2/21/10
Our Hamilton Beach food processor has these settings: Pulse, Grate, Quick Clean, Grind, Stir, Beat, Aerate, Shred, Puree, Blend, Crumb, Liquefy, Chop, Frappe, Mix, Hi, and Lo; but no matter which button I pressed, it just made a loud noise and didn't really chop my Poblano peppers and cilantro (I was making Rick Bayless green chorizo) so I stuck the knife in to nudge some chunks into the whizzing blade and peered into the blender to see what the problem was and then, just as the blade whacked the knife, it dawned on me how stupid I was being-- so I closed it up and shook it for a while and then it finally chopped the stuff up (real time update! my wife just walked in and told me that it's not a "food processor," it's a "blender," and that's why I was having so much trouble . . . you learn something new every day).
2/20/10
If you don't check the text messages on your cell phone for a long time, then when you finally do-- they tell a little story, and you are both the protagonist and the villain.
2/18/10
I loved the new Coen brothers movie, A Serious Man, for the first half hour, but then, once the theme dawned on me, it became harder to enjoy, but certainly engaging to watch-- and the ending seemed cryptic for a moment, almost like the end of The Blair Witch Project, but then the reality of the awful truth became apparent: four transistor radios out of five.
2/16/10
If there were any kind of cosmic justice, I wouldn't have had to endure A Gazillion Bubbles this weekend, since I took Alex to see One Man Star Wars two weeks ago-- but it was family day at the State Theater and my wife got a ticket for me . . . the show lived up to its billing, there were lots of bubbles and lasers and loud music, and though it was torture, it did give me an idea for my one man kid-friendly theater show: it is called A Gazillion Pointy Plastic Toys and it features a multi-level stage full of pointy plastic toys and a couple of staircases, and I just wander around the stage, stepping on toys with my bare feet, cursing, stubbing my toes, and tripping on the stairs while screaming, "Who left Legos on the stairs!" and then I ask for young volunteers to come up on stage and I beat them (I described the show to my friend's kids at lunch after the show and they said,"We'd pay to see that!")
Slightly Better Than Having Your Heart Ripped Out On A Ziggurat
Sea Isle City Polar Plunge Recap: a good turn-out, and everyone who was on time plunged, except our photographer Celine; the plungers were Mel, Ed, Chantal, Keith, Stacy, Ed, John, Mose, Terry, Catherine, me-- and everyone agreed that they would do it again, but the anticipation was nerve-wracking (although beer and tequila helped), since we were all novice plungers and had no idea of what to expect . . . and what we didn't expect was that thousands of spectators lined the fences and probably close to a thousand brave souls were plunging, and as Mel described it, it was like some sort of Stonehenge ritual, or a human sacrifice, total mob mentality, everyone jumping and screaming in preparation to dunk themselves into the 36 degree water (and the scenery was pretty good, plenty of cute girls in bikinis) and though the water was very cold, and immediately after I dove in, I couldn't get my legs to work-- I wanted to run out of the water but my body wouldn't run-- but I felt warm enough once I walked onto the beach and the only thing that really hurt was my toes-- the approach to the water was pandemonium, I held Catherine's hand and once we were waist deep, I let her go and yelled, "Turn Back!" like it was a life or death situation (which it may have been) and then we thought we lost Mose in the crowd because he didn't have his glasses on and couldn't see anything, but he turned up and we went and watched LeCompt play a four and half hour set at an insanely packed Springfield Bar and then ate at Welshies and passed out at the condo-- we slept thirteen in it; hopefully we will do it again next year and get enough people for two condos, I never would have thought jumping in the ocean when there was snow on the beach could be so much fun.
2/14/10
Howard Zinn and J.D. Salinger are with us no longer, but their legacy is: like Beck, they both championed the loser-- Salinger gave a voice to ostracized loser Holden Caulfield's sensitive and precocious teenage alienation and Zinn gave a voice to the losers of history, the enslaved, the indigenous, the female, and the impoverished-- and if success is measured by the acceptance of these paradigm-busting perspectives, then their success is astoundingly significant . . . but has the pendulum swung too far . . . is there not something to be said for the Stradlaters of the world, the winners . . . is it not best, as Conan says, "to crush your enemies, see them driven before you, and hear the lamentation of the women," or as Chevy Chase says in The Three Amigos, "we will rape the horses and ride off on the women!"-- is there something so wrong with being a winner, enslaving the defeated, selling their children, destroying their culture, taking their women, developing their land, and not feeling a bit guilty about it-- what I am saying is this: Salinger and Zinn took all the fun out of kicking some loser butt.
2/13/10
This very well could be the best moment of the rest of your life-- the moment that your thoughts are most lucid and your body is most responsive, the moment that your experience is in perfect coordination with your wisdom, the moment that your recall and your factual knowledge are at their optimum ratio, the moment when you have several things to look forward to and nothing to dread . . . and now that moment is over, and you spent it reading this sentence.
Damned Child Locks!
After a fantastic day of snowboarding yesterday, Terry, Kim, Stacy and I hopped in my Subaru to head home, but on the way out of town I spotted the Shawnee General Store and stopped to get a cup of coffee; Terry was riding shotgun, and he got out as well, but Kim was eating animal crackers and Stacy was texting Ed, so they didn't get out and we went in and browsed what they had and ended up talking to the proprietor for a bit (he grew up in New Brunswick and was a Rutgers football fan) and then, finally, we went back to the car and Stacy and Kim were laughing when we opened the door, because we had locked them in (child locks on the back doors) and Stacy had even gone so far as to text Terry a message (we are locked in the car) but he didn't have his phone, and oddly enough, though we felt bad that they were trapped in the car for the duration, we never let them go into the store or asked if they wanted to-- we just got back in and took off (although I did share my chocolate bar-- Stacy took a piece, and then Terry took a piece, which made no sense, because he actually got to go into the store).
Poop and Sensitivity
On the same day that my six year old son Alex wrote and illustrated a book called My Family (which had a page for every person in the family: Daddy, Mom, Grand-dad, Uncle Eddie, and even my brother Chris, who died several years ago in a car accident) on this very same day that he made my wife cry with this book, and on the same day that my five year old son Ian illustrated his own book-- a book full of scary monsters drawn with loving care and detail . . . on this very same day of creativity and sensitivity, on this same day my children would also-- while my wife was printing photos to put in Alex's aforementioned wonderful book-- these same wonderful boys would come across a couple of old diapers, diapers they were out of long enough to remember them humorously and reminiscently, and in a fit of depraved nostalgia, put the diapers on, simultaneously defecate and urinate in them, laugh hysterically, and then toss the evidence of this scatological prank into the bathroom waste basket, for me to discover when I went to check on them-- because they were so quiet; at the top of the stairs I smelled something awful and wondered what it could be and finally-- with no help from the giggling perpetrators-- found the soiled diapers stuffed into the bathroom waste basket . . . all on the very same day.
Surprise! You Have Strep!
Some people say everything happens for a reason, and though I don't believe them, it is fun to pretend that this might be true; so the reason I got strep throat and spent Saturday in a delirious fever state and could not attend the big surprise party that night (we were part of the "plan" to execute the surprise, and perhaps one of the reasons I got strep is that I hate surprise parties-- they are stressful and I don't like keeping secrets, and what is the ultimate goal? to give the recipient a heart attack?) is because this was a fitting way to finish reading James Ellroy's trilogy of alternate history that he began with American Tabloid (the JFK assassination) and finished with Blood's A Rover . . . so in my strep-addled state-- which mirrored Dwight Holly and Don Crutchfield's mania, all of us coming in and out of consciousness, I read several hundred pages of document inserts, obtuse diaries, rogue cops, RED agents, cover-ups, cut-outs, torture, black bagging, Haitian voodoo, men with machetes and wings, emerald worship, an undercover cop with the Bent, J. Edgar Hoover's paranoia, homosexuality and racism, Tricky Dick Nixon's abrasiveness, Sonny Liston doing morphine suppositories, Tiger Kab, Klan Kamps, Black militant groups pushing heroin and knife fighting and shooting children, a peeper "detective" biting the head off a rat to break a voodoo curse, Trujillo vs. Papa Doc, fruit squeezes, right wing strong-arming, left wing radicalization, Redd Foxx snorting coke, document heists, betrayal, backstabbing, perversion, hate tracts, money laundering, voodoo porn, and, of course, loads of conspiracy . . . a fitting end to this for both Ellroy and me; it is a good read despite the conceit of the diaries, I give it four "perfect kidney shots" out of five.
2/8/10
Together is a Swedish film about a commune in the mid-seventies, and the moral is that you can't fight human nature: no matter how much of a hippie you, no matter what your beliefs are, no matter how committed you are to changing the world order, your kids will still desire meat (the kids picket for hot dogs in the kitchen one night) and TV and play violent games (there's a great scene where one kid plays Pinochet, the Chilean torturer, and forces the other to "say you like Pinochet!") and adults will desire stability and loyalty and family . . . as Birger says, "It is better to eat porridge together than pork chops alone," and-- like this sentence-- the plot rambles through the lives of all the members of the commune and a few outsiders . . . there's no need to focus on a particular story, it's really more like surreal episode of the TV show Big Brother, but from the seventies and with deeper characters and a nostalgic look that makes it more like an artifact from that era than a film; I give it one congealed glutinous Socialist bowl of porridge out of one, I loved it.
2/7/10
Apparently, high school kids find it really scary and funny if their teacher leaps over his desk and knocks over a chair and a water bottle and a stapler on his way to intercept a note being passed from one boy to another . . . even if it is during the filming of a short film that they wrote in Creative Writing for their "final exam"-- I think they thought I would calmly get up and walk over and demand the note, as I would do if I were playing myself, but what they didn't know is that I was acting-- I was no longer their calm and collected teacher, I was someone else; one guy actually leaped out of his seat when I came charging over, and for the next scene (where I had to take another note-- this wasn't the most thrilling plot) we set up a stool, a stack of thirty books, and a garbage pail for me to run through . . . and now I know why it's fun to be an action hero: you get to knock stuff over indoors.
2/6/10
Missed the turn for Wawa and had to go to Quick Check for coffee, and I'm glad I did because on the register there was a sticker that read: We check ID for anyone under 40 for alcohol and tobacco . . . that's right, if I were buying cigarettes the cashier would have taken a look at me, discerned that I was thirty nine, and then taken a peek at my license to make sure I wasn't artificially thinning my hair so I could buy some KOOLS . . . I suppose you are safe if you exhibit signs of Alzheimer's or wearing a Depends undergarment or have a pock-marked and wrinkled face and a rosacea red nose that can only come from decades of alcohol abuse but otherwise-- because just about anyone can appear to be under forty-- you will be carded at the Quick Check (which I do admire for spelling both words in its name properly, though were are so many trashy variations available, think of the ink they would have saved if they named it Kwik Chek).
If You're Dave, You Need to Know This Shit
Just in case there's some kind of Freaky Friday type incident, and your mind suddenly inhabits my body, here is my mnemonic for remembering which side of each car the fuel tank valve is on: Subaru has an "R" in it and the tank valve is on the right (which also has an "R" in it) and JEEP is spelled with four letters and so is the word "left," and this mnemonic also works with the nautical direction "port," which also has four letters and also means left (so if my JEEP were an amphibious vehicle when it was in the water and I was pulling up to a dockside gas station, I would pull up with the port-side facing the dock).
2/4/10
Alex and I were both occasionally a little lost and occasionally a little antsy during Charles Ross's One Man Star Wars Trilogy, but by the end Alex (who is five) and his dad (who is thirty-nine) had gotten into the groove; it really is a one man show, no props or special effects or costumes, just Charles Ross playing every character from the old trilogy and also providing music and sound effects (I don't know how he does two shows a night, his voice must be ragged from doing Darth Vader and all the lasers and explosions) and his Jabba the Hutt impersonation was priceless, as were his "additions," to the films-- at first Alex yelled, "That's not in the movie," every time Ross made a joke, but then he understood the concept (although I don't think he got the joke at the end, when Vader took his mask off and Luke said, "You're not black?") and after it was over Ross gave a sneak preview of his new show: One Man Lord of the Rings, and his Golem was spot-on . . . and he certainly needs to start doing a new show, he's been doing his one man Star Wars performance for the last SEVEN years.
2/3/10
My wife thinks we should spend some money on painting our house, but I think we should spend some money on a hollow-bodied guitar; my rationale is this: if we paint the house, our house will look nicer and then we will more likely be robbed . . . so its better for our house to look a bit moldy, but be full of cool stuff (but she's not buying it).
My Cast For Catcher
Now that J.D. Salinger is finally dead, perhaps his family will allow a movie to be made of The Catcher in the Rye, and I'm assuming this will take a LONG time to get sorted out, and so the digital technology will be such that any actor from any time period will be available . . . so here is my star-studded cast-- but you have to imagine the person at the proper age to play the role-- for Holden Caulfield I will go with Arrested Development age Michael Cera; Alan Ruck (Cameron Frye from Ferris Bueller's Day Off) will play Ackley; young Brad Pitt for Stradlater; John Malkovich for the wise but creepy and perhaps latently gay Mr. Antolini; Lindsay Lohann for Phoebe-- briliant choice both for the red-hair and her fall from grace; East Brunswick's Jesse Eisenberg for Holden's younger (and dead) brother Allie; Gabe Kaplan as Old Spencer; Risky Business era Rebecca De Mornay as Sunny; and Johnny Depp for his cool and affected older brother D.B.
Olympic Snowboarding Theme
Today my blogging efforts are here; I wrote an Official Olympic Snowboarding preview for Gheorghe: The Blog, which mainly consists of rambling commentary, a Greasetruck rendition of the Olympic Theme Song (for Snowboarders)-- you can play it if you click over on the left--and the observation that Shaun White (otherwise known as "the flying tomato") looks a little like Carrot Top (and they both have vegetable nick-names) . . . so if you have a few minutes, check out it out, and if you tool around a bit on Gheorghe, you'll find more absurd Official G:TB Olympic Previews.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)