As long as we’re musing a bit on the law of unintended consequences vis-a-vis do-gooding, it warrants mentioning that a recent issue of Scientific American has a delightful article on the dawning realization that fluoridated water might be bad for children.
Parties I go to Do. Not. Change.
* My brother passed out in a chair.
* There may have been an ill-advised hookup. Rumors abound.
* Two girls left together abruptly, one crying, one with murder in her eyes.
* There were two separate major fights.
* Someone puked on the carpet.
* Multiple partygoers slept in the basement.
* The kitchen is, necessarily, substantially cleaner than it was when the party started.
* Inhalant use was prodigious. A lot of folks learned the phrase “Do you want a hit off this?”
* The sink is full of empty bottles.
* There was toplessness.
* I have a serious headache.
But it’s not every day somebody turns three.
Just finished the second of my two live online fantasy baseball drafts in 26 hours.
Draft One, Tuesday night, 930pm-1130pm: Your 2007 World Champion California Teabaggers. Fourteen teams, eighteen rounds, ninety seconds per pick. Two hundred and fifty-two total players drafted. At stake: A big bag of money.
Draft Two, Wednesday night, 8pm-1115pm: The ESPN Fantasy Baseball Podcast Listener League. Twenty teams, twenty-five rounds, sixty seconds per pick. Five hundred total players drafted. At stake: Significant public ridicule among the kind of people that listen to fantasy baseball podcasts.
I am fried. More tomorrow.
Juli Mac has, quite sensibly, taken the step of letting us all know what sort of sendoff she wants, should she die unexpectedly and in the company of everyone more qualified to see to it. Naturally, I have started thinking about the same thing. Really, it’s important to make sure everyone knows what you want, lest you wind up boxed among people saying “I dunno. What do you want to do?” until you smell bad enough that they just bury you. I gave it a great deal of thought, and considered all my options carefully, and took the measure of my surviving loved ones, and what is most important to all of us, and what would give greatest comfort. And I have decided, after much contemplation, that I wish to be memorialized as a seasoning.
I read once that the pigs destined to be the very best lardo are fed only apples, walnuts, and cream for the last few months of their lives, so given that I should taste reasonably good. I’m not suggesting I be cured into prosciutto or have my liver seared and served with caramelized apples or have y’all barbecue my shoulder or anything weird like that; I think I would be better off rendered, dried, and granulated. Like garlic. I would live on forever in my closest circle of friends, a little shaker-jar of warmth and closeness for those times I am missed. A couple shakes of me over a baked potato, a quarter-cup in the Super Bowl Chili year after year, an bit infused into a bottle of fine vodka. Or maybe as part of a dry rub on ribs, smoked to beautiful fragrant memories by one of my grandpits.
What does it say about the demands of the patrons and/or the attitude of the staff at the Key West Public Library that it has been deemed necessary to put up a sign in front of the computer area reading “We cannot guarantee that the information accessed via the Internet is accurate, authoritative, or factual.”?
(The list of frequently asked questions detailing this policy includes “It’s my computer. Can’t I do what I want?”, a sentence which requires no reading of the answer to know that it will be dripping with contempt; and also a complete rendering of the library policy on plugging in your laptop to charge it, the distilled version of which is “You pay for the books, not the power, fucko.”)
The past few years, when Eliot Spitzer was annoying the daylights out of the kind of people that make life difficult for Luna, and making the investment world a better place for honest people — or at least a worse place for dishonest people — I was anxious for him to run for President.
Now, after learning today that he paid thousands and thousands of dollars for discreet transactional nookie, I am crushed. I wish that he was running for President right now. I DEMAND that he run for President. I might send him some money. My God…I knew he was a good guy, and I knew his election would profoundly upset management leeches, but I had no idea that he was a big-money baller.
Fuck Hopeful Changing Religious Freak. Fuck Woman I Don’t Want To Be President Because She Reminds Me Of My Aunt. Fuck Veteran of the War That Old People Won’t Shut Up About. Vote for the only candidate who pestered stockbrokers by day and made it rain by night.
YES WE CAN!
Close personal friend and devout Green Bay Packer fan Big has advocated that, in lieu of baking bread, I write more.
Brett Favre has retired. While I suspect he will not be retired come August 15th of this year, I will take him at his word for now.
I hated Brett for many years. Now that the Bears have stopped swooning before him, and instead started using him to wipe the field, I have redirected my scorn to the sports media’s swooning, which is only partly Brett’s fault. As for Brett himself, I had a minor revelation this January.
I had been graciously invited to watch the Packers-Giants NFC title game with the members of Big’s “other” fantasy league, whose Imaginary Super Bowl trophy Big had hoisted just a couple of weeks’ previous. I had played a small consulting role in this triumph, which was enough to push my Bear fan status aside and allow me entrance to the conclave. Plus I hadn’t met his second daughter or new TV yet, so off to Sheboygan I went. And I learned something shocking that day:
Packer fans don’t really like Brett Favre.
Brett and his Maddenslurped “gunslinger” style of play drives them bananas. They hate it as much as Chris Berman loves it. Again: Brett terrifies and infuriates the average Packer fan.
The league I was watching with discussed Brett the way Thurston Howell III discusses wines. “I hope we get the ’97 Brett tonight, not the ’94.” “Or God forbid the ’03.” (room shudders) “We agreed not to talk about the ’03 Brett during a playoff game. Try to focus on the ’96.”
But that was not the best part.
After the Giants kicked a game-winning field goal in overtime, following an ill-advised interception — here’s a great trivia question to lay on your favorite Packer fan, by the way, “Who caught the last pass of Brett Favre’s career?” “Corey Webster.” — the room somberly began to mutter unkind things about Brett. (They were, in fairness, calmer than I would have been had Rex Grossman just single-handedly cost the Bears a Super Bowl trip, and it was the second time he did that exact thing in four years.)
But that was not the best part either.
The best part was the eight or ten times that Joe Buck said “Favre drops back…under pressure!…winds up to throw!…” and the room, to a man save me, put hands to face and screamed “NO!”
From March 3 until April 30th, and then again post-Vegas, I will be leaving the social and recreational eating circuit to look after what Calvin Trillin once described as “a well-deserved case of fatness”. The primary problem, now, is that that leaves me with at least one or two new hours to kill every day. I need a new hobby, skill, or obsession. Discuss.
It was with great sadness that I read, last week, of the passing of bondgirl‘s widely loved and admired betta Secretariat.
After converting the Tundra into a Truck of Remembrance, I began preparing my remarks, on the chance I might be done the honor of being called upon to speak at a thronged service in his honor.
I’m leaning toward something like this:
“And it seems to be you lived your life
On the mantel in a dish.
Never shedding, never barking,
Food your only wish.
I would’ve liked to’ve known you,
but I am not a fiiiiiish….”
Be sure to really belt out the last line. It’s very, very satisfying.