Tuesday, December 27, 2005
Home
I've played so much Cards I'm dizzy. I just unbottoned my pants from all the pie. My dad is watching a movie on Lifetime; he claims it's "really something". I wish I didn't have to go back to LA tomorrow...
...as I look over at my parents' DVD collection, I notice they have two copies of My Cousin Vinny. The second one could've been a gift, but my family has a habit of buying things we love in surplus. If you find a good pair of jeans, buy two, my mom tells me. I appreciate that this philosophy applies to Ralph Machio movies, too.
I've played so much Cards I'm dizzy. I just unbottoned my pants from all the pie. My dad is watching a movie on Lifetime; he claims it's "really something". I wish I didn't have to go back to LA tomorrow...
...as I look over at my parents' DVD collection, I notice they have two copies of My Cousin Vinny. The second one could've been a gift, but my family has a habit of buying things we love in surplus. If you find a good pair of jeans, buy two, my mom tells me. I appreciate that this philosophy applies to Ralph Machio movies, too.
Wednesday, December 21, 2005
The Great Pancake Swindle of '97
In the recent blog tradition of celebrating rad people on their birthdays, I wanted to post an old picture here of me and Carolyn. Unfortunately, all my old pics sit in my desk at home, and alas, I have no scanner. I could post one of the sweet ones she sent me on my myspace page, but that seems like cheating.
But this is what I would've shown you. It's me and her standing outside this terrible restaurant in New York City, shaking our fists.
Just prior to the pic, inside the restaurant, we had decided to split the pancakes and fruit plate. When the food finally came, the waitress set down a plate with one pancake a la moded with a truckload of melon. It cost $14 (this was when we still lived in PQ more or less, and $14 was a classy night out at the Claim Jumper).
So there we are. Bundled up for the bitter cold, fists a-shakin, and starving.
Happy belated birthday, Carolyn. Let's never order pancakes again.
In the recent blog tradition of celebrating rad people on their birthdays, I wanted to post an old picture here of me and Carolyn. Unfortunately, all my old pics sit in my desk at home, and alas, I have no scanner. I could post one of the sweet ones she sent me on my myspace page, but that seems like cheating.
But this is what I would've shown you. It's me and her standing outside this terrible restaurant in New York City, shaking our fists.
Just prior to the pic, inside the restaurant, we had decided to split the pancakes and fruit plate. When the food finally came, the waitress set down a plate with one pancake a la moded with a truckload of melon. It cost $14 (this was when we still lived in PQ more or less, and $14 was a classy night out at the Claim Jumper).
So there we are. Bundled up for the bitter cold, fists a-shakin, and starving.
Happy belated birthday, Carolyn. Let's never order pancakes again.
Thursday, December 15, 2005
Spring Break Bus
Before I die, I want to visit Prague, and I want to ride a party bus. It has to be the double-decker, open-on-top kind, and it has to be with this crowd.
I realized this last Saturday night, while talking to Mike Fitz outside the Voz Alta gallery. A Tuaca party bus pulled up to the light, and the people on top were drunk out of their minds. They were stoked to be partying in an outside the box way. One guy wobbled around from seat to seat with giddyness. I don't know if that's officially allowed (if party buses are anything like middle school buses, he waited 'til the bus driver was distracted), but I like the element of danger. Someone could party themselves right over the top of the bus. And what happens then, do people party harder? Is it a badge of honor to fall off the party bus? Does a party ambulance show up to drive the fallen to the party hospital?
(I rode in a party "limo" once during my cousin's bachelor party. The limo was actually a short bus with a huge advertisement for Mama Mia on the side. But still, you get to drink while en route from party to party. You can see how this whet my appetite).
By the way, if you scroll down this page, there are other, non double-decker buses with some pretty sweet amenities.
Before I die, I want to visit Prague, and I want to ride a party bus. It has to be the double-decker, open-on-top kind, and it has to be with this crowd.
I realized this last Saturday night, while talking to Mike Fitz outside the Voz Alta gallery. A Tuaca party bus pulled up to the light, and the people on top were drunk out of their minds. They were stoked to be partying in an outside the box way. One guy wobbled around from seat to seat with giddyness. I don't know if that's officially allowed (if party buses are anything like middle school buses, he waited 'til the bus driver was distracted), but I like the element of danger. Someone could party themselves right over the top of the bus. And what happens then, do people party harder? Is it a badge of honor to fall off the party bus? Does a party ambulance show up to drive the fallen to the party hospital?
(I rode in a party "limo" once during my cousin's bachelor party. The limo was actually a short bus with a huge advertisement for Mama Mia on the side. But still, you get to drink while en route from party to party. You can see how this whet my appetite).
By the way, if you scroll down this page, there are other, non double-decker buses with some pretty sweet amenities.
Wednesday, December 07, 2005
Put me in, Coach
When I'm fifty, will I still write reminders on my hand? I've tried planners, notebooks, but they lacked immediacy, which is key, because I have a short attention span. Aesthetically, scrawled ink doesn't bother me. But I wonder if it's one of those things, like wearing T shirts with holes, that makes me look slovenly in the eyes of the world. Maybe I should get my shit together, see one of these. Maybe she'll buy me new T shirts.
When I'm fifty, will I still write reminders on my hand? I've tried planners, notebooks, but they lacked immediacy, which is key, because I have a short attention span. Aesthetically, scrawled ink doesn't bother me. But I wonder if it's one of those things, like wearing T shirts with holes, that makes me look slovenly in the eyes of the world. Maybe I should get my shit together, see one of these. Maybe she'll buy me new T shirts.
Tuesday, December 06, 2005
where's a suggestion box when I need one?
Today, in the lobby of our building, there's a book fair. As you enter it, a large sign welcomes you,
Welcome to the Book Fair
9am - 4pm
Books Are Fun
Seems kinda lazy to me. No one's gonna buy that. BOOKS MAKE YOUR MEMBER HUGE BY 6 INCHES!!!, on the other hand, sounds pretty enticing.
Today, in the lobby of our building, there's a book fair. As you enter it, a large sign welcomes you,
Welcome to the Book Fair
9am - 4pm
Books Are Fun
Seems kinda lazy to me. No one's gonna buy that. BOOKS MAKE YOUR MEMBER HUGE BY 6 INCHES!!!, on the other hand, sounds pretty enticing.
Thursday, December 01, 2005
I am a sloppy eater/incredible driver
This morning I hit up Cafe Tropicale, the Cuban bakery on Silverlake and Parkman. They have rows and rows of pastries, muffins, and cookies, all made with lots of butter presumably, because they're some of the best pastries, muffins, and cookies I've ever had. But my appetite was not dainty, so I ordered up the more man-sized but not man-sized-sounding turkey-cheese croissant. This, plus a large cup of their coffee that doubles as industrial strength cleaning agent, really made the morning.
Anyway, I'm a sloppy eater. Breakfast left me covered in crumbs, and with a big brown stain in the center of my shirt. "Goddamit", I cursed myself, sounding eerily like my dad whenever he does something clumsy. Somehow I'm always surprised when I make a mess, like it's the first time it's ever happened in my life, like it's the totally rare exception to my perfect etiquette and eating habits.
All that said, I'm an expert when it comes to driving and eating. My form, impeccable. (I should say here I make messes whether I'm in the car or at the table). I can control the wheel with my pinky and ring fingers, while holding a burrito, sandwich, piece of pizza, ice cream cone, muffin, with my other three. In the other hand, I'm usually gripping a beverage. Cups of coffee and sodas are common. And, when I'm really in The Zone, I can change a CD at the same time. Now that's experience. That's some shit they don't teach you in Driver's Ed.
This morning I hit up Cafe Tropicale, the Cuban bakery on Silverlake and Parkman. They have rows and rows of pastries, muffins, and cookies, all made with lots of butter presumably, because they're some of the best pastries, muffins, and cookies I've ever had. But my appetite was not dainty, so I ordered up the more man-sized but not man-sized-sounding turkey-cheese croissant. This, plus a large cup of their coffee that doubles as industrial strength cleaning agent, really made the morning.
Anyway, I'm a sloppy eater. Breakfast left me covered in crumbs, and with a big brown stain in the center of my shirt. "Goddamit", I cursed myself, sounding eerily like my dad whenever he does something clumsy. Somehow I'm always surprised when I make a mess, like it's the first time it's ever happened in my life, like it's the totally rare exception to my perfect etiquette and eating habits.
All that said, I'm an expert when it comes to driving and eating. My form, impeccable. (I should say here I make messes whether I'm in the car or at the table). I can control the wheel with my pinky and ring fingers, while holding a burrito, sandwich, piece of pizza, ice cream cone, muffin, with my other three. In the other hand, I'm usually gripping a beverage. Cups of coffee and sodas are common. And, when I'm really in The Zone, I can change a CD at the same time. Now that's experience. That's some shit they don't teach you in Driver's Ed.
