Why Can't Republicans Wear Nametags Or Something?

I mean, you meet a new person, you're hanging out, you're having fun, and then you reach for your water bottle and it's sitting on top of a Bush-Cheney '04 sticker that has been PERMANENTLY AFFIXED to their furniture, so it isn't even out of a sense of irony or being saved for burning later or something, and you turn and screech "You're a REPUBLICAN?!!!!!LIEHDOICE!JIOJEsefihawieuhf?!" and then you just look stupid.

New Best Friend

Maresia is this woman at work I don't really like. She's condescending. A little snooty. I have possibly mocked her hairstyle.

Ah, but that changed today, when Maresia charged me with greeting Jude Law. We shook hands. He said my name. His slightly orange yet perfectly formed countenance, only ever so mildly wizened by banging nannies on pool tables, broke into a smile and light poured upon the earth. His eyes are very blue.

Maresia, may you live a long and fruitful life. Should God ever grant humans the power of flight, I pray that He start with you.

How Opal Mehta Got Completely And Utterly Caught

Dear reader, I present: Kaavya Viswanathan.

Kaavya Viswanathan, Harvard sophomore, is the author of the tweener chick-lit booklet "How Opal Mehta Got Kissed, Got Wild, and Got a Life."

Or, more accurately, author of part of the tweener chick-lit booklet "How Opal Mehta Got Kissed, Got Wild, and Got a Life," as there've been like a million recent articles in the New York Times about how 40ish passages--passages, not pages--in this "Opal" book were "subconsciously" plagiarized from tweeny chick-lit books by Megan McCafferty.

Forty fucking passages. Are you kidding? Ms. Viswanathan claims it was an accident, possibly due to her "photographic memory," or because she so constantly read McCafferty's books in high school. She is actually claiming she is too smart to write her own books (and the far greater sin, that she has terrible taste in them as well).

This reminds me of the time in high school three weeks before graduation when Nicole Ellingham, who was already on thin ice with the stalking charges and faking her pregnancy by stealing prescription paper from her doctor and leaving fake neonatal drug orders around and getting reported for repeated drive-bys of nearby boy's academy Oratory Prep, turned in a word-for-word NY Times movie review to her "Writers at Work" class, when Dr. K had read that very same review that morning. One of those "you knew that was dumb at the time, right? Like, there was absolutely no way you were getting away with that and then you did it anyway?" moves.

This is so disturbing on so many levels. First, that a college sophomore (freshman, at time of contract) got a book deal on spec. Second, that tween books fetch half-million dollar advances. Third, that not one of the many eyes who saw the book in manuscript and galley form noticed the familiar language, or noticed its completely secondhand voice and didn't care. And fourth, a writer getting a half-million dollar advance's main influence is Megan McCafferty?!>!AKSWHRE@OIhfewoieury3895yr932afs hdsdhkah sfsa hkdsgs ?!

Publishers... oh, publishers. You gave $500,000 to a 19-year-old. What did you expect?

Duke Girls Aren't What You Think: Many Are Actually Retarded

I don't know how I missed this inane SI.com article by Trinity junior Melissa Moriarty on the general reputation of ugly Duke girls.

She makes stunning insights: some girls at Duke are attractive. Others are not.

Splitting the atom, this one.


To aid her "No, Blue Devils are hot!" argument, Moriarty chooses this picture:





Aw. And she isn't even a Pi Phi. Hail, Moriarty! I hate you.

House Afire

B. and R. had a belated housewarming party last night. Decent wine and delicious vittles: no one even got drunk or embarrassing, and the white couch and carpet remained so. Are we growing up? Anyway, it was great fun.

I made a Couer A La Creme from the fourth cookbook by entrepreneur and Personal Hero Ina Garten, Barefoot in Paris. So easy! So tasty! So elegant! Just look at the picture:


Mine looked like this:



Someone had the bright idea to use it as a dip for strawberries, and echoes of "This is so good!" bounced about the table. It's like Ina says, just keep your cool and no one will know you fucked up.

Although she doesn't drop the F-bomb.

Maybe I'm not growing up.

A Riddle

Why did the chicken cross the road?


I don't know.


But I'm pretty sure it was to get the bejesus out of the chicken's least natural habitat option, West Los Angeles.

Computation

So my computer is still broken, hence the lack of blogging lately. I think I'm going to get the 12-inch PowerBook, nicely between the iBook and the MacBook, and I'm going to open a new card with six months of 0% financing to pay for it in installments (card, once used on exorbitant new toy, will then make friends with the sharp ends of my pinking shears) (what are pinking shears, anyway?). I did consider some mild insurance fraud to lessen the impact, but I'm not so sure about the karmic retribution on that.

Went to the opera last night. It was a kind of low-budget all-volunteer thing, but it was totally and unexpectedly charming. I also discovered the Los Angeles Theatre, which is very gilt-ornate and I have no idea what it's doing in scuzzy downtown LA. The patrons' gushing at intermission should tell you something about LA's predominant architecture style (nonexistent). It was just constant "This is amazing!"

I would post a picture.

But I broke my computer.

I'm just telling myself it's the April showers. They will bring May flowers. Flowering unemployment, but blooms nonetheless.

Kevin Finnerty

So many of you know that I'm a fan of this Home Box Office show, "The Sopranos." It's about this family in New Jersey, and this other family... um, there're lots of guns and boobies? You know it? Ok cool.

Earlier this season Tony was shot and in a coma for an episode and a half, and we got to see his purgatory: a Westin in Costa Mesa without his briefcase or wallet. Tony, on business, had picked up one of each belonging to a "Kevin Finnerty" instead. Then he kept trying to order a grouper sandwich (or trying to DIE) and getting rebuffed. It was brilliant on many levels. Love that David Chase.

Anyway, one of the Duke lacrosse players recently arrested posted bail the other day with his father, Kevin Finnerty of Essex Fells, New Jersey (a mere gooma's throw from Tony's nest in North Caldwell) by his side.

I wonder if he'd lost his briefcase.

Computing Issues

So I busted my laptop last week, just prior to Shitshow Thursday. Here's a tip, people: your keyboard does NOT double as a coffee filter. I'm taking this as a sign for a new computer. The iBook is five years old, has some busted pixels, runs at a glacial pace, and is about to require a new keyboard and power adapter. I haven't put new music or programs on it for the past year because I fear it will start to piss and spark.

This gives me much to ponder.

There's the new MacBook Pro. It is beautiful. It is fast. It comes with a multitude of nifty features I will use twice but brag about constantly, proving useful on multiple levels. It is, with a fake student discount, $1800.

$1800. You can buy a '96 Oldsmobile Cutlass Ciera Cruiser for $1800. Dinner for five at Masa. Tickets to Japan. $1800 is a lot of money. Bert at the Apple Store practically begged me not to get it, until I started lying about all the Photoshop I don't do but, you know, might do were my computer not available at New Hampshire antique shops. He kept pointing me towards the practical, sturdy, boring-as-fuck iBook. Last time I got the iBook, for reasons several of you know but that I will not discuss here, I immediately regretted passing over the titanium PowerBook and do to this day. Teb also helpfully pointed out the price and speed benefits of...

...returning to the PC.

I don't know if I can do it.

I need another voiceover.

East Side, West Side

My friend CG lives in Hollywood. You know she lives in Hollywood because she comments with resignation, "I was making copies near my house at this place, it's called like Copy Mat? And Bill Pullman came in to do his headshots."

I countered with seeing Kenny G at the exhibit today, but honestly, I bet he lives in Hollywood too.

I Think It Was The Sunglasses

An earnest child approached me today, and asked in all sincerity:

"Are you Armenian?"

Duke Girls Aren't What You Think: Many Are Actually Retarded

I don't know how I missed this inane SI.com article by Trinity junior Melissa Moriarty on the general reputation of ugly Duke girls.

She makes stunning insights: some girls at Duke are attractive. Others are not.

Splitting the atom, this one.


To aid her "No, Blue Devils are hot!" argument, Moriarty chooses this picture:





Aw. And she isn't even a Pi Phi. Hail, Moriarty! I hate you.

My Vehicular Weekend

Oh boy! A weekend in Tahoe! Spring skiing! Rad! I and my Camry were going on a road trip.

Sweetness. I dispensed with the Thursday Shitshow aftermath with alacrity and poise (new cellphone, mollification of Starbucks employees, agony over shorted keyboard) and left LA around 2, thinking traffic would be better. Checked out the odometer around 3: I'd elapsed 4 miles. I also realized that I had forgotten my ski boots. Realizing that a detour home would cost me more than the rental fee in time and sanity, I soldiered on. Around 4, I had finally left LA County. Odometer: 24 miles. I called Yaf, who helpfully pointed out that turtles could decimate my average speed.

I found ways to pass the time. I guessed how long it would take between smelling and reaching the thousand-acre cattle feedlot in Coalinga, and then tested my theory.



I took pictures of rainbows.


And then I was there!

Once in San Francisco, Yaf and I piled into his snow-ready all-weather four-wheel-drive vehicle. We made decent time to Truckee and arrived at 2:40 AM. Time spent in car: 10.5 hours. Yeech. It's okay: I sacrifice for skiing.

Day one. We get a late start and so head to Alpine Meadows, our favorite little underpriced mountain. Wind hold. All day.

We pass the time.



Realizing we will not touch powder, we go to Albertson's and bake a foccaccia. Gianmarco gives us a recipe, which we halve. Onion for scale.



We went to bed early.

Day two. An early start due to ~a foot of powder, which was totally sweet, and Easter baskets from Aunt Mary. Yaf totally gets the sweet part of being Catholic. We purchased discount lift tickets at the condo office and headed to Squaw. The roads were kind of squishy. We began to skid.

"Check it out," Yaf said. "We're about to hit that car."

"Eek," I replied. "Yeah, we totally are."

Craaaaaaaaaack.

Yet more proof that Yaf and I are, unfortunately, never wrong.



For some reason, we agree to drive the busted vehicle. It overheats. We pull over, into a Ditch Of No Return.

Perhaps we should rethink this "never wrong" thing.

Yaf catches up on some reading while waiting for AAA.

I find a relevant cartoon in my magazine.

Steve the triple-A man reminds us that it is very, very good to have the AAA Plus option, particularly when no earthly bodyshop is open on The Day Christ Rose. Yaf babbles about using ZippedCar or ZippyWar or something, I had gone into a fugue state at that point and regret I cannot give you more information.

And once again, we find ourselves...

...at the bar.

So, in short:

Hours spent in car this weekend: 26
Minutes skiied: 0

So, you see, forgetting the ski boots: not such a big deal.

Shitshow Thursday

Last night. Um, it involves Qs, sweatpants, and a bathroom at Starbucks.

We'll keep the rest on a need-to-know.

Indecision

After a 73-day waiting period, the Santa Monica Public Library has finally lent me Indecision, a first novel from litworld's latest wunderkind, Benjamin Kunkel. We still have a DVR outage, so I read it right away.

Now, I have nothing against the literary wunderkind per se (see Smith, Zadie; Paumgarten, Nick). Literary wunderkind are totally sweet and kind of mysto*. You can imagine having sex with them and feel neither guilty nor embarrassed--you know you appreciate their minds. You can't help that their author photos are insanely hot.

Ben Kunkel, though, is another story. He is prickly, obtuse, pretentious in interviews, and irritatingly good-looking. He also heads this unremarkable and preciously titled literary magazine, n+1. N plus one. His litmag invokes math. Ah, now I can hear you hating with me. Oh, and he went to Harvard. Plus did I mention he's really cute? Gets more pussy than a toilet seat, or at least could). And of course there's my rampant jealousy.

I like my writers unhappy. And, if possible, chubby, while possessing degrees from Southwestern Texas Teachers' College and a crippling lisp. It keeps the balance. Even the glowing, superlative Zadie Smith (who cannot do wrong) has anxiety issues and mild agoraphobia (and, she claims, a weight problem, but I would dispute that). Benjamin Kunkel has none of these. The only thing going for him for me, really, is the unfortunate last name.

Yet, alas, his book is good. He appropriates Heidegger and describes nothing new, but the prose is solid, the metaphors fresh, and I'm entertained. I, like his hero, the similarly unfortunately monikered Dwight Wilmerding, suffer from chronic indecision and career ADD. Also, like Dwight, I make spelling jokes in my head. I and Dwight are one.

Therefore, with a heavy heart: Indecision: recommended.



* I will never forgive Palmisano for addicting me to this word.

Goooooo Devils

Holey Moley the Duke lax team has a lot of lawyers.



Yeah, so I know those of you with the Internet-boredom to read my blog must have heard about the Duke lacrosse hoopla, and so have likely heard by now that there's no DNA evidence linking our dear lacrosse team to the crime.

Which, okay, fine. I'm not lax's biggest fan... um, I kind of hate them, actually... but it really is looking like they're just a bunch of racist/misogynist peewads, rather than actual strangulating rapists.

I do think, though, that said peewads should ask themselves exactly why it has been so very easy for everyone--fellow students, Durhamites, David Brooks, the world at large--to believe them capable of crime.

Our First Fight

I don't know what I did, but the DVR is pissed. I came home last night to a dead signal--no Sopranos, no Big Love, no Housewives, no Grey's, no FIFTH TO LAST EVER WEST WING, the one where Leo DIES and we find out the election results. Exactly how am I supposed to know which President now figures in my alternate escapist reality if I can't watch the damn show?!

I am proud of myself for remaining calm (or for regaining calm, once my saintly roommate revealed a VHS tape of WW, which I promptly watched and weeped through mightily; I loved Leo).

But pooping out on Sunday night?

Below the belt, DVR. Below the belt.

Good Eats

I've been eating so well lately.

Last week Amit, my formerly expatriated Indian theater-guru-turned-hotel-baron friend was in town and we had hotel-baron sushi at the Park Hyatt. Holy fuck. Plates teeming with toro and uni and paper-thin halibut with hot and sweet radish shavings, sake, champagne, you name it, it was good. We'd roll our eyes and moan with each bite.

"Meghan," he said, "this is sin."

There've also been reiterations of Personality Club, last week with poblano-papaya salad and steaks, this week with goat cheese and figs stuffed in pork tenderloin and a variety of vegetables, finished with my embarrasingly underbaked almond cake. I don't know why the filling doesn't set. It might be the cake tin. Got to step the game up, though. My friends' tastes are too good for this.

Maybe next time in the pie pan.

Dawson Leery Has Big Guns

So James "Dawson Leery" Van Der Beek just came to the show with his rather plain but very nice wife. His arms are GIGANTIC. It is really, really weird.

I kept wanting to shout Dawson Leery! at him. Like, in a mean way. And ask him how he felt about Michelle "Hateful Jen" Williams sitting front row at the Oscars, and the disappearance of Joshua "Flying V" Jackson from public life, or Joey "Sci-Bride" Potter.

That's probably all anyone ever wants from him. Poor guy.

Big guns, though.

Hrm

I made a list yesterday. A dirty, shameful list. The kind of list you don't really want to share with your friends and/or family, and especially not your tens of anonymous readers over the vast sphere of the Internets, but I've been getting comments on my addiction lately, and it's time to face the truth.

I made a list of all the TV shows I watch on a casual or regular basis.

And my friends--


it's not short.



Also, is Bree's sponsor on Desperate Housewives one of the cameraman roadie people from Wayne's World? Because that's kind of awesome.

April Showers

April Fool's Day, 2004: Professor Price informs us that our Milton papers will be due in one week, rather than three. The class sat agape, but I knew better--making note of the date that morning, I'd called my boyfriend and told him we should break up. Yes, I am a bitch.

This year, though, has them all beat. Yaf and I cooked it up in Colorado last week.

Step One

Cleverly register the domain name jeannerittschof.com

Step Two

Send emails to our dear friend the real Jeanne Rittschof from said account. This jeanne@jeannerittschof.com demanded that my former roommate change her name, as jeanne@jeannerittschof.com had established prior use. Jeanne@jeannerittschof.com even provided alternatives:

Jane Ritskof
Gina Ricechoff
Je@n R!t$0f

Step Three

Not so cleverly send these emails with Yaf's name attached. Lie to real Jeanne Rittschof when she asks if we're sending prank emails.

"You mean you're getting them too?!"

Step Four

Realize that Jeanne knows Yaf and I pretty well, and knows we're on vacation together, plus we're staying near Pantless-Ski-Jumper Teb, and that she must know it's an elaborate hoax from the both of us. It reeks of us, really. I mean, it uses the word moniker.

Step Five

Receive message from real Jeanne Rittschof's significant other:

J thinks it might be an elaborate hoax from you two, but virus is winning.

Victory!

Hi Jeanne.

April Fool's!