Tuesday, March 28, 2006

I really hate these colors

But I love nonscientific polls.

Your Linguistic Profile:

70% General American English

10% Upper Midwestern

10% Yankee

5% Dixie

5% Midwestern

Friday, March 24, 2006

Jiminy Cricket, where are you?

I wish I were a big enough nerd to understand what's happening here. Or a big enough druggie not to care.

Fun with ferrofluid

Wednesday, March 22, 2006

I enjoy supporting useless talents and people with too much time on their hands.

More from this kid.

Tuesday, March 21, 2006

What big teeth you have, Gift Horse.

I was just pulling a light boom out of the closet, and I had to exhume it from beneath a ton of toilet paper.

My roommate's wonderful, generous parents are kind enough to occasionally bring a few things for the apartment. Sometimes it's a cleaning product. Once it was a bunch of paper towels. Several times it was a giant, Costco-sized load of toilet paper.

This household currently contains 95 rolls of toilet paper. And we're boys, so that's like 3 years worth.

I think we should make a fort--or a shelter for when the zombies attack.

It was inevitable

Make it work.

Friday, March 17, 2006

I like pointing out people who are smarter than I

Panel One

Read all of it. It's worth it. For real this time. And there's a new one every weekday. Awesome.

Tuesday, March 14, 2006

Prepare to laugh uncontrollably

It's no wonder David Hasselhoff is so popular in Germany. His lyrics are awesome.


Monday, March 13, 2006

Quotes of the Times

"Nothing says, 'I want to tell you how to live your life' more than Birkenstocks."
-Jason Reitman, director of Thank You for Smoking

"In Greek the word for stranger and guest are the same. The idea is you never know who that stranger is. It might be a god or goddess in disguise."
-Iris Love, sociable archaeologist

"But when you're on the remote side of an island, a woman with the right accent and some good shoes can go a long way."
-Ira, Bob Morris's partner

"I refuse to call it erotica, because that just sounds like pornography for people who've got more money."
-Alan Moore

And a quick Harpersism--number of times the Times review of Julia Louis-Dreyfus's new sitcom mentions "Elaine": 7

Thursday, March 09, 2006

For the record

On 1/4/06, I wrote:

They'll keep Santino around for a while because they need a wild character, but there's no chance they'll let him win. I'm thinking Chloe or Nick are better bets.

And on 1/18/06, I wrote:

Santino's continued presence is all about ratings, and Chloe is still my favorite to win.

And on 3/8/06, Heidi Klum said:

Chloe, you're in.

As promised

Is there a point in life where those lessons you learn in kindergarten no longer apply? I think that's the same point at which the loud club disgusts you and you run screaming to the closest quiet bar. It's a resignation, sure, but it's not an entirely bad one. The one thing we should be prepared to face is the inevitable.

Mel and I hadn't been out dancing since Ms. McKay's birthday over a year ago--you know, the night of a million pantsless Santas.

So we decided that we'd give Scenic a shot, as that was the new location of the party we had frequented nearly Saturday night not such a long time ago. We agreed to meet on Houston early enough that the place wouldn't be completely filled with B&T assholes. I, of course, was running late, having been detained by a model who wanted my opinon on the photos I took of her and who wanted to fill me with Croation food and her father's grappa. How could I refuse that?

Well, the trains, as everyone knows, on the weekends, blow. The N was surprisingly fast, but the connecting F was anywhere but 34th St. Luckily, there was free entertainment.

As I decended the stairs to the platform I followed a blatantly drunk girl in a black coat who bumped into a man holding--but definitely not playing--a guitar. She apologized and promptly demanded that he play her something. I stood descretely to the side to listen. One poorly written song about what love is later, and during her glowing review of his work, another girl in a black coat stole the entirety of her attention. Apparently, they were friends of friends and had a habit of running into each other randomly. The bad musician slunk away and I went to look for rats.

There was little in the rat arena (despite 34th St. usually being a good place for them--once I witnessed a pretty serious fight between a young whippersnapper rat and a much larger (and definitely victorious) Master Splinter type). The real action was at the other side of the platform, where a Southern family of 5 cheered at every rat sighting.

Soon enough, the pair of black coatted girls secured a spot near the edge of the platform, which by chance was directly next to me. Black coat number one was very drunk, to the point where she had already cried enough earlier in the evening to turn her mascarra into deep eye bruises. I largely ignored their conversation until I caught that they approached the platform edge in order to see the rats better as well. I didn't hear much of their conversation, but no one could have missed when drunkie pointed at the rat and said, "You're diseased!"

Number one turned to me and said, "What's his name? Wilbur's friend?"

In New York, we're trained to completely ignore anything anyone says to us, particularly on the subway, so my brain knew she was refering to the book Charlotte's Webb, but my mouth hadn't formed the words before she turned back to her friend. Then she accused the rat of not being fat enough to be Wilbur's friend. I shifted my eavesdropping to the Southern family who had moved to my side of the platform, directly on the other side of me than the black coatters. They were talking about what happened when you put a fly in the microwave.

Charlotte (as I had named her) turned back, slapped me on the arm, and said, "TEMPLETON!" and after she realized she had hit me, "Oh, I'm sorry!"

I said, "That's okay. Sometimes I need to punch a stranger, too."

Time passed. By the time her literary conundrum was resolved, we had been waiting for 10 minutes, and another 15 went by before I made my exit. I cursed my lack of reading material. The girls discussed where they were going, and debated running upstairs and catching a cab. I noted that Charlotte and I were going to the same station, so when they finally gave up on the train, I stopped them. Before I finished what little spiel I had, Number Two (who to this day remains nameless) said, "Yes, you're coming with us."

We laughed a lot in the cab, and because Number Two wasn't going as far downtown as Charlotte and I were--and she felt ony the slightest bit of responsibility to see that her drunk friend got home safely--she got out first but left more than enough money to cover the entire trip. Charlotte and I made it downtown, she overtipped with her friend's money, shook my hand goodnight, and disappeared down a side street.

And they tell you not to talk to strangers.

I found Mel, and we went to Scenic. At just midnight it was packed. Mel had to sweet talk her way into the coat check because they claimed they were full (and I don't have the boobs for sweet talking). Upstairs, no one was dancing, and they were playing crappy music, so we went downstairs.

Downstairs, few people were dancing, and they were playing slightly less crappy music, but we found a corner where we'd have some space. Since it was a basement, the ceilings were about seven feet high, but they were padded. I'm unsure if that was for noise dampening or head protection. But worst, people were smoking.

But we hadn't been dancing in over a year, and damnit, we were going to dance! So we did, and there was even a decent enough string of songs to get us drenched in sweat and in need of a water break. The need was bad enough that we sat out through "Welcome to the Jungle". Had we known that would be the last good song of the night, I doubt we would have stopped at all.

We stayed for another hour, hacking through the smoke, trying to dance to the b-sides of the latest hipster bands, but it was useless. Not even two hours, and we were gone. In the heyday of Opaline, we'd be dancing until 4:30am--and that's when we'd go to Odessa for breakfast.

We left before any of this happened:

The good news is that on our way in, we passed an interesting looking bar on 2nd Ave. and Ave. A, and though it was a bit overpriced, its atmosphere was the exact opposite of Scenic's. There was room to sit, nice, calm music, and cute girls (although with it just being Mel and me, it was unlikely that anything could possibly have happened in that regard; great as she is, she's just no wingman (damn Eric and his monogamy)). And big windows--it had huge north and east facing windows, so I'm sure it gets great light all day.

I'm sure this wasn't the last night of dancing, but it was definitely a reminder that I'm not as young and stupid as I once was. I'm just as stupid, but I'm an older kind of stupid.

Wednesday, March 08, 2006

It's hard out there for a bear

I've been wanting to write about Saturday night, during which I mooched a ride from Stranger Danger, but I've been busy corrupting Pie Bear.

Friday, March 03, 2006

Something about food

I enjoy eating. Because of that, I learned to cook. But one of my life's greatest ironies is that the more time I pu into cooking, the less I want to eat what I have made. Today, I made a whole pot of shredded pork, and I barely had a tupperware container large enough for all the leftovers.

But the act of cooking is something like meditating. No, that's overblowing it. But it is relaxing and satisfying when it doesn't taste like hell. Like oversalted, freezerburned hell. I like it to be a bit freeform and improvisational. I could be totally pretentious and say it's like jazz--but I won't. It's more like Whose Line Is It Anyway? The improvisations aren't that innovative, and the main goal is to be pleasant and inoffensive. The biggest risk I took was to pour in a couple shots of Jack Daniels. I probably should have used a couple more shots...

Anyway, I was thinking about writing some of my better improvs down for future mutations. I've done it once, on MM, so for now, I'll repeat myself. I'll try not to do that too often.

Okay, here's the recipe for the chicken that's in the oven right now:

First take out the chicken you've had in the freezer but no time to cook. Do this yesterday. When you've caught up with all the MM forum posts, play one more round of Random Photo Fun Roulette, and wash your hands. Butterfly the chicken and save the backbone and gibblets in you bag of parts for future stock use. Wish that you had the time or energy to have marinated or brined the chicken, but don't worry about it too much.

Take the last teaspoon or two from the salt cellar and mix it with some black pepper and Chinese Five Spice. Maybe some thyme. Rub this mix under the breast and thigh skin, as well as everywhere on the outside, but don't use it all. Slice an onion and spread the rings out on a 9x12 glass baking dish. Place the chicken in the dish and pour the rest of the bottle of red wine that no one finished at your last party. 'Cause who drinks so much wine at a party?

Put the chicken in the oven, which you preheated without me telling you to do, right? Like 350, but you can't be sure because the numbers on the dial have worn off.

Take the rest of the spice rub and add enough soy sauce to douse a whole lot of rice. Add a similar amount of honey and a smaller amount of worsterchire sauce. Every 10-15 minutes, pour some of this sauce on the chicken. If you have a flavor injector and aren't too lazy to wash it afterwards, use it.

Cook it all the way through. Sal and Ernie ain't no good dinner guests. Eat it. Enjoy.

If you don't like it, don't blame me. You probably did something wrong.
And now a moment of silence for Random Photo Fun. I miss those days.

Thursday, March 02, 2006

Dude, I'm going to Ikea

Who doesn't love Ikea? Going there is like going to a furniture and lingonbery themed amusement park. My living room wouldn't be complete without my Billy bookcases, and my kitchen would be useless without the Bergsmo 6-drawer aspen chest. And now, the good people at ForbesAutos.com have presented another reason to love the Ikea.

Ikea founder, Ingvar Kamprad is listed by Forbes as the 4th richest person in the world, with a net worth of $23,000,000,000. And here's what he drives:

As a comparison, Dell founder, Michael Dell drives something just as boxy but a bit uglier and a lot more revealing about his endowment: