Classically Rocked

An Open Letter to the Gym Stalker, Vol. 2

2005-11-10T06:03:00.000-08:00

Dear Gym Stalker,
I thought that when I left Clarendon, I left the Gym Stalker behind. I thought my days of looking over my shoulder on the treadmill (which, I might add, creates some problems as I'm not that coordinated and can't really run while trying to look over my shoulder) were over. Not to be outdone by its younger, hipper competition at the WSC, my new gym has come through in the clutch, rewarding me with you. And they've even upped the ante, because this time, you aren't just some sketchy guy that I occasionally run in to, you are actually employed by the gym, and thus, are there all the time. We're going to have a lot of fun together.

I first met you the day I joined the gym, when, in addition to helping me fill out the application, you asked a host of inappropriate questions, ranging from "where are you from?" to "do you live alone?" No, I don't live alone, I live with a giant medieval pet hydra named Angus. Just so you know. The other day, you insisted on showing me a great new squat machine, and used it as an excuse to discuss the muscular state of my legs. That's really flattering, except my legs aren't all that muscular (no thanks to you, fucking stair stepper torture machine). In fact, in ten years, I'll probably have cankles. Maybe I could take a few personal training sessions with you so we could work on that? I'll sign right up.

Yeah, that's right, in addition to being a membership director, you're also a personal trainer. And you told me you used to box and that you were a martial arts champion. On the one hand, that makes sense, because you're pretty short and look a little bit like a troll and those are the people I always picture being into martial arts. On the other hand, I've got to admit, you're looking a bit rotund these days and two days ago, I saw you eating a hot pocket on your way to work with a client. I hear hot pockets are just as good as power bars to get you going before a hard workout.

Recently, you've started touching me. Like when I walk in, and you give my shoulder that affectionate squeeze and leave your hand there just a second too long. It's great to know you care about me as a person, and are looking out for my physical well-being. It's really motivating. In fact, when I get on the treadmill, I pretend I'm running away from you down a long dark alley. I'll crack that 9 minute mile yet.

Luckily, cause you always wear the bottom half of what is clearly an 80s warmup suit, I can usually hear you coming with that swish swish static-generating sound they make. It gives me time to get REALLY focused on whatever I happen to be doing, like reading a magazine. I almost look as focused as 80s bodybuilder guy. You know him, he's the one that wears the home-made cutoff T-shirts, with the neck cut so low that his nipple sometimes peeks out, and the thin cotton spandex shorts that leave NOTHING to the imagination. 80s bodybuilder guy and I are pretty tight, we talk about the Redskins. We're thinking about signing up for your cardio kick-boxing class together, maybe we'll see you around.

Eeeeee-i, eeeeee-i, Ooooooh

2005-11-08T11:00:00.000-08:00

Maybe it's the 2p.m. squirrely-ness setting in, but this made me laugh and laugh and laugh. I know I often get excited and faint at the prospect of getting fed.

Happy Tuesday.

He's the hairy-handed gent who ran amok in Kent

2005-11-01T13:32:00.000-08:00

I love Halloween more than any grown person should. Today, that love has been tested as I consumed more Whoppers today than any person should really consume in one day. I'm about to go the gym, which means that I'm about to throw up Whopper all over everyone there. Who's excited?

When you see the Southern Cross for the first time

2005-11-01T13:01:00.000-08:00

Yes yes I haven't posted in ages. In my defense, there has been a move and a starting of a new job (and concurrent figuring-out-of-internet-surfing-protocol) since I last wrote, and both of those things are draining enough. Plus, and hear me out on this one, nothing kills a blogsplosion better than calling it out and complimenting it. Don't get me wrong, God knows I need the affirmation, but the ugly side of praise is pressure to perform, and I can go limp with the best of 'em. But anyway, a smattering:

I actually have one last Hawaii tale that never got told. On the second to last day, we finally went scuba diving. You remember, the sport in which I invested nearly $800 specifically for this Hawaii trip? Yeah, we got down to the wire becasue of a general laziness and inability to plan (why plan, when you can just go sit on the beach?) and also becasue of nasal congestion issues, and you really really aren't supposed to dive if you are congested due to the chance that you could easily blow your eardrum out. Anyhow, we are finally ready to make a go of it, so we make our reservation with the good people of Dive Oahu, the group affiliated with our hotel. We did two dives, both of the coast of Waikiki, the first a wreck dive, the second a reef dive.

What-should-have-been-warning-bell-#-1: You are supposed to be certified to do wreck dives. Fresh from my certification class, I am well aware of this fact and becasue of innate risk aversion and general goody-two-shoes-ness, I inform our guide, Roger (but we'll call him Scuba Roger from now on), that neither of us is wreck certified. Scuba Roger does not care, and waves it off with a shrug. (A brief note on Scuba Roger: He is the human incarnation of a seal, round-bellied, with a blond mustache that strongly resembles tusks, and about as lacksadaisical as you would think a seal would be, unless you attacked its child, but given his general nonchalance, I can't imagine he could work up the effort to have a child anyway, so you see what we are dealing with.)

What-should-have-been-warning-bell-#-2: The wreck dive went down to a depth of about 100 feet. As a newly minted open water diver, I'm only supposed to go to about 60 feet. Unsurprisingly, Scuba Roger is also unconcerned.

So we do the wreck dive, and admittedly, it was super cool. It was a big container ship that was originally seized for smuggling Chinese people. No, we did not see any Chinese people. But we did see lots of cool 80's-style fish and snails, and we swam down into the cabin and up into the captain's room and such. Again, bear in mind, this is totally dangerous becasue the whole point of getting wreck certified is to learn how to handle the numerous dangerous situations you could find yourself in, like getting tangled in fishing lines, getting your tank stuck somewhere, finding smuggled Chinese immigrants, what have you. He also let us stay down way too long. Inexplicably after returning from this trip, I ended up with two small red spots on each of my big toenails. I have no idea what they are or where they came from, but I am pretty sure that they can be blamed on Scuba Roger.

Secon dive is a reef dive in a place called Turtle Canyon, which, while perhaps not as sexy as a wreck dive, was highly enjoyable. The Canyon serves as a sort of turtle car wash in that sea turtles swim in, tons of little fish come and eat all of the algae off their shells, and then they swim out. Adorable! And sea turtles are really cool. They have this funny look about them, like they know alot that you don't, but would probably sit down and tell you about it if they weren't busy getting their shells cleaned and wading up onto the beach to lay their eggs and what not. If I had to name a human counterpart to sea turtles, it would be elderly British diplomats. I.e. sea turtles are the British diplomats of the sea, wise and grandfatherly, but willing to take you on their knee after a few scotches and tell you some great stories like the one about the Great Sea Urchin Rebellion of '49.

So there we are, cruising around the canyon, when Scuba Roger pulls a stunt the likes of which I'm sure I'll not see again. There are basically two rules in scuba. The first is don't hold your breath. Cause if you do, and you ascend, your lungs will expand and gradually explode and probably kill you. The second is don't touch the wildlife. What does Scuba Roger do not 5 minutes into the dive? He catches an octopus. We all swam over to watch as he held onto it, the poor thing inking all over the place and trying to get away (which is quite gross to watch, but makes you feel kind of sorry for it). He let us touch it, which I also felt bad about, but since I wasn't the one who caught it in the first place, I felt somewhat justified. And then, just when you think Scuba Roger is going to let it go, he sticks it to his mask, and the octopus wraps it tentacles around his face and head and clings for dear life.

I don't know if you've ever seen someone swim around with an octopus stuck to their face, but it is exactly as funny as you think it is.

One final story: This happened one day while sitting in our hotel room, but I kept forgetting to include it. Do you ever have one of those conversations that you start after a lengthy train of thought in your head that leads you to ask a particular kind of question that then gets completely misinterpreted by the person you are asking becasue they weren't privy to the train of thought that led to the question in the first place? Here's how it went:

KM train of thought, while reading a book about this woman who decided to cook every recipe in Julia Child's Mastering the Art of French Cooking and then wrote a book about it: God, I could have written this. WHy haven't I tried to write a book? I could write a book! I just need some kind of original gimmick to write about!

KM question/statement out loud to ALE: I need a gimmick!?

ALE in response: What? Like a wrestling gimmick? (Now, I have no idea why this was the first thing that popped into his head in response, probably the same reason that my own random thought popped out).

KEM: Huh?

ALE: Ooo, Ooo, I know, your wrestling gimmick could be "The Flying Malasada!"

If you have paid attention to previous Hawaii posts, you know that a malasada is a kind of donut. This makes my possible wrestling gimmick "The Flying Donut." It is amazing the WWF has not beaten my door down yet.

Off the wind on this heading lie the Marquesas

2005-10-14T11:23:00.000-07:00

Here I am at home, enjoying my last day of weekday freedom, and what do I happen to catch on TV? Magnum P.I. I don't think it's a stretch of anyone's imagination to understand that I was a pretty weird kid. There was the time one summer when I filled up a garbage can (it was new!) with water so I could go swimming in it. There was the time I wrote all over my self with lipstick and ran around naked howling like an Indian. But most of all, there were the crushes, three, as I recall:

1) Magnum P.I., That mustache!
2) Casey Kasem. That voice, like velvet!
3) Pat Sajak. OK, this is just weird, and I'm kind of at a loss to explain it.

But isn't it appropriate as I continue to reflect on my vacation, that I can do it staring at the glorious Hawaiian shirt-clad body.

Hawaii Day Five was a Tale of Two Beaches. Went to Hanauma Bay in the morning, renowned for its snorkeling. It is singular among beaches in Hawaii though in that you have to pay $5 to get in, and it is a total tourist trap. They make you watch this god awful movie about saving the turtles before you can walk down to the beach, and of all the places we went, it was by far the most crowded with tourists of all. I say it is singular, because there is a rule in Hawaii that every beach is public, even those in front of hotels, which is kind of nice. Anyway, we went, we snorkeled, and discovered that, say it again with me now, like everything else in Hawaii, even the fish are kind of 80s. A lot of neon stripes, alot of black and yellow, you can bet that if the fish could wear little fish shirts, they'd have the collar popped a la Crockett and Tubs in a second.

Interruption: Magnum P.I. just asked the mentally ill woman whose innocence he is trying to prove the following question: "Would you join me in the shower and sleep with me?" Damn that guy is smooth.

Hanauma Bay also sticks in my mind because it also gets a shout-out in that high school warm up tape hall of fame song "Let Me Clear My Throat" by the venerable DJ Kool. So, while a nice beach, probably not my favorite of the whole trip.

Second Beach is just around the way from Hanauma Bay, and is called Sandy Beach, which must be because you are guaranteed to leave it with no fewer than five pounds of sand hidden somewhere on your person, most likely sitting in a pile in the bottom of your bathing suit, making it look like you pooped in your pants. In contrast to Hanauma Bay, Sandy Beach is totally local, with almost no females in the water. It is a body surfing hot spot, and for obvious reasons, females tend to shy away from the sport. Never one to pass up a chance to show the locals my goods, ALE and I eventually work up the nerve to swim out into the water, making our break between sets so that we are, for the most part, able to make it out past the breakers without incident. We hang out out there floating on of of the waves with a wary eye towards shore and the adventures that await. Again, working up more nerve, we swim in a little closer so that we are at the point not quite where the waves break, but just before so that you get a little more thrill, but are still not in much danger of getting run through The Washing Machine. ALE finally gets up the daring, and catches a small wave in for the shore successfully. I, reveling in his success, watch him ride it into the shore, thus violating Rule #1 of body surfing: Never turn your back on the waves. Me=pummeled. Washing Machine #1, gentle cycle. It's cool, I think that only one nipple escaped, and I have yet to get eaten by a shark or anything, so everything is good. ALE swims back, catches a few more, we're having a right good time. Until, drunk with success, we collectively violate Rule #1 again, and are both sent through the Washing Machine again, this time full spin permanent press style. After finally surfacing, I gulp "we're getting out" and so I more or less get washed up on shore like a limp jelly fish. I will say it as worth it, although next time, I will most certainly choose the one piece bathing suit.

Dinner: Met with friends of Adam's parents at a place called Palomino, it was ehhh. I can almost never turn down scallops when I see them on a menu, and this night was no exception. I can't remember the exact description, but it had something to do with being encrusted, and some kind of asiago cheese. As it turned out, the scallops were less encrusted than they were battered and fried, and if there is anything I can say about what you should and should not do with scallops, I can say with certainty that you should never batter and fry them. I'm considering making a public service announcement to this effect, it was a tragedy. Slightly made up for by the dessert, which was half a papaya filled with pineapple and topped with zabaglione.

Sunburn check: None to speak of. Island, I have defeated thee!

Spirits are usin me, larger voices callin'

2005-10-13T19:06:00.000-07:00

So I'm back. Back from paradise, back from moonlit beaches, back from cabana boys, back from sand in places sand just shouldn't go, back from all things Hawaii. I would be more depressed about this were it not for the fact that the weather has finally turned cold and blustery and October IS MY FAVORITE MONTH EVER. I have two words for you: Corn Maize. This year, I will not be denied.

Also, a quick question before I tell you about the rest of the trip: How is that Cristopher Cross, who is a big sissy for bringing us that song Sailing, is so inspirational in St. Elmo's Fire?

So the rest of the trip. I'll chunk it out by days, but in a slightly abbreviated version mainly because the final few days kind of ran together, and the meals we ate, while good, are not worthy of four page long tomes, not to mention the fact that, days later, I am still a bit woozy from that last post, so I'll just give you the highlights.

Day Four: A tour of the North Shore. This is the fabled surfing capital of Hawaii/the world, although unfortunately the surf was not that high when we were there; winter is when it really "goes off" as they say. We made pitstops at Waimea Bay, Sunset Beach, and the Bonzai pipeline. Lunch was had in a kitschy little town called Hale'iwa, that despite the trappings of modernity (a Blockbuster and an Ace Hardware, which will factor in later), still looks very much like a 60s surf town. We had lunch at Hale'iaw Joe's, a kitschy restaurant and dined on a cajun fish sandwich with wasabi ranch sauce and cocnut shrimp. We walked around the town a bit to do some tchotschke shopping, and I managed to pick up a few of the requisite T-shirts for the fans back home. Two occurrences of note: 1) We stopped at a little place to have shaved ice. You get to pick three flavors to put into your shaved ice, we had pineapple (which was blue), coconut(which was pink) and passion fruit (which was white). Has Roy-G-Biv abandoned Hawaii? Does the color wheel not apply? And let me just say that as someone who was NEVER good at art class, I had to work damn hard to learn that fucking color wheel, so to go and screw with it like that, well, that's just not acceptable. Also, if you've ever been to a shaved ice stand, you know that everything, and I mean everything, is sticky. The ground, the chairs, the wall, the trees, the air, everything is oozing that colored sugar water. It took us a good few hours to get out. Remember the Ace Hardware? Well, while shopping, we saw a guy ride by down the road on a horse. He was kind of rugged looking, and as such, didn't really look out of place. But he "pulled" his horse up to the Ace Hardware, "parked" it, and when in to pick up some screws or lightbulbs or something. He came back out a few minutes later with a small bag, got back on the horse, and rode off down the street, normal as can be. I have to believe that someone who rides a horse around for transportation is probably also going without some modern conveniences like "electricity" and "running water" so it really makes me wonder exactly what it was that he needed to buy at the Hardware store.

Sunburn Check: Previously seared breast has recovered, although it is still slightly, ummm, discolored, which makes me think I've kicked it up one more notch on the skin-cancer-o-meter. On this day, I managed to burn the backs of my thighs, which made putting underwear on uncomfortable for a few days, but nothing I couldn't handle. Honestly, I used so much aloe on this trip, I had a tough time not slipping off the bed when I tried to lay down.

Finally, I'm not really sure why it is happening, and I don't know if I'm ready to talk about it yet, but I think I'm slipping into a Robert Palmer phase.

I have been around the world, lookin for that woman/girl

2005-10-09T22:53:00.000-07:00

Day Four:

I’m going to spend only a small bit of time on the day’s main attraction, which was a visit to Pearl Harbor and the U.S.S. Arizona memorial. Frankly, I think you get a bit spoiled living in a city full of spectacular monuments and memorials. But it was still nice, took a tour of the U.S.S. Missouri, and because we took the guided tour, we got free (free!) coupons for the flight simulator at the end. One of the two of us was very excited about this, guess which one. Both of us, however, came out of it completely motion sick. Motion sickness + hot sun +crowd of tourists, including annoying French guys who are most definitely NOT speaking in a reverent tone of voice as was requested by the park ranger and almost prompted a freedom fry litany of how-many-times-have-we-bailed-you-out-of-war-again from yours truly although I held back mostly because of my begrudging appreciation of their cuisine =not necessarily the most life changing monument visit experience. But I’m only going to spend a small amount of time talking about that.

What I’m going to spend a lot of time talking about are the meals we ate today, because quite frankly, today’s food dwarfed even the magnificent natural beauty of the island. Breakfast was a pit-stop at a local farmer’s market. It was very insider, very what’s now, very what’s happening, very Lonely Planet. The tip did not come Lonely Planet though, but rather from “Oahu Revealed,” which despite having been published in 2005, like everything in Oahu looks like it is from 1983. The guidebook has served us rather well, although we did come across one strange passage, regarding the legendary Don Ho: “Mr. Ho appeared to be in a condition seemingly unsuitable for stage, and the audience initially looked uncomfortable.” Now the author continues, not really bothering to elaborate on Mr. Ho’s condition. Was he drunk? Was it some kind of aristocrats situation? I guess we’ll never know. Anyway, back to the farmer’s market. It was delightful. There was a dude playing some Cristopher Cross on a guitar at the entrance, which really set the mood. I grabbed a latte from local coffee shop right away, thus reaching famer’s market cruising altitude quickly and comfortably. We went on to sample all sorts of delicious goodies, eventually settling on the following as breakfast:

Malasadas (the Hawaiian donut, fried, piping hot soaked with oil, rolled in sugar, as a United Nations’ designated Friend of Fried Things Everywhere, FOFTE, I was on this like stink on a monkey), Bread Pudding smeared with apple topping and whipped cream (“Ho!” You say, “bread pudding isn’t a breakfast food!” Fuck you.) Pina Colada cookies, oatmealy and delicious. Freshly sliced pineapple. ( It appears that the one tragedy of this trip will be that I will not get to have red pineapple. I was told by someone that Hawaii was a magical place where the pineapple was so ripe it was red. Apparently, you can only get red pineapple when the pineapple is allowed to ripen completely on the plant, i.e. you basically have to be able to pick it out of the field, since they are never shipped to the store like that. And Apparently, this isn’t the right time to get them like that in the field. I can’t tell you how sad it makes me feel to have been lied to and deceived like this, and if you think for a second that I will not be lording this great tragedy over the one responsible for a good long while, well, you are sadly mistaken or I’ll be a monkey’s uncle. I tell you, the monkey analogies really flow when you blog from Hawaii. This pineapple, wile not red, was delicious. Finally, a tasty drink mixed before our eyes that included a layer of berries, ice, seltzer, some crazy ginger syrupy stuff, fresh mint, and lime. If you are thinking to yourself that that sounds delicious and refreshing, than you are correct, it was in fact delicious and refreshing.

After we got back from Pearl Harbor, had a snack in the room of grilled vegetable sandwich on foccacia. Nothing special, but served the purpose of tiding us over until….

Dinner, tonight at Chef Mavro, just ALE and I, in celebration of three years of coupledom. No, we are not now engaged, and yes, I am likely upset about that. But that’s for another day. This place makes up one of the three restaurants Gourmet Magazine says are tops in the city, Alan Wong’s from the night before being the second, and Hoku, conveniently located in our hotel, and likely to be our locale on Tuesday night, being the third. Chef Mavor, that is his name, is French, and so the restaurant is French-Hawaiian fusion, whatever that means. Every restaurant here is fusion, which basically means that you are going to find with certainty a red snapper and an ahi dish involving ginger and or a balsamic soy reduction on the menu. You just are. But our friend Chef Mavro has decided, as only a French chef could, that the raison d’etre of his restaurant is “the pairing of food and wine.” So rather than ordering wine yourself, every dish on the menu, from appetizer to entrée to dessert is already paired with a glass of wine. So you can order a la carte, or you can do one of two tasting menus, a four course or a six course, where each dish is set along with its chosen wine. And incidentally, the food and wine pairings are “chosen democratically by the entire staff” who sits down every 8 weeks when the menu changes to taste all of the food along with a bunch of wines and pick which ones will end up on the menu. Now, most people who come to Hawaii probably say to themselves at some point or another, “Wow, wouldn’t it be great to live out of car, surf all day, pick freshly ripened RED pineapple off the ground…..” Not me. I’ve decided that my Hawaii dream entails moving here to be a waitress at a restaurant where every 8 weeks, I get to sit down and eat all the food and drink all the wine and decide who gets what. Sign me up for that. The great thing about this situation is that it takes an unbelievable amount of pressure of you as the diner in this fine restaurant. Once you decide to rock that tasting menu, that’s it. Buckle your seat belt, because you are in for a culinary tour de force. I’m going to try not to use that phrase again, but I can’t make any promises.

Oh, and there is the ambience. The entire place is all done up in warm neutrals and teak, and although by this point I’ve only seen two, I’d make a fair bet that any fine dining establishment here is done up in warm neutrals and teak. On a tropical island, what the hell else are you going to do? But it is still very nice, and very relaxing, and when the maitre’d is wearing a Hawaiian shirt and showing just the teeniest hint of chest hair, and is a tall, gentle shaver like someone else we all know and love, you know “everything is gonna be all right.”

I try, but I’m really not a wine person. I’ve been known to drink white wine spritzers. I’ve put ice cubes in red wine before. I pretend to wrinkle my nose authoritatively at a wine list at make comments like “well, I like the pinot, but I really need something a bit more dry tonight” and hope that someone who cares heard. But tonight, the wine actually came alive for me. It grabbed me by the throat and throttled my nostrils and taste buds into submission. They would deliver each glass before the food came, and I would take a sip and think to myself, “oh, okay, well this is nice” or “will anyone every love me if I can’t tell the difference between a cab sauv and a merlot? I’m not drinking ay fucking merlot!” But when the food showed up, and you took a bite of the food and THEN took a sip of the wine, holy shit, it was unbelievable. Believe me, I am not exaggerating. It was honestly amazing to me that wine could complement food so well. I’ve often thought of wine connoisseurs as a sort of Emperor’s New Clothes kind of group. Like really they just make all that shit up to make the rest of us feel inferior but secretly envious. I guess that after one revelation, I can’t speak to the genuineness of them all, but tonight, it really just happened.

Also, before I leave the wine thing, this place had the most adorable sommelier I have ever seen, who came around and poured out each glass for you while telling you what the wine was. He was old, thin, slightly stooped, a bit nerdy, but most definitely has pictures of 18 grandchildren in his wallet at all times. Throughout the meal, I kept trying to think of a dignified way to ask him to sit on my lap. I couldn’t, and that, along with the developing red pineapple fiasco will constitute that main regrets of this trip.

Upon the waiter’s recommendation, I got the four course tasting menu, and Adam got the six course tasting menu. Obviously, we shared everything, and this way, we basically got to have everything on the entire menu. During the times when I didn’t have a course, they brought out a fresh empty plate and new silverware to set in front of me anyway, like I might get lonely or something. Adorable.

I’m not going to take to you about everything we ate. I’m not going to talk to you bout the Maitake mushroom salad sautéed in white truffle oil, or the shallot encrusted strip loin, or the Keahole lobster with star anise crustacean essence (what the hell is essence anyway? Did the chef go out snorkeling in the water and steal the life force out from a bunch of crustaceans?) or the wood ear fricassee (after seeing this on a plate and putting it in my mouth and swallowing it, I still have no idea where this would fit in the animal-mineral-or-vegetable guessing game) or the sea urchin sabayon. Everything was strange and exotic, and when paired with accompanying wine, unbelievable. There are a few points in this culinary tour de force (sorry!) that I need to spend some time with though. First was the English pea puree that accompanied my fish. It was this crazy color of green and the consistency of baby food, and it was just packed with flavor. I marvel at any chef who can do something special with peas. I also want to recognize the Roasted “Mountain Meadow” Lamb Chateau (what else would you call it, Roasted “Stinky Unsanitary Meat Factory” Chateau?). This was the second night in a row of having awesome lamb chops. A week where you have awesome lamb chops two nights in a row is a good week indeed. And one of the desserts was a Malasada with guava coulis and pineapple-cocnut ice cream. Remember malasadas from breakfast? As a United Nations designated Friend of Fried Things Everywhere (Friends! Countrymen! Bring me your fried things!), I naturally had to have malasadas twice the in the same day. Awesome.

What I REALLY want to tell you about though is an unassuming little cheese course. There is sits, between the main evevnt and the grand finale of dessert, meant only to distract you awhile while your soufflé rises or your crème brulee is expertly torched. You never expect that much from it. So when it shows up and lays you out flat like any good prize fighter would, well, you’re going to be a bit surprised. When I tell you what it is, you wont believe me. Here is the exact description from the menu:

Big Island Goat Cheese and Fig

Fig marmalade, lemon-chive goat cheese mousse, Hirabara baby greens

Wine: Coppo, 2004 Brachetto D’Acqui, Italy.

Up to this point in the meal, we were sailing along, enjoying our pairings of food and wine, laughing and talking of memories past. Once The Goat Cheese hit, the conversation stopped. I swear, I am not making this up. I don’t think we spoke for fifteen minutes. And even when we did speak, it was in a series of random non sequitors that sort of trailed off at the end. ALE sadi at one point, again, not kidding here, something to the effect of “It just makes you feel so….so….inconsequential and all, like you’re never goin to do anything in your life that could possibly amount to more than this…….”“Ha!,” you say. “I, as a United Nations designated Friend of Free Samples at Fresh Fields Everywhere have had the goat cheese and fig combo, and while it’s good and all, surely you are off your rocker for going on like this about the goat cheese!” I’m not. The creaminess and flavor of it all, paired with this crazy sweet and slightly carbonated red Italian wine represent the closest I have and possibly may ever come to a dinner-induced orgasm. Later in the meal, the waiter actually brought chef out so we could tell him how unbelievable the goat cheese was. I can’t help but wonder if he may have been secretly offended at this, having gone through this series of culinary acrobatics with lamb chops and foie gras, and lobster, and wood ear fricassee and all) that all we could talk to him about was the goat cheese. I don’t know what more I can write to convince you that goat cheese changed me that night. But in my heart, I know what happened, and I know that today, I see colors a little brighter, and hear the birds sing a little sweeter. And no one can ever take that away.

Think about how many times I have fallen

2005-10-09T22:51:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, it’s the simple things. It’s having your bed turned down for you by a stranger. It’s watching the will of a palm tree bend to the trade winds. It’s being alone with a good book and a sand crab. In other words, it’s Day Three in Hawaii.

Somewhat better adjusted to the time change, we awoke today at 7:30ish. I tell you, while I do love the sleeping in, I also really like getting up early on vacation. The day becomes your oyster, you’ve got ample room for at least three meals, and you are bound to take advantage of the blissful afternoon nap. Today’s main attraction was a drive halfway around Oahu to reach Goat Island. Along the way, stops at various scenic lookouts, each more stunning than the one before. The northern side of the island is the windward side, and much more rugged and raw than the south side, where all the pussy tourists hang out. The mountains virtually rise up out of the sea in places, creating that strange topography where the clouds hang on top of the mountains, shrouding them in mist, while the beach is perfectly sunny and complacent. Spectacular. As does Honolulu with its weird 80s charm, the parts of the island I saw today really seem to defy its identity as a resort destination. The condo-building boom seems to have blown by this place, with most of the houses near the beach keeping their humble, beat-down “charm.” Not to mention all of the car-as-house set ups we passed along the way. Goat Island is very small, and only a few hundred feet off the shore. The trick is that you can actually walk out to it during low tide across a narrow strip of coral where the waves crash into you from all angles. The whole thing is very Robinson Crusoe, you wade out along this strip with your belongings balanced on your head for the 10-minute crossing. We were the only people on the island, so we swam a bit in water that was exactly childhood bath temperature, and that relaxed on the beach underneath a shade tree for a few hours. The island is a bird sanctuary, and sure enough, when we walked across it, we saw nests with fuzzy headed baby birds poking out. Enough said, it was quite an experience.

Meals consumed: Today, Hawaii gave without taking. Breakfast: Same hotel restaurant on the beach. Instead of buffet, we order off the menu. I, an egg white omelet with tomatoes, spinach and goat cheese (ha! You thought you were healthy, eating an egg white omelet on vacation, well, come and talk to me after that big mouthful of goat cheese and we’ll see what’s what….). Adam, island banana-stuffed French toast. Orgasmic. Like Satan in the Garden of Eden, the French toast came with a trio of accoutrement, maple syrup, maple butter, and….wait for it…coconut syrup. Oh lord, give me air. I, the queen of breakfast sweets was humbled by this simple condiment.

Lunch: Again, eating the big breakfast and hanging out in the sun all day kind of kills the mid-day appetite. Not to be denied, on the way back from Goat Island, we stopped at a roadside stand and picked up a bunch of fresh papaya, and a coconut, which the big fat Polynesian guy manning the stand deftly hacked first to put a straw in so I could drink out the coconut milk, and second in half to eat its precious marrow. He did this all while holding the coconut in one hand, which I couldn’t help but be impressed by, given that were I to be in charge of such a task, well, I’d have no fingers left. I figured that eating a fresh coconut from a road side stand was an indication the day couldn’t get any better, culinarily speaking.

God was I wrong.

Dinner: Alan Wong’s, apparently one of the best restaurants in all of Hawaii, with the best pastry chef (this knowledge will come in handy in a minute). Probably top 5 meals in my life. Started with a round of Sapphire & tonics, and damnit, I like a tasty G&T. Followed by a tasty bottle of French/German white wine, can’t remember the name, but it went perfectly. Appetizers: Luau-style pork in a wonton-y/egg roll form (tasty, but not nearly as good as…), lobster medallion braised in butter with a shitake mushroom. I know who reads this blog, and I know that none of those people need me to discuss the merits of anything braised in butter. I’ll give you a moment to collect yourselves. Main course: Lamb chops encrusted in coconut and macadamia nuts with garlic mashed potatoes. I could have cared less about the mashed potatoes, the lamb chops were mind-numbingly tender, savory, and just plain delicious. Also Pink Snapper with Japanese-style mushroom risotto. You know Pink Snapper, it’s Red Snapper’s sassy, flamboyant, and possibly gay younger cousin. It was lightly fried in a batter that gave it a slightly sweet taffy-like texture. I know that sounds weird, but I can’t really describe it any better than that. I wasn’t crazy about the risotto (honestly, better left to the Italians), but after the lamb, you could have fed me bird shit and I wouldn’t have cared. Dessert: Mascarpone cheesecake with strawberries and strawberry sorbet on top. Mascarpone? I’d lick it off the sidewalk. Also: “Five Spoonfuls of Brulee.” That was really what it was called, they took the same spoons you would use to eat wonton soup, and filled each with a different brulee (macadamia, chocolate, coffee, orange, passion fruit). Wow. Dinner was followed by a walk on the moonlit beach, we saw a cruise ship ablaze with lights on the horizon underneath a crescent moon, and a sea turtle hanging out in the surf.

There’s no way I can get back on a plane.

Sunburn check: Mostly stayed out of the sun today, hidden under mumu and hat on my beach chair in the shade, shrieked and shrank away like a vampire when the sun came near. As it turns out, right breast is less sunburned than it is seared like a fine ahi tuna. It is the way of my people.

But on a midnight watch I realized why twice you ran away

2005-10-07T00:39:00.000-07:00

Day Two: Due to time chage, we fell asleep last night by 8:30, which meant we were wide awake around 5:15 this morning. The downside to that is that you realize what life will be like in 50 years. The benefit is that you realize that you can go down to the beach and watch the sun rise over Hawaii and that indeed you are a lucky bastard. So you go down to the beach where you anxiously await the sun rise, but then you are stuck in a freak rainstorm, and have to go inside. So you go the gym to get your morning workout on in the fitness center. Honestly, I'm not sure that I have ever felt healthier in my life that after waking up beofre the usn, and doing an hour and a half workout. In case you are worreid that I let this oh-so-healthy feeling carry me through the day, skip down to the meals section.

Spent almost the whole day on the beach, lounging and reading. Honestly, this was all I wanted to do. I could go home now and would consider the trip a success. The weather was beautiful, and every so often, a tinkle of rain would come down for a few minutes to refresh you. God's own personal mister. The south side of Oahu is protected by a reef, so the water is really shallow for a few hundred feet off shore where the waves break. So, you can swim out a ways and find yourself quite far from shore, but standing in water that only comes up to your hip. Delightful! The best way to entertain yourself at the beach is to play a little game I like to call "is my (insert any random body part) better than his/hers"? the great thing about being in a place with little pretense, is that you tend ot fair slightly better at this game. Especially when I get to the chest hair round, I knock 'em down.

Meals consumed: Breakfast: Buffet at the hotel. A spread fo pastries the likes of which I have not seen. And you know I take my breakfast breads seriously. And fresh fruit. Papaya, which you eat with some lim squirted on top to create a veritable taste explosion on your tongue. And these things they called "delicately thin pancakes" which were halfway between a crepe and a pancake but perfectly capable of mopping up a gallon of butter and syrup in which they sat. Mmmmm. The onyl problem is that the breakfast buffet/bikini combination is a tough one to pull off. But I played through the pain.

While sitting on the beach, the young lady who brings you water and drinks came over and gave us a free shot of something called "guava chi chi." She didn't stop to explain and just moved on to the next set of beach charis as though everyone knows what guava chi chi is. I don't, but I can tell you it was a shot glass full of refreshing deliciousness, and any swanky hotel that comes around and gives you a free taster while you soak up the rays is a place for me.

Still full from breakfast, lunch was a round of pina coladas. I do like getting caught in the rain.

Dinner was a pasta buffet as part of the opening ceremonies for the triathlon. Bleh, I currently have heartburn from the pesto which says alot cause I've never met a pesto I didn't like. Sad that the second dinner was also kind of a bust, but the opening ceremonies were kind of cool, and let me tell you, those Brazilians know how to party. Note to self: Watching a parade of triathletes is not the appropriate way to boost self esteem.

Sunburn check: Right boob (no nipple damage to speak of) splotches on right outer thigh, both knees. The fact that I didn't burn my belly button, which I do almost every time I sunbathe, puts today in the win category.

She was makin' for the trades on the outside

2005-10-07T00:17:00.000-07:00

Hawaii Day One: Arrival via United Flight 1 (yeah, weird, there really is a flight number 1), first class. Yeah, that's right, coach is for poor people. Although the bastards at United saw fit to purchase the new Boeing 777, they cheaped out on getting the in-seat tv screens. Someone who shall remain nameless forgot to pack the DVD player, and in what is best described as a tragic course of events, we were forced into a double header of Bewitched and Batman Begins. I had to bail on Bewitched about 1/4 through the movie; it was that bad. And even though many disliked Batman Begins, when it follows Bewitched, it's a virtual Oscar winner.

Honolulu: Strangely enough, time in Honolulu seems to have stopped somewhere circa 1983. I feel like someone must have issued a fatwa against new architecture, because I have yet to see a hotel on this island where I don't expect the brat pack to turn the corner and come marching toward me. But I tell you, I think that something about the whole being trapped in the 80s thing also contributes to a complete and utter lack of pretension. This really is the most chill place I've ever been. The no shirt no shoes no service rule is laughable, and everyone walks around with this serene look on their face as though they've got a secret. Also, I think that I really didn't know the meaning of the word "lush" until I got here. This place is lush. The contrast of green and blue is a sight to behold. I bet that if there are homeless people in Honolulu, they are lush too. Finally, there's the breeze. It's the exact kind of breeze you wish for on an August Day in DC when the humidity stifles your will to live. And it's here permanently. We slept with the sliding glass door to our room open last night and let the breeze and the sound of the ocean work their magic. Delightful.

The hotel: Like everything else, still trapped in the 80s. But in the 80s I like to remember fondly. Not the 80s where I did coke off someone's french-rolled jean cuff. A better time. The best part is the bed, it's got four posts and a canopy, and as we all know, I've been trying to recreate that at home since forever. And the slding glass doors allow us to look out across the pool, the beach, and into the ocean, which the gracious folks at the Mandarin direct spotlights at all night so you can see the waves crashing all the time. We can also look down on the dolphin lagoon, which I would think were a lot cuter were I not sure that the dolphins are slowly plotting our downfall. They're so fucking smart.

Meals consumed: Sadly, I have to call Day 1 meals more or less a bust. Two of three were consumed on the plane, and first class or not, no one does rubber chicken like the airlines. They did come around and do a little made to order sundae thing that somewhat made up for it. For dinner, we went on what ALE described as a forced march to find a "casual dining restaurant" that his parents remembered about a mile away. We were told that this place "specialized in pie." I wasn't that hungry, but you know I'm goin to rall at gametime for a place that specializes in pie. In what is best described as the second tragic turn of evensts on Day 1, the aformentioned casual dining restaurant is now a Chili's. Some of us were too hungry to turn back, and thus on my first night in Hawaii, I had a grilled chicken caesar salad from CHili's. Weep for me, all ye nations.

Sunburn check: The pale one is still safe.

I'm hot blooded, check it and see

2005-09-23T07:32:00.000-07:00

I declare today a day of celebration. For the first time in I don't know how long, I am cavity-free. This week, I made my yearly pilgrimmage to the dentist. A new dentist. Previous dentist was delightfully Lebanese, but also delightfully sketchy, I think he overcharged me, and was trying to convince others from our office that he could take their wisdom teeth out. Oh no no. Upon the recommendation of ALE, I visited a one Dr. Rubin. Also somewhat sketchy, his office is in an apartment building. If I lived in that building, I'd go to the dentist every week. The interesting thing about Dr. Rubin is that he doesn't have a hygienist, he does the entire cleaning himself. I respect that, a man who likes to get down and dirty, roll up his sleeves you know. Dr. Rubin also likes to draw the blood. The first time he made me rinse and spit, I felt like a boxer. I'm pretty sure he polished my teeth not with fluoride but with my own blood. The whole experience felt positively medieval. At least all of my bad humours are gone now. One stop shopping.

Also, I'll admit it. I kind of want a Nano. It's so tiny! And yet I hate Apple so much. There's a guy in my office who had one at work the other day. He was surrounded by girls. You know what he's going to get? Nano pussy.

In an octopus' garden, in the shade...

2005-09-21T07:28:00.000-07:00

Sorry, sorry, sorry for not blogging. The problem is that since I have been on strike from doing work, I've been on strike from bringing my laptop home, and since someone had the good fortune to blow up his laptop last week, it wasn't totally my fault that I didn't blog. OK, kind of my fault. But anyway...

Are you for scuba?

This past weekend, I completed phase II of III in Operation Scuba Certification (closely linked to Operation Slim-down Hawaii, I'll let you guess which one is going better), that is to say, I spent a total of 8 hours at the Lee District Pool in beautiful Franconia VA. A good time was had by all, mostly I'm sure by our instructors who must have gone home and laughed and laughed at how uncoordinated we all were in the water. Let's paint the picture, shall we? My class, a motley group of about 15 or so. On the first day, we had to do a swimming "test" whereby each person had to "swim" 200 yards. There was no time limit, and you could do any stroke you want. Let me tell you, I am a TERRIBLE swimmer, and I lapped everyone in my lane. How terrible are you, you might be tempted to ask? Well, as some already know, when I moved in with my Dad the summer before 5th grade, my parents signed me up for swimming lessons at the local public pool to "meet new friends." This was a mistake becasue I hate swimming, and I didn't want to be friends with anyone who hung out at the public pool (ahh, middle school....). I was awful. I couldn't swim in a straight line, and would always bash into the side of the pool everytime I tried to swim across it. When we would have swim meets, they would put me in the butterfly, because at that age, no one else could do it either, so I guess they figured I was evenly matched. Little did they know, I had a secret strategy which was to do the butterfly arm stroke while walking along the bottom. I think I got 2nd place once. Awesome. Then I remember having to do the swimming unit in gym class during middle school and high school. They would bus us over to the pool in the elementary school, we would swim for half an hour, and then have to change and get back on the bus, all of this done in the dead of winter so that your hair would freeze into little icicles. At that age, girls are NOT comfortable changing in front of each other, especially having to get totally naked to put a bathing suit on. But in middle school, there was always that one girl that would just flaunt it and walk around the whole damn locker room naked as the day she was born, sitting on the benches, going to the bathroom, ick. Bad, bad memories. Anyway, the gym teachers always favored the athletes, and I, as an athlete, was generally able to get away with not having to really do all of the timed swimming tests. I guess they were too busy trying to get all of the pregnant girls and smokers to show up to gym class and thus didn't really care what the rest of us did. I would stop halfway down the lane, hang onto the ropes and rest for awhile, chat with friends, pee, you know, whatever. Point is, I'm a bad swimmer, and yet was still able to toast everyone else, so this should tell you what we are working with here in the scuba class. There was one girl who was a TOTAL train wreck. She couldn't do anything right. You know that scene in Home Alone II when he jumps into the pool, but his trunks are too big, and the camera pans to just his trunks floating through the water because they fell off? Well, picture that, except with random pieces of scuba equipment floating by, and that about sums this chick up. Boy am I glad I did not have to be her partner.

So we go through the course doing all of these skills under water, learning about all the equipment and such, which was actually pretty cool. We spent alot of time sitting on the bottom of the pool in the deep end doing stuff, which made me realize a few things. You know what is scary? Besides corn, dolls, and fog that is? Legs underwater. When you are sitting on the bottom of the public pool, you see all of the people swimming and walking around the other lanes, but all you can see are their legs. It's like they don't have a top. You see all kinds of legs, fat people legs, baby legs, hairy legs, you name it. All very scary. I bet that is the real reason sharks don't attack people that often. They are terrified of our legs. It's only the rare brave shark that can overcome the fear of a hairy pair dangling around in the water and go ahead and bite them. I also realized that public pools are gross. We spent a lot of time trying to pretend that we were out in open water. I was trying to imagine what it would be like to look at coral and fish and other aquatic life, but all I had to look at was random clumps of hair and bandaids floating around. I did see one that kind of looked like a seahorse though. Ick. Also, it takes a bit of doing to get all of the gear on, so once you do, you really don't want to have to take it off. I forgot to pee before class on the second day. Thus, mid-way through, I was in excrutiating pain. Normally, you can just find a way to pee discretely and then swim away from it like nothing ever happened. When you are in a scuba class, everyone is underwater with you and is going to see. Plus, you're wearing a wet suit, so that's kind of a rate limiting factor. I thought I could struggle and make it to the end of the class. But I coudn't. So I waited until everyone was on the surface, listening to the instructors, and then I did it. Once you get over the initial shock of essentially peeing all over yourself, you find that peeing in a wet suit has one distinct advantage: keeps you very, very warm. The rest of class was great.

Do you think less of me now that I told you that?

Further inconsequentials:

Three days ago: I saw a white volvo station wagon parked outside of a yuppity-yup house behind my apartment with a license plate that said "Soul Dr." Oh contraire, mon frere, I can bet that you are anything but.

Yesterday: Went to the Federal Market deli to get a sandwich for lunch. One of their sandwich specials of the day listed as its condiment "crayo mayonnaise." I'll entertain suggestions as to what that is and whether or not you'd want to eat it...For my part, I think that if it were Burnt Sienna, I'd give it a go...Furthermore, is there a more happy memory of childhood than opening a fresh box of crayola 64? The one with the sharpener in the back? I'm not sure that there is any point in a lifetime that is full of more possibility than that moment.

I aint no senator's son

2005-09-13T09:35:00.000-07:00

Call it a blogsplosion, but I take no credit, the NYT is on point today. This is great stuff! My favorite:

When justices have birthday parties, should they invite all the other justices, or can they invite just the ones they like?

Toys in the attic, I am crazy

2005-09-13T09:26:00.000-07:00

I can't help but wonder if conservatives are coming closer and closer to their own undoing. I swear there's nothing these people won't adopt under their crazy flag.

Let me take you down cause I'm going to strawberry fields

2005-09-13T06:13:00.000-07:00

I'd really like to blog in iambic pentameter one day. Today is not that day.

But I did promise more blogs about people smelling bad on the metro, strange fitness-related incidents, and what I ate for dinner last night. I'll cover each in turn.

On metro: Yesterday I was really lamenting the fact that someone decided not to begin a reign of terror at WMATA. For some inexplicable reason, the good folks there decided to begin an escalator renovation last week. You know, the week AFTER Labor Day, when everyone comes back to DC to work again. Am I missing a reason why this could not have been done over the summer when the city was empty? Anyway, this puts one of three escalators out of commission. Then the transportation gods smiled upon us once again and saw fit to break a second escalator. This leaves one working escalator, which now has to be shut off so that people caqn use it to go up or down. When I got to the metro at 5:15 p.m., chaos reigned. There was a line of people snaking around for at least 3 blocks waiting to go down into the metro with this gestapo-like wmata employee screaming and herding everyone into single file. She may as well have had a whip. I ended up walking to Farragut West, which is a good solid metro station, and made it home without incident. I guess no one technically smelled bad in this story, but I bet that lady did, I just couldn't get close enough, otherwise I'm sure I would have been punched in the ear.

Also, I googled "foggy bottom metro problem september 12" to see if I could find any interesting stories to which I could link, and instead I came up with this. I don't know about you, but I am definitely interested in "A Course on Miracles." I wonder what my first miracle would be...I think it would be to turn water into Robusto cheese from Fresh Fields.

Which brings me to my next point, strange fitness-related incidents. Have you ever watched people do sit-ups in the gym? I feel like, more than any other exercise, there is such a wide variety of sit-up styles that you can't help but be amused by some of the approaches. First we have the "violent sit-up." Screw all of that advice about sit-ups being bad for your back, practitioners of the violent sit-up literally hurl themselves up from the ground, legs flying all over the place, and pummel back toward the mat, making a sound that closely resembles a belly flop out of water when they hit. While I don't doubt that there is all kinds of exertion going on here, I can't imagine any of it is producing stronger abs. Then you have the "plank position ab workout." This is the one where you go into the push-up position, except with your elbows on the ground, and you hold yourself up for some given period of time before collapsing in a heap on the mat. At least, that's what I do. I really admire people who can do this well, because it is a really good test of "core strength." I don't care how many issues of self-magazine I read, or how many yoga classes I take, I'm not convinced I will ever really have "core strength." I would rate my current core strength somewhere at "doughball." You also have what I would call "the military." This incarnation is usually performed by people who tuck their shirts into their shorts, and is done on the incline bench. Form is impeccable, and these people are also damn strong, but what tends to be unnerving is the semi-crazed look they get in their eye while performing the exercise, and the way they stalk around between sets with their chests all puffed out looking like they would murder your grandmother if she got in their way. No, thanks man, I don't want to rotate in. Aside from these, there are any variety of off-the-wall variations involving all of the weird props you can find at the gym. The other night I saw this woman doing some kind of ab workout, (I'll call it the "condor") that involved perching her feet on top of one of those big blue bouncy balls, keeping her shoulders on the ground and rolling the ball around in a big circle. I'm not going to speculate on what would happen if I tried that (and for the record, I would have to do it at least a few hundred times in the privacy of my home first) but I'm sure it would end with me putting an eye out.

What's left to cover? What I ate for dinner last night? Well, what I actually ate was not that big of a deal, although it was delightfully healthy. But the fun part is the quick trip to Fresh Fields to pick up a few needed ingredients, including fresh basil. Is there a smell more intoxicating than fresh basil? I was walking down M street the other day and saw a delivery guy wheeling food into a restaurant, and on top of his stack was a box full of fresh basil. People on the street were swooning and falling over it smelled so good. Anyway, the early evening trip to Fresh Fields between gym and home is great because of the glorious free samples. No need to retell that story, but suffice to say last night, in t he produce section, they had a little station set up and were making this grilled bread in a Foreman-like contraption that was garlicky and buttery and delicious. I grabbed the recipe and will be sure to make this one sometime soon. I also hit up the Robusto hard. As if the Parrano weren't heavenly enough, there's Robusto, it's sassy older brother, packed full of enough flavor to get you through the cheese AND bakery section without needing anything else. The only problem is that I am sometimes a little burpy after the gym, and so I ended up burping Robusto all the way home. ("Burping Robusto" is a great phrase and should be a movie; I hope someone googles it and ends up here.)

A quick note to the good folks at the Clarendon Fresh Fields: You do great work, you know you do. But please, stop moving the edamame; I can't take it anymore!

The secret's in the cheese.

2005-09-12T12:06:00.000-07:00

These mist covered mountains are a home now for me.

It appears as though I'm back. The boredom of late has been killing me, and there's no real end in sight, at least for the foreseeable future. There's nothing for it but to get this off the ground.

And did they get you to trade your heroes for ghosts?

I can't guarantee this will be better than the venerable C.O., may she rest in peace, especially given that all I ever really blog about are people smelling bad on the metro, strange fitness-related incidents, and other societal detritus*. Let's not kid ourselves, this will probably be more of the same, what the hell else would I write about? And honestly, as though life were not full of enough pressures, having a blog just adds to the mix. That blank box staring, taunting, jeering. Wanting you to share your deepest darkest secretes (also, what you ate for dinner) with the world. I shouldn't even do this. But I will....

Now all the criminals in their coats and their ties are free to drink martinis and watch the sun rise.

And I discovered quickly that coming up with a new name for a blog is about ten times as much pressure as posting ever was. This could stick with me for years! The more I thought about it, the more clear it became. Of all of the things that define me as a person, (multiple neuroses, the inability to leave my apartment without checking to make sure I locked the door and unplugged the iron at least three times, a propensity to dream about chicken wings, the inability to play mediocre starting hands well, a love of David Caruso too innocent and pure to be judged) there has always been one constant. Classic rock, you are the past, present, and future of my verb tense, and perhaps occasionally, when you are feeling up to it, the present subjunctive, (but never the imperfect subjunctive! I won't let that happen to you!). Classic rock has outlasted fashion trends, (I had a "camoflouge" period at age 6 that could not be beaten) hair styles, (little known fact, I once had a mullet) and boyfriends (yeah, that was a direct challenge, you know who you are). When I find myself in times of trouble, classic rock, like Mother Mary, comforts me.

We stood at the alter, the gypsy swore our future was right...

In totally unrelated news, almonds are a great snack. Know why? Because almonds are one of those rare foods where the recommended serving size is way higher than you'd think it would be. According to the package, I can eat 28 almonds and consider it to be one serving. 28 almonds! I'll not be your stooge, oh recommended daily allowance! Contrast this with, say, cereal, where the actual serving size is barely enough to feed a midget. I think that a single serving of Puffins is equal to 2/3 of a cup. That's like, I don't know, 8 Puffins! I must eat at least ten times that when I pour myself a bowl of Puffins, and damnit I won't apologize because Puffins are just delicious.

At last the arm is straight, the hand to the loom. Is this to end or just begin?

With that I give you my top five classic rock songs. At least for now. I really struggled with that last one. I knew I wanted to get the Led out, but it was a toss up between All of My Love with its hypnotic calliope and Fool in the Rain with its exquisite lyrics ("Ooh, now my body is starting to quiver/And the palms of my hands getting wet/I've got no reason to doubt you baby/It's all a terrible mess/ An' I'll run in the rain till I'm breathless/ When I'm breathless I'll run till I drop/hey/The thoughts of a fool's kind of careless/I'm just a fool waiting on the wrong block"). What can I say? I'm a sucker for a good calliope riff**.

* A one-time candidate for the new blog's name. Was told it was "too dark" for me. Dark? I'll give you dark! I just turned the light off! Bam!!
** Newly minted instrument I would learn if stuck in Groundhog Day: The calliope.