09 May 2005

Mote Pelado

I just bought some of this. Well, not this brand, but the same stuff. I think it's the same as posole, but I'm not sure. I'm going to try to make posole out of it anyway. Hopefully that'll work. Either way, it's the biggest damn kernels of corn I've ever seen. Almost half an inch across.

I have no point here.

Sorry.

07 May 2005

How to Drink to the Wolf

"If you happen to be unencumbered by childhood's scruples and maturity's sage ponderings, you will have gone to a great many cocktail parties in your time and will have decided, along with almost every other human being left alive, that they are anathema. They are expensive. They are dull. They are good for a time, like a dry Martini, and like that all-demanding drink they can lift you high and then drop you hideously into a slough of boredom, morbidity, and indigestion."
-- M.F.K. Fisher, "How to Cook a Wolf," 1942

I love M.F.K. Fisher. Best. Food writer. Ever.

And I love this quote because it reminds me of a revelation that I had some time in my late 20's. Yes, it took until I was almost 30 before I realized that I wasn't actually missing something crucial by staying home on a Friday or Saturday night.

Now, as I enter my mid-30's, this is still something of which I am occasionally forced to remind myself-- that a quiet drink at home with a very small number of friends and loved ones (or even just with my cat) is infinitely more enjoyable than some crowded, overly-raucous party full of forced joviality and false comradeship.

That's not to say that I hate parties in and of themselves, it's more that I have become substantialy more choosy when deciding which I will attend. And, more often than not, the answer is "not that one."

There's a certain irony, I suppose, in the fact that it is indeed Saturday night, and I am indeed staying-- well, not "home," precisely, since I'm trapped in suburban corporate-housing purgatory for another few months while I finish a freelance job.

But still.

I have, in fact, this very evening turned down an invitation to go out drinking with my new coworkers. If you'd met my new coworkers, you'd understand. Alright, that's not entirely fair, as several of them are as pleasant as one could hope for, but it seems there is a substantially larger number of them who are not quite...how to say it politely...the kind of people with whom I generally choose to spend my time.

Let's leave it at that, shall we?

But the important thing is that, unlike a decade ago, I no longer feel as though I might be passing up (or be passed up by) an incredible opportunity to-- to what, exactly?

And that is my point.

People Do This?

I am SO confused. I'm not even sure what, precisely, is being banned in this article, but it appears that California has banned "hunting over the internet."

You might well ask, "WTF is 'hunting over the internet' ?" I know I did.

On this, the article is somewhat less than crystal clear, but it appears to consist of websites-- or, rather a website, that allow(s) hunters to "fire at real game with the click of a mouse."

Wha?

I don't get it. Seriously. Someone please explain this to me. People actually do this? Or, at least, are interested in doing this?

Perhaps I should be less than surprised, however, by the fact that the web site in question comes out of Texas, a state which seems to produce an awful lot of people with a penchant for remote control killing.

06 May 2005

The NYT is Stalking Me

Seriously. The Times' travel section is totally stalking me. First, as noted here, they do an article on California's "Lost Coast," and now, in their 36 Hours in Memphis (registration req.), their very first suggestion is a stop at Payne's Barbeque.

I once drove 500 miles to eat lunch a pork sandwich at Payne's. Well, actually, two pork sandwiches. One chopped hot, one chopped mild.

The hot one was better, but both still rank in the top 5 of things I have ever put in my mouth. Was it worth the 500-mile drive? Well, I was on my way across the country, so I would have been making the drive anyway, but I forced myself to wait and eat lunch at about 3 PM (after not having any breakfast when I woke up in Bristol, TN that morning) and every hunger pang was absolutely, 100%, worth the final payoff.

The place was totally empty except for me and the older couple who run the joint. I stepped up to the counter, ordered my sandwiches and a coke, and ate them in about 60 seconds flat.

I was sorely tempted to get a couple more to go (they were cheap cheap cheap-- 2 or 3 bucks each, at most), but there was no way I'd have been able to eat them in the car without covering myself in delicious, delicious pork.

Damn, just thinking about it makes me hungry for good BBQ, but since I'm trapped in suburban Pennsylvania for the next 9 weeks, I think I'm pretty much out of luck on the 'cue front.

Alas.

Perhaps if I actually had any readers I could get some suggestions, but since I don't, I'll just have to make my own damn food.

05 May 2005

More sports?

I mean, I like sports and all, but I never expected I'd be making two sports posts in a row.

Anyway, the "Message Board for Tacklers Who Are In the Process of Missing Dante Hall" is not only a dead-on message board parody, but also truly hilarious from a football perspective.

Found this one via a MetaFilter comment.

He's back...

I've mentioned Phoenix Suns' player Paul Shirley's blog before. Now, the good folks at MetaFilter inform me, he's back, blogging the playoffs.

And I'm just as puzzled as ever as to how a guy who writes things like:

"Fortunately for my own self-respect, I am missing whatever gene is required to do things like paint my head orange for a basketball game. I think the same set of DNA is responsible for those people who at Pearl Jam concerts scream out totally inappropriate [feces] like, “Eddie, you kick [gluteus maximus]!” (In other news, I hate exclamation points, and only used the preceding one because it was absolutely necessary. Therefore, I have used up my quota of one per month. I would like to see others adopt my rule concerning this form of punctuation.) "

...ends up in the NBA.

But, y'know, more power to him.

02 May 2005

Time Travel Convention

MIT is hosting a time travel convention:

May 7, 2005, 10:00pm EDT (08 May 2005 02:00:00 UTC)

East Campus Courtyard, MIT

42:21:36.025°N, 71:05:16.332°W

(42.360007,-071.087870 in decimal degrees)


The hope (apparently) is that future time travellers will find out about it and attend. God I love people who are even geekier than I am.

01 May 2005

What Once Was Lost

Normally I'd be upset that the New York Times has an article (registration req.) about one of my favorite, relatively unknown places in the country, but California's "Lost Coast" is such a pain in the ass to get to that I'm not worried that it'll ever be "spoiled."

I was there, basically by accident, this past winter. I took a side road off 101 just to see what was there. What I found was probably the most amazing stretch of coast line I've ever seen.

Even the road to get there is spectacular. Imagine the most insanely tortuous, steep road you've ever travelled. Now multiply that by, like, twelve, and you've got Mattole Road, which winds its way up and down the sheer cliffs of the King Range (I think...) from Ferndale out to the coast. We're talking 180-degree hairpin turns while ascending at a "My-car-is-going-to-tip-over" angle-- all of which turns are banked the wong way.

Eventually, after passing through a collection of farm buildings optimistically called "Capetown," I found myself at the ocean's edge. It wasn't until later, when I did a little research to figure out where the hell I actually was, that I discovered that I was almost certainly the furthest west human being (does that make sense?) in the contiguous US.

On the way back out (Mattole Road does a big loop) after once again ascending and descending the mountains guarding the coast, I saw the road ahead of me suddenly appeared to disappear into darkness.

"Huh. How strange," I said to myself. "What the heck is that up there? A tunnel?"

And then, just like that, I was on Endor.

It turns out that the road runs right into the back side of the Humboldt Redwood forest. 300-foot tall, 3000-year-old trees are always pretty damn impressive, but when you're not expecting them, and you're the only one around, it's positively breathtaking.

But, as I said, it's such a pain in the ass to even get to the Lost Coast, that I'm not worried about the damn Times giving away the best kept secret of the California coast.