The thing that never ceases to amaze me about this in-between-seasons weather is the number of ways people find to be inappropriately dressed.
And I'm not (or not just) talking about people being inappropriately dressed for the situation (when you tell me you work at 14th and K, I shouldn't wonder if you work in a building on that corner or on the corner itself), or their age (Ed Hardy is ridiculous generally, but it's especially ridiculous on infants and members of the greatest generation).
I'm talking about people who are dressed inappropriately for the weather; who are walking around in clothes that make them visibly physically uncomfortable in one way or another.
Yes, I'm talking to you, overdressed lady in your unrelieved black with your wool coat buttoned to the neck and your legs in their thick tights and lined boots, with beads of sweat forming along your hairline at 9 in the morning because you're clinging to some weird idea of what's seasonally appropriate. Believe me, love, I'm all for not wearing white before Memorial Day, but one doesn't need to take it to such lengths that you roast yourself alive while trying to be proper.
And I'm also talking to you, bare legged "lady" in your mini skirt*, t-shirt, and flip flops, your toes turning blue and your entire body covered in goosebumps so pronounced I can see them from across the street. Do you think that if you dress like it's 85 degrees out, you can will it to be so? Because you can't. You just can't. And you're going to catch pneumonia trying--Christ, I feel a sniffle coming on just looking at you.
Believe me, I'm cognizant of how tough it can be to find the "right" outfit for these awkward, mid-seasonal temperatures. I mean, I come from a place where we don't really have seasons, and our only two wardrobe settings were "summer" and "look, just act like it's not summer, ok?" I understand how tough it is to come up with something that's going to look good and be comfortable on a a day with 30 degree variations in temperature, gale force winds, and the everpresent threat of rain.
Hell, I weighed the possibility of "calling in nude" to work this morning because I just couldn't deal with the stress of trying to find something that wouldn't turn me into a sweat puddle when it's 65 degrees** at lunch, or cause me to freeze my tits off walking to and from the Metro station when its 38 degrees*** at the beginning and end of the day.
But the key poppets, is to remember our motto: Moderation. Moderation in All Things (except bacon).
*and sweets? this? is not a look you personally should be rocking even on the hottest day of summer.
**per WaPo
***per weather.com
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
An Open Letter to the Gentleman behind me in line at Starbucks
Dear Sir,I realize--believe me, I realize--that times are tough all over.
And I'm guessing your circumstances are particularly dire. I don't believe for a moment that going about smelling like you've spent six days lying in the trough at a stadium men's room is your preferred way of life. And I sympathize.
But given that. . .. don't you think you have better things to spend $5 on than a venti Cinnamon Dolce Latte?
Like. . .soap?
Sincerely,
Jordan
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
I made you a beer battered, bacon wrapped cheez ball, but I eated it.
Sometimes you just have ideas--they just happen. Other times, you can trace the way they unfold.
Yesterday was one of the latter times. I was sitting in the day long meeting from hell, checking e-mail furtively during ten minute breaks, and waiting on the caterers to show up with my ham sandwich.
And then people started posting pork related links in the comments--the Meat Bracket and the awe inspiring MeatPig.
And then the MeatPig reminded me of something my friend teh Jebus once said about this blog:
And then I realized that today was teh Jebus's birthday. And I thought: I should make some butter-fried, bacon wrapped balls of cheese.
The problem with this brilliant plan is that the interwebs aren't exactly teeming with recipes for butter-fried, bacon wrapped balls of cheese. So I knew I'd kind of have to fake up the recipe from a variety of sources.
I began by finding a really simple recipe for cheese balls. Then I drew upon my extensive (and not always good) frying experience to map out a plan for frying the cheese balls that would allow them to maintain their structural integrity.
Here's what experience has taught me about frying things that might melt:
1. you want to chill them enough for them to firm up and hold at least most of their shape in the oil.
2. you want to encase them in something that will protect them. Bread crumbs aren't the best option--you want a batter that will form a warm, doughy sheath.
I considered using some sort of biscuit dough, but opted instead for a version of this beer batter, modified to include a little butter (since I knew I had no intention of actually frying them in butter. It's just not economically feasible).
Having finished my planning, I assembled my mis en place:
As you can see, you'll need cream cheese; port wine cheese; butter, flour, bacon, beer, and chives. You'll also need oil for frying.
So first, I began by putting 4 oz of the cream cheese and 4 oz of WisPride port wine cheese into a bowl.
I had some chives in the house, so I threw them in for a bit of additional flavor and freshness, and also because I feel that it's important to have something green with every meal.
Blend those together until they're the approximate color of the crappy "Southwestern" "Art" everyone's moms had in their living rooms in the nineties.
It was a bit. . .over smooth at this point, and I considered adding some shred cheese to it to improve the texture. I didn't, because a) I felt like I should stick with the plan I'd developed rather than improvising; and b) I only had "Taco" flavored shred cheese on hand, and I wasn't sure how that would work with the existing port wine/cream cheese dominated flavor pairing. In retrospect, I should've gone with my instincts. A little more texture would've made a huge difference.
I then used my cookie scooper to form several small balls of the cheese mixture, which I then dropped onto a wax paper covered cookie sheet. I stashed those in the freezer to chill for about 45 minutes.
I then turned my attention to the batter, halving the recipe (which I'd used before). I put a half cup of flower into a bowl and made a well in it, as I would when making a pasta or a won-ton wrapper, and put about a tablespoon and a half of melted butter and a half cup of beer into the hollow.
Then I whisked it all together, adding a little more beer because the consistency was a little thicker than I wanted. And because when you're making beer battered, bacon wrapped cheese balls, you really can't have enough beer.
Next up: bacon!
I used one strip of bacon per cheese ball, slicing it in half so that I could get multi-directional coverage on the cheese ball.
My bacon wrapping technique (and my confidence in deep frying uncooked bacon) is based on this Paula Deen recipe. The slightly shorter segment went across the top and down two sides; the longer segment came up from the bottom and over the other two sides. The result looks like a bacony bon-bon. 
And then you let the sizzle away in there until they're a happy, happy golden brown color. At that point, you remove them and allow the oil to drain off.
And then you're going to want to find some taste testers. This is actually fairly easy to do. I find that the best approach is to say something like this:
"Hey, would you like a beer battered, bacon wrapped ball of cheese?"
And then you each nom a beer battered, bacon wrapped, ball of cheese. They may make some sort of half assed complaint about having burned 1000 calories in cardio that day, and how they're undoing it all with one beer battered, bacon wrapped ball of cheese, but they won't say no. They never say no.
But that doesn't really tell you much, does it? Maybe this will help:
So the absolute consensus is that something needed to happen with the cheese--that using two soft cheeses had made it too molten and melty, and that adding a shred cheese would've helped it hold up more and given it some textural interest.
We were divided on the bacon. The taster who likes her bacon a bit floppy thought it was fine; those of us who like crispy bacon would've preferred it a bit more done--again, between the floppy bacon and the melty cheese, it wasn't very texturally interesting.
Yesterday was one of the latter times. I was sitting in the day long meeting from hell, checking e-mail furtively during ten minute breaks, and waiting on the caterers to show up with my ham sandwich.
And then people started posting pork related links in the comments--the Meat Bracket and the awe inspiring MeatPig.
And then the MeatPig reminded me of something my friend teh Jebus once said about this blog:
Unfortunately, your post about politics, rather than satiate my desire for
Jordan-branded political rants, has only whetted my appetite for more, much in
the way butter-fried, bacon wrapped balls of cheese would only make we want more butter, bacon, and cheese.
And then I realized that today was teh Jebus's birthday. And I thought: I should make some butter-fried, bacon wrapped balls of cheese.
The problem with this brilliant plan is that the interwebs aren't exactly teeming with recipes for butter-fried, bacon wrapped balls of cheese. So I knew I'd kind of have to fake up the recipe from a variety of sources.
I began by finding a really simple recipe for cheese balls. Then I drew upon my extensive (and not always good) frying experience to map out a plan for frying the cheese balls that would allow them to maintain their structural integrity.
Here's what experience has taught me about frying things that might melt:
1. you want to chill them enough for them to firm up and hold at least most of their shape in the oil.
2. you want to encase them in something that will protect them. Bread crumbs aren't the best option--you want a batter that will form a warm, doughy sheath.
I considered using some sort of biscuit dough, but opted instead for a version of this beer batter, modified to include a little butter (since I knew I had no intention of actually frying them in butter. It's just not economically feasible).
Having finished my planning, I assembled my mis en place:
As you can see, you'll need cream cheese; port wine cheese; butter, flour, bacon, beer, and chives. You'll also need oil for frying.So first, I began by putting 4 oz of the cream cheese and 4 oz of WisPride port wine cheese into a bowl.
I had some chives in the house, so I threw them in for a bit of additional flavor and freshness, and also because I feel that it's important to have something green with every meal.Blend those together until they're the approximate color of the crappy "Southwestern" "Art" everyone's moms had in their living rooms in the nineties.
It was a bit. . .over smooth at this point, and I considered adding some shred cheese to it to improve the texture. I didn't, because a) I felt like I should stick with the plan I'd developed rather than improvising; and b) I only had "Taco" flavored shred cheese on hand, and I wasn't sure how that would work with the existing port wine/cream cheese dominated flavor pairing. In retrospect, I should've gone with my instincts. A little more texture would've made a huge difference.
I then used my cookie scooper to form several small balls of the cheese mixture, which I then dropped onto a wax paper covered cookie sheet. I stashed those in the freezer to chill for about 45 minutes.I then turned my attention to the batter, halving the recipe (which I'd used before). I put a half cup of flower into a bowl and made a well in it, as I would when making a pasta or a won-ton wrapper, and put about a tablespoon and a half of melted butter and a half cup of beer into the hollow.
Then I whisked it all together, adding a little more beer because the consistency was a little thicker than I wanted. And because when you're making beer battered, bacon wrapped cheese balls, you really can't have enough beer. Next up: bacon!
I used one strip of bacon per cheese ball, slicing it in half so that I could get multi-directional coverage on the cheese ball.
My bacon wrapping technique (and my confidence in deep frying uncooked bacon) is based on this Paula Deen recipe. The slightly shorter segment went across the top and down two sides; the longer segment came up from the bottom and over the other two sides. The result looks like a bacony bon-bon. Note to self: invent bacony bon-bons.
Then I used two toothpicks to affix the bacon to the cheese ball, and returned them to the fridge so they'd stay firm while I brought the oil up to temperature.
It's fry time! I used a frying pan rather than the fry baby for this project because sometimes it's easier to monitor the temperature and gauge when things are ready to turn and remove in the pan. With the fry baby, you have to keep raising the lid to check on your progress unless it's something you've made before and/or have a reccipe you have absolute confidence in.
So I got the oil popping along nicely and then dropped in the balls.
It's fry time! I used a frying pan rather than the fry baby for this project because sometimes it's easier to monitor the temperature and gauge when things are ready to turn and remove in the pan. With the fry baby, you have to keep raising the lid to check on your progress unless it's something you've made before and/or have a reccipe you have absolute confidence in.
So I got the oil popping along nicely and then dropped in the balls.
And then you let the sizzle away in there until they're a happy, happy golden brown color. At that point, you remove them and allow the oil to drain off.
And then you're going to want to find some taste testers. This is actually fairly easy to do. I find that the best approach is to say something like this:"Hey, would you like a beer battered, bacon wrapped ball of cheese?"
And then you each nom a beer battered, bacon wrapped, ball of cheese. They may make some sort of half assed complaint about having burned 1000 calories in cardio that day, and how they're undoing it all with one beer battered, bacon wrapped ball of cheese, but they won't say no. They never say no.
But that doesn't really tell you much, does it? Maybe this will help:
So the absolute consensus is that something needed to happen with the cheese--that using two soft cheeses had made it too molten and melty, and that adding a shred cheese would've helped it hold up more and given it some textural interest.We were divided on the bacon. The taster who likes her bacon a bit floppy thought it was fine; those of us who like crispy bacon would've preferred it a bit more done--again, between the floppy bacon and the melty cheese, it wasn't very texturally interesting.
So if you're going to make your own beer battered, bacon wrapped cheese balls, here are the changes I'd suggest:
1) Use a more solid cheese ball recipe--perhaps Amy Sedaris' Li'l Smoky Cheese Ball
2) Rather than a beer batter, dredge the bacon wrapped balls in flour and then in a beer/butter mixture, then roll in bread crumbs. This will give the bacon a chance to crisp up more, and the firmer cheese should keep the balls from becoming a horrible melty mess (don't forget to freeze them to firmness!)
But that said. . . .I'm not one to look a gift beer battered, bacon wrapped cheese ball in the mouth.
I let them look me in the mouth instead. Two of them, in fact. The batter was delicious.
But that said. . . .I'm not one to look a gift beer battered, bacon wrapped cheese ball in the mouth.
I let them look me in the mouth instead. Two of them, in fact. The batter was delicious.
Friday, March 20, 2009
Things I've been doing instead of blogging
* Laughing about Jimmy Stewart. I've been on this old movie kick lately--it started as a Hitchcock kick, because I realized I shouldn't really refer to myself as a Hitchcock fan when I've only seen 5 or 6 of his movies, and a lot of those were ones I saw when I was a wee child.
"Watching Vertigo once every three months and Rear Window once every eight does not make you a Hitchcock fan," I told myself sternly. So I started diligently going through the TCM listings once a week, scheduling anything by Hitchcock for the DVR, and adding one or two others I'd not seen (Gaslight, which was awesome, and so forth).
So on Saturday afternoon, I settled in and watched all three hours of Anatomy of a Murder. Which--don't get me wrong--is a really excellent movie. Highly recommend it. Well worth the three hour investment.
But just brace yourself: you're going to have to hear Jimmy Stewart say "panties."
And you're going to see it coming. Lee Remick will say it, and you're going to pray that he comes up with a euphemism for his response, and then he's going to say it and you're going to go "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGH!!!!!!!!!" and fall sideways out of your vintage Lay-Z-Boy recliner because there are some things that Jimmy Stewart should just NEVER say.
And then just when you've recovered, and are getting back into the groove of it and really enjoying the movie, he's going to say it again. And then he's going to say it some more. And it's going to freak you out every single time.
But once you get over being freaked out (a process that, in my experience, takes about 36 hours), it's going to become the funniest thing ever. And you're not going to be able to get through a single workday without thinking to yourself "Waaaaaaall, the panties, yer honor!" in a Jimmy Stewart voice, and cracking up.
And then you're going to wish that you'd watched the movie with someone, so you could go "Waaaaaaaaall, the panties" at random intervals for the rest of your life and make each other laugh.
* Wondering how I managed to never watch Dancing With The Stars until now. I
mean, I know why I succumbed this season. The potent combination of Holly Madison (my favorite ex-Girls Next Door girl), L'il Kim (my favorite . . . .person who slept with Biggie), and Steve Wozniak (my favorite computer related Steve) was too much to resist.
But how did I manage to resist before? It has three of my favorite things: 1) Dancing; 2) Stars; and 3) Massive Amounts of Schadenfreude. And also, the judges are all CLEARLY INSANE in extremely entertaining ways.
(and yes, if you're thinking of asking, I was quite happy with this week's results. Steve Wozniak may be an alarmingly bad dancer, but Belinda Carlisle managed to make the cha-cha look joyless*. If you can't even look happy when you're getting paid to do the cha-cha, you should be shot. Wozniak, on the other hand, looks like he's having the time of his life [sadly, I can't say the same for his partner, whose every forced smile begs to understand what she did wrong to get stuck with this guy])
* Anticipating the departure of my unctuous coworker. Seriously, listening to this woman's voice is like being molested with taffy, and I have to listen to her for seven hours a day. Also, she frequently speaks in baby talk to our older male colleague. It's a miracle I haven't stabbed her.
But I've gone around for the last week and a half singing a modified version of "Ding-dong, the Witch is Dead!" and walking with a new spring in my step. Two more days, people. Two more days.
* Basking in the joy that is Death Cat/DiagnostiCat/Debbie.
This week's episode of House was not the best episode of House, ever. It was not the best episode of House this season. It was not even the best episode of House this month (that honor goes to the previous week's episode, which had an awesome guest star and was chock full of Wilson).
But OH MY GOD, I loved the cat. I sat there during the episode going "that cat is awesome" and I haven't stopped thinking about the cat and grinning since.
It's really hurting my work. I'll be thrumming along at a normal pace, and then I think about the cat and I just stare off into space for an hour or more, grinning ridiculously.
I think the cat should become a permanent member of the cast. She can take Thirteen's place whenever she finally finishes dying of her genetic disease, and/or gets a brain tumor that can't miraculously be fixed by House and Foreman in the space of an hour without even shaving her head.
"Watching Vertigo once every three months and Rear Window once every eight does not make you a Hitchcock fan," I told myself sternly. So I started diligently going through the TCM listings once a week, scheduling anything by Hitchcock for the DVR, and adding one or two others I'd not seen (Gaslight, which was awesome, and so forth).
So on Saturday afternoon, I settled in and watched all three hours of Anatomy of a Murder. Which--don't get me wrong--is a really excellent movie. Highly recommend it. Well worth the three hour investment.
But just brace yourself: you're going to have to hear Jimmy Stewart say "panties."
And you're going to see it coming. Lee Remick will say it, and you're going to pray that he comes up with a euphemism for his response, and then he's going to say it and you're going to go "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGH!!!!!!!!!" and fall sideways out of your vintage Lay-Z-Boy recliner because there are some things that Jimmy Stewart should just NEVER say.
And then just when you've recovered, and are getting back into the groove of it and really enjoying the movie, he's going to say it again. And then he's going to say it some more. And it's going to freak you out every single time.
But once you get over being freaked out (a process that, in my experience, takes about 36 hours), it's going to become the funniest thing ever. And you're not going to be able to get through a single workday without thinking to yourself "Waaaaaaall, the panties, yer honor!" in a Jimmy Stewart voice, and cracking up.
And then you're going to wish that you'd watched the movie with someone, so you could go "Waaaaaaaaall, the panties" at random intervals for the rest of your life and make each other laugh.
* Wondering how I managed to never watch Dancing With The Stars until now. I
mean, I know why I succumbed this season. The potent combination of Holly Madison (my favorite ex-Girls Next Door girl), L'il Kim (my favorite . . . .person who slept with Biggie), and Steve Wozniak (my favorite computer related Steve) was too much to resist. But how did I manage to resist before? It has three of my favorite things: 1) Dancing; 2) Stars; and 3) Massive Amounts of Schadenfreude. And also, the judges are all CLEARLY INSANE in extremely entertaining ways.
(and yes, if you're thinking of asking, I was quite happy with this week's results. Steve Wozniak may be an alarmingly bad dancer, but Belinda Carlisle managed to make the cha-cha look joyless*. If you can't even look happy when you're getting paid to do the cha-cha, you should be shot. Wozniak, on the other hand, looks like he's having the time of his life [sadly, I can't say the same for his partner, whose every forced smile begs to understand what she did wrong to get stuck with this guy])
* Anticipating the departure of my unctuous coworker. Seriously, listening to this woman's voice is like being molested with taffy, and I have to listen to her for seven hours a day. Also, she frequently speaks in baby talk to our older male colleague. It's a miracle I haven't stabbed her.
But I've gone around for the last week and a half singing a modified version of "Ding-dong, the Witch is Dead!" and walking with a new spring in my step. Two more days, people. Two more days.
* Basking in the joy that is Death Cat/DiagnostiCat/Debbie.
This week's episode of House was not the best episode of House, ever. It was not the best episode of House this season. It was not even the best episode of House this month (that honor goes to the previous week's episode, which had an awesome guest star and was chock full of Wilson).But OH MY GOD, I loved the cat. I sat there during the episode going "that cat is awesome" and I haven't stopped thinking about the cat and grinning since.
It's really hurting my work. I'll be thrumming along at a normal pace, and then I think about the cat and I just stare off into space for an hour or more, grinning ridiculously.
I think the cat should become a permanent member of the cast. She can take Thirteen's place whenever she finally finishes dying of her genetic disease, and/or gets a brain tumor that can't miraculously be fixed by House and Foreman in the space of an hour without even shaving her head.
* This is my gripe with Bachelorette Melissa too--technically she's quite good, but it's like watching a piece of machinery execute a task.
Friday, March 13, 2009
The End of an Era?
Last night I was walking home, having first stopped at the Target for a few of the necessities of life (coffee, contact lens solution, Peeps). As I was peacefully walking down 13th, admiring the sights and sounds of my 'hood, I heard a voice above the noise of the traffic, and saw a familiar figure.
And my heart sank.
Because yes, lurching up the road toward me--sans bicycle and ghetto blaster, but complete with blue blockers and distinctive '80's gear (did I not mention that in addition to being tiny and horrible, he dresses like an extra from Breakin'?), was my old nemesis, the Insult Guy.
He was coming North; I was going South. Our meeting was inevitible.
My one faint hope came from the fact that as he made his approach, he was already engaged in shouting derisive comments at another white girl. Perhaps he'd remain preoccupied with her and I'd escape notice. . .
. . . alas, no. She turned off down a side street. As his last insults to her died away on the air, Insult Guy and I drew even with each other. My jaw set, my hands tightened on my Target bags, I braced for the worst, and as we passed, he said. . . .
. . . .
. . . .
. . . nothing.
Insult Guy didn't insult me--just a brief nod of acknowledgement as we passed.
I was half way down the street before I could even begin to process this bit of information, and my first thought was that maybe I'd won--maybe he'd recognized my distinctive pink coat as belonging to the woman who'd responded to his barrage of insults by telling him to have a nice day.
I quickly dismissed that as ridiculous--and useless, as it would only keep me safe from his ridicule until the end of coat season. My second hypothesis was that perhaps he'd exhausted his ire on the other white girl, the one he'd been insulting on his way up the street.
But again, that couldn't possibly be true. In the past, his ire had always seemed inexhaustible.
And my third, smug thought was that perhaps he just couldn't find anything to insult.
I immediately delivered a mental smack to myself for being such a jackass. In the first place, his insults were never governed by logic. In the second, I was wearing the same Chanel shades he'd described as "broke" in the past.
And in the third, I reminded myself, I was not that fucking hot today. I ran through the litany of things he could've reasonably objected to:
* My shoes--sensible things with some weather damage on the toes--were busted. I'm sure by comparison, his shoes were awesome.
* My coat--light enough in color to show that it's been through a full season's wear and needs to go back to the dry cleaner sooner rather than later--was dingy. His coat was relatively fresh.
* My hair was jankity from not drying it correctly. One side was significantly flatter than the other. This time, his hair probably did look better than mine.
* And my groceries, which included Folgers coffee, Target brand tortilla chips, and a G2 flavor I'd bought simply because it was blue, were pretty broke.
It was then I realized that perhaps Insult Guy knew I didn't need him to insult me anymore. Perhaps he realized that after all our years of running into each other, just seeing him was enough to remind me of all the things someone could conceivably find wrong with me.
The pupil had become the master. I was my own Insult Guy.
And my heart sank.
Because yes, lurching up the road toward me--sans bicycle and ghetto blaster, but complete with blue blockers and distinctive '80's gear (did I not mention that in addition to being tiny and horrible, he dresses like an extra from Breakin'?), was my old nemesis, the Insult Guy.
He was coming North; I was going South. Our meeting was inevitible.
My one faint hope came from the fact that as he made his approach, he was already engaged in shouting derisive comments at another white girl. Perhaps he'd remain preoccupied with her and I'd escape notice. . .
. . . alas, no. She turned off down a side street. As his last insults to her died away on the air, Insult Guy and I drew even with each other. My jaw set, my hands tightened on my Target bags, I braced for the worst, and as we passed, he said. . . .
. . . .
. . . .
. . . nothing.
Insult Guy didn't insult me--just a brief nod of acknowledgement as we passed.
I was half way down the street before I could even begin to process this bit of information, and my first thought was that maybe I'd won--maybe he'd recognized my distinctive pink coat as belonging to the woman who'd responded to his barrage of insults by telling him to have a nice day.
I quickly dismissed that as ridiculous--and useless, as it would only keep me safe from his ridicule until the end of coat season. My second hypothesis was that perhaps he'd exhausted his ire on the other white girl, the one he'd been insulting on his way up the street.
But again, that couldn't possibly be true. In the past, his ire had always seemed inexhaustible.
And my third, smug thought was that perhaps he just couldn't find anything to insult.
I immediately delivered a mental smack to myself for being such a jackass. In the first place, his insults were never governed by logic. In the second, I was wearing the same Chanel shades he'd described as "broke" in the past.
And in the third, I reminded myself, I was not that fucking hot today. I ran through the litany of things he could've reasonably objected to:
* My shoes--sensible things with some weather damage on the toes--were busted. I'm sure by comparison, his shoes were awesome.
* My coat--light enough in color to show that it's been through a full season's wear and needs to go back to the dry cleaner sooner rather than later--was dingy. His coat was relatively fresh.
* My hair was jankity from not drying it correctly. One side was significantly flatter than the other. This time, his hair probably did look better than mine.
* And my groceries, which included Folgers coffee, Target brand tortilla chips, and a G2 flavor I'd bought simply because it was blue, were pretty broke.
It was then I realized that perhaps Insult Guy knew I didn't need him to insult me anymore. Perhaps he realized that after all our years of running into each other, just seeing him was enough to remind me of all the things someone could conceivably find wrong with me.
The pupil had become the master. I was my own Insult Guy.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Sandra, I toast ya, put fear in your heart/ Fuck up the party before it even start . . .
(Can anyone name that tune, puddings?)
On Saturday night, I invited some of my peeps out to my hood for a special little gathering that happens only once a year. "What makes this night different from all other nights?" I asked them.
And their answers came back: "Indigestion;" "Epic Bowel Movements;" "Assaulted Taste Buds;" "Unprecedented Amounts of Liver Damage."
That's right, y'all. while it was a little bit later than usual (it's like Easter. The date changes from year to year) this weekend was the third annual Semi-Homemade party.
Say hello to my stalwart cohostess, Sandra Lee Barbie:
Sandra Lee Barbie says "Hello!" Or maybe "Sieg Heil!"
The color scheme for the year was green, which naturally meant that I had to find a green cocktail to grace my beverage fountain. After reviewing a few, I selected the Lush Lagoon. . .
. . .or, as one guest took to calling it "The Ecto-Cooler." The ingredients are kiwi, simple syrup, vodka, midori, and jalapeno juice--or, as Sandy pronounces it, JOOS.
What's jalapeno JOOS, you ask? Well, in the normal world, one might it assume that it's the juice you extract from jalapenos. But in Sandra's world, it's the brine jarred jalapenos come packed in.
The result of this bizarre combination is that in addition to being a color not found in nature, the cocktail has a flavor that should not be found, period. It hit you in odd phases--first there was a smooth, sweet taste where you thought "hm, this might not be bad." This was quickly followed by "holy jebus, that's a LOT of booze." And closely after that, you choked and went "The JOOS! The JOOS! It BURNS!!!!!"
Our other Sandra-approved cocktail was a Rose Sangria, provided, appropriately, by Cracklin' Rosie and her hubs (they're married; they have to share everything. Including the blame for the sangria and the grapebortion. But more on that later). The great benefit of the Rose Sangria is that one sip of it made the Lush Lagoon seem like a virgin daquiri. Hell, you didn't even really ned to sip it for that to happen--you could get drunk just from letting your face hover near an open glass. And I'm pretty much convinced that if the jug of Sangria had been any closer to the votive candles, my entire apartment would've gone up like an oversized Molotov.
You can see a picture of the Sangria later, with the grapebortion. Let's just sum up the official cocktail section by saying: a lot of people drank beer or wine. Some of us nursed a couple of glasses of the Lush Lagoon. And one lady, who shall for discretion's sake remain nameless, may have requested a straw to put in the jug of Sangria.
Moving on to the appetizer portion of events, let's kick things off with a little Goat Cheese and Guava Jelly Quesadilla action. I made these babies, and I should just begin honestly by saying that I chose it because I loved the reviews so much. It's one of the ones that people seem to only find palatable after making odd adjustments. Like substituting Velveeta for the goat cheese, or strawberry jelly for the guava jelly. Or cream cheese for the goat cheese, strawberry jelly for the guava jelly, and English Muffins for the tortillas.
But I love goat cheese, and after sticking a finger into the guava jelly, I thought it wasn't too bad. Then I mixed them together, and suddenly they became awful. I'm one of those people who compulsively licks her spatula/finger, and every time I did, I got the unpleasant surprise of the flavor all over again--it was kind of like what I imagine earwax must taste like. And the appearance of the mixture was even more dreadful. . .
. . .I can't even write about it. The only analogies I can think of making are gynecological and seriously crude. It was a lot of white clumps floating in pinkish jelly. Draw your own conclusions.
Further, making them was an absolute ordeal. The mixture was so runny that it oozed out all over the grill every time I flipped them, and I think that also had something to do with the texture on the tortillas coming out as weirdly as they did. They were strangely crepe like, which, while not pleasant on the pallate, was nice in that it meant we could call them "crepesadillas. . .
. . .which, after we ate them, quickly became "crapsadillas." I have to defer the description on this one to my guests/commenters, because a weird phenomenon happened: those of us who ate them right off the stove hated them. Ulgh, god were they awful. But those who got them after they'd sat out for a couple of hours thought they were pretty good.
I don't know if it was that they'd had the chance to set up a little and the texture had improved, or if time allowed the flavors of the goat cheese and guava jelly to ripen a bit. I do know that I really can't be trusted to assess the damned things impartially. Look what they did to my grill pan:
As of March 2009, my association with Sandra has cost me one blender; one grill pan; and one scale (don't ask). All I've gotten in return is an autograph. She owes me.
Our next appetizer was Red Pepper and Tapenade Slices made by mysterygirl!
Because nothing says Sandra Lee party like a dish made with Crescent Rolls.
Mysterygirl! subsituted goat cheese for the blue cheese in the original recipe, because blue cheese is horrible and tastes like fungusy gym socks, and I would've chased her out of my home with a 2 x 4 if she'd tried to get it across the threshhold. Making that substitution probably saved the flavor of the slices, as they didn't taste too bad--a little sweet for my taste, but I pretty much always find jarred pasta sauce a bit sweet. However, the texture was another matter altogether. You'd think by looking at them that they'd be nice and crisp, like a thin crust pizza (mmmm. . . thin crust pizza. . . ). And they were, around the edges. But in the middle, where the toppings were, it was super soggy. The weight of all the toppings and cheeses and everything was just too damn much, and the puffiness of the crescent rolls couldn't hold up.
Here's a better use of crescent rolls: the Armadillo Eggs made by the food network addict
Maybe it's because I'm a sucker for anything involving sausage and jalapenos (or even jalapeno JOOS!), but these were pretty nommable. AND they were vegetarian, because the food network addict made them with Morning Star Farms sausage rather than Jimmy Dean.
I mean, I'm not going to say that they're haute cuisine or anything, or that they're any more inventive or spectacular than you'd find at your average midwestern church picnic. But hells bells, folks. It's sausage, jalapenos, and dough. That's good shit, no matter who writes the recipe. In fact, it would pretty much be impossible to fuck that combination up.
Maybe if you added some goat cheese and guava jelly to it. But probably not even then. Sausage always wins in the end.
Continuing on this theme of "even Sandra can't ruin sausage," we have my second entry. Depending on the version of the recipe you have, they're either called "Oriental Pork Wrappers" or "Oriental Pork Purses."
I call them "Jimmy Dean Shumai." Because that's essentially what they are--pork shumai made with Jimmy Dean sausage.
Caveat: I was unable to adhere to the 70/30 philosophy on this one because my regular groshery store didn't have wonton wrappers (though I swear to god, they had them every week before this. It's like they knew I was going to use them for evil ends, and swept them off the International Foods aisle when they saw me coming). So I made my own using this recipe, which was pretty easy. It was a pain in the ass to roll out, and it took way longer than I expected to fill and pinch all the pockets/purses. But the end result?
They were goooooooooood. It kills me to say that. KILLS me. But I have to look at the evidence, and the evidence is that I made 24 of those things, and there were no leftovers. And I scorfed 3 of them myself.
Our main course, which for some reason I didn't take a picture of, was m.a.'s Slow Cooker Chicken in Tagine. Mysteriously, this doesn't appear to be on the Food Network website, but it can be found in the Semi-Homemade Slow Cooker cook book, which is helpfully online here.
Again, I have to defer to the tasting committee on this one, because there seemed to be a split decision. Basically, people who've actually had legit Chicken in Tagine thought it was a vile abomination. However, those of us (like me) who haven't thought it was ok. It was chicken. It didn't knock your socks off, but it wasn't hideous.
Moving along to the side dishes, we had FreckledK's Texas Mashed Potato Salad. Gaze upon it, my loves. But don't look it directly in the eye--it will devour your soul before you get a chance to devour it. . .
So let's start with appearance: it looks fucking awful, right? But how good does potato salad ever really look? The lightly dressed rustic kinds made with big chunks of real potatoes can look good, yes, but the yellow pureed kinds? There's almost no way to make them NOT look like infected vomit.
On the taste, I can't really be impartial. The one thing I hate more in this world than yellowy pureed potato salad is egg salad, and this was a potato salad that tasted like egg salad. I managed to take one bite without puking, but that's really all we can say.
I have a similar problem judging the Sweet and Spicy Slaw that Carol took time off from her Alinea-ing to produce for us. Slaw is not my friend. We can probably date both these aversions back to the second grade school picnic, when I gorged myself before going on the tire swing, and promptly threw up in front of grade school hottie, Timmy B.
That said, to me, the slaw wasn't any better or too much worse than your average slaw. Again, I didn't eat a whole lot of it. I'll have to let other people who are more well versed in slaw-y ways make the final judgement.
We open the dessert course with a sort of dessert amuse bouche--Carol's Sensuous Chocolate Truffles.
I don't want to lie. I was amoosed. I was so amoosed, in fact, that I could barely get the things to my mouth because I was laughing so hard. In fact, this dish wins the "laughing to the point of tears" award that was first bestowed on last year's Kwanzaa cake.
The truffles are basically blobs of frosting. They're chilled, and you think that would firm them up enough to mean you could pick them up and pop them in your mouth. But no. No, not at all. They're soft, unresistant, blobs of frosting that you have to scoop off of the plate on a spoon or fork and eat that way.
So there are two ways they qualify as sensuous: a) they're sensuous because you're feeding them to your lovaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah off of the end of that spoon. b) you have a scat fettish.
Continuing his cake streak, RetroDragon made us a Single Layer Birthday Cake.
It would be more honestly named "dry ass birthday cake that makes your children cry." It's supposed to have a soda bottle stuck in it for no apparent reason, but he decided that as long as we were sticking bottles in things for no apparent reason, a mini-Kaluha bottle was probably a more fitting tribute to Sandra.
I can't even begin to explain how dry the dry ass cake was. At one point he said it was called an "Old Fashioned Birthday Cake," and I said "from when, the Depression?" Because only in the dust bowls of the 1930's can I see anyone being pleased with this dry ass birthday cake.
Which means: wait two years, and we'll all count ourselves lucky to get some dry ass birthday cake.
Ok, folks. You've heard about it for like ninety pages now: are you ready to see the horrifying truth of Cracklin' Rosie's Grapebortion? (you can see the sangria to the right of it)
The official name for it is apparently "Grape and Ricotta Crostata," but it will never be anything but a Grapebortion to me.
Oh, it was not good. It's hard to describe how not good it was, actually. It tasted like you were eating a lot of grape jelly with an undertone of funky, grainy, undercooked dough to add to the texture.
Maybe the best way to explain it is that when they arrived, the first thing GSR said--before "hello" or "where's the beer" or anything else--was "I am so. Sorry." And when someone has to apologize for their food at a Sandra Lee party. . .you know it's bad. It's not just bad. It's Grapebortion.
To end on a more positive note, the Food Network Addict also brought a modified Pear and Cherry Buckle. You can read his post about cooking it here.
I know, I know. It looks like a bio hazzard. But the flavor. . .ok, maybe I was easy to impress because the other desserts had just been SO BAD, but the flavor was fine. It was a little sweet, and a little wet, and I kept getting almond slivers stuck between my teeth, but it didn't make me want to kill myself.
In fact--and prepare for some damning with faint praise here--it might be the only one of the desserts I'd be willing to eat again.
On Saturday night, I invited some of my peeps out to my hood for a special little gathering that happens only once a year. "What makes this night different from all other nights?" I asked them.
And their answers came back: "Indigestion;" "Epic Bowel Movements;" "Assaulted Taste Buds;" "Unprecedented Amounts of Liver Damage."
That's right, y'all. while it was a little bit later than usual (it's like Easter. The date changes from year to year) this weekend was the third annual Semi-Homemade party.Say hello to my stalwart cohostess, Sandra Lee Barbie:
Sandra Lee Barbie says "Hello!" Or maybe "Sieg Heil!" The color scheme for the year was green, which naturally meant that I had to find a green cocktail to grace my beverage fountain. After reviewing a few, I selected the Lush Lagoon. . .
. . .or, as one guest took to calling it "The Ecto-Cooler." The ingredients are kiwi, simple syrup, vodka, midori, and jalapeno juice--or, as Sandy pronounces it, JOOS.What's jalapeno JOOS, you ask? Well, in the normal world, one might it assume that it's the juice you extract from jalapenos. But in Sandra's world, it's the brine jarred jalapenos come packed in.
The result of this bizarre combination is that in addition to being a color not found in nature, the cocktail has a flavor that should not be found, period. It hit you in odd phases--first there was a smooth, sweet taste where you thought "hm, this might not be bad." This was quickly followed by "holy jebus, that's a LOT of booze." And closely after that, you choked and went "The JOOS! The JOOS! It BURNS!!!!!"
Our other Sandra-approved cocktail was a Rose Sangria, provided, appropriately, by Cracklin' Rosie and her hubs (they're married; they have to share everything. Including the blame for the sangria and the grapebortion. But more on that later). The great benefit of the Rose Sangria is that one sip of it made the Lush Lagoon seem like a virgin daquiri. Hell, you didn't even really ned to sip it for that to happen--you could get drunk just from letting your face hover near an open glass. And I'm pretty much convinced that if the jug of Sangria had been any closer to the votive candles, my entire apartment would've gone up like an oversized Molotov.
You can see a picture of the Sangria later, with the grapebortion. Let's just sum up the official cocktail section by saying: a lot of people drank beer or wine. Some of us nursed a couple of glasses of the Lush Lagoon. And one lady, who shall for discretion's sake remain nameless, may have requested a straw to put in the jug of Sangria.
Moving on to the appetizer portion of events, let's kick things off with a little Goat Cheese and Guava Jelly Quesadilla action. I made these babies, and I should just begin honestly by saying that I chose it because I loved the reviews so much. It's one of the ones that people seem to only find palatable after making odd adjustments. Like substituting Velveeta for the goat cheese, or strawberry jelly for the guava jelly. Or cream cheese for the goat cheese, strawberry jelly for the guava jelly, and English Muffins for the tortillas.
But I love goat cheese, and after sticking a finger into the guava jelly, I thought it wasn't too bad. Then I mixed them together, and suddenly they became awful. I'm one of those people who compulsively licks her spatula/finger, and every time I did, I got the unpleasant surprise of the flavor all over again--it was kind of like what I imagine earwax must taste like. And the appearance of the mixture was even more dreadful. . .. . .I can't even write about it. The only analogies I can think of making are gynecological and seriously crude. It was a lot of white clumps floating in pinkish jelly. Draw your own conclusions.
Further, making them was an absolute ordeal. The mixture was so runny that it oozed out all over the grill every time I flipped them, and I think that also had something to do with the texture on the tortillas coming out as weirdly as they did. They were strangely crepe like, which, while not pleasant on the pallate, was nice in that it meant we could call them "crepesadillas. . .
. . .which, after we ate them, quickly became "crapsadillas." I have to defer the description on this one to my guests/commenters, because a weird phenomenon happened: those of us who ate them right off the stove hated them. Ulgh, god were they awful. But those who got them after they'd sat out for a couple of hours thought they were pretty good.
I don't know if it was that they'd had the chance to set up a little and the texture had improved, or if time allowed the flavors of the goat cheese and guava jelly to ripen a bit. I do know that I really can't be trusted to assess the damned things impartially. Look what they did to my grill pan:
As of March 2009, my association with Sandra has cost me one blender; one grill pan; and one scale (don't ask). All I've gotten in return is an autograph. She owes me.Our next appetizer was Red Pepper and Tapenade Slices made by mysterygirl!
Because nothing says Sandra Lee party like a dish made with Crescent Rolls.Mysterygirl! subsituted goat cheese for the blue cheese in the original recipe, because blue cheese is horrible and tastes like fungusy gym socks, and I would've chased her out of my home with a 2 x 4 if she'd tried to get it across the threshhold. Making that substitution probably saved the flavor of the slices, as they didn't taste too bad--a little sweet for my taste, but I pretty much always find jarred pasta sauce a bit sweet. However, the texture was another matter altogether. You'd think by looking at them that they'd be nice and crisp, like a thin crust pizza (mmmm. . . thin crust pizza. . . ). And they were, around the edges. But in the middle, where the toppings were, it was super soggy. The weight of all the toppings and cheeses and everything was just too damn much, and the puffiness of the crescent rolls couldn't hold up.
Here's a better use of crescent rolls: the Armadillo Eggs made by the food network addict
Maybe it's because I'm a sucker for anything involving sausage and jalapenos (or even jalapeno JOOS!), but these were pretty nommable. AND they were vegetarian, because the food network addict made them with Morning Star Farms sausage rather than Jimmy Dean.I mean, I'm not going to say that they're haute cuisine or anything, or that they're any more inventive or spectacular than you'd find at your average midwestern church picnic. But hells bells, folks. It's sausage, jalapenos, and dough. That's good shit, no matter who writes the recipe. In fact, it would pretty much be impossible to fuck that combination up.
Maybe if you added some goat cheese and guava jelly to it. But probably not even then. Sausage always wins in the end.
Continuing on this theme of "even Sandra can't ruin sausage," we have my second entry. Depending on the version of the recipe you have, they're either called "Oriental Pork Wrappers" or "Oriental Pork Purses."
I call them "Jimmy Dean Shumai." Because that's essentially what they are--pork shumai made with Jimmy Dean sausage.Caveat: I was unable to adhere to the 70/30 philosophy on this one because my regular groshery store didn't have wonton wrappers (though I swear to god, they had them every week before this. It's like they knew I was going to use them for evil ends, and swept them off the International Foods aisle when they saw me coming). So I made my own using this recipe, which was pretty easy. It was a pain in the ass to roll out, and it took way longer than I expected to fill and pinch all the pockets/purses. But the end result?
They were goooooooooood. It kills me to say that. KILLS me. But I have to look at the evidence, and the evidence is that I made 24 of those things, and there were no leftovers. And I scorfed 3 of them myself.
Our main course, which for some reason I didn't take a picture of, was m.a.'s Slow Cooker Chicken in Tagine. Mysteriously, this doesn't appear to be on the Food Network website, but it can be found in the Semi-Homemade Slow Cooker cook book, which is helpfully online here.
Again, I have to defer to the tasting committee on this one, because there seemed to be a split decision. Basically, people who've actually had legit Chicken in Tagine thought it was a vile abomination. However, those of us (like me) who haven't thought it was ok. It was chicken. It didn't knock your socks off, but it wasn't hideous.
Moving along to the side dishes, we had FreckledK's Texas Mashed Potato Salad. Gaze upon it, my loves. But don't look it directly in the eye--it will devour your soul before you get a chance to devour it. . .
So let's start with appearance: it looks fucking awful, right? But how good does potato salad ever really look? The lightly dressed rustic kinds made with big chunks of real potatoes can look good, yes, but the yellow pureed kinds? There's almost no way to make them NOT look like infected vomit.On the taste, I can't really be impartial. The one thing I hate more in this world than yellowy pureed potato salad is egg salad, and this was a potato salad that tasted like egg salad. I managed to take one bite without puking, but that's really all we can say.
I have a similar problem judging the Sweet and Spicy Slaw that Carol took time off from her Alinea-ing to produce for us. Slaw is not my friend. We can probably date both these aversions back to the second grade school picnic, when I gorged myself before going on the tire swing, and promptly threw up in front of grade school hottie, Timmy B.
That said, to me, the slaw wasn't any better or too much worse than your average slaw. Again, I didn't eat a whole lot of it. I'll have to let other people who are more well versed in slaw-y ways make the final judgement. Our final side dish was Cheesy Potatoes by Kris. Kris texted me the morning of the party and described the dish as "Bacon Tater Tot Casserole." I was immediately concerned, because to me that sounds like a combination that can't possibly go awry.
I was right. It was good. Again, as with any of Sandra's food, it's not blow you away, never before seen good, but it was plain-old good. It was "I would like to eat this on my couch in the morning when I'm really hungover" good. It was she took her pan home clean good, which is not something a lot of people can say.
You totally don't have room for any more food, do you? Well how do you think we felt, eating all of this? Buck up, little campers--it's time for DESSERT!
I was right. It was good. Again, as with any of Sandra's food, it's not blow you away, never before seen good, but it was plain-old good. It was "I would like to eat this on my couch in the morning when I'm really hungover" good. It was she took her pan home clean good, which is not something a lot of people can say.You totally don't have room for any more food, do you? Well how do you think we felt, eating all of this? Buck up, little campers--it's time for DESSERT!
We open the dessert course with a sort of dessert amuse bouche--Carol's Sensuous Chocolate Truffles.
I don't want to lie. I was amoosed. I was so amoosed, in fact, that I could barely get the things to my mouth because I was laughing so hard. In fact, this dish wins the "laughing to the point of tears" award that was first bestowed on last year's Kwanzaa cake.The truffles are basically blobs of frosting. They're chilled, and you think that would firm them up enough to mean you could pick them up and pop them in your mouth. But no. No, not at all. They're soft, unresistant, blobs of frosting that you have to scoop off of the plate on a spoon or fork and eat that way.
So there are two ways they qualify as sensuous: a) they're sensuous because you're feeding them to your lovaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah off of the end of that spoon. b) you have a scat fettish.
Continuing his cake streak, RetroDragon made us a Single Layer Birthday Cake.
It would be more honestly named "dry ass birthday cake that makes your children cry." It's supposed to have a soda bottle stuck in it for no apparent reason, but he decided that as long as we were sticking bottles in things for no apparent reason, a mini-Kaluha bottle was probably a more fitting tribute to Sandra.I can't even begin to explain how dry the dry ass cake was. At one point he said it was called an "Old Fashioned Birthday Cake," and I said "from when, the Depression?" Because only in the dust bowls of the 1930's can I see anyone being pleased with this dry ass birthday cake.
Which means: wait two years, and we'll all count ourselves lucky to get some dry ass birthday cake.
Ok, folks. You've heard about it for like ninety pages now: are you ready to see the horrifying truth of Cracklin' Rosie's Grapebortion? (you can see the sangria to the right of it)
The official name for it is apparently "Grape and Ricotta Crostata," but it will never be anything but a Grapebortion to me.Oh, it was not good. It's hard to describe how not good it was, actually. It tasted like you were eating a lot of grape jelly with an undertone of funky, grainy, undercooked dough to add to the texture.
Maybe the best way to explain it is that when they arrived, the first thing GSR said--before "hello" or "where's the beer" or anything else--was "I am so. Sorry." And when someone has to apologize for their food at a Sandra Lee party. . .you know it's bad. It's not just bad. It's Grapebortion.
To end on a more positive note, the Food Network Addict also brought a modified Pear and Cherry Buckle. You can read his post about cooking it here.
I know, I know. It looks like a bio hazzard. But the flavor. . .ok, maybe I was easy to impress because the other desserts had just been SO BAD, but the flavor was fine. It was a little sweet, and a little wet, and I kept getting almond slivers stuck between my teeth, but it didn't make me want to kill myself.In fact--and prepare for some damning with faint praise here--it might be the only one of the desserts I'd be willing to eat again.
Unless I was being fed the sensuous truffles by my lovaaaaaaaaah. Who has a scat fettish.
Thursday, March 05, 2009
Top Chef: Filet of Reunion with Montage Sauce
It’s reunion time, my lovelies, which means that last night I hunkered down with my wine and my 2001 laptop (Goddamn Geek Squad) to watch the nimrods of Season 5 one last time.
It was made slightly better by the fact that I was wearing this:
my AWESOME birthday present from mysterygirl! I’m totally wearing it every Wednesday night next season. It’s my official Wednesday pajamas. It looks tres chic with my grey yoga pants and my orange hoodie.
Unfortunately, my glee at my couture was somewhat dampened by the fact that I tuned in in time to see the last three minutes of the previous program, and watch them anoint Herpsea as the Top Chef all over again.
( I should warn you before we start that I had two glasses of wine during the reunion, and began to find myself slightly hilarious)
Anyway. Reunion. Andy Cohen tells us to say high to the judges. Patrick is wearing an “I heart foie” t-shirt. It’s way less chic than my I heart Fabio tee.
Andy asks who thinks they’re fan favorite. There are a lot of bets on Fabio and Carla. Stefan thinks he has a shot. Tom doesn’t think that’s possible. Fuck you, Tom. So much of this is a set up to try and convince the audience that the chefs actually agree with the bullshit Stefan = Dr. Evil edit. Newsflash, Tom: no one’s buying.
Andy says we should congratulate Herpsea. Fuck that noise, Andy. I will NEVER congratulate Herpsea. Herpsea says it feels surreal to have won, probably because the only way he could ever have won is in some sort of Bizarro World (but more on that later).
Andy asks who was surprised that Herpsea won, and Leah’s the only one who raises her hand.
That’s some bullshit. Again, the Magical Elves are trying to convince us that only the audience was shocked and appalled by Herpsea’s win, and that his colleagues actually think it’s good. Hosea and his Ho act all flirty, and I turn my head and do a Team America style endless vomit over the edge of my couch.
We watch Herpsea’s fucking journey. It’s every bit as mediocre and undistinguished a journey as you remember, with Carla saying his food is “approachable . . .[and] not too highbrow.” That’s kind of faint praise for someone who just won the competition, when you think on it. It’s like if the best thing you could say about Michael Phelps’ swimming is “his swimming is wet, and kind of watery.”
Mmm. Phelps. .. .
Anyway, the montage highlights his creepy obsession with Stefan, his two wins, and his father’s cancer. Strange how they don’t show his infidelity during that portion. I guess that’s not among the things we’re supposed to see as “rootable” and “worthy of a win” and “even vaguely not disgusting.”
The useless load Andy Cohen asks what he’s going to do with his money and Herpsea says that it’ll be invested in new business ventures, that he’s talking to a lot of people but nothing’s settled down yet. This is remarkably like what Ilan said in Season 2, and confirms that they are the two shittiest and least worthwhile winners ever.
Andy asks Tom what it came down to in the finale. Tom says that the food was, for the most part, pretty good. Again with the faint praise. Apropos of nothing, I love Carla’s sweater. I’m on a real green kick lately.
Tom basically says that Stefan lost because he made a mediocre dessert when he didn’t have t
o make a dessert at all. So. . . what I hear from this is that it’s not so much that Herpsea won Top Chef; it’s that Stefan lost Top Chef (by the way, I missed LOST to watch this bullshit—don’t tell me what happens). The judges do their defensive act about how they decided, and Stefan claims he’s happy he didn’t win.
Andy has a question for Team Europe from Amy in Pasadena. She asks about their “love affair,” and we watch a montage. It’s the best montage ever. It features a lot of bald head kissing, and Stefan insisting that “we don’t have sexy times.”
Yeah, you could pretty much put that on a plaque and mount it above my bed lately. “Here Lies Jordan. We Don’t Have Sexy Times.”
They say that their romance continues and they’re always together at Fabio’s restaurant. The best exchange of the night follows.
Fabio: “Ees a good fren’ship. An that’s. . .the theengs about keesseen head with these guys an . . .Ah’m straight, Ah lahk qweemin. . “
Patrick: “You’re welcome on Team Rainbow anytime.”
Fabio: “Thank you for the eenveetation, guys, but Ah theenk you can pass eet on to someone else.”
I heart this, and not just because I heart Fabio and Patrick is a friend of a friend of a friend.
Andy self loathing gay asks if they hold hands, and Fabio says “no, I use da leesh.” He then explains how he broke his finger. Toby quotes the “it’s not Top Pussy line.”
AND THEY GIVE STEFAN AN I HEART FABIO TEE!!!!!! Just like mine. Stefan and I c
an be freaking twinsies. It’ll be awesome. Stefan—CALL ME!!!
We then watch a montage of Carla doing “kooky” things like Yoga. Yeah, that’s insane. Ok, and then she sings a song about Judge’s Table, which is kind of insane.
It’s a really sweet montage. She says she gets a lot of hootie-hoos. She said the exact same thing when I met her. I’m beginning to have doubts about her naturalness.
Then they do a montage about the birthday curse. Apparently Daniel, Eugene, Radhika, and Leah all got eliminated on their birthdays. It kind of seems like they kept Leah around that extra elimination just to make the birthday curse happen.
Commercial!
Back! We get a Jeff montage about his inability to keep things simple. Oh, that was their idea of a teaser. Wait, we’re getting these time wasting teasers even in the reunion? Time for more wine.
Ok, really back. AC reads a question from Molly in Kettering Ohio who wants to kiss Tom’s ass about how he heimliched Joan Nathan.
Justin in Ashland, KY asks Gail if Toby is the Simon Cowell of Top Chef. She says no, it’s just editing that makes him look that way. You know, I bet it’s mostly the editing that makes Simon Cowell look that way too. Whatever, Gail has pretty hair. We have a montage of painful moments from Judges’ Table. We get a lot of comments about Dullsocks McLameFringe’s food, since everything she made all season sucked.
AC asks about the experience of Judges’ table. Monotone DiBangface (it’s pronounced “DeeBangfachay”) mopes out that it makes you stronger because it makes you not want to make the mistakes again. Except that she did make the same mistakes again. . . and again. . . and again.
Stefan says he was shitting bricks every time even though he knew he was on top because of the people who were there with him. How fucking classy is that? To acknowledge the strengths of his competitors--unlike certain "winners" I could mention. You know what I need now? An I heart Stefan tee.
But shouldn’t it be “Bad-bye?”
Anyway, Stefan says he has a “collective group of women who really love me, and that’s all that I need.” Where do I sign up for this collective, hombre?
Fabio is going to put the money toward remodeling his restaurant, and he’d like to bring his Mom over. Awwwww. . . .. I want to go to CA and meet Stefan and Fabio.
Herpsea’s dad is struggling with his cancer. Aw. Brief moment of not hating him.
And that’s the end. We congratulate Herpsea one last time and Andy thanks them for a great season. Or a season. Whatever.
And that’s it for Top Chef for now. And since no one knows when or if Project Runway will ever air again, and even after ten minutes I’m finding Make Me a Supermodel Super confusing (like why does Tyson Beckford appear to have full tattoo sleeves in this show when he doesn’t in the Macy’s ads? And I SWEAR that girl was on the Janice Dickinson Modeling Agency), I guess I’ll see you all in Season 6. . . .In VEGAS, baby, VEGAS!!
It was made slightly better by the fact that I was wearing this:
my AWESOME birthday present from mysterygirl! I’m totally wearing it every Wednesday night next season. It’s my official Wednesday pajamas. It looks tres chic with my grey yoga pants and my orange hoodie. Unfortunately, my glee at my couture was somewhat dampened by the fact that I tuned in in time to see the last three minutes of the previous program, and watch them anoint Herpsea as the Top Chef all over again.
( I should warn you before we start that I had two glasses of wine during the reunion, and began to find myself slightly hilarious)
Anyway. Reunion. Andy Cohen tells us to say high to the judges. Patrick is wearing an “I heart foie” t-shirt. It’s way less chic than my I heart Fabio tee. Andy asks who thinks they’re fan favorite. There are a lot of bets on Fabio and Carla. Stefan thinks he has a shot. Tom doesn’t think that’s possible. Fuck you, Tom. So much of this is a set up to try and convince the audience that the chefs actually agree with the bullshit Stefan = Dr. Evil edit. Newsflash, Tom: no one’s buying.
Andy says we should congratulate Herpsea. Fuck that noise, Andy. I will NEVER congratulate Herpsea. Herpsea says it feels surreal to have won, probably because the only way he could ever have won is in some sort of Bizarro World (but more on that later).
Andy asks who was surprised that Herpsea won, and Leah’s the only one who raises her hand.
That’s some bullshit. Again, the Magical Elves are trying to convince us that only the audience was shocked and appalled by Herpsea’s win, and that his colleagues actually think it’s good. Hosea and his Ho act all flirty, and I turn my head and do a Team America style endless vomit over the edge of my couch.We watch Herpsea’s fucking journey. It’s every bit as mediocre and undistinguished a journey as you remember, with Carla saying his food is “approachable . . .[and] not too highbrow.” That’s kind of faint praise for someone who just won the competition, when you think on it. It’s like if the best thing you could say about Michael Phelps’ swimming is “his swimming is wet, and kind of watery.”
Mmm. Phelps. .. .
Anyway, the montage highlights his creepy obsession with Stefan, his two wins, and his father’s cancer. Strange how they don’t show his infidelity during that portion. I guess that’s not among the things we’re supposed to see as “rootable” and “worthy of a win” and “even vaguely not disgusting.”
The useless load Andy Cohen asks what he’s going to do with his money and Herpsea says that it’ll be invested in new business ventures, that he’s talking to a lot of people but nothing’s settled down yet. This is remarkably like what Ilan said in Season 2, and confirms that they are the two shittiest and least worthwhile winners ever. Andy asks Tom what it came down to in the finale. Tom says that the food was, for the most part, pretty good. Again with the faint praise. Apropos of nothing, I love Carla’s sweater. I’m on a real green kick lately.
Tom basically says that Stefan lost because he made a mediocre dessert when he didn’t have t
o make a dessert at all. So. . . what I hear from this is that it’s not so much that Herpsea won Top Chef; it’s that Stefan lost Top Chef (by the way, I missed LOST to watch this bullshit—don’t tell me what happens). The judges do their defensive act about how they decided, and Stefan claims he’s happy he didn’t win. Andy has a question for Team Europe from Amy in Pasadena. She asks about their “love affair,” and we watch a montage. It’s the best montage ever. It features a lot of bald head kissing, and Stefan insisting that “we don’t have sexy times.”
Yeah, you could pretty much put that on a plaque and mount it above my bed lately. “Here Lies Jordan. We Don’t Have Sexy Times.” They say that their romance continues and they’re always together at Fabio’s restaurant. The best exchange of the night follows.
Fabio: “Ees a good fren’ship. An that’s. . .the theengs about keesseen head with these guys an . . .Ah’m straight, Ah lahk qweemin. . “
Patrick: “You’re welcome on Team Rainbow anytime.”
Fabio: “Thank you for the eenveetation, guys, but Ah theenk you can pass eet on to someone else.”
I heart this, and not just because I heart Fabio and Patrick is a friend of a friend of a friend.
Andy self loathing gay asks if they hold hands, and Fabio says “no, I use da leesh.” He then explains how he broke his finger. Toby quotes the “it’s not Top Pussy line.”
AND THEY GIVE STEFAN AN I HEART FABIO TEE!!!!!! Just like mine. Stefan and I c
an be freaking twinsies. It’ll be awesome. Stefan—CALL ME!!!We then watch a montage of Carla doing “kooky” things like Yoga. Yeah, that’s insane. Ok, and then she sings a song about Judge’s Table, which is kind of insane.
It’s a really sweet montage. She says she gets a lot of hootie-hoos. She said the exact same thing when I met her. I’m beginning to have doubts about her naturalness.
Then they do a montage about the birthday curse. Apparently Daniel, Eugene, Radhika, and Leah all got eliminated on their birthdays. It kind of seems like they kept Leah around that extra elimination just to make the birthday curse happen.
Commercial!
Back! We get a Jeff montage about his inability to keep things simple. Oh, that was their idea of a teaser. Wait, we’re getting these time wasting teasers even in the reunion? Time for more wine.
Ok, really back. AC reads a question from Molly in Kettering Ohio who wants to kiss Tom’s ass about how he heimliched Joan Nathan.
Justin in Ashland, KY asks Gail if Toby is the Simon Cowell of Top Chef. She says no, it’s just editing that makes him look that way. You know, I bet it’s mostly the editing that makes Simon Cowell look that way too. Whatever, Gail has pretty hair. We have a montage of painful moments from Judges’ Table. We get a lot of comments about Dullsocks McLameFringe’s food, since everything she made all season sucked.
AC asks about the experience of Judges’ table. Monotone DiBangface (it’s pronounced “DeeBangfachay”) mopes out that it makes you stronger because it makes you not want to make the mistakes again. Except that she did make the same mistakes again. . . and again. . . and again.
Stefan says he was shitting bricks every time even though he knew he was on top because of the people who were there with him. How fucking classy is that? To acknowledge the strengths of his competitors--unlike certain "winners" I could mention. You know what I need now? An I heart Stefan tee.
I mean, I have the same Banana Republic sweater in black and camel. There’s no reason I can’t have an “I Heart” tee in both Stefan and Fabio.
Lupe in Phoenix (HOLLA!!!!) asks if simple food is the way to win the competition. The judges say good food is.
Brad in Mt. Laurel NJ says he’s shocked that Lauren and Patrick got axed so quickly. And they get their 12 seconds of screen time that—when coupled with the free booze and the craft services table—totally made showing up for the reunion worth it.
One of the most popular questions asks about “the surprising romance between Leah and Hosea.” And we’re subjected to another montage. Excuse me while I do an Exorcist style head spinning vomit off of the other side of my couch.
Leah gets upset that they’re showing it. Um, you know how not to have embarrassing footage of you making out with an ugly fuck shown on national television? Don’t make out with an ugly fuck.
This is what I will tell my daughter, if I ever have one. “Muffy Saint’s Name Family Name Baker hyphen Whatevs, don’t make out with uggos. You never know when the world will be watching. Also, you might get an unpleasant disease. Also, if you have ugly grandbabies for me, I won’t love them.”
Ann from Tampa wants to know exactly what happened. Herpsea blames it on the booze, the lack of supervision, and says they crossed a line.
Toby calls them out on how they were clearly trying to hide from the cameras, and they get all 
shirty about how the guy was totally concealed and shooting the window reflection.
Fabio: “A’ least he got Leah. I got Stefan.” Fabs, lover, I think you got the better deal in that one.”
Stefan points out that none of the other chefs cared, and that everyone has fucked around on someone at some point in their lives. True dat, Stefan. Most of us were just bright enough not to do it in front of cameras for a basic cable show.
Herpsea insists that he’d put money on them not being the first two on the show that that’s happened to, they’re just the only ones that got caught, claiming that it must’ve happened in past seasons. Yes, no one will forget the scorching love affair between Joey and Howie in Season 3. Just own your fucking actions and stop trying to find a scapegoat, you Brillo Bearded Walking Hazmat. Commercial.
Back. Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand we’re still on the fucking topic of the fucking showmance. Pause the DVR, kiddies, I need more wine.
Anyway. Jackson in Minneapolis wants to know how their significant others were affected. They both broke up. Andy wants to know what their relationship is like now. Herpsea says they’re good friends still, and would consider dating if they lived in the same city. Huh, according to the New York Post, he acts a lot different around his “good friends” than I do. Ariane asks if either of them would relocate. Leah says she likes New York too much. Herpsea says no comment.
Funny Stew Room montage! They do kind of a leg crossing wave. They make Glad bag air mattresses and volleyball, and some kind of hoop game. There’s apparently line dancing and Irish dancing. . .Jesus, why couldn’t we have seen more of this and less sexually transmitted disease transmission?
Kind of cute montage of Leah and Jamie getting wasted before the 
Super Bowl challenge Judges’ Table, which I only appreciate because drunk Jamie looks even more like my BF than Jamie usually does. I guess that makes me Leah. Craaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaap. Anyway, Jamie doesn’t remember much of the night at all; Tom says it’s a wonder something like that didn’t happen sooner.
John from CT asks who the biggest crier was. We see a crying montage. Aw, remember Jill? Yeah, me neither, really. Anyway, consensus is that Ariane was the biggest crier.
Carolyn in Deer Park WA asks Stefan where his cockiness comes from and how she can get it. He says to wake up in the morning, look in the mirror, and say “you’re the best, you’re the best” and walk away. Guess what I’m doing this morning?
We see a montage of Stefan loving the ladies, featuring his crushes on Jamie, Andrea, Gail, and Padma, who he gets “schwetty armpits” just looking at.
Stefan says he loves Jamie because he respects her cooking. Padma says “It’s a chef crush” (um, no, Pads—the term is CHEFETISH) and Stefan says “no, she’s got a great rack too, so.“
What I want on my tombstone: Here Lies Jordan Baker. She’s got a great rack too, so.
Jamie says she’d die before having sex with Stefan. Jamie just sunk in my estimation. No one thinks Stefan has a shot at winning Fan Favorite. Booooo. Commercial.
Does anyone else sing along during the “Erica” Glad bag commercial? Handy! Fresh! Chilly! Yummy! Economical!!! No? Just me, then? Ok.
Back. Thomas in Raleigh NC asks if they had nicknames for each other. We see a nickname montage. Patrick is “Pocket Chef.” Richard gave himself the nickname “Big Gay Rich” I have a half written post in my mind about dudes who give themselves nicknames—it may deploy soon. Anyway, “Don Sorbet Johnson” is Jeff. Herpsea is "OT" because his name is from the Old Testament. You remember—Herpsea was the tribal leader who lead the Jews out of Egypt and into the free clinic where they were all severely disappointed with their test results.
You could also say he was called OT for Over Time, because he was there longer than he should’ve been. WHAT UP, Sports Metaphor (Holla!)
Anyway, Danny is Gummi Bear, Meatball, and Chops. Leah went from being “Black Widow” to being “Ho fo sho” (TRU DAT, Alex). Ariane, of course, is “Cougs” or “Cougar” which makes her feel sexy.
Ariane has a cute new bob. I like her a lot. She looks like a long lost cousin. They give her an “I’m a Cougar in the Kitchen” t-shirt.
Veronica in Little Rock asks what Gail served at her wedding. Apparently Daniel Boulud cooked for her wedding.
Steve in Detroit asks Radhika why she cooked so much Indian food when she didn’t want to be known for it. She says nothing she made was “traditional” Indian. Remind me to invite Radhika over the next time I need someone to split hairs for me.
Eileen in Houston, TX asks Jamie why she was never happy about being in the top. We see a Jamie Montage, where she complains a lot.
Tom also seems to be kind of in love with Jamie. Bald guys dig her. So do chicks, probably. She says she’s really hard on herself, and that’s what’s coming through. Only Melissa, Radhika, and Carla raise their hands when asked if they thought Jamie really complained a lot.
Jeff gets called out for calling Tom’s food boring, and says he was misquoted. That’s some Buuuuuuuuullshit. I hate when people (I’m looking at you, Casey) try to play the misquoted/taken out of context card. Then they talk about how much his shirt was off.
Lina in Long Island says there were a lot of Bald Guys this season and that Tom is hot. Um? We see a Bald Montage. Jesus Christ. A BALD MONTAGE.
AC reminds them that there can be only one “Bald God” of Top Chef. Presumably, this is Tom. So we see crappy photoshop of everyone but Tom with other hair--eg. Herpsea gets Marcel’s hair, Stefan gets Jeff’s, Toby gets Blais’s. Seriously, we barely hear word one out of Eugene or Alex, but we get this?????
More about how hot Richard finds Tom. Wow, we haven’t heard that in months. Months, I tell you! Commercial!
Hey, anyone notice how last year it was the finale I got all drunk and stupid during (BIG RED DAWG!!!) and this year it’s the reunion? What does this say about the level of enjoyment I’ve had this season? OR: couldn’t you even tell that I was drunk and stupid until I went and gave it away? Answers in the form of a 50 word essay in the comments.
What workout do I have to do to get the Millionaire Matchmaker’s legs?
Back. Time to announce Fan Favorite. They talk about Richard’s campaign for the Bear vote and show the Carla logo from Amuse Biatch, But the winner is. . . FABIO!
FABIO MONTAGE! He’s originally from Florence! He’s fresh outta da boat! “eet was a seex eenches old age-ed dog shit!” “I ron de show een de front. Eez no way we goeen’ down.” Monkey ass and clam shell! We don’t have thanksgeeveeng, peeenut, or braykfuss een eetaly!
Yayyyyyyyyyyyyyy!!!!! Best Montage Ever!!!!
Stefan is proud of him. Toby asks if Stefan is glad he didn’t win fan favorite, mocking the way Stefan earlier said he was glad he didn’t win Top Chef.
I don’t know if it’s the fact that I saw the Bizarro World episode of Seinfeld earlier in the evening, but during the reunion I HEART TOBY. 
But shouldn’t it be “Bad-bye?”
Anyway, Stefan says he has a “collective group of women who really love me, and that’s all that I need.” Where do I sign up for this collective, hombre?
Fabio is going to put the money toward remodeling his restaurant, and he’d like to bring his Mom over. Awwwww. . . .. I want to go to CA and meet Stefan and Fabio.
Herpsea’s dad is struggling with his cancer. Aw. Brief moment of not hating him.
And that’s the end. We congratulate Herpsea one last time and Andy thanks them for a great season. Or a season. Whatever.
And that’s it for Top Chef for now. And since no one knows when or if Project Runway will ever air again, and even after ten minutes I’m finding Make Me a Supermodel Super confusing (like why does Tyson Beckford appear to have full tattoo sleeves in this show when he doesn’t in the Macy’s ads? And I SWEAR that girl was on the Janice Dickinson Modeling Agency), I guess I’ll see you all in Season 6. . . .In VEGAS, baby, VEGAS!!
Tuesday, March 03, 2009
What the Fuck, Nationals? Year 2.
I've been spending some time lately thinking about the upcoming baseball season. This, of course, is normal behaviour for me in March, but it's been more intense than usual this year.
Maybe it's because I haven't been to a baseball game since my Yankee Stadium trip last fall. Maybe it's because there's been so much baseball news in the offseason--the Torre book, the A-Rod thing (ahahahahahahahaahahahaahahahahaahahahahahahaa), the Bonds trial.
Maybe it's because I'm looking forward to heading to New York to help take Baby Lime-N to his first Mets game, and insure that he's raised to understand that the National League is way awesome while the American League is Satan's representative on Earth.
Maybe it's because the Nationals will have a four game series against the Cardinals at the end of April. FOUR GAMES!!!! It's very exciting.
Anyway, for whatever reason, I've been giddy with anticipation recently. I've even been considering buying a mini-plan of tickets rather than relying solely on interweb scalpers as I have in the past.
But yesterday something happened to dampen my enthusiasm a bit, and cause me to ask--for the second year in a row: what the fuck, Nationals?
No, it's not the whole Gonzalez thing that has me bewildered, nor the "resignation" (wink wink) of Jim Bowden. It's not even the baffling ticket packages--can anyone tell me how you call
something a "first half" mini-plan when it contains tickets to a September 30 game?
It's what they've done to Screech.
Screech, as you may or may not know, is the Nationals' mascot. He is a lovable, pudgy, baby bald eagle who routinely gyrates his giant belly at adoring fans.
OR HE WAS. . . .
Now, as part of some assinine plan to have Screech "grow up," the Nationals have launched Screech 2.0.--a thinner, "cooler," "teen-
aged" version.
Um. . . .yeah. I look at this and think thinner, cooler, and teen-aged.
Actually no. No I don't. I actually think "emaciated," "death camp" and "fucking stupid beyond belief."
New Screech looks like the Nationals have spent the entire off season starving him. I understand (actually, no I don't, but let's pretend) the desire for a leaner, meaner mascot. But what they've come up with is an eagle that looks not streamlined, but. . . kind of manorexic. He's not your lean, mean, teenaged cousin who plays sports and doesn't take shit. He's your lean, pale teenaged cousin who plays the guitar, badly, and writes soulful lyrics about how no one understands his paaaaaaaaain in between rereading the Twilight series.
And why is his mouth open? He looks like he's screaming in agony. . .or begging someone to feed him since he clearly hasn't eaten in months. Either way, he looks stupid (which, I understand, is probably not helped by the fact that in this picture he appears to be doing the Macarena. Please tell me what kind of cool, hip, teenager does the Macarena in 2009? It was hopelessly dorky even in 1996).
Or is this a way to make it easier for him to eat people's heads, like the Oriole tried to do when he permanently scarred Megarita? Are we trying to make Screech more like that fucking Oriole?
Fuck that noise, Nationals.
I understand that I may be biased, because I was there on the day back in 2005 when Original Recipe Screech was "hatched." I understand that I may be further biased because of my lifetime perception that fat birds (like Fredbird) are good, while skinny birds (like that stupid Oriole) are bad.
But seriously--what the fuck, Nationals? What inbred, brain damaged member of your staff ever thought this was a good idea?
Maybe it's because I haven't been to a baseball game since my Yankee Stadium trip last fall. Maybe it's because there's been so much baseball news in the offseason--the Torre book, the A-Rod thing (ahahahahahahahaahahahaahahahahaahahahahahahaa), the Bonds trial.
Maybe it's because I'm looking forward to heading to New York to help take Baby Lime-N to his first Mets game, and insure that he's raised to understand that the National League is way awesome while the American League is Satan's representative on Earth.
Maybe it's because the Nationals will have a four game series against the Cardinals at the end of April. FOUR GAMES!!!! It's very exciting.
Anyway, for whatever reason, I've been giddy with anticipation recently. I've even been considering buying a mini-plan of tickets rather than relying solely on interweb scalpers as I have in the past.
But yesterday something happened to dampen my enthusiasm a bit, and cause me to ask--for the second year in a row: what the fuck, Nationals?
No, it's not the whole Gonzalez thing that has me bewildered, nor the "resignation" (wink wink) of Jim Bowden. It's not even the baffling ticket packages--can anyone tell me how you call
something a "first half" mini-plan when it contains tickets to a September 30 game? It's what they've done to Screech.
Screech, as you may or may not know, is the Nationals' mascot. He is a lovable, pudgy, baby bald eagle who routinely gyrates his giant belly at adoring fans.
OR HE WAS. . . .
Now, as part of some assinine plan to have Screech "grow up," the Nationals have launched Screech 2.0.--a thinner, "cooler," "teen-
aged" version. Um. . . .yeah. I look at this and think thinner, cooler, and teen-aged.
Actually no. No I don't. I actually think "emaciated," "death camp" and "fucking stupid beyond belief."
New Screech looks like the Nationals have spent the entire off season starving him. I understand (actually, no I don't, but let's pretend) the desire for a leaner, meaner mascot. But what they've come up with is an eagle that looks not streamlined, but. . . kind of manorexic. He's not your lean, mean, teenaged cousin who plays sports and doesn't take shit. He's your lean, pale teenaged cousin who plays the guitar, badly, and writes soulful lyrics about how no one understands his paaaaaaaaain in between rereading the Twilight series.
And why is his mouth open? He looks like he's screaming in agony. . .or begging someone to feed him since he clearly hasn't eaten in months. Either way, he looks stupid (which, I understand, is probably not helped by the fact that in this picture he appears to be doing the Macarena. Please tell me what kind of cool, hip, teenager does the Macarena in 2009? It was hopelessly dorky even in 1996).
Or is this a way to make it easier for him to eat people's heads, like the Oriole tried to do when he permanently scarred Megarita? Are we trying to make Screech more like that fucking Oriole?
Fuck that noise, Nationals.
I understand that I may be biased, because I was there on the day back in 2005 when Original Recipe Screech was "hatched." I understand that I may be further biased because of my lifetime perception that fat birds (like Fredbird) are good, while skinny birds (like that stupid Oriole) are bad.
But seriously--what the fuck, Nationals? What inbred, brain damaged member of your staff ever thought this was a good idea?
Monday, March 02, 2009
Top Chef: (Stop Touching Yourself or You'll Go) Blind Item
We hate gossip, muffins. Hate it. Haaaaaaaaate it.
And we really hate to spread it, especially when there's a chance that the ultimate source may be slightly bittercakes about being cuckolded (if girls can be cuckolded) in the public eye.
But sometimes things just land in your lap, and you weigh whether to put them out there or not. And you think about the possibility of getting sued, and about karma--yours and others--and about the damage malice can do to your soul.
And then you realize that the benefit of being Catholic is that you can go and confess your malice and gossiping and be just as o-tay with the Jebus as a newborn baby.
So for you, a blind item: the ex of a former Top Chef-testant told a slightly more simpatico ex (who then told a certain blogger's sister) that said chef will need to be putting at least part of his/her $100,000 toward a prescription for Valtrex.
We would also like to point out that we're not being all judgey pants; that we know that 1 in 5 Americans has been diagnosed with a form of teh herp (and some estimates believe that 80% of American adults are probably infected), and we don't for one moment think that every single one of those people is a smug insufferable uggo, or that it's sent as some sort of karmic/divine retribution in all of those cases.
But we do smile a little bit in the cases where it is.
And we really hate to spread it, especially when there's a chance that the ultimate source may be slightly bittercakes about being cuckolded (if girls can be cuckolded) in the public eye.
But sometimes things just land in your lap, and you weigh whether to put them out there or not. And you think about the possibility of getting sued, and about karma--yours and others--and about the damage malice can do to your soul.
And then you realize that the benefit of being Catholic is that you can go and confess your malice and gossiping and be just as o-tay with the Jebus as a newborn baby.
So for you, a blind item: the ex of a former Top Chef-testant told a slightly more simpatico ex (who then told a certain blogger's sister) that said chef will need to be putting at least part of his/her $100,000 toward a prescription for Valtrex.
We would also like to point out that we're not being all judgey pants; that we know that 1 in 5 Americans has been diagnosed with a form of teh herp (and some estimates believe that 80% of American adults are probably infected), and we don't for one moment think that every single one of those people is a smug insufferable uggo, or that it's sent as some sort of karmic/divine retribution in all of those cases.
But we do smile a little bit in the cases where it is.
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