It's Aliiiiiiive!

We saw Underworld: Evolution last night.

Never have my movie expectations been so thoroughly exceeded. It must have had double the budget of the first one and like eleventy billion times the gratuitous sex and violence, PLUS there was that moment when Kate Beckinsale can walk in sunlight and gets all emotional and it reminded me of that crossover episode of Buffy where Angel turns human for a day and spends the whole time eating and frolicking in the sun and having sex with Buffy and he's so happy and then he has to turn back and it was really sad but the episode was still sooooo good and made my friend Jen cry.

Ahem.

Anyway, we enjoyed ourselves. Especially all the werewolves getting their jaws ripped clean off.






Also, Terrence Howard got an Oscar nomination for Hustle and Flow and he will not win but go Terrence!

You look so bored, you must be very bright.

Wendy Wasserstein died today.

Obviously I didn't know her or anything, but I'm very sad. The girl could write, as two Tonys and a Pulitzer will confirm. Her plays, being among the few with mostly lady casts, were a Kent Place staple.

And anyone admired by Christopher Durang couldn't have been all bad. Or all good. You know?

Hi, My Name Is Bacteria, Television, Quickly, or some other not-really-a-name equivalent

Go to the DK Blog and learn about Chinese people and their English names.

Spawn

I created this hangover, and I must nurture it. The alcohol had sex with my brain and this is its spawn. I must coddle it. Cradle it. Spoon nutritious pureed foods into its little mouth and send it to enrichment camp.

I must not be angry with my hangover for acting like a hangover and squeezing my brain, or asking me dumb questions, like "Why are there eight singles in my pocket?" or "What's with the bruise on my hip?" I must nurture my hangover until it grows into a brain like its mommy.

These are hard times for little hangovers. The media bombardment. The peer pressure. They grow up too fast. Next thing I know my hangover is going to show up with a tongue piercing and her 23-year-old boyfriend named Rico. She will have forgotten about those carefree days, when all problems were solved with Advil and a dark room.

My hair hurts.

Last Night

So we made great plans to watch Underworld (in preparation for Underworld: Evolution, last weekend's #1 movie in America, probably displaced this weekend by Big Momma's House 2 or some shit, to be seen later next week) while eating cheesecake and In-n-Out burger before going out to Venice and attracting some men, but then we (I) passed out for large portions of the film, and Kristy ate two Double-Doubles (double meat and double cheese for double taste and double food coma). We never even made it to the cheesecake.

We did make it upstairs to the models' apartment. I keep wanting to call it "The Model Apartment," which makes me think of model homes and then of Arrested Development, which makes me happy. They were having a party. Ian clung to my leg when I sat down and passed out with his head between my ankles, clutching my shin.

Kristy poured beer on herself.

Model Matt had gotten himself a Florence Henderson haircut.

I called it a night.

Go For The Gold

My hero Toby Ziegler once said that there is a very sad day in every boy's life, when he finally learns that he will never play professional baseball.

I think the equivalent for girls is when she learns she will never figure skate in the Olympics.

My day has not yet come.

The LA Swagger

I didn't know what swag was back East. I mean, I knew about free stuff. People sent CDs/DVDs/samples/invitations to Time Out all the time. Whether any of these fell into my lap and whether I ever posed as a music writer or stole generic business cards or allowed promoters to think me a listings associate editor so as to attend any event I wanted gratis and without waiting, I cannot say. I will, however, cop to getting a Seed of Chucky turkey baster just in time for Thanksgiving.

And all this was cool, right? No. New York swag has absolutely nothing on Los Angeles. My roommate, for instance, runs her own business devoted exclusively to doling out free shit. "Product placement." Companies pay her to package things nicely and give them away with cute notes. She was at Sundance all last week doing just that. She's good at her job.

But, you know, whatever. Until last night I was fairly indifferent to swag; unless it's an expensive shampoo I'd been wanting to try, most of it is fairly useless.

Until my entertainment friend N. received season one of Veronica Mars and passed it on to me! Oh how wonderful. I love N. I love her boss, who tossed it her way. I love swag.

"Fuck You" Movie Titles Submitted Or At Least Strongly Considered For This Past Week's Highly Competitive Rounds of Charades

1. Baraka
2. Fern Gully: The Last Rainforest
3. Manon of the Spring
4. Princess Mononoke
5. Looking for Comedy in the Muslim World
6. Aeon Flux
7. Tristan and Isolde
8. My Friend Flicka
9. Collateral Damage
10. Fern Gully 2: The Magical Rescue

Conservatives are Evil (News That Rocks Your World)

Roommate of Old sent me an interesting story.

And it's from Canada!

I think they caught it from us.

Gay Paree: A Recap

It seems that my incessant endorsements of this season's Bachelor have inspired few to actually watch it. People, it is the BEST SHOW ON TELEVISION (right now. For purposes of comparison, I'm assuming AD's hiatus permanent and The Sopranos inactive until March, plus Veronica's still in reruns).

So I still think you should know what's going on. Therefore, I give you a new weekly Blotto Blog installment: recaps right up until I get a life/lose interest in the show. Please note that I am heavily inspired by Television Without Pity but am aware I cannot hope to compete with their indomitable recappers, particularly Keckler and Potes.

This past week:

Previously on The Bachelor: Paris: 33-year-old doctor (drink!) Travis Stork is hot and single. He does all kinds of sweet things for the ladies and they all respond with OhhhhhHHHhh my GaaaaaAAwWd!!!!!!!!! Stoner Sarah thinks they have a connection. Actress Susan had a birthday yet managed to suppress tears at the thoughts of her thumping biological clock and rotting ovaries. Travis got her a cake. OhhHHHHHHhh my GaaaAAaawWdD!!!!!! Eight bitches remain: who will remain to become a doctor's (drink) wife?

Ok, on to the show. Shirtless Travis runs, his perfectly chiseled pectorals flapping in the breeze. Ladies and gays sigh in delight. Travis puts on his shirt. Ladies and gays change channel. Travis's friends are here! Matt and Kevin are also doctors. Drink. Doctors, but much less attractive. Matt and Kevin interview the ladies to pick which will get a one-on-one date with T-Money, so nicknamed because, like, come on, we know what "He's a doctor!" is code for. The good doctors quiz the ladies on medical knowledge (several believe the intestines to be muscles) and ask for sample blowjobs. No no, I kid. But it would be awesome if one of the girls gave Mevin her number. I mean, they're doctors too and therefore MUST make fantastic husbands, right? Mevin presents a box with three diamond rings and ask the girls to choose. Moooooooooana finds a special place in my heart by choosing a Chiclet-sized rock and saying "Yeah, I'm as shallow as a kiddie pool." Also, Model Jen models a swimsuit and Stoner Sarah acts high. Susan gets the date. Stoner Sarah is jealous.

Susan and Travis drive to Paris in a SmartCar, which is hilarious, and get lost: also hilarious. Kids? French people pronounce Paris "Paree." I'd cut you more slack if you weren't corrected five times. It is called learning. It does not end after med school.

Anyway, their date is pretty boring. Susan gets a rose. I love that Travis offers it with a slight smirk, like he knows how absolutely retarded this is. Back at the chateau, the girls drink wine. Susan and Travis kiss. Stoner Sarah, noting that Susan has expressed a desire to "act," pulls out the first "I think she's here for the wrong reasons." If you missed it, never fear; I'm guessing that it may become a theme of the show. Ugly Sarah echoes. Drink. Drink. Oh wait! Mooooooooooana's here for the wrong reasons too! This is because she expressed the sensible notion that perhaps she shouldn't go ga-ga over some dude she barely knows. Ugly Sarah doesn't like that Mooooooana is not yet in love with Dr. T. Drink. That's right, Ugly Sarah. She's got nothing on yours and Travis's deep, meaningful, two-day relationship.

Group date! The bitches are going to the Riviera! Let the painful Puffy references begin.

Susan returns, revealing that she and Travis kissed. Scandal. Commercials. The Olive Garden scares me.

Riviera! The girls OOOOOOhhhhhhhhh myyyyY GawwwwWWWDDD! over the unbelievable "Pimp Daddy" yacht. It is pretty sweet. Drunkie Jehan spills screwdriver on herself.

Dancing. Dancing. Travis removes shirt! Ugly Sarah is deathly jealous of Moana.

Okay, now for the best part of the episode: Moooooooana commits the apparently mortal sin of whisking Travis away on a jet ski ride. The girls scowl collectively and Shiloh actually throws down her towel and stomps. I don't know why, but this made me laugh for like three minutes and then I had to rewind the DVR. Actually, I do know why: this is what Jack, the two-year-old I used to babysit, who I LOVED, would do when he didn't want to nap, and it always cracked me up. Each girl interviews that this was totally not cool. Travis must be surrounded by three buffer women at all times. Moana is not here for the right reasons! Ahhhh! Moana is "aggressive!" Bitch! Drink! Drink! I just noticed from her interview subtitles that Moana is a "distribution manager" based in LA. I wonder if she works for McMaster-Carr. The girls try and signal Travis and Moana back over. Aw, they look so pathetic. I bet they were away for like five minutes. Travis interviews that he likes Moana's tenacity. I like Travis.

Travis and Chicks go to an empty casino and gamble with fake money. Tara drinks. Wow, that looks fun.

Shiloh steals Travis away and offers to give him shit on the other girls. He looks confused. Her hair looks terrible--all kind of fried and rooty and rebelling against its styling products. I bet she brought her hairdryer from home and tried to plug it in with a voltage adaptor.

Back at the craps table, Moooooooana is holding a cigar and playing it cool. I love her. She's so compeletely bland and unoffensive to the other girls, and it drives them fucking nuts. It's awesome.

Back at the chateau, Stoner Sarah and Swimsuit Jen get their two-on-one date invitation. There are notes from both "Travis" and "Chris" in the exact same handwriting. I'm not saying anyone thinks these notes are from anyone but the producers, but couldn't they get written out by different PAs? Travis's note, by the way, says "Looking forward to sharing a part of me with a part of you." You're right, too easy.

Riviera. Everyone's drunk. Ugly Sarah stumbles into a couch, proclaiming her outdoorsy Nashville connection with Travis and how they should get married and have lots of sex and babies immediately or perhaps sooner. Travis looks mildly concerned and then openly wonders whether she's a sexual being. She does have a kindergarten-teacher prudeness about her. Ugly Sarah replies that she is super-passionate about... being on The Bachelor. Tara interrupts and Ugly Sarah gets beyotchy. I think Travis hates her. Tara's face is flush with booze. Bedtime! Ok, they're not the only ones snoozing.

An aside: I think Travis barely drinks. The girls generally seem way drunker far more of the time. I wonder if it was a producer tip.

Morning. Moooooooana brings Travis coffee. They cuddle. The girls get very upset about Moana's independent thoughts and actions. Ugly Sarah camera-tools that this just might be the meanest thing she's done. Yes, the bitch. Nothing says evil like a steaming cup of decaf. Sarah, by the by, is wearing a cowboy hat and bug-eyes Chanel glasses a la MK Olsen. Not so much. Moana gets the rose. Yay! Sarah walks out of her interview because she's gawna git upseeeeeeeeht.

And it's our final date of the night. Model Jen prepares with a giant can of aerosol hairspray while Stoner Jen takes a bong hit. Probably. Anyway, they're going camping. Jen looks terrified. Stoner Sarah looks delighted with this, since she clearly spends a lot of time communing with nature.

Woods. Travis shows Jen how to whittle. Whittling? What? When in God's name do modern campers whittle? Also, this is seriously prissy camping; they just drove right up to the tent. I bet they'll dump out their pasta water. Travis and Jen go to talk in the tent while Sarah chills outside packing a bowl with the cameraman. Jen tries to convince Travis and herself that they have anything in common. Not so much. Sarah's one-on-one time ends with an awkward hug and, in her words, "sucked." But hooray! Sarah gets the rose. Travis didn't kiss her before because he wanted to wait until they could make out alllllllll night. Jen is sad. There are girls in the house who are... there for the the wrong reasons! Producers clearly goad her into weeping throughout her exit interview. Drink. Travis and Sarah tussle. He strokes her hair. They kiss. They get high. BTW, she's 23. Aw, she keeps doing a little "shhhh" with a finger to the lips and then he responds with a kiss. It's cute. I'm not completely heartless, people.

Rose ceremony, yada yada yada, Shiloh and her damaged locks are sent packing. She is very upset that there are girls here for the wrong reasons and that Travis is missing out. Travis looks less than heartbroken, interviews about his lack of regret, and turns to the rest of the girls. "Champagne?"

Next week:
The bachelorettes get the surprise of their lives! If by "surprise" you mean "obviously Travis's sisters or some equivalent sent to ask personal questions." Mooooooooooana gets competitive in a bike race. I'm pretty sure Jehan is divorced. Moana and Ugly Sarah tussle. Lots of "Moana doesn't love Travis WTF!" Someone whipsers to Travis that there is one bitch "trying to fool with your head," kind of like Stacie J. is crazy. The end.


Really, I encourage you to experience the phenomenon yourself. I realize that the three times I've seen it I've been a) drunk b) stoned or c) both, but that has so little to do with it!

I mean, he's a doctor! (drink) Oh my gaaaAAaaaWWWWWWWWDddd!!

Thank You, Dr. Zizmor!

A few years back, when Hillary Clinton was out on a "listening tour" while running for Senate, The New Yorker printed a quiz for the prospective legislator, testing her NYC knowledge. The trivia was solid: What is the IRT? How much is the Staten Island Ferry? What do you get at Gray's Papaya?

But my personal favorite: Who is Dr. Zizmor?


Subway riders say it with me: Thank you, Dr. Zizmor!

(I was feeling nostalgic).

Weekend Update

Thursday (my weekends start Thursdays. Sometimes Mondays. Whatever).

Qs, glorious Qs! I sing it to the tune of that "Food Glorious Whatever" song from Oliver.

Friday

I'd missed Micky's. Dennis and Bri and I shaked and shimmied with the go-go boys and $2 beers that make West Hollywood grand. I kept looking around and thinking about Babylon from Queer as Folk (US), wondering where they hide the back room. I think it's in Chelsea.

Saturday

The Gaslite! Everyone's favorite bedazzled karaoke shitbox. Had a line. WTF?

Sang: Sk8er Boi. Ran into some McMasterites who invited me sailing. I, certain they were being polite/drunk, requested a wake-up call of "You're coming sailing, bitch!" were it genuine. K. slept at my place and yelled at Mildred for biting her toes.

Sunday
My phone chimes: "You're coming sailing, bitch!"

Glorious, glorious day. (cue music) Saaaaaaaaaaaaaaail glorious saaaaaaaaaaaaaail glorious sailllllllllllllllll!!!!!!!!

Dolphins came to play; several of K.'s thousands of pictures TK.

Seasickness ensued. I booted several times.

Pretty Pretty Picture

I am one of 826's Tutors of the Month. Hoopla! I was asked to submit a photo and brief biography for the website.

The bio is easy. It doesn't even look pathetic that I have neither anything resembling a career nor any discernible desire to get one, as most of the volunteers feature "out-of-work writer" on the rap sheet.

The picture, however, is a tad more difficult. Of the digital pictures that exist of me either on my hard drive or online:

1. I look demented.

2. I am clearly inebriated/holding a Solo cup.

3. Someone is licking my face.

4. I am red-faced/obese.

Internet, here I come!

At the SMPL

To my 12 o'clock: Christopher Lloyd's doppelganger, circa Back to the Future I crossed 50-50 with Fester, using a VHS cassette case of (I think) The Thornbirds as a ruler. Purpose of straight lines as yet unknown.

3 o' clock: man in Cubs parka with Coke bottle glasses. Left lens outlined in a square with red electrical tape. Right lens similarly outlined in black. Reading magazines, titles concealed.

9 o'clock: portly older gentleman with longish gray hair tied in a chignon, anchored by gaily colored bandana tied around forehead. Also wearing ladies' moccasins. LAT "Calendar" section.

6 o'clock: Frank Langella, or possibly his twin.

It is very hard to be bored at the library.

I Like To Draw

I ran a bookmaking workshop at 826 yesterday. "Ran" isn't precisely the right word, as I do it with a few other people. There's a storyteller to wrangle the munchkins, a typist to get all the shit down, an illustrator to... illustrate... and a collater to do all the binding in secret down the hall.

We switch off on roles, but I'm the only volunteer who can draw, so more often than not I'm sketching on a computer tablet in Photoshop Elements, praying that the children decide not to write about a horse (when I say I can draw, I mean I can make general cartoony likenesses with dot eyes; James Marshall I might be; Maurice Sendak I am not).

What did they decide on yesterday? A horse. A mustang. With horse friends. It wasn't as bad as it could have been. Yes, the first horse looked like a pig, but I improved as we went on.

A potential volunteer who had come "just to observe" sat next to me.

"I'm checking it out," she said, looking at my screen with mild distaste. Then she opened a sketchbook and began to doodle.

I looked over. Three physically accurate, highly detailed anthropomorphic mustangs had appeared.

"Do you want to take over?" I asked. Since you're apparently a freakin' expert on the equine form?

"Oh no," she said. "I was just seeing if I could do it."

She's a professional illustrator, and had brought several samples of her work, some of them being bound, published books with her name on them. Apparently, something had led her to believe we would be picky.

Something tells me I won't have to draw anymore.

More Paree

A confession, dear reader. Last week, I posted about The Bachelor: Paris, and I made it seem like I went to bed halfway through.

This was a lie.

I mean, maybe you knew better. Maybe you know that no matter the pain, I watch/read/experience anything, no matter how overly dramatic or boring or ugly, to the end. The 1995 Broadway revival of Showboat. The street smarts vs. book smarts Apprentice. Atlas Shrugged. So I'm just kind of assuming you knew me for a liar.

But why? Why did I feel the need to present myself as some kind of TV tastemaker? Was I hoping you'd look at my DVR schedule and think I was the one taping Charlie Rose? I mean, you already know about my love for Top Model...

So, yeah, I watched The Bachelor in its entirety last week, and I watched it again last night. Also, I plan to watch again. It is a delicious and cringeworthy televisual treasure. "Oh my gaaaaaawd!" the ladies squawk. "My momma always wanted me to bring home a doctor!!!!!!!"

Is it because this season's man is so hot and educated? Is it the alluring tease of fantasy dates around Europe? I discussed these things today with my friend J.

"Did you know the bachelor went to Duke?"
Indeed I did.
"And he's HOT!"
Indeed he is.
"And he seems nice."
True true.
"There is no legitimate reason this man is still single."
I know!
"He is perfection!"

We spent several minutes brainstorming possible irredeemable flaws. J. finally hit it--

"He must plow through every woman who goes through that ER," she said. "He must be a pimp."

Flame On

A full-length spandex bodysuit adorned with bedazzled, flowing flames flies across my television screen.

Could it be?

Is it time already?

Figure skating season is here!

Oh I love figure skating. I love the winter Olympics. And figure skating at the Olympics? Time to warm up the couch.

I'm noticing, moreso than in other years, how this is the gayest hour on television. One guy's unitard has actual flames sewn on, and there's Sasha Cohen camel-spinning to Barbra Streisand. "Don't Rain on My Parade." Is it a message?

Don't fuck with me, Michelle. Hope that injury stays tender or I'll go Harding on your ass.

iDate, uDate...

A friend convinced me to put a profile on this dating site he really likes a while back. I got a lot of messages from almost-divorced 38-year-olds.

Today, from dancingfaun (36, Chicago):

My life is brilliant. My love is pure. I saw an angel. Of that I'm sure. She smiled at me on the subway. She was with another man. But I won't lose no sleep on that, 'Cause I've got a plan.

You're beautiful. You're beautiful. You're beautiful, it's true. I saw you face in a crowded place, And I don't know what to do, 'Cause I'll never be with you.

Thank you, dancingfaun. That's lovely. Is your real name by chance J.J.?

I Hate Maryland So Much, I Go Out Of My Way To Hit Turtles Crossing The Road

Maybe two months ago, I crashed my roommate's JDate at Moonshadows in Malibu (Lovely date place. Spectacular views. $12 drinks).

The dude seemed nice enough, until I discovered he went to Maryland.

Now I'm nice enough to the unfortunate Terrapins. I understand that their hatred for Duke comes from deep-seated feelings of inferiority and pity their small vocabularies. When I meet a College Parker, we comment on Steve Blake and Jason Williams, praise the ACC, laugh, and leave it at that.

But this Terrapin was different. This Terp felt the need to badmouth my school, from its campus to the relative attractiveness of our cheerleaders to our basketball coach, referring in particular to the 2000-2001 season, WHEN WE WON THE NATIONAL CHAMPIONSHIP. He was actually proud of the fact that moronic Marylanders riot whether they win or lose. He took particular pride that when Duke won against Maryland at Maryland, stealing the win in a 56-second, ten-point run by Jason Williams & friends known to Cameron Crazies everywhere as the "Miracle Minute," the material for which ESPN Classic was created, Maryland fans felt the need to give Mrs. Boozer, our power forward's mother, innocently cheering her son from the sidelines, a concussion by pummeling her with beer bottles.

We did not see him again.

I'm watching Duke decimate Maryland on ESPN right now.

Magic Johnson from the stands: "J.J. Redick is the smartest player in college basketball." (He must have read the poetry).

Final: 76-52.

In the words of Dick Vitale: This is our house, bay-bee!

In the words of the fans:
DUKE DUKE MOTHERFUCKAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!

Gay Pareeeeeeeeeeeee

Dennis asked if anyone was planning to watch The Bachelor: Paris at Sunday's potluck. We all kind of looked at him. Like--what?

Oh, Meghan. So quick to judge. I'm watching Mr. Bachelor meet his 25 Moanas and Mindys right now.

And holy fuck man, the Bachelor went to Duke.

Are tall, boyishly handsome doctors from Duke so hard up for ladies they have to turn to ABC? I mean, I know a lot of boyishly handsome Duke grads. They don't get their ladies from ABC. They get them from bars. They aren't even doctors. They aren't even that cute.

This is kind of fascinating. I've never watched this show before.

Oh God. I'm really watching this.

Did you know its creator came up with the concept, rose ceremony and all, in a near-death feverish (what he calls) trance?

I read an article about it.

Dear lord.

I'm going to bed.

Rain Woman

SerialDater and I stuck around this obscenely situated Malibu party late into the night, playing Cranium with Ralph Lauren model & friends.

Turns out, Miss Blotto is the fucking bomb at Cranium, one of the planet's dumber games.

Partner hums tuneless lines sounding vaguely like "Killing Me Softly."
MB: Hotel California!

Partner shapes two blobs of Cranium Clay into disparately sized lumps.
MB: David and Goliath!

Partner walks around room, squinting.
MB: Sherlock Holmes!

What what!

Ralph Lauren model's friends were sore losers and suggested a switch to Scrabble. MB immediately challenged on "noh." MB vindicated by Webster's Unabridged and bitches lose their turn.

What what small blonde girl in the house, suckaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa.

I Have A Clone

She showed up at the party and waited until my back was turned.



Small blonde girl! Taking my leftovers. EVIL.

Apartment Porn, Truffle Porn... It's All Porn To Me

I had this friend in college, an engineering grad student named Gianmarco. When I first met him I thought he was really called John Marco and found it slightly pretentious that he insisted we address him by his full name.

This is because I am a Dumb American.

Gianmarco is from Italy and it's very, very obvious. He rides a Vespa and wears big designer Euro sunglasses without looking homosexual, and then there's his cooking. Oh it is yummy. I would always feel very lucky when invited to one of his frequent small suppers. Sometimes, once I was through salivating over his kitchen equipment, he would nervously let me help. One time he yelled at me for stirring onions wrong. I mean, not in a mean way, but to this day I stir with him in mind. He kind of knows everything. Last time I saw him I mentioned that my phone was almost dead, so he pulled out a box of wires and fashioned a homemade charger.

Actually, it was kind of sketchy and didn't work, but I think it was just a time constraint that prevented success.

Anyway, this one time he announced a menu featuring white truffle oil. Yaf had stolen a bottle from his dad for the cause. He and Gianmarco made this big dish of pasta with cream sauce and most of the gajillion dollar contraband. The boys at the table wolfed it all down.

"Fucking awesome!" they said.

The girls kind of picked at it, looking uncomfortable.

As it happened, the girls all went home in the same car.

After a few minutes, Roommate of Old broke the silence.

"Okay, guys," she said. "I'm sorry, but did anyone else think that pasta tasted like come?"

-

I thought of this today while watching Boy Meets Grill, a show with Bobby Flay where he cooks at his apartment. I personally hate Bobby Flay and want to punch him in the face whenever he's on screen, but he has possibly the best New York apartment in existence--a brick penthouse in the shadow of the Williamsburg Bridge, with views of the river and downtown plus a patio the size of my apartment complex. I'm not doing it justice here. I fantasize about apartments like this. The opening credits make me climax a little. Just a little. He has like five $4,000 grills.

So Bobby's cooking with his friend Gail and making grilled portobello mushrooms with parmigiano and white truffle oil (this is part of why I want to punch him in the face: everything he makes is on the grill. He barbecues. You know who else barbecues? My dad). He puts Gail in charge of the truffle oil. She sprinkles on a little and asks if that's good.

Bobby picks up the plate and shoves his nose in it. "No, no!" he tools. "Be generous! Seriously, I would add more."

Yes, Bobby. Of course you would.

(Previous posting on the white truffle oil incident indicate depth of feeling regarding the condiment, rather than lack of imagination).

California Here I Come... or, Am

I shed two layers and put on my sunglasses for the first time in two weeks as I left the airport. I miss home a bit (I didn't even mind the gray, surprisingly) but it's nice to be back.

My cat imprinted on my roommate while I was away and has forgotten who I am. Damn pea-sized brain.

Time to spend the day buying auto insurance. I LOVE writing big checks.

I Dip You Dip...

I entered Party #3 post-midnight with a host of fellow KP girls, ready to rock another pong tournament, dance floor, whatever. Party #1 had been winter-white themed, and we were rather intimidating in our prismatic ensembles. It was as if the KP girls were white light, ready to pass through the party's kaleidoscpoic pince-nez and break into thousands of bits of happy, happy rainbow!

Except then we saw the dip.

To reach the inner sanctum of Party #3, we had to pass the kitchen, and in the kitchen we saw two roasting-pan sized trays of largely untouched spinach-and-artichoke AND five-layer bean dips. With thin slices of pre-toasted baguette.

Twenty minutes later, with 2/3 of the dip safely ensconced in our straining bellies, the host came in.

"KP GIRLS. STEP AWAY FROM THE DIP. IT IS A PARTY. PLEASE, INTRODUCE YOURSELVES. MINGLE! STEP AWAY FROM THE DIP."

We moved to the other side of the counter, as if to obey, but really it was to get to a new bowl of chips.

I mean, we were having such a good conversation.

"This dip so so good."
"OH MY GOD I KNOW."
"Have you tried the other dip?"
"It's so good TOO!!!!!!!!!!"

In my dip-fueled fugue state I lost my phone.

Man, that dip was good.



Happy New Year!