New York Times Global Edition

Today, when I logged in to find out if the world had ended, I discovered the NYTimes now lets you switch between the "Global Edition" and the "US Edition". It's like an online personality quiz! Are you an insulated, ignorant American, or a well heeled, well traveled cosmopolitan?

Here's a few of the differences....

1) At the upper right, in the Global Edition they have a scrolling table of top global stories. In the US edition, that space is taken by an opinion column on the Civil War. GE +1

2) In the US edition, the article about Hillary's contact with Iran is down in the lower left, with no picture. In the Global edition, it's front and center, with a picture of Hillary smiling. GE +2

3) In the Global Edition, there is a soccer story on the front page. In the same spot, the US Edition has a bunch of little stories about Fox News, Facebook, and a special election in NY. No points, those are all stupid.

4) Also buried in the short story link for the US Edition is the Khmer Rouge Apology. On the Global page, it's posted more prominently, as it's own piece. GE +1

5) Both have a poll about how you feel about the economy. Fun! Both -1

6) The US Edition has movies reviews, in the same spot the Global Edition has world stocks. This is a toss up for me. I think they're both horribly depressing, because I hate modern pop culture. Both -1

7) The Global Edition has some story about Japan's exports I can find nowhere on the US side. Seriously, why would I care about Japanese exports? It's not like they took over our car industry or anything. GE +1

8) The Global Edition's entire rt lower side is taken up by a huge Cartier ad. The US Edition has a much smaller ad, for The Weekender ie itself. Lame. US -1

So, in conclusion, I now have yet another way for me to stroke my liberal prep school ego and feel much more educated, and therefore more entitled, than I did before. I love being part of the pseudo intellectual elite, itmakes it easier to forgive yourself when you buy paper plates because you hate doing dishes.

Cleveland Annual Orchid Show

There are three types of people who go to orchid shows:
1) People who like looking at beautiful things
2) Gardeners
3) Crazy obsessed orchid people who are only there on the last day to try and buy one at close.

Buddy and I hit up Touch for brunch in the morning, which was so so. He loved his omelet. I wasn't a fan of the Touch breakfast sandwich, I think the cream cheese overdid it. But we got to sit in the English Mystery Novel back room, and the coffee was really good that day. So I'll just move on down the menu next time. Then we picked up Doug and trekked out to the Cleveland Botanical Gardens.



Here's a place we all agreed we hadn't been in for at least ten years. I mean, most of us have wandered in the outdoor gardens, but when was the last time you paid to see the inside show? I almost did at Christmas for the tree exhibit, but was scared off by the idea of University Circle Sunday parking. There is nothing scarier than East Side intellectuals in subarus trying to parallel park.



It was crowded, but everyone else had a camera too, so I felt okay wandering around in a starry eyed daze staring at an LCD screen.



They let out a whole truckload of butterflies. Butterflies everywhere. Butterflies are one of those few things it's hard to capture in a picture, which make them special. So imagine little red and black jewels hovering just out of sight the whole time. Now imagine them beating their little wings against the greenhouse glass, desperately trying to get free and away from the ecstatic birds and small children.



We left right around 3pm, to avoid the crazy mob of orchid enthusiasts that usually descends on the show when they're selling off the orchids. The staff was already preparing for it in hushed strategic tones. We instead went to have some coffee and custards at Presti's, and agreed that brunch/museum/coffee is the stereotypical but true perfect Sunday. I should bottle and sell it in different packages, for the aspiring Clevelander. I mean, people make money off of less.



More of my Orchid show photos here. Like, a LOT more.

Karaoke Crossing

Saturday night was the Aries night out, as they like to call it, and we all met up at Casey Jones karaoke night (which I think should be renamed Gracie Jones). Buddy came with me as commentary, because we should be given our own late night show on E! And I made the classic mistake of not knowing what I wanted when the bartender asked me, and blurting out the only thing I could think of with all the pressure. Which was a Long Island ice tea. The first sip immediately swept me back ten years, when Buddy and I were regulars at dyke bars and the Grid. It also brought back the feeling of really being too drunk to keep drinking this, which Long Islands can do to you after half of the first glass. It's an illusion, but it'll make you vomit nonetheless. I spent the rest of the night making all the girls try my drink, to get some company in my nostalgic misery. Once you've thrown up Long Islands, you can never go back, and we have ALL thrown up Long Islands.

Birthday girl Kelly (and Buddy): She is a delicate fucking flower.

Birthday girl Krista: She will crush your delicate fucking flower with the power of Rock. Also, she makes jewelry.

Olivia Neutron Bomb.

Andrew bringing lightning down off the mountain, to reanimate Depeche Mode.

Adam and Krista taking Enter the Sandman, and bringing it to new growly voice heights.

Dakkangjung (Spicy Candied Fried Chicken. No, really.)

Every time my mother gets Chinese food, she gets General Tso's chicken. I don't know if this is her favorite, or my dad's favorite, or if it just evolved as the one thing all the kids would eat. But I now hate General Tso's chicken. It's so unnaturally sweet, and it's never crunchy the way it should be.

This recipe, which Jay and I made on Thursday, is like what General Tso's tries to be, but fails. It's sweet, but it's also hot from the ginger and chili pepper. The chicken is actually crunchy. It smells fantastic when you're thickening the sauce.

I've made a few changes from the original recipe, which I found here. First, the recipe calls for double deep frying the chicken. Neither of us really knew what that meant, and it wasn't explained, so we just coated the chicken again with cornstarch and threw it back in the oil. We agreed in the end that this step was unnecessary, and in fact made the chicken too dry. Frying it once will be fine. No really, it will.

Also, it took forever to make, because first you do the chicken, then you do the sauce, and in the end your friends are waiting two hours for dinner. Two nice smelling hours, but next time I'll be doing the sauce and the chicken simultaneously. We just didn't have the proper pots for it that night. The only benefit was that it gave me more time to drink.

Finally, sesame seeds are expensive, so I left them out. Sue me. You won't get much, since I obviously don't even have money for sesame seeds.



Dakkangjung

Ingredients:
- 4 large boneless skinless chicken breasts
- 1 cup peanuts
- 1 cup sesame seeds
- 1 cup flour
- 1 cup cornstarch
- 2-3 dried chili peppers, crushed
- 2 large eggs
- 1 cup brown sugar
- 1 cup corn syrup
- 1 cup thinly sliced fresh ginger
- 2 tsp salt
- 2 tsp black pepper
- 1/4 cup vinegar
- 3 tbsp soy sauce

Cut the chicken breasts into 1 inch chunks. Throw them in a bowl. Add the flour, cornstarch, salt, pepper, and eggs. Mix it with your hands. No seriously. I know you'll be picking flour off your fingernails for the next thirty minutes, but you need to coat that shit.

Then deep fry. Duh.

While those are frying, start the sauce. Boil one cup of water. Add the ginger to the boiling water. After about five minutes, add the soy, the brown sugar, and the vinegar. Boil it over medium heat for another five minutes. Then add the corn syrup. This can take anywhere from ten minutes to thirty minutes, so you need to watch it. It's done when it starts to take a while to pour from a spoon.

Add the chicken, peanuts, and chili. Mix. Eat. Then count on eating those leftovers tomorrow first thing, because you won't stop thinking about it. And maybe when you buy these ingredients, buy enough for making it twice. Cause you will.

America's Next Top Model Cycle 12 Recap: Seriously, did the producers tell her to do that?

Open letter to Celia:

Alright, so let me preface this by saying that I did not see the end of last night’s episode. I tried to watch it online this morning, but could only find the first part of the show. So I didn’t get to see your spectacular fuck up that everyone else is talking about today. Luckily, there are plenty of quotes, pictures, and commentary available at my fingertips, so I was able to piece it together pretty well.

The episode started well for you. First you were super cute when you opened the Tyra mail and said “it rhymes!” Adorable and condescending. Love it. You survived a pointless visit by Toccara, some ex-contestant who the producers brought in only to prove that their little competition is legit, and listened to her babble about getting to know you all within the space of two minutes. She was annoying, Aminat’s lisp was annoying, and the whole thing was head bashing. But you withstood it, with no audible complaints. I credit your age and maturity for this.

You braved the idiocy of Benny Ninja, a man that makes me cringe with memories of a certain club in Akron where the meth flowed like water and the conversation routinely included discussions of “bitches” and “that slut whore”, while dressed in day-glo feather boas. He brought in his coke connection, who pretended to be a DJ and “dropped some tracks”. This euro-Hall and Oates team made you all dance to crap they would never ever play in real life (who poses to country music?), and laughed snarkily into their red bull and vodkas. But while SOME people flopped around like dead birds (SONDRA), you vogued like your desperate Kentucky soul, the very honor of the Confederacy, depended on it.

Most impressive was the way you stood the “heat” of a thousand congregated gay men in glitter staring you down at the Mansion. It’s obvious you have an inner drag queen, unlike Allison who was leaking confidence like the sawdust in her ragdoll limbs. You even out-dragged Natalie, who’s had experience with posing (i.e. sleeping with agents), but lacked your arrow shooting, Annie Lennox skills.

When I ran out of YouTube videos to watch, I was confident you had this in the bag. And yes, I’ll admit, I’ve called you mean things in the past, like flat iron face, and Neanderthal. But I knew from the moment I saw your squished up brow, you were going to do well in this thing. Not win it, of course, because Cover Girl doesn’t pick weird looking people, but I expected you to make the final four.

I don’t know if it was the humiliation of being made to dress up like a mother vampire with her Transylvanian brood, or maybe your system is in withdrawal from the fumes of the Post It Note factory where you grew up, but something snapped. I know it’s hard, being the oldest in a village of babies. People like Talia ARE horribly annoying (“I wanna go, it’s too hard! Wait, I wanna stay, this is my dream!), but you are expected to be the sane, professional voice of reason in the house.

You may have dreaming about this since you were fourteen, stripping to your undies while your 30 yr old boyfriend took pictures and told you how very unique looking you were. You may feel entitled to this experience, given how many Sears’s auditions you’ve lost. But remember, when you’re old, nobody gives you the excuse of youth. At 25, you’ve gone past the point of “she’ll learn” and “she’s new and this is hard.” You are used goods. You have to be twice as good and twice as nice in order to compete with the dewey 18 yr olds. You're right, it's not fair, but there it is.

If the judges allow you another chance, it’s going to be a short one. So don’t pull any prima donna shit like this again okay? When a girl says she wants to go home, the proper response from now on is to shut the fuck up and let her send herself home. They always do.

If you go home next episode, like we all suspect will happen, please try to remember that your co-workers at the Post It factory don’t want to hear you bitching about your fifteen minutes of fame for the next ten years. It’s just not classy.

Oh, and on the off chance the producers actually paid you to do this, because Sondra was creating disappointingly little tension in the house and they knew Talia was the new cash cow, well I hope you got paid. And thank god Kortnie's gone, right? She reminded me of a member of Heart.

This is how I feel today. Apocalyptic. Also, maybe I should stop taking pictures while I'm driving.

Wonkette found this blog post over at RedState about how Obama is going to take over the internetz. Here is the funniest quote ever:

"Snarky note number 1: They already took over The Census Bureau, so the
next obvious step is grabbing the technological means to take the census
itself."

Also hilarious is the first comment on said post:

" am blessed myself to have an IT guru as a husband who has built
firewalls for many companies and a couple of government agencies…..I will
personally be fine BUT We The People again CANNOT let this stand!"

Yeah, of course not. How could a true blood Republican ever stand by silently and watch their lines of communications be monitored for no good reason?

Cleveland Sports and Fishing Show

Is that a dead bird in there?

Yesterday, S. and I went to the Beachland Brunch to get a little drunk. We tried to make it to a movie at CFF first, but got there late and opted for a little tipsiness instead. They could do wonders for the Film Festival by holding it somewhere besides Tower City, the most infuriating place to park ever. So we said fuck it and drove to Collinwood. I had something called an Irish breakfast, which was Guinness, whiskey, some other alcohol, I don't remember. It tasted like a whiskey milkshake. S. had the Bloody British. Our waitress was super nice. The food is not always consistent there, but they more than make up for it with the drinks and atmosphere. And this time round, the food was actually pretty good. The fried scrambled eggs were very nice.

With soundtrack provided by Hall and Oates greatest hits, we drove to Berea, to meet up with Colleen and Matt somewhere, ditch our car so we didn't have to pay parking twice, and meander for free around the Sports and Fishing show. Colleen had two free tickets, and the boys tried to convince us to try this elaborate not going to work scheme to get them in for free too, which turned out to be unnecessary because someone just gave S. two free tickets, like, in front of the gate. Which should serve as a sign for the rest of the experience.

I'll just sum it up in pictures here...

Very unhappy camel at the petting zoo. Though I don't really know the standards of camel happiness. Maybe he's thrilled there's an endless supply of water and he's not getting whipped.

Amish crafted guns, taller than S. Very creepy, didn't know the Amish were packing this kind of firepower. Guess they have to protect themselves from the elephants rampaging around western Pennsylvania. I'm very sick of the whole "Amish made means real quality" schtick. I think I trust precisely tuned machines just a tad bit more than I do humans who have to repeat the same inane task 800 times a day. How's that for generational commentary?

Complex animal robots, designed to seduce and destroy. This is your future.

An expensive piece of machinery that from first glance, seems to be a foppish symbol of greed and luxury. But really, think how useful it would be during the Meltdown. You could just bob in the lake, hidden by darkness, watching the city burn. And it would be a great escape vehicle for trying to make it to the salt mines under the lake. Which I think we can all agree is really the place to be during the Apocalypse.

Complex humanoid robots, designed to seduce and destroy.

Demonstration of how to properly field dress a terrorist. Oh, I'm sorry, was that in bad taste?

I love these lights. I'm plotting how to make miniature versions for my house. I am slightly disturbed by fact there's a ballroom at the IX Center. What company says, hey I know the perfect place for our year end event. We'll make everyone drive out to the wasteland by the airport, pay 8 dollars for parking, and dance the night away next to a giant warehouse full of cars and fishing poles. Better yet, I wonder if anyone has ever gotten married at the IX Center.

Spinach Feta Pies - For the Days You Need to be Extra Strong

I remember the first day I liked spinach. I was young, but old enough that when my parents took us out to dinner that day, they let me go to the buffet by myself. Even at that point, I was aware that there was a certain way I supposed to act. So I got a salad. But I put something new on there, instead of lettuce. When I got back to the table, my mother let me eat it without saying a word, until I was mostly done eating it. Then she sprung the shocking news. I had just eaten a plate of raw spinach.

And ever since then, I've loved raw spinach. But I hate cooked spinach. I'm that way with a lot of vegetables, tomatoes, cabbage, broccoli. I hate the mushy texture of most cooked veggies. Oh, but raw spinach is SO good.

And then there's spinach pies. I've wanted them when I see them on menus. They're surrounded by my favorite things - cheese and bread. They look so crispy and flaky. But on the rare occasions that I budge, the resulting first bite is always disappointing. Mainly the problem is that huge long string of cooked spinach spiraling out of the flaky crust, as if to specifically to ruin my enjoyment.

So when David Leibovitz posted this recipe on his blog, I thought "Hey, if I made this, I could make the spinach as small as I like." It was the same revelation I had when I learned to cook with onions. "I could even freaking puree that shit." And though I didn't quite go that far, I did mince it microscopically small. I changed the original recipe quite a bit, so check out David's cause I'm sure it's way more awesome. But I'm pretty fond of these things. They pretty much rock.



Spinach Feta Pie

Ingredients:

- about 2 cups chopped spinach
- 1 cup chopped green onion
- 2 tbsp chopped parsley
- 4 oz crumbled mild feta cheese
- 4 oz crumbled goat cheese
- salt and pepper to taste
- pinch garlic
- whatever the hell else spice you think you'd like
- 2 tbsp olive oil
- 1 stick melted butter
- one large egg
- phyllo sheets (I bought one frozen package, and used half of that, which made 5 pies. God bless you if you can find fresh made phyllo in Cleveland.)

Preheat the oven to 350.

In a small pan, saute the onions in the olive oil, with salt and pepper. Once softened, add the spinach and parsley, and cook until "wilted".

In a medium bowl, mix the greens with the cheeses, and stir in the egg.

Take out your phyllo. Make sure to follow the instructions on the box, that tell you to take out one sheet at a time, and cover the remaining sheets with plastic wrap and then a damp towel.

Brush the sheet with the melted butter. If you prefer, use olive oil. Add another sheet and repeat. I made these with a 2 sheet average.

Take a good tablespoon of the filling, and place it in the center of the sheets. Then fold as you see fit, brushing with butter or oil at the places you fold over. I tried to make triangles, but was an abysmal failure. So we got squares and one large oval looking one.

Brush the tops with butter (this time use butter) and back for about 30 minutes. In my oven, this really meant 40 minutes. You want them to be golden and crispy.

Then eat one and be happy that there are way to enjoy spinach without picking it out of your teeth. These are great for dinner. I suspect they will also be pretty spectacular for lunch. And already we're discussing variations - such as the mushroom extravaganza, and the lamb power pocket.

Lost saints

, .

A partial list of churches closing in Cleveland:

St. Francis, Myron Ave (preached to birds, fed wolves)
St Philips and St. James, Bosworth Rd (converted Syria, first bishop of Jerusalem, those both lasted, huh)
St. Adalbert, E. 83rd (chopped down the oak trees, got killed)
St. Hedwig, Madison Ave (Lakewood) (either a duchess, or Queen of Poland)
St. Barbara, Denison Ave (original user of the transporter beam)
St. Hyacinth, Francis Ave (patron saint of drowning)
St. Casimir, Sowinski Ave (pawn of royalty, probably gay, died of tuberculosis)
St. Ignatius of Antioch, Lorain Ave (touched by Jesus as a child, eaten by Roman lions)
St. Cecilia, Kinsman (musician, visit her skull in Italy)
St. James, Detroit Ave (Lakewood) (no idea which James, there's like ten of them)
St. Emeric W. 22nd St (prince killed young by a boar, not sure if he was actually religious at all, but people go to his grave to be healed. Or converted?)
St. Paul, E. 40th St (blinded while traveling alone in desert, had "visions")
St. Peter, E.17th St (first pope, heaven's bouncer)
St. Procop, W. 41st ("hermit with a skull and a girdle of leaves")
St. Wendelin, Columbus Rd (my grade school!) (nicer hermit, with book instead of skull)
Blessed Sacrament, Fulton Rd (not a saint, but still a person, trippy)

America's Next Top Model Cycle 12 Recap: The Pink Limo of Doom takes the Girls to the Bus of Ill Repute

The children know the story. Their mothers tell it to them when they have broken their cup, kicked the puppy, or fed watercolors to their baby sister. They see the giant pink carriage, the color of medicine, or playground scars. They know it lurks in the alleys of the city, idling, waiting, until the Witch calls for its services, its headlights shining in the evil gloom like a monstrous feline. They shake with fear at the mention of her name.

The Witch was bored. She paced her drawing room, filled with shaky nervousness, longing to cause mischief. What product could she throw to her vacuous minions today? What dreams would shatter to the floor with the teardrops of another young girl? She pawed at her closet, plucking at folds and ticking at buckles. Her eyes narrowed as she pondered the collection of dolls waiting for her, innocently strewn about the townhouse, plumped up on Red Bull and Hot Pockets. What game would they play today?

She pressed a button and summoned The Shadow to her side. The Shadow is a teaser. He brings you close, with promises of candy, and free schwag. He takes a kind, fatherly tone with you. The real danger is in his magical words, barbed words that stick between your knees, words that dig behind your eyes. Nothing in the world makes The Shadow happy but your defeat and humiliation.

The Shadow was feeling unnaturally gleeful, knowing he had so many bad, bad dolls to pick from. He dressed up for the occasion even, as a bouffant covered spider, happily clicking his fangs together. The dolls he dressed in pretty little pink sweaters, the better to see their blood with. And, Oh! He had fun! Back and forth, back and forth, he played the marionettes. Pick up your knees, he said. Walk like a giraffe, he said. Glide like a statue! The little dolls tried and tried, but their minds were weak. All except mercenary Natalie, from the Wasteland. Natalie had fought these spiders before, she understand how to survive. The nerve endings in her feet had been killed off long ago. Her shoulder joints were made of steel ball bearings.

Then the Shadow had a tea party, for all his fashionista monster friends. They came from all over, from the slave auctioneer’s block and the brothels of Seventeen Magazine, to ogle his worked over dolls. The dolls smiled as they walked the planks, smiled into the hungry greedy eyes waiting for them to mature to full ripeness. And Natalie, brave Natalie, she smiled sincerely. “You will not get me,” she shouted silently, “I will escape you!” She had no tears as she watched the banshees eating Thalia’s organs backstage. There is no room for the weak in the Wasteland.

Finally, The Shadow was tired. He handed the dolls over to the Silver Prince. A hostage of the Witch himself, the Silver Prince tried to encourage the dolls. Just try a little harder to smile, he said, be a little prettier, and little more interesting and a little more fun. Pretend you have a different life, one where you are free, and employed! A life full of small talk, life goals, art and music! Be sincere! He tried to inspire them by taking them on a road trip, in the fresh city air. The dolls pleaded with their eyes to passer-bys (rescue me, please!). One doll even gave up her precious daily ration of bread, spitting it into the street for attention. But no one noticed the dolls in the dark of the Big City. Those that maybe did, they knew better than to try and cross the Witch. Hedge funds have folded for less. And Natalie failed, for her eyes could not conceal her concrete heart and steel intentions.

Finally, the dolls were brought in for their daily review by the Witch. Tired, distraught, the dolls quaked in their Old Navy tank tops. The Witch looked them over, piece by piece, seam by seam. Her glowing green eyes stared into their souls and wrestled their squalid dreams. When it was all over, The Ninja was found wanting in entertainment value. And when the dogs were through, all that was left were her feet and the palms of her hands.