Wednesday, November 28, 2007

I guess a perk to being Tina Fey and being on strike is that then you get to go and be a judge for Iron Chef America. However, she did not write any jokes. And the jokes she did think of were very unfunny. What was funny was that I think she was taking it very seriously, and I respect her for that, cause I would too.

Then Neil Patrick Harris got to co-(host, participate, tackle?) Dinner:Impossible, and it was the fun show where they got to play around with kitchen chemicals and nitrous. And he was very serious about it as well.

Because Food Network is serious business.

And piggybacking off that thought...Fuck You Carson Daly. Scab.

Here's something brilliant I snagged off Callahan's Cleveland Diary....

Saturday, November 24, 2007

As Kelly says, "There are some funny folks about..."

Today, I feel like I am being sucked in and out of my apartment. Not physically. Existentially. I can't seem to focus and force my mind to stay in one spot. There is a huge list of things I should be doing, ranging from things I definitely don't want but have to do, all the way to frivolous things I really want to do but somehow not anymore.

Sometime the speed I read a book at will destabilize me.

Monday, November 19, 2007

So for future note....

The turkey was amazing. This is the only way I will make turkey from now on. Salt it for three days, let sit at room temp, then roast medium for two hours, then high for one.
The best turkey ever.

I feel that this might be a significant moment in my life, the discovery of my turkey technique. I might very well be making this turkey for the next thirty, forty years. And while I will of course always try out new stuff, I don't think I'll stray far from this. This is like, getting your driver license.

Now if only I could learn to make decent mashed potatoes and stuffing that isn't wet, we might be off to a good start.

Saturday, November 17, 2007

My kitchen is a poultry torture cell. Currently there is a large turkey sitting in my fridge, where its been covered in salt for the past three days. I just took out the week old duck carcass, roasted the bones for 40 minutes, and threw them in the crockpot for stock. And while doing that, I was munching on a few chicken wings from last night. Oh, plus there's frozen chicken in the freezer.

I feel like the ogre in a russian fairy tale.
I just noticed that all the time stamps on my page here are showing up Pacific Time? Ordinarily, this would be considered a small problem, but I know how some of you just wait around all day to read this, and I would hate to give you a false impression of my schedule. For instance, at 7:26 am this morning, I was not on MySpace. I was in fact dreaming that I had to go to a Cavs after party and I had to buy new shoes. You see how misleading this can be.

I can't figure out how to fix this. My computer clock is not off. Is this a blogger punishment handed down from above?

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So another thing from work that I was discussing with my neighbor Colleen tonight over too many wings...too many wings...

Our trainer was talking about our guidelines at work, which is basically an online encyclopedia of everything we need to know about our job, and when you think about the amount of information they have in there, and the weird and twisty shortcuts you can take through's sort of a living entity through which the company breathes, and a lot of people work on it full-time all the time. It's actually very easy to use and efficient and beautiful, so hopefully they get a lot of satisfaction out of it. Sometime I think that's where I'd like to end up, editing the encyclopedia, pruning and trussing. But I imagine that is in fact a difficult place to end up. You have to sacrifice yourself to the guidelines before you can have the privilege of serving them.


Our trainer tells us about this girl in one of the classes he recently had who had come from SBC. And this girl said that at SBC, their guidelines were in a FUCKING BINDER ten inches thick. Like, they have to put you on hold and look through 3,000 pages to find an answer for you.

To which Colleen remarks, "Aren't they the people who SELL the Internet? Aren't they the ones who installed the fucking networks? What, do they not have a SERVER?"

And all that is incredibly true. Just very very true. Who works out of a binder? The fucking Record Exchange doesn't even work out of a binder.

Then we watched Daywatch, and it totally kicked ass.

Thursday, November 15, 2007

Wednesday, November 14, 2007

This is a story this guy Eric in class told today, but a little tweaked around you know....

I'm sitting here drinking, and the last thing I need to be reading is this blog I've got in front of me, about how to make eco-conscious purchases. First there's the "scary" statistic that women eat about a tube of lipstick a year. You know what, I also eat about three gallons of tar from smoking, about 4 houses full of toxic outright poisoned air from driving over 480 East Really Tall Bridge twice a day, about three tons of fucking CHICKEN. The last thing I'm worried about is a little coconut flavored, "raisin" colored, fatty paraffin.

I found out about five minutes ago that my house has switched landlords. The wonderful old lady who bothered me 4 times a year has passed possession of property to some place called Larry Craig Realty. Seriously, Larry Craig? Has you ever heard a more nasally, down on his luck, poker playing, ex-cokehead, Florida kind of name? With Leisure Suit Larry and Larry Flynt, I now have a permanent bias against Larrys everywhere except the bar we go to watch concerts at. For some reason, Larrys there are generally okay and just unfortunately named.

So check it out, I don't have a car right now. And the place I live is on the outskirts of a very small Ohio "college town", so public transportation is still considered a very socialist concept. I've called everyone I know and everyone I know is in class or working. These people, Larry Craig, call to tell me that my rent is due, like, today before 5pm. Nevermind the fact that no letter was posted to me, or any previous phone calls made. I'm gonna have to walk.

Like any sincere Ohio College Town, copyright 19twenty Oberlin, there are lots of stupid little hills. People bike around here all the time, and I really have a lot of respect for that, but I don't own a bike. At least with a bike you are moving faster than SOMETHING. Walking, you are slower than everything. The distance to this place, according to Google Maps, is approximately 3 miles. That is 2.5 miles more than I have ever walked in my life. On top of that, its raining. Not warm summer muggy rain, which would be unbearable in its own way, but cold stingy rain. In less than half an hour, I am soaked through to the bones.

I walk. And I walk. And I walk. Putting one foot in front of the other becomes the sole focus of my external awareness, like a field sobriety test from hell. I concentrate on my feet so that I don't feel the pain in my fingers, the pain in my toes, the pain in my cheekbones, the pain in my nose. Footstep after footstep, it becomes increasingly harder to not draw attention to my very sore heels and the balls of my toes. But I hustle onward, there is no other path for me.

Finally I come to this wet little brick building. A cheerless sign propped against the window welcomes me to Larry Craig Realty. I march my hunched and pale shadow into their beige and cream waiting room, accented by an accident of 1976 file cabinet green. The effect is strangely pleasing, like an office at 60 Minutes. I really liked Ed Bradley by the way. He was an icon of my childhood. Looking at the dried up woman at the front desk, her childhood icon was probably Loni Anderson. I hand her my check, and then she tells me they're closing up. Meaning, I have to head back into the rain.

Back outside, I look around me, scouting possible locations, weighing my possibilities. I could try to walk home again. I could. I'm not going to though. I am flat out straight no way going to walk home.

I spot a pizza place. My mind shifts around, groping for a concept to hold onto. A plan emerges half developed. This is the place where if you buy one pizza, you get two free. The kind no one wants to get until your tastebuds are sufficiently drunk enough. Gathering my wits, I start the hurried stroll towards the door. Inside it's well lit, making everything on me just seem wetter. I walk over to the delivery guy folding boxes in a corner and I say,

"If I order two pizzas delivered, will you give me a ride home?"

He goes to talk to his boss.

He comes back and says, "Okay, sure."

As we're waiting for the pizzas to be made, he gets another load of deliveries. He says, "You know what, since we would just give these away to someone else, why don't we just get going, you can just have these."
He's really a pretty nice guy. So we drive back in his pickup truck, me with eight hot pizzas on my lap, me begging him to let me deliver just one. And he dropped me off. And ever since then, whenever someone protests ordering from that place, I tell them they have to.

Tuesday, November 13, 2007

"The vice president shoots you in the face" is going to be one of those eternally great punchlines, just like "two dead babies and a zebra."

Monday, November 12, 2007

Addendum to "Fuck You Sue Grafton, I'm not building a bomb"

"Hey, boys and girls!

This is Sue Grafton, just checking in to see how you're doing. I've been thinking about you often and I hope your work is going smoothly. In the event that it's not, I wanted to assure you that I get bogged down all the time. Someone asked me once if I ever got writer's block and I said, 'only once or twice a day.'

For reasons absolutely unknown to Science, many writers begin their novels with a burst of enthusiasm. There's a measurable outpouring of time and energy. I experience this myself. At the outset, my optimism rides high and my hopes are boundless. This book...this book, I say to myself...will be clever, inventive, fresh, original, witty, and profound. My characters will be complex, textured, and amazingly true to life. My prose will sing. The pacing will be relentless, yet the story will ebb and flow in a manner that will produce both thrilling surprises and quiet moments where the reader can reflect on what's gone before . My descriptive passages will be evocative, bringing scenes to life in a way that will later translate into a movie sale with all the attendant fame and glory and big bucks. (Personally, of course, I'd never sell my character to Hollywood, but you get the point...)

This hype, this glorious feeling of Omnipotence sometimes continues unabated until Chapter Two. By then, most puzzlingly, I might notice something is amiss. You may find yourself in a similar position at this point in the game. Whether you've written a thousand words or ten thousand, you may find yourself faltering. A little note of doubt may creep into your consciousness. This, I assure you, is not about the merit of the work you've done so far. It's an artifact of your own insecurities. You're probably beginning to wonder what your mother will think of those steamy sexual passages. Perhaps you're suddenly uncertain your immediate family will appreciate your rendition of their annual drunken Christmas antics that result in all those accusations, renunciations, and slamming of doors. You might suspect that your mate (and let's not even talk about your kids) might take a dim view of what's visible through the little window you've opened onto your soul.

This is my advice. Disregard the nagging voice piping up from the back of your brain. You aren't stupid. You won't fail. You won't humiliate yourself (that much) in front of all your family and friends. The important point is to keep up your momentum regardless of the fact that you might stumble now and then. Most people you know have never written a novel at all, let alone pounded one out in a jam-packed thirty days.

Look at it this way; you're not compelled to show your manuscript to anyone, right? In fact, I'd advise you do the opposite. Keep it under lock and key. Guard it with your life. This is your opportunity to express yourself, safe from the opinions of the dolts around you, who don't know bad literature from good. If you're smart you've kept your mission a secret, but suppose you've already blabbed your goal to anyone who'd listen. What was the initial response? Did your loved ones and colleagues scoff or pretend to be supportive while making faces behind your back? Either way, if you bravely soldier on, you can make them eat their words. You can throw their skepticism back in their faces and laugh yourself silly that they had so little faith.

Believe me, getting from beginning to middle to end is an incredible accomplishment in itself! Literary quality is in the eye of the beholder and who's to say your novel won't be right up there among the greats? All you have to do is work. All you have to do is push. Focus on the job at hand. Ignore the urge to second-guess yourself. This is not the time for introspection; it's a time for charging on. Believe in yourself. Be determined to keep the promises you made when you first began. Your commitment to do th is will see you through, even over rough ground.

So. Close your eyes, take a deep breath, and write. You said you would do this so nod your head and say, "I will do this. I will do this. I will do this." And then do this.

Sue Grafton"

I mean, what's in this for you? What do you care if I write a crappy novel and then keep it under lock and key? Though to be fair, maybe you are secretly trying to undermine Nanowrimo, and save the world's editors from the deathly months of reviewing numerous really crappy 50,000 words exactly novels.

Maybe Sue is in league with The Editors.

In which case I forgive you for the phrase "Your commitment to do th is will see you through, even over rough ground."

The closer I read this letter, the more subversive it sounds....
Yesterday I roasted a duck, and it came out, in Sean's words, "as the best thing I've ever made him".

I don't really like duck, but this was okay. It was way less greasy than I had been led to believe by several duck appetizers at several bars.

Congratulations Michael Symon. You're totally awesome, and we all know you would have won your first Kitchen Stadium battle if it weren't for Murimoto's stain glass window. Now I will not be able to eat at Lolita's for at least a year.

Also, today is my third day without a headache, and it is totally rocking. Except that as soon as I get happy and feel good, everyone else in Cleveland decides to fold to the impending winter blues. And Norman Mailer dies of renal failure. Which seems pretty poetic to me, but seems to make everyone else sad. Norman Mailer said in 1991 that fifty years from now the novel would go the way of poetry and cease to be relevant. Because of course he failed as a novelist. Well, its 16 years later, and I haven't even FINSHED my first novel, so he can fuck off. Fuck you Norman Mailer. Not because of your nine wives or twenty three children or feminism or whatnot, but just because. Just fuck off because.

And while we're at it, Fuck You Sue Grafton. Stop sending me fake nanowrimo "pep" letters. Fuck you Tom Robbins for using your stilted and cliche prose to try and be the "cool" teacher.
Fuck all y'all motherfuckers.

Yeah! No Headache Bridget is So Much More Fun.

Sunday, November 11, 2007

So, for lack of a house stereo and/or decent computer speakers, I turned to the music channels on cable while house cleaning.

It got left on the "Adult Alternative" station while I was sweeping. And proceeded to make me feel forty by playing Fountains of Wayne, James Blunt, David Ford, John Mayer and then.....Crowded House? What? "She called up" is a great song. Also the Crowded House singer is from New Zealand. I wonder if they would be mad that they are on this station? Probably they are just happy that some 28 yr old in Cleveland knows where New Zealand is on a map.

They tricked me into not changing the channel, because now the fuckers are playing u2. See how I refuse to even capitalize that? Also I just realized that the tv show One Tree Hill is named after the u2 song. GROSS. That's enough of that.

addendum: They seriously just sandwiched Rilo Kiley in between Dave Matthews Band, Sarah McLachlan, and a Santanta/Dido duet. AND I didn't even notice the difference. Which means Rilo Kiley has jumped the shark. Also that this music channel actually SUCKS THE SOUL FROM YOUR BODY THROUGH YOUR EARS. IT STEALS EVERYTHING DECENT AND GOOD FROM YOUR 20s AND TURNS IT INTO DOG POOP. IT WILL EAT YOUR MEMORIES LIKE OVERLY RIPE BERRIES AND THEN REGURGITATE IT INTO YOUR MOUTH. I can't even turn it off, its like watching a Lindsey Lohan movie.

Saturday, November 10, 2007

Here is a video that I actually find annoying, but strangely catchy, like that 'If I Had A Million Dollars" song by Barenaked Ladies that everybody knows the words too except my dad. Which is just one more way in which my dad is pretty cool.

Anyway, the reason I put it here for you to watch is that even though I deep down hate it, it is a fairly accurate representation of every single work day I go through. Which is probably why I hate it.

Titles of my News Rss Feeds this morning....A poem

How Do You Stop Flesh-Eating Bacteria? Apply Some Clay

Could Robots Become Your Toddler's New Best Friend?

Lunar Landscape, HDTV-Style

California oil spill 'emergency'

Merkel, Bush seek Iran consensus

Tennis: Italian player betting ban

Author Norman Mailer dies at 84

UN chief makes Antarctica visit

Cricket: Sri Lanka set for defeat

Fresh clashes in north Sri Lanka

China halts 'toxic' toy exports

Row delays Harry Potter lexicon

Iran 'must free' woman activist

The Birth of a Brain Cell: Scientists Witness Neurogenesis

Congo arrests after toxic dumping

I'd like to say thank you to all the fine men and women who made my painkillad dreams last night so damn interesting and symbolically depressing. Things I learned from 7pm to 8:30am this morning....

1. My fear of Sean's disapproval is so high right now, that it has taken over my brain.
2. This has caused my brain to want to run away to Chicago with Tara and go to a bunch of indie dance clubs.
3. My brain also wants me to fuck some unknown english professor who is a total asshole and sleeps with his students and makes me feel like a retard.
4. My brain also wants Sam English to visit Buddy's vet tech classes so I can come and get an autograph.
5. There is no way for Sean to sleep past 4am when there's hunting to be done.
6. Its possible that the smell of doe rut in the apartment caused me to dream about the asshole english teacher.
7. My sister does not have a real appreciation for old Roman coins. Or blancmange.

Wednesday, November 7, 2007

Dad, you should make Mom watch these...

I steal ideas for these posts from emails to friends, and they never read this because its all old metaphors....

Old metaphor: Like Zeus, a child is trying to be born from my forehead. Unfortunately it doesn't quite seem to be strong enough, and there don't seem to be any greek gods around willing to split open my skull. But the doctors are going to disembowel some cats tomorrow and see what the intestines say about it.

My head is in so much pain, I want to take a wedge to it myself. I spend my days after work trying like hell to pass out as quickly as I can. This isn't helping my Nanowrimo goal. The sense of failure there isn't helping my headache. Its a vicious cycle.

Also particularly vicious? According to a news story Sean read, our combined household income is in the upper 20% of the country. Considering the number of adverse action letters I get every time I go shopping for insurance, I find this a terrifying and strangely wonderful fact. And depressing as hell. Which isn't helping my headache.

DO NOT WATCH 2 GIRLS AND A CUP. I haven't seen it myself, I'm sure its not that bad, we all know and love Gigi Allen, so really how much worse could it get? HOWEVER, on pure principle, do not participate in this unseemly act of mass gross out. Lets all pretend we're the new Editor In Chief of the Cleveland Plain Dealer, and only put happy news on the front page because that's what the numbers told us we should. Remember people, we don't like bad news.
I'm sure if I watched it, it would not help my headache. But not watching it is also not helping my headache.


Finally, I think its sad that we live in a world where a Hindu goddess is actually born and then we cut her arms and legs off.

Sunday, November 4, 2007

Today at breakfast, after someone using the term "preemie" to describe the size of a plate of french fries, it occurred to me to wonder at the fact that because of Cabbage Patch Dolls, a whole generation of people frequently use the term preemie with absolutely no negative connotation at all. Not that preemies should be discriminated against, however...thats kinda creepy.

Saturday, November 3, 2007

In the news I read today, we have rape on tv, massive disasters caused by matches, the lies of presidential candidates, love in the time of cholera, bounty hunters with nine lives, and internet in Africa. But today I worry about paying my car payment, rent, insurance, and cell phone bill all out of the same paycheck. Did you know that you can get a plane ticket to New Zealand for under 2000 dollars? And that they have a glacier there you can walk on? And giant eels that will eat out of your hand? And parrots that will eat the rubber off your car windshield?

"Workers of the world, unite!: You have nothing to lose but your—pustules
Karl Marx may have erred in predicting the "withering away" of the state under communism, but he got one thing right: "The bourgeoisie will remember my carbuncles until their dying day," he wrote in an 1867 letter to his longtime collaborator Friedrich Engels, referring to painful boils on his rump and nether regions. In a paper slated for the January British Journal of Dermatology, dermatology professor Sam Shuster of the University of East Anglia concludes from Marx's correspondences that the radical 19th-century political theorist suffered from hidradenitis suppurativa, a blockage and chronic inflammation of the sweat glands in the armpits and groin that can cause painful boillike lumps, swelling and scarring. The unsightly pustules made it hard for Marx to work and may have contributed to the alienation and self-loathing expressed in his writings, Shuster told Reuters. The revolutionary consoled himself by noting that it was at least a "proletarian disease." (British Association of Dermatologists; Reuters; London Times)"

Dude, Marx and I totally had the same condition! And I used to be a communist! Now, I realize it may be going a bit far to say I'm, like, Marx reincarnated....but....we can all draw our own conclusions...