Lancaster

Lancaster, PA is the heart of Pennsylvania Dutch Country, and a bit of a parable on Modern America. Founded by those who wished to practice their rather repressive and extreme religion freely, it is still the tight core of brick buildings they laboriously constructed, peppered with horses and buggies and children in straw hats with hoop toys, but encased in an ever-encroaching donut of highways and outlet malls. It used to be that everything you bought in Lancaster was made in Lancaster. This was when Lancaster was a mere town, or "community," but Lancaster is now a city, and in cities, things are made in China.

My Grandpa Ray was raised Mennonite (kind of like Amish, but with electricity, and clothing with more than one type of wool) but left the faith for Lutheranism when he married Ethel Drue. I never met Grandma Druie--she died when I was four, and her son didn't marry my mother until I was six (for those of you drawing a tree, yes, that means Grandpa Ray and I were not related by blood. For those of you now thinking "So he wasn't really your grandfather," I have a variety of phrases and gestures, none of which I would have said or practiced in front of Grandpa Ray).

I have been to Lancaster many times. In Lancaster, I have watched Amish children sneak into arcades, accompanied my mother on seemingly endless quilt-shopping excursions, built snowmen, eaten lemon chicken, and helped my dad, Scott, illegally release our overgrown goldfish into the pond at Long's Park. I have nice Lancastrian memories, and until now, when I just typed "Lancastrian," never equated it to anything involving the War of the Roses: that is how specific I am about Lancaster. This past week was likely my last visit. For a while, at least.

We arrived at the Woodcrest Villa Mennonite Home Community in the late morning. Uncle "Big Man" Jim ran out to greet us, Grandpa Ray's old gray cap pulled low over his eyes. He boogied on the parking lot as we began to unload the car, and then hoisted my brother over his shoulder and threw him into a bush. We laughed. Aunt "Sweetheart" Cindy came out as well, and we all pointed at my brother's sherbert-colored, collar-popped polo, now spackled with mud and pine needles. This continued until Scott joined us, and I hugged him, and the salt began to flow.

Ray's neighbor Al accosted us as we walked towards the apartment.

"Whaddya want?" he snarled, in his high-waisted pants and undershirt. "Whaddya want?"

The triptych of Jersey faces on me and my siblings prepared to cut him at the knees, but then he smiled.

"I'm sorry about Ray," he said. "I'm head of the pool league, and he was mighty good." My sister, now alerted to the presence of a pool room at the Woodcrest Villa Mennonite Home Community, thought of little else through the rest of the day.

"Want to play me in pool?"

"Can we check out the pool room?"

"POOL!!"

She had been bequeathed one of Grandpa Ray's hand-carved ping-pong paddles, but started to look enviously at the pool cue, assigned to my brother.

Al, the neighbor, invited us to play before we left. Or anytime. I began to gather that the almost eerily robust health of my grandfather was less unusual among the Mennonite elders than the rest of the country. The faces around the Mennonite home were lined but never craggy and spoke sensibly, with appropriate volume.

Scott and Cindy had gone through most of the apartment the day before, laying out Grandpa Ray's collection of pocket watches, and drawing straws for who would get the coffee table and chair against the sofa.

"Who got the gun?" my brother asked.

I went back outside and looked at the car. His golf cap was in the back seat, a sweater and his clubs in the trunk. The week before he had shot an 85. Had he been planning to break this recent record for his nonagenarian years?

I remembered his last visit, in October, when we'd gone into New York and he'd been accosted by a man dressed up as a piece of Sorrento cheese, and we'd watched the second presidential debate together and he patiently tolerated my screaming at the television. I don't think he loved my bleeding liberalism, or my emotional and sometimes irrational hatred of the President, but I give him credit for staying in the room. And for chuckling about the Sorrento cheese man.

His visits were not infrequent, but he never stayed more than a day or two. No dawdling: up early and out on the road, goodbyes said the night before. He didn't like delay. Delay meant he would stand there, hat in right hand, change jangling in the left, tapping his feet.

Cindy told me how he'd died: he'd picked up some friends and dropped them at the golf course, but began to feel unwell and asked one to drive him home. They were talking, and then they weren't. And then his friend looked over, and his head was down. No delay.

We didn't stay long Sunday--just spent some time with the family and packed up the golf clubs and such. Monday was very nice, spent in New York with a variety of old friends I was happy to see--Colby, CK, Paul, Jordan, traffic at the tunnel, the Egon Schiele paintings at MoMA...

The burial was Tuesday, but there's no real need to write about that.

Before, in the morning, we went to the Lancaster Market, where I had developed a taste for chocolate pudding at a young age. At 23, I was more interested in the $1.50 pints of raspberries, and the white net caps worn by the ladies selling them. As we left we passed an Amish horse and buggy from behind. A little boy was waving out its back opening. My sister had us slow down, and took a picture as she passed.


Snark returns soon, I swear. Thanks for all the emails.

Later For Now

I've been reading a lot lately, from punditry in book form and epic poems to Mel Brooks screenplays, high-quality post-modern fiction, and my own shitty drivels circa 2001, trying to synthesize something resembling a style, and preferably a snappy one. The result of reading so much excellence, it seems, is that whenever I write something on paper I tend to draw a line after page two, declare it crap, and start something else. While the doggedness might be laudable, the syntax it produces is not. I've been moping.

I realized in Jersey last week that I miss the East something fierce: its compact energy, and refusal to let you hold still: that it holds most of my friends and near-all of my family. I've been thinking that maybe I treated the move too lightly, that I didn't put enough weight on the distance.

My grandfather died this morning.

He was 92 and on his way to the golf ourse. He lived the definition of a full and satisfied life. Perhaps when I return, I'll get back on track.

What My Little Sister Would Like To Hear

So I went out to The Dime last night 'cause I'm friends with the bouncer 'cause I know all the important B-people (bouncers, bartenders... bagboys...) 'cause I'm a hot 20something like that and because I'm under 30 and not a total mutant I must know everyone, and Lindsay Lohan spilled her virgin vodka tonic like all over my Chloe purse and was so embarrassed, so we went to the bathroom together and bonded and now I'm getting a walk-on in that Minnesota movie but only the parts being shot in LA.

Wait, you thought I stayed in? With my cat? Watching Laguna Beach? After a field trip to the library? Do I look like a loser?

Sunday At The Office

I'm not going to pretend I like Sunday at the office.

Saturday At The Office

I had some mild anger when the alarm went off this morning. Alarms and Saturday don't mix. Work and Saturday don't mix.

Or do they?

I passed some yard sales on the walk to work. No yard sales on Monday. No paperback Dave Eggers memoirs for a buck on Monday. Not even on Tuesday! Wednesday and Thursday might offer scores of Mexicans wishing me a good morning as they line the sidewalks outside OSH, but walk to work on Saturday and spend it in sweet, solitary silence.

I arrived at the office a little late (due to yard sales). Good thing there's no one there to notice.

No calls on Saturday. No creepy FedEx man on Saturday. Scores of coffee drinks and delicious food charged all to the company on Saturday, for no good reason other than... it's Saturday. We get paid 1.5 times as much because it's Saturday. Saturday has magical powers.

Yes, I am okay with being here, this Saturday.

Though maybe not next Saturday. They can't have yard sales every week.

On Sunday (rather than Saturday) at the office.

Busby's

Went to Busby's last night. Had last been to Busby's on St. Patrick's Day, and greeted March 18th with a liquified brain and this "You have an interview at Bruckheimer in 40 minutes" message on my voicemail.

The Bruckheimer peon was very nice but I think he knew about the hangover, because he kept staring at the bits of congealed brain around my hairline. Guess it leaked out my ears or something. He didn't say anything. Don't you hate that? You think everything's fine, and just maybe someone has a little eye-twitch problem, and then you look in the vanity mirror on the drive home.

Anyway. Last night.

It was supposed to be a holistic night. A get-over-jetlag night. A domestic night. And it was going so well: I went to yoga, played with the cat (I have this baseless theory that attention will quell her biting problem), and was getting kind of excited to kick back with some Pinsky-translated Inferno. Circles. Hell. Virgil. Pinsky. I like Pinsky. I interviewed him several years ago for the Chronicle. Then I received a book of his verse from my Chronicle Secret Santa at Christmastime, and I only mention it here because it was among the most thoughtful gifts I've received, and I barely knew the guy. I got all misty-eyed when he gave it to me. I actually developed a little crush on him for it.

I wonder what he's up to these days.

Oh right. Last night.

I'd already declined Qs and told Dennis I was staying in, but my roommate is one smooth motherfucker, talking me out of sweatpants and into... jeans... with just a few choice words and a disco CD. Toot toot beep beep! Busby's!

At Busby's, I learned this sweet line. Men, take notice. This line is foolproof. Some guy used it on us and ended up with A., my roommate's very sweet friend who looks like a Barbie doll and isn't even really done breaking up with her boyfriend yet. The line is:

"I would like to buy you all a round of shots."

Blogging Danger

My friend Eggfurious got the can last week for posting sensitive things from work on his blog. Nothing insulting or nasty, but certain bigwigs found out about it and were not amused. Bye bye Eggfurious. And it's too bad, because I really liked his blog, plus he is my friend, and I want to shake the stupid tweenyboppers who found his blog and publicized it (kind of) and shoved it into the bigwigs' sightlines: I want to shake them and hear them promise to stay in goddamn AOL chatrooms where they BELONG.

Anyway Eggfurious's situation briefly inspired me to comb through this blog and delete anything mildly sensitive about my own workplace.

Then I realized that I kind of want to quit anyway, so I stopped.


I was at the Jersey Shore last week and it fucking ruled. Perhaps I will post more on it later. Perhaps I will post more on it over the weekend, when I am AT WORK. (I shouldn't act like I'm bitter, because I volunteered and don't mind the extra cash. But I might mind Saturday morning).

You Too Can Meet The Love Of Your Life...

Ok, I don't want you to get violent or anything, but this story requires a confession: my office is the one responsible for all those odious eHarmony.com ads. The ones with all the just-shy-of-middle-age semi-porkers talking about how much they love each other in front of a white drop, that compel you to throw the less-tasty portions of your dinner at the TV screen, where Dr. Neil Clark Warren spouts on the 29 Dimensions of Compatibility and offers you your $40 Personality Profile for free. Yes, those are ours. And how is the Personality Profile's market value $40 if it's free? Is it free in the alternate sense, a la Mumia?



J. edits these commercials, and they make him a lot of money.

He likes this money. But sometimes the work gets to him. Occasionally, after 10 hours splicing together some shit about how this couple's collective cheeks hurt from smiling, he needs to blow off a little steam.

So the other day he took ten minutes out and made a new ad.

FADE FROM WHITE:

Bumbling Dude and his loving wife. Their faces a little scrunched.

Bumbling Dude chatters on about his love for his wife. He describes their first kiss.

The wife looks troubled.

He says something about wet, hot, passionate...

The wife looks really troubled. Every time her husband lays on another awkward adjective, we see her looking increasingly, and finally incredibly, disgusted, yet it's somehow subtle. J.'s pretty good.

Dr. Neil Clark Warren interjects, and the ad is over.

We watch this a few times and laugh heartily. Then we call the new producer.

"M.," J. says. "I've got the new rough cut, will you look at it?"

M. comes in the bay.

"Ok, take a look," J. says. "This is two days into the edit, so I think it's pretty good."

He runs the spot.

M. looks deeply, deeply troubled. More troubled than this eHarmony wife, even.

"Um..." she says, looking at our expectant faces. "It's... um... well, it's good! Just one thing, though..."

Yeah. Just one.

T.'s Visit

Miss Blotto and her friend, The Scurvy Pirate, aka T., had great fun this past weekend.

I showed him a grand old time. For instance, after I picked him up from the airport Thursday, I attempted to avoid traffic, went the wrong way down the wrong road, and gave T. a thorough tour of scenic Culver City.

And then while I was at work Friday, he tested the Breakfast Burger at Carl's Jr.

Sidenote
This is what James Zaininger at McSweeneys.net has to say about the Breakfast Burger at Carl's Jr.:

For centuries skeptics and naysayers the world over have insisted upon the existence of an axiom or set of mathematical principles that would impose actual physical limitations upon the ingredients a human being could possibly place between a sesame-seed bun and sell to the general public for $3.59. But, yet again, the envelope has been pushed. Ladies and gentlemen, behold! The Breakfast Burger from Carl's Jr is here.

Developed by the same forward-thinking visionaries and scientists who, 20-odd years ago, had the courage to rise up and shout, "Yes! You can put an onion ring and barbecue sauce on a hamburger," this tasty morsel will revolutionize the way you think of breakfast. The fearlessly audacious Breakfast Burger shatters just about every fundamental dietary, social, and ethical standard known to man. But take warning, not a single animal species has been spared in the preparation of this corpulent feast, and it is not recommended for emotionally sensitive patrons, children under the age of 7, or people with a history of heart disease in their families; your grandma's Egg McMuffin this is not.

Best described as robust, stout, and earthy, this strapping full-bodied sandwich is fare fit for a lumberjack. Although it can be somewhat gamy, this grubfest is so chock-full of nourishing, wholesome goodness that I can think of no better way to greet the morn. Now you can finally know what a buttery fried egg, crisp bacon, golden hash-brown nuggets, melted cheese, and a charbroiled all-beef patty would taste like in the same bite.

The Breakfast Burger from Carl's Jr. is more than just a shrine to fat (46 g), cholesterol (275 mg), and sodium (1570 mg); it is a testament to the human spirit: from the courageous men and women who dreamed up its glorious creation to the gallant, lionhearted souls who dare ingest it.

Discover how T. agrees and disagrees with Mr. Zaininger here.

Friday night things picked up. We drank beer at a 21+ screening at the Arclight (recommended) and saw Hustle and Flow (also recommended). We really liked this part:

"DJay, we want radio play. So what would you say in place of 'Beat That Bitch'?"

"I dunno... 'Stomp That Ho'?"

Oh man. I hope you're writing that down.

Saturday T. helped me have dinner with a portion of my family forest. We also walked along the Venice strand, and saw all kinds of things... be-turbanned men playing electric guitars on rollerblades... your name on a grain of rice!... a working replica of Zoltar... just a big ole slice of Americana.

Then drove to Smee's extremely swinging and spacious pad in San Diego. He and his housemates were celebrating the arrival of Admiral Ackbar, and we were glad to help.

The next day we decided to take the next step in our relationship: foreign travel.

Being strapped for time, we had to rule out the obvious Paris, Bangkok, and Tahiti options, and instead drove to Tijuana.

Are you in need of anything made in China? You should've told us, because I bet someone down in Mexico shoved it in our face. Tijuana's kind of gross. We spent a little while picking out 1 litre each of half-price alcohol to legally bring back to the US, spent lots more time in line waiting to get back to the US, and then drove to the airport, stopping at In-N-Out on the way. Discussed telling my Dear Roommate of Olde that we had ingested too much mezcal in TJ and tied the knot, but realized she would be kind of disappointed when she learned it wasn't true.

And that was T.'s visit. I think he enjoyed himself. Yay T.

I Am A Pork Chop

I'm going back East this weekend to go down the shore with my family. This will be great fun. Not such great fun, however, will be displaying the effects of my addictive personality's most recent obsession: Sour Cream 'n Onion Pringles Minicans.



We have them at the office and I cannot stay away from them. They have turned me into a lardass.

This is bad enough, but much worse when you consider that my parents are marathoners, my brother and sister soccer stars, and the dog a denizen of thrice-weekly trail runs. He doesn't even stop to poop.

I should've Master Cleansed or something.

Santa Monica: Where Bums and A-Listers Collide

Perhaps this reporter, writing for American OK!, has yet to arrive stateside. In any case, s/he has certainly never been to Ebersole Park.

Pop Quiz

Name the scariest aspect of the above photo:

a) My baby brother has started driving.
b) My temporarily deranged parents have allowed him to drive the new luxury vehicle.
c) My baby brother is wearing a polo shirt with its collar popped.


What's that, you say? D, all of the above? Oh, you are just too smart.

Roommate of Old

The office was collectively cranky yesterday. No one liked the lunch, no one liked the clients, we were out of Doubleshot, and I screwed up the dailies transfer. Like they expected me to get things right without Doubleshot.

In times like these, I reach out to Roommate of Ye Olde Senior Yeare. Roommate of Old always tells me that I can do no wrong, no matter how patently obvious it is that I am, in fact, wrong, and it makes me feel better.

I wrote her and expressed a desire to quit my job. I also expressed regret at not having spent a year deworming infants in Somalia, as I lack interview fodder.

Her response:
-------
To: MissBlotto
From: RoommateOfOld
Re: re: i hate my job

if you dewormed infants in some impoverished country, you would just
look like a show off, what's more, you might have contracted worms
yourself.

worms, my friend, are very bad, very very bad

-------

The voice of reason. Everyone needs a friend like her.

(Today will be better. We got more Doubleshot).

36 Hours In Vegas

Day 1

So we left the office a little after 8, 3 hours after we were supposed to have arrived. No matter. We had several bottles of vodka-Orangina, a rented Uplander minivan, and a treasure map to the only two sure-win slot machines at the MGM Grand (you must go before noon).

Arrive in Vegas at 12:30. Check in to our Deluxe rooms at the vaguely Chinese-themed Imperial Palace.

Challenge: Differentiate between the Standard and De-luxe accommodations. Justify your answer. Do not use the relative ugliness of the bedspreads and/or curtains.

Exhibit A:
Exhibit B:

The latter part of the challenge is tricky, no?

Wonder at the Imperial's "Dealertainers," who dress as Rod Stewart and Liza Minelli et al., to sweeten your mood as they take your chips.

Head towards the Bellagio and meet up with Mark and Mari, who are driving from D.C. to Berkeley and just so happen to be around. Gamble. Drink. Win money. Lose money. Win money. Lose money. Head to Paris, with its ceiling painted to resemble the springtime sky. Obliviate to the time. Play nickel slots to attract cocktails, and experience great excitement when my machine goes apeshit.

"Keep going! Keep going!"

"You're going to win like $1200!"

"Holy crap!"

"Keep going!"

The machine stops, and I cash that shit out. $38.25.

Leave Paris.

Day 2

Why does every casino have such hideous carpeting?

Heat. Intense heat. Window-shop at the designer shops and witness dudes and their trophies in action. See the Prada shoes gifted to Kristy. There will be no such present for me on this trip. Adore a yellow Dolce t-shirt encrusted with rhinestones, spelling out "I Heart Collagen." Look at price tag; move on. Pool. Overheat. Nap. Primp. Depart for "Little Buddha" at the Palms, but 1/3 of the entourage begins fighting and we lose our table. Go instead to the Excalibur buffet, ditch 1/3 of the entourage, meet up with the Duke kids, and this is where the logic begins to crumble. The Vegas drug had taken its hold.

"You put money on red," says Carolyn at the roulette table. "If you win, you double your money. If you lose, you double your bet."

T. had given me similar logic for blackjack. Satisfied with the advice of two smart kids, I join in the betting, and then we begin to lose, and lose, and lose. Then we switch colors and lose some more. Mari and I are shaking a little. Tommy pulls me away. I am not made for luck games. Clearly, we must go play poker. I nudge Tommy on the way.

"What's a straight again?"

Oh, the men at our poker table found us amusing. Who is this blonde girl with the gold tube top and loopy pigtails? Surely, she should walk away, because she is about to give us mucho money in chips!

Fifteen minutes into our $3 limit table, I'm up ~$100. The men start saying something about Ben Affleck, and Mark notes that one is a Nevadan Tal Hirshberg. We play a bit longer, and I walk away.

That's entertainment.