dark (and not just, “Wow, that was sad” dark, but, “Wow, if I keep reading books like this, I’m seriously not going to be able to get out of bed” dark) as well. For the sake of my sanity, I began the arduous process of seeking out some respectable (ie, non-cheeseball) light-hearted fare. I scoured Borders and couldn’t find anything that appealed to me (thereby confirming my theory that “respectable” and “light-hearted” are mutually exclusive in literary terms). I was all set to go home, defeated, and dive right into another hide-the-handgun novel when I saw something scribbled onto the back of my checkbook: the title of a novel I once read an excellent review of, jotted down hastily in purple ink. I don’t remember the last time I had a purple pen. I don’t remember when I made that notation. I don’t remember where I read that review. But none of that matters, because I trusted myself (my purple pen-having self, my checkbook writing self) and bought that book right on the spot. As it turns out, it was just what I needed to get myself out of my depressing book funk.
Which Brings Me to You is the story of a man and woman who meet at a wedding and have an awkward semi-sexual encounter that leads to the exchange of a series of letters laying out their past failures in love and life (those are the “confessions” referenced in the title). I bought it, read it in a day, and am now actively promoting it to all my friends, family, and, of course, blog buddies. Check it out – it’s smart, witty and real, which, let’s face it, you don’t get a lot of these days.
(And also, after reading this piece about his experience coauthoring a novel and this piece about his nephews and the entirety of this book tour diary, I think I sort of heart Steve Almond. How have I never read any of this guy’s work before? He’s smart, witty and real…I'm pretty sure I read somewhere that you don’t get a lot of that these days.)
3. The Colgate 360 toothbrush
Two things I’m always in the business of: 1) Getting my teeth whiter, and 2) Keeping my breath fresh. This fantastic toothbrush accomplishes both things, because not only does it have some soft rubber bristles to remove stains and keep you plaque free, it also has this weird nubby thing on the backside of the head that cleans both the inside of the cheeks and the tongue, ridding your mouth of bacteria that causes bad breath. In short, the brush is genius. The bottom line is, my teeth are super white, my breath is odor free, and you should throw away your old crappy toothbrush and use this one instead. Also, as previously stated, we don't get any kind of payment for recommending things like this, but maybe if someone told Colgate I’d be willing to receive compensation in the form of a lifetime supply of these toothbrushes they'd be willing to pony up. After all, this blog gets over three views a day. That’s got to be worth something. Pass it on.
Sunday, March 25, 2007
WWJBD?
I love the television show “24.” I feel as though at some point, probably when I’ve run out of interesting things to say, I will speak at length (or, as I’m sure the majority of you will probably feel, “ad nauseam”) about how fantastic the show is, about how you should be watching it if you’re not, about how every time Carlos Bernard appeared onscreen during his tenure as Tony Almeida I had the overwhelming urge to reach out and touch his neck, etc. Trust me, those are going to be glorious days for you people. I don’t think I’m ready to go there yet, but I really do feel like I should tell you why I like it so much, because, not unlike the food you consume, you are what you watch. I apparently am a person who loves loads of violence and a healthy dose of patriotism with some hot guys thrown into the mix. Another thing I love: learning (or, more accurately, “I love learning things that I will most likely never need to know and that will serve little or no purpose, now or in the future.”). Perhaps that’s the real reason I love “24”: It has taught me so much about getting through life (i.e., the life of a CTU agent/hero, not my own life, that of a blogger/moron) in times of crisis (i.e., “Terrorists are attacking LA! The horror!” not “We’re out of Diet Peach Snapple? Again? The horror!”). Observe:
If you need to keep a secret, you could…
• …get a heroin addiction. I believe it was season three in which our hero, Jack Bauer, became an addict to get in good with some Mexican drug lords, thereby allowing himself to thwart their eventual goal of purchasing some kind of killer virus (Oh, "24," your complex twists endear us to you so!). He kept as few people in on it as possible, mainly the delicious Tony, his ever-present Cubs mug, and Gael, some generic, I-can’t-believe-I-remember-his-name-all-these-seasons-later Counter Terrorism Unit employee. Jack’s dedication to the project allowed it to develop under the noses of all at CTU. And cultivating a raging heroin addiction? That’s 100% commitment to your goal and keeping your ulterior motives under wraps. I applaud that.
Doing the smack, the junk, the china white, the big H - all in a day's work for our main man, JB.
• …put the info on a computer chip and stitch it up inside your own body. If I’m remembering correctly, some guy Jack was hunting down did this, and Jack only saw it when he looked at an x-ray of the guy’s chest. Because he is Jack Bauer, he dug in there bare-handed and heroic to retrieve the chip, but I still feel like this is a really smart way to conceal information, simply because there are no Jack Bauers in the real world and your chip would most likely go to the grave with you because of that. Those are just the facts, friends.
• …”go dark.” I can’t count how many times Jack has “gone dark” over the years, but he usually does it when he’s doing something, shall we say, a little outside of the accepted parameters of normal behavior. To achieve full “darkness” you have to cut off all communication with your base (or anyone for that matter) and take off of any satellite-tracking device you might have on you. This way, no one knows what you’re doing, where you’re doing it, or whom you’re doing it to.
• …fake your own death. I can’t imagine that I would ever be in a situation that would require me to fake my own death, but I know I can after seeing Jack do it so successfully on “24.” Apparently there’s not a lot to it: Take some sort of medication that stops your heart, have friends on standby ready to push epi to bring you back, then disappear to some ghetto town where you take on a new identity, complete with a new look (Jack got a sweet chop and some cowboy-looking duds; I would probably end up either looking butch or, conversely, like a beauty pageant queen), a new occupation (Jack: Oil Driller, Nicole: Perpetual trainee at a string of fast food joints), and a new, unimpressive name (Jack went with Frank; I’m going with Alice, because I’m cute like that).
Keeping your own secrets is one thing, but if you need information from a perp who won’t talk, you could…
• …shoot the guy in the thigh. Apparently you can survive a thigh shot and walk again, all while remaining coherent enough to answer questions. Hit the knee or below and you’ve permanently paralyzed your informant, which I wouldn’t think would inspire him to give you anything useful. When watching “24,” “Shoot him in the thigh!” is my most common mantra, mainly because Jack has used this technique many times to monumental success and I always wonder why he doesn’t just jump to that move, his ringer, right off the bat instead of trying some other things first. It’s probably because he gets his torture on so often that he needs to mix it up a little, lest it becomes boring and tedious.
A few inches lower = paralyzed. A few inches higher = also not good.
• …give him the “swallow the towel” treatment. In season one, Jack tells some dude how in Russian prisons (gulags?), when they need to get the 411 out of their inmates, they make them swallow one end of a towel, which slowly makes it’s way down to the stomach, while they hold on to the other end. The stomach then begins doing it’s stomachly duties and digests the towel, at which point the towel is slowly pulled out of the mouth, bringing with it the stomach lining. So gross, so fantastically effective. Love it.
• …use sensory deprivation. Remember in season four when Jack had to torture the dippy little brother of his then- paramour, Audrey? This was his chosen method, complete with screeching and screaming in what was probably one of those awesome Bose headsets. Also there were some creepy black out goggles involved, and he may or may not have been strapped to a chair, “$100,000 Pyramid” style. Anyway, that kid was such a wuss I feel sure that Jack thought this was his only way to go; if he’d shot him in the thigh (as I loudly recommended) he probably would have gone all hysterical and wet his pants, and then he would have been no use to Jack. And also, Jack strikes me as the type of man who wouldn’t appreciate a floor covered in urine. Especially someone else’s urine. So there’s that.
• …go for the electroshock, especially if it’s delivered through some live wires you just yanked out of a lamp. Jack laid the torture down on Audrey’s ex-husband this way once. I must say, it was pretty brutal to watch, which of course translates to “It was one of my favorite moments of that season.” Props to Chloe, a CTU tech genius, for using this method in the form of a good tasering when some drunken boob was flirting with her at a bar. I think she hit that guy like four or five times. I’ve never been prouder of a fictional character more so than I was of Chloe at that very moment.
Bravo, Chloe. You're a beacon of hope for annoyed women in bars everywhere.
• …go very, very gorilla and just plastic bag their head. I’ve learned from Jack that when you don’t have time to get creative, you can always hit them where it hurts: oxygen deprivation. Jack did this to his own brother recently. When I saw that, I told my brother, “You know, I don’t think I would have any qualms about torturing you,” to which he replied, after about 30 second of deep thought, “Yeah, me neither.” Huh.
Finally, if torturing is not enough and it becomes necessary to kill someone, or if you have to kill them anyway…
• …use a gift card that you’ve snapped in half. Jack can’t take credit for this little gem; his arch nemesis, the evil Nina, whipped out this technique way back in season three to get slice open the neck of another random, nameless CTU peon. It was unexpected, and while my hate for Nina and her bizarre wardrobe and hair choices runs quite deep, I can’t help but give her props. That’s ingenious.
• …deprive them of their essential medications. Another little biscuit Jack can’t claim; this one was doled out by Sherry Palmer, the (again) evil wife of our beloved President David Palmer. I forget how this all went down, except that she withheld meds from an old dude who had some dirt on her husband and he died. I like it because it’s simple, it’s to the point, and most importantly, it’s bloodless. Plus, who’s to say that she really did anything? Maybe the old coot just couldn’t get himself to his meds in time. There’s no case there, Your Honor.
• …use a pistol fitted with a silencer. I had no idea what a silencer was the first time I saw it, but I liked it immediately. I remember asking Andrea, “What is that thing on the gun?” and she said, “That’s a silencer,” and I said, “Wow.” There were just no other words. I still get excited when I see a silencer on screen, just because I know that there will be some serious business going down. Plus, I think a silencer is indicative of a classier, better thought out production, as a stock gat without a silencer seems more…pedestrian. Because I’m nothing if not a lady, I say bring on the silencer.
• …get your stab on. This is undoubtedly my favorite form of physical violence, mostly because it seems like you’d have to have quite a bit of rage to effectively carry out a stabbing, or else it’s just a poke. You’ve got to have a lot of feeling behind it, you know? It’s very purposeful. I mean, you can accidentally shoot someone, but I would think it’d be super hard to accidentally shiv a guy. Also, it has given Andrea and I an excellent new phrase that we use all the time: “I’m feeling a little stabby today,” as in, “I’m having a bad day, and most likely, if push came to shove, I probably wouldn’t have any difficulty getting my shiv on.”
• …channel your inner Jeffrey Daumer, go balls out and bite straight through a man. At one point this season, it became necessary for Jack to break free of his captors to relay some overheard intel to CTU, and he did so by biting through his guard’s jugular. It just doesn’t get more hardcore than that. He bit through a man! That is awesome.
Gives a new meaning to the phrase, "man meat."
As you can probably deduce, I have had to put exactly zero of these lessons into practice in my own life, but that doesn’t mean I never will. I still think they’re worth knowing, just in case I ever become brave or smart or useful (unlikely) and someone actually needs me to do something heroic on a large scale (i.e., saving the world from some form of imminent destruction – also improbable). Until then…more blogging.
If you need to keep a secret, you could…
• …get a heroin addiction. I believe it was season three in which our hero, Jack Bauer, became an addict to get in good with some Mexican drug lords, thereby allowing himself to thwart their eventual goal of purchasing some kind of killer virus (Oh, "24," your complex twists endear us to you so!). He kept as few people in on it as possible, mainly the delicious Tony, his ever-present Cubs mug, and Gael, some generic, I-can’t-believe-I-remember-his-name-all-these-seasons-later Counter Terrorism Unit employee. Jack’s dedication to the project allowed it to develop under the noses of all at CTU. And cultivating a raging heroin addiction? That’s 100% commitment to your goal and keeping your ulterior motives under wraps. I applaud that.
Doing the smack, the junk, the china white, the big H - all in a day's work for our main man, JB.
• …put the info on a computer chip and stitch it up inside your own body. If I’m remembering correctly, some guy Jack was hunting down did this, and Jack only saw it when he looked at an x-ray of the guy’s chest. Because he is Jack Bauer, he dug in there bare-handed and heroic to retrieve the chip, but I still feel like this is a really smart way to conceal information, simply because there are no Jack Bauers in the real world and your chip would most likely go to the grave with you because of that. Those are just the facts, friends.
• …”go dark.” I can’t count how many times Jack has “gone dark” over the years, but he usually does it when he’s doing something, shall we say, a little outside of the accepted parameters of normal behavior. To achieve full “darkness” you have to cut off all communication with your base (or anyone for that matter) and take off of any satellite-tracking device you might have on you. This way, no one knows what you’re doing, where you’re doing it, or whom you’re doing it to.
• …fake your own death. I can’t imagine that I would ever be in a situation that would require me to fake my own death, but I know I can after seeing Jack do it so successfully on “24.” Apparently there’s not a lot to it: Take some sort of medication that stops your heart, have friends on standby ready to push epi to bring you back, then disappear to some ghetto town where you take on a new identity, complete with a new look (Jack got a sweet chop and some cowboy-looking duds; I would probably end up either looking butch or, conversely, like a beauty pageant queen), a new occupation (Jack: Oil Driller, Nicole: Perpetual trainee at a string of fast food joints), and a new, unimpressive name (Jack went with Frank; I’m going with Alice, because I’m cute like that).
Keeping your own secrets is one thing, but if you need information from a perp who won’t talk, you could…
• …shoot the guy in the thigh. Apparently you can survive a thigh shot and walk again, all while remaining coherent enough to answer questions. Hit the knee or below and you’ve permanently paralyzed your informant, which I wouldn’t think would inspire him to give you anything useful. When watching “24,” “Shoot him in the thigh!” is my most common mantra, mainly because Jack has used this technique many times to monumental success and I always wonder why he doesn’t just jump to that move, his ringer, right off the bat instead of trying some other things first. It’s probably because he gets his torture on so often that he needs to mix it up a little, lest it becomes boring and tedious.
A few inches lower = paralyzed. A few inches higher = also not good.
• …give him the “swallow the towel” treatment. In season one, Jack tells some dude how in Russian prisons (gulags?), when they need to get the 411 out of their inmates, they make them swallow one end of a towel, which slowly makes it’s way down to the stomach, while they hold on to the other end. The stomach then begins doing it’s stomachly duties and digests the towel, at which point the towel is slowly pulled out of the mouth, bringing with it the stomach lining. So gross, so fantastically effective. Love it.
• …use sensory deprivation. Remember in season four when Jack had to torture the dippy little brother of his then- paramour, Audrey? This was his chosen method, complete with screeching and screaming in what was probably one of those awesome Bose headsets. Also there were some creepy black out goggles involved, and he may or may not have been strapped to a chair, “$100,000 Pyramid” style. Anyway, that kid was such a wuss I feel sure that Jack thought this was his only way to go; if he’d shot him in the thigh (as I loudly recommended) he probably would have gone all hysterical and wet his pants, and then he would have been no use to Jack. And also, Jack strikes me as the type of man who wouldn’t appreciate a floor covered in urine. Especially someone else’s urine. So there’s that.
• …go for the electroshock, especially if it’s delivered through some live wires you just yanked out of a lamp. Jack laid the torture down on Audrey’s ex-husband this way once. I must say, it was pretty brutal to watch, which of course translates to “It was one of my favorite moments of that season.” Props to Chloe, a CTU tech genius, for using this method in the form of a good tasering when some drunken boob was flirting with her at a bar. I think she hit that guy like four or five times. I’ve never been prouder of a fictional character more so than I was of Chloe at that very moment.
Bravo, Chloe. You're a beacon of hope for annoyed women in bars everywhere.
• …go very, very gorilla and just plastic bag their head. I’ve learned from Jack that when you don’t have time to get creative, you can always hit them where it hurts: oxygen deprivation. Jack did this to his own brother recently. When I saw that, I told my brother, “You know, I don’t think I would have any qualms about torturing you,” to which he replied, after about 30 second of deep thought, “Yeah, me neither.” Huh.
Finally, if torturing is not enough and it becomes necessary to kill someone, or if you have to kill them anyway…
• …use a gift card that you’ve snapped in half. Jack can’t take credit for this little gem; his arch nemesis, the evil Nina, whipped out this technique way back in season three to get slice open the neck of another random, nameless CTU peon. It was unexpected, and while my hate for Nina and her bizarre wardrobe and hair choices runs quite deep, I can’t help but give her props. That’s ingenious.
• …deprive them of their essential medications. Another little biscuit Jack can’t claim; this one was doled out by Sherry Palmer, the (again) evil wife of our beloved President David Palmer. I forget how this all went down, except that she withheld meds from an old dude who had some dirt on her husband and he died. I like it because it’s simple, it’s to the point, and most importantly, it’s bloodless. Plus, who’s to say that she really did anything? Maybe the old coot just couldn’t get himself to his meds in time. There’s no case there, Your Honor.
• …use a pistol fitted with a silencer. I had no idea what a silencer was the first time I saw it, but I liked it immediately. I remember asking Andrea, “What is that thing on the gun?” and she said, “That’s a silencer,” and I said, “Wow.” There were just no other words. I still get excited when I see a silencer on screen, just because I know that there will be some serious business going down. Plus, I think a silencer is indicative of a classier, better thought out production, as a stock gat without a silencer seems more…pedestrian. Because I’m nothing if not a lady, I say bring on the silencer.
• …get your stab on. This is undoubtedly my favorite form of physical violence, mostly because it seems like you’d have to have quite a bit of rage to effectively carry out a stabbing, or else it’s just a poke. You’ve got to have a lot of feeling behind it, you know? It’s very purposeful. I mean, you can accidentally shoot someone, but I would think it’d be super hard to accidentally shiv a guy. Also, it has given Andrea and I an excellent new phrase that we use all the time: “I’m feeling a little stabby today,” as in, “I’m having a bad day, and most likely, if push came to shove, I probably wouldn’t have any difficulty getting my shiv on.”
• …channel your inner Jeffrey Daumer, go balls out and bite straight through a man. At one point this season, it became necessary for Jack to break free of his captors to relay some overheard intel to CTU, and he did so by biting through his guard’s jugular. It just doesn’t get more hardcore than that. He bit through a man! That is awesome.
Gives a new meaning to the phrase, "man meat."
As you can probably deduce, I have had to put exactly zero of these lessons into practice in my own life, but that doesn’t mean I never will. I still think they’re worth knowing, just in case I ever become brave or smart or useful (unlikely) and someone actually needs me to do something heroic on a large scale (i.e., saving the world from some form of imminent destruction – also improbable). Until then…more blogging.
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
Drop It Like It's Idiotic
I’ve steered clear of FM radio for a few years now, ever since the glorious inception of the iPod, (my own proudly named iPhil). FM radio is just like that wet steak burrito at the local Alberto’s hole-in-the-wall that makes you weep in your hands all night while planted over the porcelain seat. You think it's a good idea but it quickly spirals down and you end up in a heap. Yet, with time, the memory fades until you find yourself one day thinking it would be good idea to give another one of those behemoths a go. Then all of it, the memory and indigestion, come flooding back as you’re plowing through that sucker. It’s then that you realize that not only are you in for a world of hurt in half an hour, but also that you’re an idiot and that’s all there is to it. Well, I, in my never-ending quest to continuously torture myself, thought that it would be interesting to see what music was being played ad nauseam and then trampled to death on the radio these days. What did I find? Why, classic gems with the following ground-breaking lyrics, of course:
Akon – “Don’t Matter”
“Nobody wanna see us together
But it don't matter no
Cause I got you babe
Nobody wanna see us together
But it don't matter no
Cause I got you babe
Cause we gon' fight
Oh yes we gon' fight
Believe we gon' fight
We gon' fight
Fight for our right to love yeah
Nobody wanna see us together
But it don't matter no
Cause I got you”
How tired is the “us against the world” theme in describing relationships, especially when it’s a cross between Sonny and Cher and The Beastie Boys in lyrical intelligence? Trust me, if everyone is against your relationship, you’re going to crumble like a dieter being offered a chunky peanut butter and apricot jam sandwich (those things are crazy good!). I’d stake my whole Korean stationery collection on it.
Fergie aka “The Troll” – “Glamorous”
“If you ain't got no money take yo' broke ass home
You say: If you ain't got no money take yo' broke ass home
G-L-A-M-O-R-O-U-S, yeah G-L-A-M-O-R-O-U-S”
Ok, I can accept this chorus. I mean, who likes poor people, right? Not me, that’s for sure. And she’s teaching the peeps to spell words. That so qualifies for community service in my book. Big up. But then she had to go and spoil the whole thing and write a few verses to accompany this fine chorus…
“We flying the first class
Up in the sky
Poppin' champagne
Livin' the life
In the fast lane
And I won’t change
By the Glamorous, oh the flossy flossy”
“I've got money in the bank
And I'd really like to thank
All the fans, I'd like to thank
Thank you really though”
Wait, I thought she didn’t want any broke asses hanging with her yet she’s thanking her guaranteed poorer fans for giving her that money? Whaa? Some of these fans need to organize and riot that charter jet.
Mims – “This Is Why I’m Hot”
“This is why I'm Hot, This is why I'm Hot
This is why, this is why, this is why I'm Hot
This is why I'm hot, This is why I'm Hot
This is why, this is why, this is why I'm Hot
I'm Hot cause I'm fly, you ain't cause you not
This is why, this is why, this is why I'm Hot
I'm Hot cause I'm fly, you ain't cause you not
This is why, this is why, this is why I'm Hot”
At the very least, you’ve got to admit that the rules of hip-hop are simple and finite. That’s admirable. Still, whenever I hear this song, it’s at this point where I want to drive off a canyon road and sail down in a blaze of glory into a steep ditch, but then I heard the first 2 lines of the next verse:
“This is why I'm hot, I ain't gotta rap
I sell a mill sayin' nothin' on a track”
I take it back. It’s all genius.
Akon – “Don’t Matter”
“Nobody wanna see us together
But it don't matter no
Cause I got you babe
Nobody wanna see us together
But it don't matter no
Cause I got you babe
Cause we gon' fight
Oh yes we gon' fight
Believe we gon' fight
We gon' fight
Fight for our right to love yeah
Nobody wanna see us together
But it don't matter no
Cause I got you”
How tired is the “us against the world” theme in describing relationships, especially when it’s a cross between Sonny and Cher and The Beastie Boys in lyrical intelligence? Trust me, if everyone is against your relationship, you’re going to crumble like a dieter being offered a chunky peanut butter and apricot jam sandwich (those things are crazy good!). I’d stake my whole Korean stationery collection on it.
Fergie aka “The Troll” – “Glamorous”
“If you ain't got no money take yo' broke ass home
You say: If you ain't got no money take yo' broke ass home
G-L-A-M-O-R-O-U-S, yeah G-L-A-M-O-R-O-U-S”
Ok, I can accept this chorus. I mean, who likes poor people, right? Not me, that’s for sure. And she’s teaching the peeps to spell words. That so qualifies for community service in my book. Big up. But then she had to go and spoil the whole thing and write a few verses to accompany this fine chorus…
“We flying the first class
Up in the sky
Poppin' champagne
Livin' the life
In the fast lane
And I won’t change
By the Glamorous, oh the flossy flossy”
“I've got money in the bank
And I'd really like to thank
All the fans, I'd like to thank
Thank you really though”
Wait, I thought she didn’t want any broke asses hanging with her yet she’s thanking her guaranteed poorer fans for giving her that money? Whaa? Some of these fans need to organize and riot that charter jet.
Mims – “This Is Why I’m Hot”
“This is why I'm Hot, This is why I'm Hot
This is why, this is why, this is why I'm Hot
This is why I'm hot, This is why I'm Hot
This is why, this is why, this is why I'm Hot
I'm Hot cause I'm fly, you ain't cause you not
This is why, this is why, this is why I'm Hot
I'm Hot cause I'm fly, you ain't cause you not
This is why, this is why, this is why I'm Hot”
At the very least, you’ve got to admit that the rules of hip-hop are simple and finite. That’s admirable. Still, whenever I hear this song, it’s at this point where I want to drive off a canyon road and sail down in a blaze of glory into a steep ditch, but then I heard the first 2 lines of the next verse:
“This is why I'm hot, I ain't gotta rap
I sell a mill sayin' nothin' on a track”
I take it back. It’s all genius.
Friday, March 9, 2007
What A Strange Way to Kick Me When I'm Down
This week, I was struck twice. The first blow was delivered in the form of some sort of flu/cold hybrid that sadistically attacked my immune system. In the grand tradition of hybrid names (Bennifer, holla) I’ve coined this illness “flold.” I would have gone with “clu,” but my deep love for the board game “Clue” and it’s companion film, 1985’s "Clue: The Movie" (starring the enchantingly creepy Tim Curry), prohibits it. Anyway, the general symptoms of this malady included a severe stuffy nose, clogged ears, bizarre fever dreams, horrendous body aches, fiery eyeballs, violent, hacking sneezes, and a face rubbed so raw by tissue that no ointment could soothe it. I spent three days in bed trying to find a position that would ease my congestion while shooting up nose spray and watching hours and hours of whatever was on Bravo (where I saw literally a million commercials for online dating. I hate that they know their target audience so well…). It was so nasty an illness that even the dog, who is a golden retriever, a breed which is generally regarded as the kindest of all the canines, looked at me out of the cut of his eye, turned on his heels and walked away looking disgusted. Yeah, it was that gross. But, as these viral ailments usually do, the flold came and went in a matter of days. Things were looking up…until I foolishly left my sick bed too early and got rear-ended. Blow #2.
I was on my way home when I stopped at an intersection because, although the light was green, there was an ambulance passing through in the opposite direction and that’s what you have to do. Plus, all the other cars around me were stopped and, as the lemming theory has always served me well in the past, I followed along. Unfortunately, the huge, fast-moving truck behind me did not, and I got rear-ended. Now, I probably should have prefaced this by saying that I drive a little car, a VW Beetle. That sucker is a complete road warrior; you would understand if you saw how minimally it was damaged after the hit, but as I am new to the blog world, it didn’t occur to me to take a picture to show you, so you’ll just have to take my word for it. But wow – what a champion. I’m not saying it doesn’t suck to get hit (and from the minute you get your license it seems to be sort of inevitable no matter how good of a driver you are), but knowing your car can withstand it and protect you from any bodily harm is a perk for sure. Anyway, the man who hit me (what’s up, Jay?) was the kind of guy you want to hit you – super sweet and terribly apologetic. And lucky for him, I’m the kind of girl you want to hit (dirty) – I don’t freak out (at least not outwardly) and I’m not mean (ditto, though my inner monologue is so chock full of obscenities that I fear the consequences should I put them in print here). Another good thing: I have a pretty sweet rental ride while my car is in the body shop – a definite plus. I actually couldn’t be happier with how the situation turned out. The only thing better would have been, you know, not getting hit at all.
And now it’s time for me to admit something to you all: I just reread this post and for the life of me I can’t figure out where I was going with it. Probably something about how you get hit the hardest when you’re least expecting it? That’s not ringing true now, especially since a) I felt achy and tired for days before the flold attacked, a clear sign of impending illness, and b) I could see in my rearview mirror that the truck was not going to be able to stop in time and that I would indeed be whacked. Maybe something revolving around the old, “If you get knocked down, get right back up” cliché? That’s also somewhat ridiculous considering that I was a huge moaning baby when I was sick and also that I was so shaken up after the accident it’s a miracle my quivering hands could steer me home, and, now that I’m back on the road, I can’t help checking the rearview every few seconds just to make sure the driver behind me is maintaining a safe following distance. I guess I’ll go with this: If you get sick but not sick enough that you have to go to the doctor, do name your illness something fun, preferably one of those blended names, and do not watch Bravo unless you want to be inundated with online dating ads and hours of “The Real Housewives of Orange County” reruns. Also, if you do get rear-ended, do your best to get hit by Jay and his big truck, because although getting rear-ended is a bummer, at least Jay is nice and will say he is sorry and make sure that your taillights still work before you drive away. Oh, and do write your insurance information on Korean stationery. Not only is it better than a napkin or an envelope or the paper liner from a maxi pad, but the confused look you get when you hand over your info on a little piece of pink paper imprinted with a bear surrounded inexplicably by various drug accoutrements is just classic and can take the edge off of any difficult situation. Trust me.
…
And now it’s weird because I just talked about maxi pads. I don’t know what to say, except that sometimes an entry doesn’t end up exactly how you thought it would, yet you can’t get rid of the whole thing because there’s enough good stuff in there to make it worth posting. So, every now and again, you have to talk about maxi pads. You just do. Have a nice weekend.
I was on my way home when I stopped at an intersection because, although the light was green, there was an ambulance passing through in the opposite direction and that’s what you have to do. Plus, all the other cars around me were stopped and, as the lemming theory has always served me well in the past, I followed along. Unfortunately, the huge, fast-moving truck behind me did not, and I got rear-ended. Now, I probably should have prefaced this by saying that I drive a little car, a VW Beetle. That sucker is a complete road warrior; you would understand if you saw how minimally it was damaged after the hit, but as I am new to the blog world, it didn’t occur to me to take a picture to show you, so you’ll just have to take my word for it. But wow – what a champion. I’m not saying it doesn’t suck to get hit (and from the minute you get your license it seems to be sort of inevitable no matter how good of a driver you are), but knowing your car can withstand it and protect you from any bodily harm is a perk for sure. Anyway, the man who hit me (what’s up, Jay?) was the kind of guy you want to hit you – super sweet and terribly apologetic. And lucky for him, I’m the kind of girl you want to hit (dirty) – I don’t freak out (at least not outwardly) and I’m not mean (ditto, though my inner monologue is so chock full of obscenities that I fear the consequences should I put them in print here). Another good thing: I have a pretty sweet rental ride while my car is in the body shop – a definite plus. I actually couldn’t be happier with how the situation turned out. The only thing better would have been, you know, not getting hit at all.
And now it’s time for me to admit something to you all: I just reread this post and for the life of me I can’t figure out where I was going with it. Probably something about how you get hit the hardest when you’re least expecting it? That’s not ringing true now, especially since a) I felt achy and tired for days before the flold attacked, a clear sign of impending illness, and b) I could see in my rearview mirror that the truck was not going to be able to stop in time and that I would indeed be whacked. Maybe something revolving around the old, “If you get knocked down, get right back up” cliché? That’s also somewhat ridiculous considering that I was a huge moaning baby when I was sick and also that I was so shaken up after the accident it’s a miracle my quivering hands could steer me home, and, now that I’m back on the road, I can’t help checking the rearview every few seconds just to make sure the driver behind me is maintaining a safe following distance. I guess I’ll go with this: If you get sick but not sick enough that you have to go to the doctor, do name your illness something fun, preferably one of those blended names, and do not watch Bravo unless you want to be inundated with online dating ads and hours of “The Real Housewives of Orange County” reruns. Also, if you do get rear-ended, do your best to get hit by Jay and his big truck, because although getting rear-ended is a bummer, at least Jay is nice and will say he is sorry and make sure that your taillights still work before you drive away. Oh, and do write your insurance information on Korean stationery. Not only is it better than a napkin or an envelope or the paper liner from a maxi pad, but the confused look you get when you hand over your info on a little piece of pink paper imprinted with a bear surrounded inexplicably by various drug accoutrements is just classic and can take the edge off of any difficult situation. Trust me.
…
And now it’s weird because I just talked about maxi pads. I don’t know what to say, except that sometimes an entry doesn’t end up exactly how you thought it would, yet you can’t get rid of the whole thing because there’s enough good stuff in there to make it worth posting. So, every now and again, you have to talk about maxi pads. You just do. Have a nice weekend.
Friday, March 2, 2007
Thank You
Last Monday was a very big, very exciting day here for all of us here at Destroy All Evidence because (...drum roll...) we received our first comment! On behalf of Andrea and myself, I’d like to send out a ton of heartfelt thanks and appreciation to OK.NOWwhat, whose lovely words of praise and encouragement completely made our day. And week. And month. Check out her blog, Foma (Mostly), if you have the time – she’s a great, funny writer with loads of interesting things to say, and getting a compliment from a blogger of her caliber is truly an honor.
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