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Being Awesome on Christmas

2012-01-01T23:11:00.000-08:00

Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the Thorsteinson house...dozens of people were putting so much champagne in their domes that the next day was bound to be about as productive as a Time Warner Cable customer service rep (oh snap?)

Yeah so anyway, I took a long, hard look at myself around 3pm on Christmas day: there I sat, still in my matching PJ set (Christmas tradition. Shut up), working on what must have been my 19th plate of leftovers, when suddenly it hit me: Christmas turns healthy, young adults into total assholes. When I was seven, I had a few major concerns for Christmas: 1) That Ma wouldn't be able to tell that I totally snuck open the presents days before hand 2) That the total number of presents I had was equal to or greater than that of my baby sister, and 3) That I got to spend the entire day chillin' with the 'rents and eating my Ma's food.

These days, geography and small scraps of dignity have eliminated concerns 1 and 2. Therefore it's all about number 3. As a child, the worst that happens is you get a raging sugar high from the 13 pieces of chocolate pie, crash, and then pass out while still clutching the Sega Genesis controller. As a grown ass woman, the sugar high is replaced with post-champagne shakes and a general perplexity at how efficiently I can become such gluttonous couch monster, after which I slip into a coma, still grasping my spankin' new Wii controller. Seriously, even my significantly overweight pug was more active than me on Christmas.

The next day, I slipped on my new socially acceptable Uggs (the ones that look like real boots. Damn the early 2000s for ruining the most comfortable footwear ever by pairing them with mini skirts. Fashion historians will someday weep), and forced myself out of the house to walk the aforementioned pug. It felt good to get the blood flowing. I felt less like a bed-ridden octogenarian from Willa Wonka and more like a, um, lady yanking on her squatting dog's leash to prevent him from pooping right in front of the holiday display outside the Palo Cedro Community Church. I swear, next year, Santa needs to hook that snorting little man up with a brain.

Christmas in the Thorsteinson house is magical. It is far and away my favorite place in the world. It is also a place where Danielle spends one entire calendar day as the most awesomely needy sloth that ever lived. Ever. That ever lived.

Man I can't wait for Christmas next year.

Italia - Day 6 – Reverse Mail Order Bride

2011-12-02T13:15:00.000-08:00

I woke up in the morning to the sounds of my Ma stomping around the room. My ears were tied to my head and I couldn’t see a thing.

Okay let me go ahead and explain that.

Mama Sue is without a doubt the most bizarre sleeper I have ever met in my entire damn life. She likes the TV to remain on and she is prone to waking up in the middle of the night and, I don’t know, cracking open a book to pass the time until she falls asleep again. Before bed I usually watch Netflix until I’m just tired enough to cry, at which point I either do, or shut it down and pass the f-ck out. I don’t wake up until I am absolutely forced to. Now, my Ma (being a Ma) employed her nurturing instincts and foresaw that we were going to need a solution to our sleeping arrangement. She thus retained those eye cover things they give you on the plane and handed it to me on the first night as I crawled into my bed. They work pretty well, except I think I have a permanent and unsightly crease in my ears from the elastic.

Anyway, Ma got up at 5am, tossed back a few chapters of her book, packed her shit, and began pacing around the room for a few hours. I can only imagine the sight of my confused ass sitting up 4 hours later with a mask over my eyes reading DELTA, wondering aloud what the hell she was doing.

Turns out she was a little stressed out about going to Naples. We had tentatively planned to go there, but neither of us had ever been, and we didn’t really know a whole lot about what to do there, and she was worried about pick-pockets (I welcome them so I can crush their skulls with my ninja moves). I think this was why she was pacing (Naples, not the ninja moves. Though I’d be pacing if I had to be on the business end of my moves).

So we decided to go to Florence. I hadn’t seen David in a few years and I welcomed the opportunity to stand around and stare at him like a creep.

Now, normal people would return the damn car to the Hertz place, get on the train, and go to Florence. We, of course, thought it would be a MUCH better idea to extend the rental, and drive the car. Never mind that we have no idea how the freeway system of Italy works, nor did we have any clue that you really can’t drive in Florence. 3 hours, 2 freeway changes, 1 five-car pileup, several mental breakdowns later, we arrived in Florence. I found some random doorman who pointed us to a place we could park for the next few days (a service I would later repay by walking by later, after a lot of wine, and awkwardly handing over a 5 Euro note I had crumpled in my fist). Ma was convinced the garage guys were going to steal all the wine we bought. I was busy trying to flirt with the cute grease-monkeys that run the place, a task I was failing spectacularly at.

We got to the hotel, which I booked using the phone in the car during the drive over. It ended up being a very, very nice place about 100 meters from the Duomo, not to mention right in the middle of some of the best shopping. After we settled ourselves in we headed to a little restaurant for some, you guessed it, Italian food. After that we went over to the Hotel De La Ville, on Via Tournabouni, to say hi to the bartender, Ahkmed. He’s been working there for years and was one of the first people I met on my first trip to Italy. He knows a lot of us pretty well and has even traveled to other parts of Italy with parts of the group. He’s originally from Egypt but moved to Italy when he met his now wife. He invented a drink called a Cleopatra, which was some crazy mix of vodka, grenadine, orange juice, and orange liqueur and probably some other weird stuff. Being that I always welcome any opportunity to overdose on sugar, I went ahead and ordered one. We met this other mother and daughter there as well. The daughter was studying in Florence and the mom was visiting. They were from Long Island, and boy did they sound like it. The mother yapped about something for a few minutes (I don’t know I’m ADD and I was chugging my Cleopatra), but then made sure to recommend this dish at the restaurant we were going to the next night. Pear and Pecorino ravioli. More on that shit later.

After a fun reunion with Ahkmed, we walked over to the Uffizi Gallery (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Uffizi_gallery). It’s one of the oldest museums in the world, it was commissioned in 1540! I didn’t tour the inside this time, instead wandering the outdoor halls where the rows of statues are. Check out that link though, it gives a really great brief history of the gallery (it’s old as all hell), as well as pictures of the inside. Gorgeous.

Anyway, there are openings in the walls in the courtyard between the two wings of the Uffizi. These are filled with statues of scientists, artists, and statesmen important to Florentine history. Here is a picture of them all: http://www.ericcovey.com/photos/2003/italy/florence/uffizi/index.html.

Really close by is the Palazzo della Signoria (Palazzo Vecchio), which is where the replica statue of David is. The real David used to stand at the entrance to from 1504 to 1873, but he was too exposed to the elements so they thought it be best to move him inside (to the Accademia Gallery, where it remains today). Probably a good idea. I don’t want anything putting a dent in that fine ass.

On the other side of the entrance is the weirdest statue I have ever seen in my life. Bear with me here. See, when you are in Italy, you sort of get used to scrotums. Apparently bare ass and scrotums were all the rage during the Renaissance, and so we, as descendants of these great artists and minds, are stuck having to deal with eyefuls of genitalia, all in the name of highbrow culture. However, the statue of Hercules and Cacus, by Baccio Bandinelli, involves the unusual use of scrotums in that, well, one of the subjects is ever so rudely plopping his on the head of some other dude who appears to be just sitting there, confused. Take a look: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hercules_and_Cacus. I read that this is supposed to represent Hercules’ defeat of Cacus, which was meant to serve as an analogy to the Medici’s return from exile and rise to power. Freud would have has a field day.

And really, was there some kind of memo that went out that gave the Renaissance artists the idea that all great mythological/biblical wars were fought while butt-ass nekkid? Just sayin. Anyway, I know Cacus was a fire-breathing demon, but did he deserve nuts dropped on his head?

Yeah so after walking around for another hour or so and taking in just enough art to make me feel superior to you for the next calendar year, we decided it was time to party. My mother, apparently, decided it was time to farm me out as someone’s wife.

We headed back to the Piazza di Republicca, where we spotted a Hard Rock Café. Now, this is going to sound stupid, but after 6 days of Italian food three times a day, it is always good to find a burger or a sushi place. Clean the palate or what not. We waltzed over to the bar and ordered Bloody Marys, like real Americans. We also ordered red meat and french fries and shrimp cocktails, like real, homegrown, dumbass Americans. Then we thought it would be totally brilliant to start shooting tequila. Apparently it was spring break in Florence that evening.
It was at this point that we drew the attention of a gaggle of Russian dudes that were sitting along the other of the bar. They thought we were hilarious, or nuts (we’re both). So they decided to join the party. Within minutes my ma could be seen sitting in between all of them giving a lesson on how to salt your hand, take the shot, and then suck on the lime. They focused like little apprentices, hoping that they too would one day become loud Americans.
Salt. Shoot. Lime.

We learned that these guys were not Russian but in fact Tajikistanian (huh?). They were in town for business. Apparently they work in pasta/bread manufacturing and sales (“So lemme get this straight! You make carbs?!”). My Ma kept offering me up to the cute one, who seemed more than happy to make me his reverse mail-order bride. Although I am aware that my eggs are not getting any younger, something just felt a little off about the whole thing. Call me a damn hippie, but arranged marriages just don’t tickle my fancy. Not to mention the guy had a real issue with my mandatory personal space bubble. God I hate close talkers.

Ma successfully got these idiots totally tanked on tequila, so we figured it was probably best to get out while we could (always best to prevent your night from turning into a multiple crime scene, I always say). We went to close our tab, and discovered that the Russian boss man (probably a black market nuclear arms dealer), picked up our entire tab. Thanks fellas!

The rest of the night carried on the way nights like that do: walk home, brush teeth, fall in bed, pass out. We needed to get our rest for David in the morning. Like I said, I hadn’t seen him in a few years and I had so many things to tell him.

Italia Day 5 - Vino Nobile di Montepulciano

2011-11-28T09:32:00.000-08:00

Yeah, so I’ve had this mentor since I was 21.

He’s about to retire from the insurance industry, but I imagine that won’t change a thing. I talk to him almost everyday and he’s taught me alot about insurance, business, and most importantly, everything you need to know about Italy. He was here with a bunch of us last time and introduced me to no less than 20 people in the different cities I visited. I’ve gone to see many of these people on this trip and it’s bananas how many of them remember me, and know as many things about Dan as I do.

One of the things Dan taught me about was wine. I’m a tough student when it comes to wine because I don’t love it as much as some people do. I’ll have a glass in my apartment with my sister after work (self loathing is the most important meal of the day), or at a dinner when surrounded by friends. In general, however, I find I usually prefer beer or the ol’ tried-and-true vodka and soda (Boy can I toss those down the hatch). Alas, I do know enough about wine to know what I like and why. I prefer red wine, and I like Sangiovese grapes. For about 5 years I’ve insisted that my favorite wine in the world is from a winery called Avignoesi. They make a blend called Vino Nobile di Montepulciano that I LOVE. It’s about 20 bones a bottle and it tastes like little angels made it. Doesn’t make me tired, doesn’t make my teeth red, makes me feel warm , friendly, and fuzzy…the whole bit. I was thus very excited to visit the Avignoesi winery in Tuscany on this trip. It’s one of the things I haven’t had the chance to do yet.

Here’s the thing about wineries in Tuscany. They’re friggin’ impossible to find. My Ma and I drove around in our rented Fiat Panda (look it up…and laugh) for 2 hours trying to find this damn place that should have only been 20 minutes away. Further, we learned that when you are in Tuscany, you are about 17 times less likely to find a person that speaks English…at all. It is here that I learned that Italians with limited English-speaking capabilities are easily overwhelmed by my overbearing personality and are thus very likely to give me bullshit directions so as to get me the hell out of their lives. Needless to say, we were sent on many a wild goose chase that day.

Just when my Ma was ready to throw in the towel, we found the winery. We walked into a deserted room that smelled like freshly cut wood and was filled with various Avignoesi products. I really nice lady that looked like she was dressed for an African safari came out and greeted us. We signed up for the complete tasting, plopped down at the big table, and got ready for the ride.

It goes without saying that this lady is a very good friend of Dan’s, and once I name dropped that fool we were ensured a fantastic afternoon. Actually Laurenza was wonderful and I have no doubt she would have treated us like family anyway. Nonetheless, I can’t imagine it hurt.
Yeah so here’s the thing about wine tasting: When you spend hours driving around aimlessly and thus forget to eat, little sips of wine gets you pretty buzzed. It didn’t help that I was all nostalgic being in the actual winery that makes the very wine I’ve drank during some of the most fun evenings of my life. She taught us all about Sangiovese grapes and how they grow and how the wine ages. Apparently 2007 was a Sweet-Baby-Jesus year them and thus the wine is sold in these special edition limited-production bottles available only at the winery. A few glasses in my Ma and I were like, “Yeah! Let’s buy a bunch of this!” Because you know, that’s a totally good way to spend a buttload of Euro and we totally had enough room in our already overpacked luggage.
I just want you people to know that as I sit on the damn train typing this here blog, I am resting my feet on two overstuffed bags filled with wine that I have NO idea how I am going to get home. I think I might have to declare it or something, whatever the hell that means.
After forking over the dough for a bunch of wine we can’t even really drink for a few years, we headed back to the walled city of Montepulciano. I think this was my Ma’s favorite place. It looks a lot like the other walled towns in the area but it is a bit bigger, livelier, and they have some really great shopping. First stop was the leather guy my friend Jackie told me about. It smelled like dead cows in there (in a good way) and he had some really beautiful stuff. Being that I am as picky about purses as I am about my men, I was unable to purchase anything…this time. I’ll be back though. There is a perfect shoulder bag for me, of this I’m sure. Then it was off to Dan’s friend Ceasare, who is the craftsman behind Bottega Rama, one of the most successful copper goods stores in Tuscany. Rick Steves is all about this guy. He’s like 4th generation copper smith or something. I got some little handmade hook things for my apartment (for keys and whatnot), while my chef mother got a bunch of shit for her kitchen.
Check out how lame our NEXT activity was.
Um, so the second Twilight movie was largely filmed in Italy. Apparently the vampire government is centered there. Well, it was supposed to take place in a small city called Volterra, which is close to Florence and apparently has a lot of old legends about vampires. For reasons I am not sure of (nor do I care to Google), they filmed in Montepulciano. The piazza they filmed in was only a few streets over from the metal guy, so I dragged Mama Sue there so she could let her tween-freak flag fly. She won’t admit it but she was totally stoked.

We headed back to the hotel in Pienza because I needed to stick my face in a pillow for a few hours before dinner. Wine, shopping, and yet another brush with Twilight will do that to you.

I hear people say the all the world is a neighborhood. I learned that was true this week as I arranged for our dinner that evening. See, the restaurant we were going to, La Porta in Montechiello, is owned by a friend of Dan’s (well, actually a close friend of all of ours now), named Daria. Daria happened to be in New York this week, where Dan was also visiting. Thus, Dan, my sister, Daria, and a few other Italy friends met up in NYC for dinner and wine while my mother and I hung out at the restaurant in Montechiello with Daria’s daughter Debbie, and the rest of the people that run the place. Debbie is my age and knows her shit. She recommended us the best dish we had ever had: spinach and cheese ravioli with a marscapone sauce topped with truffles. Y’all know how I feel about truffles. Dinner that night was quite the event. We could even see the balcony of our room at the hotel located just a few ‘hills’ away. Indeed, Tuscany is a quiet place that functions like a series of small towns. I remember being surprised that so many people I know had been there, yet it was so empty. Is there a tourist parade I don’t know about?

We got home late that night, giving me only just enough time to put out those pre-Thanksgiving work fires and type a blog or two. We sat on the balcony for a bit, laughed our asses off, and finally went to bed. At this point we had no idea what city we were going to head to the next morning…

Italia - Day 4...Shakedown on the Train

2011-11-24T08:35:00.000-08:00

I hate trains. I really do. I don't think a single good thing has ever happened to me on a train. Of course, being that I've chosen to live in a pedestrian nirvana, and that I have a love of traveling Europe, I have come to accept trains as a necessary evil.

But that doesn't mean I have to like them.

This feeling was reaffirmed on Monday morning after we hauled our tired asses to the Termini station at the crack of dawn to catch the train to Chiusi. Last time I was in Italy, I threw no less than 3 full-blown fits at this very station. Today the trend would continue. First, the ticket machine wouldn't accept out credit cards because we were either scanning them the wrong way, or it hates us. I'm convinced it was the latter. With about 10 minutes until the train was to go toot! toot! and leave us stranded and hysterical, we managed to buy tickets from the guy in the window. He had a rough time understanding where we were trying to go since apparently Chuisi is pronounced 'Cue-Zee' and not "Choosy." Yes indeed, it was amateur hour in Rome, and my goofy ass was the star.

I'd just like to say to the guy in the window that sold us the tickets: You are an asswipe. I hope you get stung by a bee right on your eyeball someday.

More on him later.

Anyway, I don't know if you know this, but all of the workers at Termini actually know who I am and when I am coming to town. They get together in the morning and strategize on how best to get me to lose my marbles and then they take bets on how long it will take. I am proud to say that this time, I made it all the way on the train!

With only 5 minutes to go, we sprinted to our train, which was freakishly far away (like, so far it was segregated from the other trains. I assume this was another strategy devised in the aforementioned morning meeting. Bullies). We got to the train just in time for the toothless ticket taker man (he looked like the old man Jafar dressed up as when he fooled Aladdin into fetching the lamp) to mumble something about a stamp but allow me to board nonetheless.

Yeah so get this, once we were on the train and taking off, the toothless bastard starts telling us we have to pay him 50 euros for some kind of fine! Naturally he didn't have the English to explain why, so he drug me to this sign that explained that you have to "validate" your ticket (which means stick it in a machine and get it stamped) and failing to do so is the same as boarding with no ticket. I told him to stuff it and then went back to my seat. I then got on my iPhone and it turns out this is a regular thing. You have to validate your ticket before boarding by sticking it in these little boxes they have near the trash cans. No one told us we needed to do it and it seems like every tourist has had this happen to them at least once. So yeah, we ended up having to pay this tool bag 50 euros or he was going to throw mama from the train (and probably stab me with a crooked sword thing).

This is why the ticket window man deserves a stinger in his iris. All he has to do was say, "Hey, idiot tourist ladies! Stamp your shit!" But nooooo. He was probably the ringmaster behind the conspiracy to get me to flail around (you know I think this is what my Mother is talking about when she has to remind me that the world doesn't revolve around me).

Good thing was it was only 10:30 when we made it to Chiusi. We had plenty of time to get out blood pressure and heart rates back on track.

Next up on the list, Hertz. Yes, ladies and gentlemen...the let us rent a car. As in drive. In Italy. As it turns out, however, roads in Italy are pretty simple. You just sort of follow the signs. You never really know how fast you're going because we are dumbass Americans and don't speak Kilometers. Italians also follow alot more closely than you're used to. So close that my Ma got into the habit of pulling over everytime someone was behind her. She's fallen apart behind the wheel a few times this week actually. (Wait'll I tell you people about Florence).

We drove all the way to Pienza, one of the many towns in Tuscany. Here's the thing about Tuscany...it looks exactly like you think it will. Rolling hills with patchwork land created by the various farms and vineyards. Every few miles, however, you'll see a big stone structure with a wall around it. Some look like castles. In fact, they are walled cities. You go inside to find a maze of stone walkways with restaurants, shops, apartments, etc. People live and work in these structurally contained towns. They are centuries old and look exactly like those cheesy watercolors you see. I remember thinking Venice was so weird looking because of the way it was inward-facing. Turns out it was quite the norm in Italy. Only thing that Pienza, Montechiello, and Montepulciano are missing is the canals.

We checked into a hotel I found a few weeks ago through my friend Nick. Piccolo Hotel. I scored a room with a badass balcony that overlooked those rolling hills, and the outer walls of Montechiello in the distance. It was some postcard shit, I'll tell you that. We took a drive to Montepulciano around 3 where we learned that absolutely nothing is open between 3-5. Nothing. I know Italians take a siesta in the middle of the day, but this was nuts. It was like everybody died. The sound of our own feet clicking on the stone walkways was deafening.

Before long it was time for dinner. We made reservations at Trattoria De La Luna, which specializes in roast young pig. We ordered that, which was good but I though it was slightly salty. I also ordered some pasta with truffles on it. Now I know I make alot of bold and sometimes wildly innappropiate statements, but I promise you will have a hard time finding a gal that likes the flavor of truffles more than me. Its like eating delicious dirt. Magic elves make truffles. I hope I am reincarnated into a truffle pig so I can wander Tuscany, locate truffles and eat them all day.

Yea so anyway the pasta was bomb.

We also had some great wine and met alot of the locals. Dinner is always quite a long process in Italy, and in Tuscany, this is even more true.

I made it back to the hotel in time to put out a few work related fires before crawling into my sweet Tuscany bed. Tomorrow we visit the winery that makes my favorite wine in the world, followed by dinner at the restaurant owned by some friends. It would be here that we would have the greatest tasting dish we have ever had in our entire lives...and that is a bold statement I'm happy to make.

Italia...Day 3 - Old Shit

2011-11-23T13:34:00.000-08:00

Nasa says you need one day per hour of time difference to properly adjust to what the hell is happening to you. Well, as far as I’m concerned Nasa can eat my shorts. I simply don’t have time for that crap. Same goes for my nutritionist that suggested I eat healthy and avoid drinking my face off on this vacation. Listen fools, I get but one vacation per year, and I’ll be damned if I have to spend it following the rules.

Yeah so I slept in until almost noon on Sunday because I was so jet lagged, and full of pizza, and hungover from Champagne. In fact, I only woke up because my mother had grown so tired of my sleeping carcass that she finally decided to come over to my bed and punch me in the kidney.

An hour later I was fully dressed and ready to go. The first thing we decided to do was go visit the Coliseum. It is located two stops from Termini (Rome’s “Union Station,” if you will) on Line A. One of my favorite things about certain European landmarks is that they do a really good job of arranging the subway in such a way that when you exit, you are visually assaulted by the monstrosity of your destination. Both the Eiffel Tower and the Coliseum are conveniently parked about 100 feet from their subway stop. Same goes for the Tower of London. Even better, to subway spits you out so you’re facing the best side of the Coliseum: the taller part that wraps around the shorter part, the angle of which most of the photos you see are taken. I felt the same way I did the first time I saw it: like my head should fall off or something. I mean, at least people around you should spontaneously burst out into song. Here I am, fortunate enough to be in front of the Coliseum for the second time in my life.

My Ma began to grow impatient with me staring in self-reflective wonder and insisted that we get the show on the road. We decided to tour the inside. Some asswipe cut in front of me in line and then pretended he had no idea what was going on. He’s lucky that ancient monuments calm me down, otherwise he’d have gotten a boot to the kneecap. Anyway, 12 euros later (a little steep, I think), we found ourselves wandering the interior. You know, the weird thing about the inside for me has always been the ground part, or lack thereof. Instead of a dirt field, where one would assume all the death and dismemberment took place, there is what appears to be a small underground village below. I can only assume this was some sort of prison where they kept the sacrificial entertainers. The ground above seems to have been removed.

We had lunch at a little place a few blocks away. Someone told me a few years ago that you should always eat a few streets away from any landmarks or piazzas, otherwise your food will disappoint you and the bill will send your broke ass home. My Ma begrudgingly allows my picky restaurant hunting to go on for about 15 minutes before she puts her foot down and drags me into the first place she sees. Turns out we made a great choice. She had soup and I had a steak. I don’t know, something about being in the place of ancient Gladiators just put me in the mood for a slab of red meat. I’m was just sorry I couldn’t club it and drag it back myself. We also split a carafe of red wine, because, Dr. Cohen, that is what people do on their damn vacations.

Next on our list was the Piazza Barberini, again. We actually went back there because there is this insane dead body thing I wanted to show my Ma. She’s into that sort of shit. Once she got to watch an autopsy and said it was one of the most thrilling experiences of her life. There just isn’t enough therapy in the world that would get me back on track after seeing something like that. Anyway, just off the piazza there is a street called Via Veneto. On that street is this church called Santa Maria della Concezione dei Cappuccini (say that 10 times fast). Little background: From about 1500 to the late 1800s, the Roman Catholic Church allowed people to be buried in and under churches. Some popes and priests and monks, etc., are even preserved and displayed (there are a few wax covered popes in St Peter’s, which never ceases to weird me out). This is why so many churches in Rome have underground crypts. The Cappuccini crypt, however, which is located just below the Santa Maria church, is especially creepy because it contains the bones, yes bones, of over 4000 dead monks. These bones are arranged all over the ceiling and walls and in these little display rooms. It’s like a religious haunted house or something. Hundreds of skulls make elaborate archways where dried, partially preserved monks are propped up beneath. There are chandeliers made of wishbones and flower designs made of hip bones. For those of you who read my last Italy blog, this would be the place where the Texan guy loudly asked the tour guide in the middle of the solemn crypt, “How’d they get the meat of them bones?” It was and remains one of the most hilarious moments of my life. My Ma was enthralled at the display, but she was slightly unsettled at what these “16th century crazy f-cks” had created. She said it reminded her of 1970s lacy wallpaper combined with crafty shit children make with pasta and beads. I’ve always been amazed at the room because it actually looks a lot newer than it is. There is plaster on the walls and it is remarkably well lit. Hard to believe it was commissioned in the mid 1600s.

After that we walked the kilometer or so to the Trevi Fountain. I was really hoping that since we are travelling in the “off season” that it wouldn’t be crowded will tourist bastards. Alas, I wasn’t so lucky. Just like last time, there were swarms of idiot tourists with stupid cameras hovering around. I mean, damn, I travelled all this way, how was I going to get a decent picture if 15 bajillion other people stole my idea?!

Eventually, we made it to the front and snapped away. Legend has it that if you throw a coin over your left shoulder with your back to the fountain you will have good luck and a quick return to Rome. Well, it worked last time so I went ahead and tossed a Euro. There is also a smaller pond attached to the fountain (the main pool of which is nearly the size of a football field) off to the side known as the “Lover’s Pond” or what not. Apparently there’s some other ritual you can do there but I couldn’t have been less interested in that fairy tale nonsense if I tried.

We decided to walk up Via Del Corso to the Piazza del Poppolo, and then to the Spanish Steps. This route is pretty fun, and it takes you past some really excellent shopping. Like, Rodeo Drive-type shopping. If you thought high-end designer stores in America made you feel inferior, you should experience the real self loathing that only Euro prices can bring. I wanted this Burberry trench coat so very badly…but unfortunately I couldn’t find someone who was willing to buy my friggin’ kidney. (I’m totally buying it at Barney’s on sale in the spring if it’s the last thing I do). Next, we ate dinner at Trattoria Leonardo off the Piazza about 100 meters. Ma had veal and I had salad. My belly was still full of dead cow from earlier in the day. We are still on a champagne kick for some reason. There’d be plenty of wine in Tuscany, so as far as Rome was concerned, we decided to drink like 22 year olds on New Years.

Totally regretted it in the morning.

Hey, Danielle's Back in Italia! (Day 2)

2011-11-22T02:31:00.000-08:00

Day 2 - Twihards

I can’t remember how we arranged it exactly, but my Ma and I had some sort of agreement that we would meet in the terminal where I landed. This would turn out to be the first dumb American mistake we would commit over the next few days: arrogantly thinking that shit is just going to present itself in a way that is familiar to you. Indeed, when you get off the plane, you are herded through border control, shuffled to baggage claim (I overpacked again. When will I learn?), and then rushed out some doors where you are immediately swarmed by short men asking you if you need a taxi…and not taking no for an answer.

“Miss, taxi?”
“No”
“Good price good price!”
“No”
“Where you go? I give good price, where you go?”
“Dude! Are you kidding me?!? I said NO! No is no! Even in Italian! I know you understand NO! Why –“
“Hey Danielle! Dani! Dan!”

Alas, this is how my Ma found me. She had been wandering the terminal for an hour or so. Thank goodness. For a few minutes there I thought I was going to have to have smoke signals sent out if I couldn’t find her. My work-issued cell phone works internationally (yay insurance!), whereas I am not entirely sure hers can power on outside of her town.

She actually looked a lot better than I thought she would. She later explained to me that this was owed entirely to the fact that she swallowed two Tylenol PMs, allowed the delirium to set in, and then informed the flight crew she was setting up camp on some unoccupied couch/bench thing in the back that I think is normally reserved for attendants on their break. Whatever, she was able to score a few hours of over-the-counter snooze and thus looked like a functioning human being. I cannot say the same for myself.

We took a cab to the hotel. The cab driver spoke about 9 words of English but managed to give us a sound lecture on the perils of getting into other cabs without meters (i.e. those aggressive taxi guys that invade your personal space). He was really nice about it but the general message was that we were dumb tourists and we are therefore more likely to get ripped off like crazy, so we best watch our fascist American asses. Duly noted sir.

Here’s the thing about Rome. It looks remarkably like San Francisco, except old. And European. It’s also a lot smaller than you think it would be. Well, there are a lot of people there but you can actually walk across it in a very short period of time. There are only two subway lines…A and B. Some features of the city looked a lot different than I remember (Piazza Barberini…I realized it’s not really a Piazza at all), where as other things were really familiar. I remembered how to get around a lot better than I thought I would. The last time I was in Rome I spent like 4 or 5 days straight there, so I suppose I knew it better than I expected. We stayed in the Campo di Fiori area, which was really cool and relatively free of tourists. I don’t mean to suggest that I am a tourist snob or anything (though I am), I just like more “local” areas because I have always suspected that the food is better and you can get better deals on hotels.

You know, everytime a meet a guy in New York and he wants to break the ice, the first thing he’ll ask is “So, uh, how do you like New York versus LA?” It’s shit like that that actually makes me sympathize with movie stars who find themselves having to answer the same questions over and over as they make the talk show rounds while promoting their latest crappy movie. Anyway, since so many conversations have required me to compare and contrast major metropolitan areas, I’ll take this opportunity to give you some Rome observations.

1) Toilet seats suck. Sometimes there aren’t even toilet seats at all. I don’t know what the deal is there. It’s one of those things that I think every American must notice but cannot find a polite way to ask a local about. “Excuse me sir? Do you people just, I don’t know, hover? Your bathrooms are walking nightmares!”
2) You have to add the tip before you run the card.
3) Always eat off the beaten path. Anything adjacent to a piazza is a tourist trap. Sorry kids, but I’m only paying 15 Euro for a side salad if the salad is served on a bed of hydrocodone.
4) There are NO trucks, no SUVs, and no American cars, whatsoever. Not like this is particularly shocking seeing as we stubbornly insist on driving Freudian pieces of shit, but it really hits you after strolling past your 319th Fiat Panda.
5) Hotel rooms don’t have light switches. Instead you stick your key card into this slot and it makes the electricity turn on. For this reason, you have to actually return the key cards when you check out. This is really inconvenient for ADD kids like me. On a normal basis I go through 15 to 20 key cards per hotel stay.
6) There are little fountains everywhere that look like ancient fire hydrants. They spit a constant stream of water into a waiting drain below. Romans use these to fill their water bottles, splash water on their face, or violently shove their little brother into.
After checking into the hotel, my mother decided she needed to pass out for another hour or so. I decided to wander the city alone. I had two things to do: 1) Buy a flat iron. Giggle at me all you want, but without a good straightening session, my hair looks like a place where birds lay eggs. Every time I’ve been to Europe I’ve regretted not forking over the 20 bones necessary to ensure I don’t look like a sweaty homeless person. 2) I wanted to get a tan (shut up you people know I’m from LA). NYC has left me a little gray/white…and I wanted to have a nice glow for the remainder of my vacation.

Needless to say, I strolled home 90 minutes later burnt to a crisp and clutching a curling iron that I would later discover gets hot enough to remove skin from your very own sunburned earlobe.
That night we wandered around the Piazza Barberini, found a restaurant, ordered pizza and a bottle of champagne and dug in. Shortly after we wandered over to the movie theater so we could buy tickets for the new Twilight movie. A little background on that: I’ve read the books…they’re alright. My Ma, on the other hand, is a full blown Twihard. She started watching the movies a year or so ago, bought the books, read them, bought the encyclopedia thing that tells you the background on all of the characters and mythology, read it, discussed it with us for like 10 months, read them all again…and so on. Shortly after she found out she was going to be going to Italy (about 3 weeks ago), she expressed her genuine excitement, followed by her profound disappointment that she was going to miss opening night for friggin’ Twilight.

It goes without saying that since they don’t play it in English…Italian was going to have to do.

Interestingly, seeing a movie like that in an Italian theater is actually a totally genius tourist thing to do. For starters, we were most definitely the only tourists. Secondly, we totally got to see adolescent Italians in their natural habitat. They were teenaged, awkward, had braces, the whole bit. Boyfriends were dragged along, pretending to be excited but really just hoping they’d get to touch their girlfriend’s boobs later. Girls reapplied lip gloss as though it might make their braces less noticeable (oh girl, I’ve been there). We knew the story so after about 5 minutes I didn’t even notice it was in Italian anymore. Only thing is we left thinking it was a pretty good movie, surprisingly. I have a feeling this may not be the case one I can actually hear the stupid shit they’re saying in English (I’m sorry, you do not possess the capability to “love someone for an eternity” at 28, let alone 17). I later saw online that the critic’s reviews were awful.

By the time we got out of the theater, we were so tired we were virtually unable to speak. We took the short walk home and passed out, bellies full of Italian food and champagne, and the ever-creepy Edward Cullen. Day 1 was indeed a success.

Hey, Danielle's Back in Italia! (Pt. 0)

2011-11-21T10:39:00.000-08:00

Day 0

Disclaimers... and Letting go of a little New York Anger

A few years ago I read a quote in a self-help book (shut up) claiming that depression is just anger without enthusiasm. I don’t know if this is true or not, but I do remember that it reminded me of Los Angeleans, and they way they complain. Of course, everyone in America complains. We complain about being fat, being poor, not being popular enough, the man pushing us down, Obama existing, etc. However a good number of our problems are what is known as White People Problems (WPPs). I don’t even need to explain this to you as I’m sure you are bogged down by your own WPP’s and are thus fully aware of their tendency to wreak fake-havoc on your life. Los Angeleans, in my unqualified and uneducated opinion, have a higher ratio of WPP’s per capita than other place in the country. If you ever want to hear someone in Los Angeles launch into a full WPP rant, I suggest doing only one thing: Ask them to pick you up from LAX. Here you will see your SoCal peer launch into a fake tirade about the trials and tribulations of traffic, and the inconvenience you will inevitably cause should your pickup time be delayed by more than 5 minutes, thus causing the dreaded “circling the airport” scenario. Yes sir, if complaining is anger, Los Angeleans are indeed depressed.

How do I know this? A decade of living there. How did I come to notice? Easy, I moved to New York. See, the people of New York do not possess the cognitive ability to decipher problems in terms of magnitude. Any inconvenience, be it minor (“we’re out of hummus today, sir”) to major (“yeah, we’re gonna need to cut the leg off”) is treated with equal outrage. However, if you screw with New Yorkers and their air travel, they will quite simply just kill you. Indeed, if you ever want to see real anger – the type that could perhaps facilitate a riot or result in multiple crime scenes, I would have suggested little more than standing on the platform of the A train at rush hour tonight at 5pm. For reasons known only to the sadistic and megalomaniacal Metropolitan Transit Authority, the A train to JFK (which should come every 7 to 10 minutes) was delayed by 45 minutes. Further, every tunnel and bridge leading off the island of Manhattan was backed up with Friday traffic, so a cab alternate was simply not an option. I watched as New Yorkers peppered the underground with filthy words that made even my devil ears blush. Fortunately, my flight didn’t take off until 8:35 PM, so I had plenty of time and thus my stress level was still safely in the orange (where it remains about 90% of the time). Needless to say, the A Train eventually did make it, and so long as one doesn’t view the stifling claustrophobia resulting from the ungodly delay a bad thing, no real harm was caused.

Now despite what the media tells you about 3 and 4 day delays at JFK, I will say that I have yet to have any real problems there. In fact, I was so early, that I managed to get myself an upgrade to business class. Huzzah! Before I go on, I should disclaim about 9 things. First off, you can’t upgrade just by being early (although it probably doesn’t hurt. I wouldn’t know though because I have a unique propensity for being on the holy shitballs-late side of virtually every flight I’ve ever taken). You can, however, use a sob story and a cancelled 2nd ticket, that you ate nearly every goddamn penny for, to score you sympathy points with the awkward British fella at the ticket counter (turns out non-refundable/non-transferable truly means just that. Stubborn bastards). It’s sort of like your parting gift when a relationship, during the earlier parts of which you over-optimistically bought the tickets in the first place, ends. Like pop-culture references in political speeches, it turns out that long-distance relationships make sense for about 14 minutes after you realize there is no ‘end date’, regardless of the utmost good intentions of the parties involved. We tried, it failed, our PR people released a joint statement and life moves forward. The kids will split their time. The amicability will make Demi and Bruce look like a 2am domestic abuse complaint.
However, despite the warm and fuzziness of it all, I had absolutely no shame in exploiting the living piss out of it in order to score four additional inches of sweet, sweet seating space.
After my successful little demonstration, it was off to the bar. I met two Danish guys who immediately knew I was at least part Scandinavian (it still weirds me out that they can do that). However, I became bored after I realized that all they wanted to talk about was how badly they want to drive up the PCH for 10 days straight. I think they wanted to go back and forth or something. I don’t know.

Before long, it was time to board the flight. I decided against Xanax-ing myself into a comatose oblivion this time so as to prevent the half-day necessary recovery, a decision I immediately regretted once the guy in the chair next to me stumbled over with that tell-tale twinkle in his eye and lazy jowl. He passed out as soon as his white ass hit the chair and 5 hours later, as I write this, he still hasn’t moved. I’m jealous. I’m also thinking about checking his pulse but I don’t want to leave finger prints.

The plane lands in an hour, which is upsetting because there is at least 90 minutes to go in this Harry Potter movie (god I love Snape). At that point I will land in the smelly land of Heathrow before transferring to Rome. Should you ever fly somewhere it Europe that requires a transfer, I cannot recommend Frankfurt enough. I wasn’t fortunate enough to score that route this time.

My Ma is meeting me at the Rome airport where she will no doubt look like the crazy homeless lady from Home Alone 2 (complete with pigeons). This will be due entirely to the fact that she, under no circumstances, can sleep on an airplane. You can drug her, knock her on the head, unplug some wires, etc. She’s staying awake. Alas, regardless her state of delirium, once I see her, the vacation will have officially begun. Get ready…

6 Month Check-Up

2011-10-26T20:30:00.000-07:00

You know if I had a shred of maturity, the following thoughts would have probably crossed my noodle upon realizing that I have, in fact, been living in Manhattan for 6 whole months: 1) I should probably find a doctor 2) I should probably find a dentist 3) I should totally let the DMV and/or the government know I'm not in CA anymore.

Nope.

Instead, I realized today that this little milestone would be best celebrated with a nice, fat blog post and an accompanying link on my Facebook wall. After all, you're nobody until somebody on Facebook loves you, right?

Anyway, here is how 90% of my conversations have been going since I moved here:

Me: Hi, I'm Danielle. I just moved here.
Stranger: Really? Where from?
Me: California
Stranger: San Francisco? Oh, I'm Blah-Blah by the way.
Me: Nice to meet you Blah-Blah. Los Angeles actually.
Blah-Blah: Oh I hate LA. What brought you here though?
Me: Work. My firm acquired a smaller firm and they didn't have a person that does what I do so I asked and then came.
Blah-Blah: Wow. That was stupid. You know it gets, like, really cold right?
Me: No I didn't know that. Please, tell me more....

My sister came about a month after I did. She was fortunate enough to secure gainful employment rather quickly, which makes me happy because doing this alone would be really hard. Moving here is, in many ways, exactly what you think it will be, but also different that you could possibly imagine.

The other day I saw that one of our execs has a small, decade-old tattoo on his calf of the Flaming Lips lyric, "Somebody please tell this machine I'm not a machine." This is a particularly ironic thing to see on a New Yorker because in contrast, this city is a machine and to survive here, you have to become a machine within it. There's no time to shit your pants with wonder and bewilderment, you just need to get your ass on the subway and get to work. Just start living here. The neat thing though is that's really all there is to it. The little things fill themselves in as you go.

New Yorkers don't necessarily work longer or harder hours (although some certainly do). It's more that they move and work with a sense of purpose that, well, just gets shit done. Once I figured out what I was doing (a process that consists mainly of figuring out how to get around), and invested in a badass pair of headphones (I call them my Quiet Goggles. Don't ask), I found New York can actually be a very calm place to function in. Of course let's not forget that I've had 26 years of 'hella-good' Northern California training on how to stay calm in the face of inconvenience. While I am certainly the most high strung among people I know back home, I am positively Zen-like compared to some of the characters I've come across out here. To these guys (angry bankers, angry Italians), freaking out is an art form. Marbles are lost right before your very eyes on an hourly basis.

Living here is indeed like living on another planet. For starters, everything I visually knew about the world around me was blown to smithereens in a matter of days. Beautiful brownstones with fire escapes line the streets of some areas while highrises seem to grow out of the ground (and out of eachother) in others. There are no parking lots or gas stations anywhere and I haven't seen stucco yet. Of course there is no time to question this madness because again, you sort of just have to trust it and jump right in without hesitation. Transportation, feeding yourself, and doing your laundry all require complete trust that the Machine will operate on schedule. With the exception of businesses in Chinatown closing one day in the middle of the week for no damn reason at all, it pretty much always does.

10 Things I Noticed in the Early Days:

1) New Yorkers' bark is louder than their bite. The big guy behind the pizza counter will tell you to 'move-your-friggin-ass-I-gotta-business-to-run-here!' but then hug you on your way out and thank you for buying a 'pie.'

2) New Yorkers love San Francisco and hate LA. Especially if they've never been to LA, then they really hate it.

3) Everyone wants to know where you 'summer.'This means they're asking you where you go on the weekends when the weather is sweltering and the whole island smells like hot trash. Fire Island, Shelter Island, Hamptons, Jersey Shore, The Roof of Your Apartment with a Bottle of Champagne, etc.

4) Walk-ups blow. 6 stories, no elevator. Horseshit.

5) There are as many people from Michigan in New York as there are in LA. And because I attract Michigan friends like the Europeans once attracted the plague, I've collected a few already. I even know how to hold my hand out like a map and tell you where they're all from.

6) I meet alot of people who have never been to California and it blows my head off everytime.

7) Within a month or so you can start identifying what area people are from by their accent. 6 months in I can spot New Jersey walking up behind me.

8) New York is a bad place to be in a bad mood. When you're ragin'...the whole world rages with you. Not a damn thing gets done and you really don't feel any better.

9) GrubHub is proof that god loves New Yorkers and wants them to go to bed with warm, full bellies.

10) I miss Mexican food more than you know.

I love New York very dearly. My attitude and business style agrees with it here. I find the lack of bullshit refreshing. The thing is though, you imagine a certain ideal during the process of moving here (lest you'd never have the motivation to go). Once you get here, however, you realize it's a massive city just like any other (except, you know, really massive), and its going to take awhile to build a life here and feel at home. In the meantime though, I put myself at the mercy of the machine everyday and hope to sweet baby jesus it turns out alright. So far I have not been disappointed. I am about 15 times stronger and more resourceful than I thought I was, and I have many newfound talents that include but are not limited to knowing the perfect corners on which to best score cabs, instinctively knowing just when the bus comes so I head downstairs at just the right time, and being able to tell just from the location and awning of a place if the food is going to be any good. Moving to a new place that is so far away is unbelievably hard. I still wonder how my sister and I were able to have the good fortune to just up and do this. Now that we have, I'm beginning to find that diving in headfirst really is the best approach. After all, this city and magical and I have really nothing to lose except everything, right?

Oh, the Places I'll Go Too...

2011-08-18T08:54:00.000-07:00

I have a bone to pick with travel snobs.

I've come across too many people both during and since college with an attitude that seems to suggest that they possess a sense of elevated intelligence, or perhaps a self-created worldliness, owed entirely to the fact that they have traveled great distances. Forget the med student who forfeited the opportunity to backpack across Europe and instead chose to study for the MCAT, as surely he could never obtain the inner-peace afforded only to those who have clutched a Eurorail pass.

Do not misunderstand. I fully agree that few life experiences can be as rich and rewarding as the opportunity to travel. Setting foot on new soil, hearing unfamiliar words, meeting people you will both never forget, and likely never see again. These are the experiences young adulthood is made of. That being said, I have found that I have little patience for pretentiousness from those whose good fortune has carried them to distant lands sooner than others. Travel, like winning the lottery or maintaining profitable self-employment, is a gift. It should be appreciated, humbly shared, and most importantly...earned.

Time and again I have witnessed (as well as experienced) the pain of 9-to-5 adjustment. Finding out that our ideological college days give rise to jobs where our opinion is not sought and our feelings don't matter is one of the greatest let-downs we are likely to experience, save for broken hearts and loss of loved ones. Selfish as it seems, there is nothing more genuine than the fear that settles in as you wonder, "Is this as good as it gets?"

Of course not. It just takes patience and a willingness to earn it. I think once you climb out of the sand, working becomes something you take pride in and actually begin to enjoy, not to mention profit from. It always gives me a chuckle when I hear a young, well-traveled soul express their discontent with their full time desk job, instead pleading to return to their wandering ways, exploring the globe as perhaps only other seasoned travelers could understand.

So, what you're telling me is you want another extended, all expense-paid vacation? Well, I'll be damned. Why didn't I think of that?

We all long to discover new ideas, people, and ways of life. Its part of the human condition. One of the hardest things we ever have to do is build a life for ourselves with our bare hands. It is initially unrewarding, indescribably exhausting, and frightening enough to stun you into silence. But, if and when we pull it off, the rewards are endless.

I can't wait to travel. I can't wait to see Italy again and eat pasta and gelato until I burst. I can't wait to take pictures and write about it.

Travel. Travel as far and as long as your willingness, your wallet, and your vacation time allow. If you must, get a job that allows you to travel even more (but don't be disappointed when it's not all museums and wineries). Travel alone and travel with others. Learn other languages and see old art. But do it when you're ready and able. Don't ever let anyone make you feel like you know less than they do because they had an opportunity you haven't had yet. You have all the time in the world.

"You have brains in your head, you have feet in your shoes, you can steer yourself any direction you choose..." - Dr Suess, "Oh, the Places You'll Go"

Photo courtesy of Ryan M. Vickers>

Birthday Presence

2011-08-18T08:35:00.000-07:00

Silly bike, I wonder why it’s been sitting there alone for so long. What random consequences of the universe have allowed it to remain there, day after day, when it is so clearly immobile? I imagine countless pre-occupied New Yorkers passing by wondering the same thing, or possibly assuming someone else will surely take care of it eventually, or if they’re like me, nearly tripping over it because their head is up in the clouds somewhere.

In reality, of course, I’ve never seen this bike. Ryan Vickers took this picture and I actually have no idea where he was at the time (he wanders with his camera. Arts and farts and crafts. Things type-A stress cases like me fear above all else). I do, however, know myself well enough to be certain that I would never have noticed it had I been passing by, unless of course I face-planted into it.

They say New Yorkers never look up. I disagree. I don’t think they look anywhere, and I also don’t think this characteristic is limited to any geographic region. I think it has to do with presence, and the general lack of it we feel in our day-to-day lives. When we are present, we tend to think of how nice it is that we are being present and how we should really make an effort to do this more often (“Look at that beautiful sunset. I really should pay more attention to the sun going down instead of planning the verbal thrashing I will later give to DirectTV over yet another failed DVR recording”). It’s as though a sense of control is always just out of our reach. As soon as we pay off our debt, or catch up on emails, or return that DVD, or lose 10 lbs. As soon as we get everything in order, we can be more appreciative of things around us, feel better about ourselves, fall in love, travel, or have the presence of mind to see that beautiful broken bike on the side of the road. Not notice that we noticed it, but to see it for what it really is. A broken bike. I wonder why it’s been sitting there alone for so long.

You know, you’d have to move that bike if you wanted to fix it. I wonder if we moved first, what things we could fix as we headed along?

Posted July 11, 2011 at 3:13pm via MeandHerBlog.com.

The Deflowering of a Virgin Virginian

2011-08-09T10:37:00.000-07:00

Well...sort of. I wasn't technically a virgin Virginian. Virginia and I had fooled around before in the sense I've been to DC a few times. Those who are familiar with the area know that you can walk out of a DC pub, trip, fall on your face and land in Virginia. Not to mention the airport is in Virginia.

Alas, this was the first time I went all the way...into Virginia. Yes indeed: another work trip (yay insurance!), another cynical opinion rendered (yay neuroses!) and another lesson learned.

Place: Newport News and Norfolk, VA. Home of some ungodly humidity, a freakish amount of Quizno's (I don't need my lunchmeat toasted, thanks), and a bunch of military ships.

Nearby Attractions: Jamestown, site of the first successful European settlement in North America, if you conventiently ignore the Vikings (Unrelated: My Dad is an actual Viking). Not much has really changed except there is now electricity, paved roads, a government independent of Great Britain, and a lack of an entire population of natives. Oh, and the ships no longer carry people brought over for the sole purpose of being forced to work for no wages (unless you count the local Walmart. Hooah!)

"C'mon fellers, freedom ain't free, so let's round up some slaves!"

Cynical Opinion: Lovely places, but I just have one bone to pick. Both Norfolk and Newport News have airports smaller than your average aging Sears building (though remarkably similar in 1960s-style tackiness), yet both proudly carry the word "international" in their name. Bullsh-t. A military helicopter flying in from a carrier that recently floated in from an island 100 mi. of the coast does not an international airport make. Fly me somewhere far enough where the writing looks like Wingdings and local time is last tuesday, and then we can start talkin' international. Those airport-namers went right to the top-shelf with their words. Put the Johnnie Walker Blue back and stick with the EarlyTimes.

Norfolk International Airport

Old-ass Sears Building

Lesson Learned: It was on this trip that I found out Newport News is actually a place, and not just a mail order clothing catalog for middle-aged women (and young wives pressured by their controlling husbands to dress like middle aged women). Yes sir, I just put another wrinkle in the ol' noodle with that revelation.

Check it out. Totally cute floral cardigan sets and, you know, clogs.

...On Finding God at the Bowling Alley

2011-08-07T12:21:00.000-07:00

I've been pretending to be a grown up now for a little over 5 years. Not to toot my own horn or anything, but frankly, I think I'm going a pretty darn good job. I mean, people I meet usually dont find out for at least a few weeks that I'm really a confused, severly ADHD child who still hopes to become an Olympic gymnast when she grows up. In order to appear grown up, there's a couple of things I have to do. One of them is selling insurance. I have to sell alot of insurance to people in alot of different places, and in order to get those people to let me sell them insurance, I have to feed them and socialize with them and get them to think that I am a functioning adult. It's a vicious cycle really.

Anyway, one ofthe best ways to socialize with people who might let you sell them insurance is by attending an insurance industry event. Yes indeed, an all you-can-eat schmorgasbord of networking and fake-adulting. You can kill about 37 birds with one stone and still make it home in time for a lean cuisine and a good 20 minutes of self loathing before passing out. It's a brokers dream (and an expense account's nightmare).

A few days ago, I found myself in Boston for one such event. This one was a charity function, which usually requires you to sponsor something, wear a goofy team shirt, and perform some sort of activity. Needless to say, at 6:45pm Monday night I arrived at the bowling alley wearing a homemade (not by me) tie-dyed shirt, ready to toss a 9lb ball down someone's over-polished hardwood floor in an effort to knock shit over (really, are we cavemen?). First thing I noticed was a table full of trophies for the first and second place team. At once, the competitive child in me (the same one who you will someday see smirking at you from the top podium at the Olympic medal ceremony, accepting her all-around gold), decided that I must leave that nacho-cheese scented building with a 1st place trophy in my fist (I would indeed accomplish this, but more on that later).

30 minutes and 3 bud-lights later I realized a few things: one - I am a crappy bowler. I start off okay, but it all goes downhill after my BAC hits .03. Two - I hate bowling. I don't mind the bowling alley itself. Give me free beer and the ability to make a bunch of new business connections and I'm happy as a clam. The act of bowling, however, pisses me right off. I hate sticking my fingers in those filthy holes (wow, that last sentence sounds wildly inappropriate on it's own) and I loathe that awkward moment where you have to turn around and face your teammates after hurling the ball down the gutter. Most of all, I despise the weird memories of high school that pop into my head the whole time.

I realize that last connection might seem to have come from left field. Well, remember my earlier comment about my attention-span...or lack thereof. In all seriousness though, I always think of high school whenever I find myself at a bowling alley, minature golf course, or a movie theater. Even worse, I think of high school church youth groups I was guilted into becoming a part of from time-to-time, and having to do these very uninteresting things with them. Call it weird, but stick a bowling ball in my hand and I immediately think of Blah-blah-blah Christian Center's 3rd Annual Say No To Drugs and Fun Bowling Extravaganza. I may be a little foggy on the actual event name, but I know I've been to a few of them. You remember them too. They were the events set up by the over-eager youth pastor (white, male, too young to be married with kids but was, too young to be teaching spiritual wisdom to confused young adults but was) in an effort to keep high school kids from drinking, having sex, or doing anything else that our bodies are designed to do at that age. If you went to any of these, I bet you found yourself no closer to the divine, but rather alot closer to the place you go when your self esteem is at it's lowest because you realize that church youth groups are the same evil cliques that plague every other social aspect of your life at that age. That judgemental, overweight girl with the homemade bookbag who always cried during those "worship" songs and relentlessly kissed the ass of the youth pastor (that she was in probably in love with) is exactly the same as the abercrombie-clad bitch that sat behind you in homeroom: she's the queen bee. High on Jesus and drunk on power. I can fake being an adult better than those kids can fake spiritual selflessness anyday.

You know, it wasn't until I got close to graduating college that I was able to make my peace with the religious zealots that plagued my life throughout my childhood and adolescence. I have horrible memories of weird white people telling me that they were going to pray for me, or friends who knew nothing about the mysteries of the universe or our purpose for being here telling me that Jesus was disappointed because I did who-knows-what. Never once in my life have I ever felt any light, or joy, or inspiration as a result of my coming in contact with those who sell fear and repression. There is no spirituality in coercion. There is no light in being so by-the-book that you'll vote for truly unqualified, horrible people simply because they say they're Christian and don't want gay people to get married. I don't know, but something tells me spirituality, not to mention the running of the country, is a little more complicated than that.

I'm cool with Jesus though. In fact I think he was one of the few that actually got it. I will say that I'm surprised that white people made him white, but kept his hair long. I would expect that in changing his race for the sake of their own personal comfort, they'd have given him a shave and a haircut. Nothing freaks people out like hippies.

I'm cool with God too. I've been working on my relationship with him for awhile now, actually. I think he's okay that I'm still trying to work out for myself as to who or what he is. Sometimes I sense it in the universe, and sometimes I sense it within. I often get the feeling that changing the world I live in often involves changing myself for the better. Like there's light in selflessness or correcting the soul, or something. Bear with me, I'm working out the kinks. I do not, however, believe that God is dogmatic. I give him alot more credit than that.

Finally, I don't even have a problem with Christianity either. I've met alot of Christians and Catholics who seem to have an understanding that it's about them and God only. Spirituality is personal. It's a mountain, and there are 500 ways to climb it. It's not your job to lecture the people on the terrace below you and then huff and puff when they don't listen. Turn around and get your ass up that mountain. People will watch you, and follow your example.

I think our team finished dead last in the bowling tournament. Further, I don't even think I knocked a single pin over during my last four turns. Instead, I focused on chatting with new friends, and figuring out what I was going to take from the whole experience. You know, I'm glad that my bowling that night reminded me of high school awkwardness. I actually thought about it for a few minutes and realized: I'm alot more grown-up than I give myself credit for. Hell, tossing a marble ball seems not to big a deal if there's a little life pondering to be gained. Unless of course, I am just an ADHD child.

Oh, and about the trophy. I stole the 1st place statue from the table at the end of the night. It was one of 3 extras, and the lady said I could. Business is just about appearances anyway, right?

Would It Be More Accurate if I Compared Glenn Beck to Hitler?

2011-07-26T13:00:00.000-07:00

Sometimes when people do and say insane things I often wonder what their real intention is. Call me naive, but in most cases, I don't believe people are just inexplicably "crazy" or behave like assholes for sport. They want something. Everyone wants something. When it comes to public figures, this desire for reason increases ten-fold.

Perhaps this is why I got such an unbelievable kick out of studying history in college. No matter what redundant war or what fantastically unenforceable treaty I had to read about, I always had good, clean, anti-social fun trying to find out why people did what they did, why others allowed it, and when everyone realized it had gotten out of hand. For the record, I haven't come across a PhD yet who has been able to really tell me what Hitler's deal was. I don't know what he really wanted, but I think I know how he rose to power.

Anyway, my sister told me yesterday that Conservative commentator and all-around destructive blowhard Glenn Beck casually threw out a sidenote while commenting on the tragic attack at a Labor Party-sponsored youth camp in Norway. Beck said, "There was a shooting at a political camp, which sounds a little like, you know, the Hitler Youth or whatever. I mean, who does a camp for kids that's all about politics? Disturbing."

Note this guy's subliminal style. he just slipped that right in there. Doesn't matter if it's true, he got you to think about it. I think trial lawyers use this kind of crap on juries they wish to confuse: "Say there, where were you on the night of your brother's murder? Oh, the movies? Oh, you have a ticket stub? Oh, well technically those can be faked, right?" Just like that, the friggin' mistress is off the hook. I digress.

If I may be so bold, I am actually going to compare Beck himself to Hitler for a moment. Do I think Beck has a realistic desire to conquer Europe/Earth, exterminate a population the size of Manhattan, and enforce his own ideologies? No, no I don't. He lacks the focus. But I do believe this guy is going to influence alot of people who do. There was a political group awhile back called the Aufbau Vereinigung (Reconstruction Organization). They sought to overthrow Germany's post-WWI government and replace it with some FAR right-wing craziness (stay with me here). The name was derived from a newspaper that helped bring it out (you will be interested to note that it was not owned by Mr. Murdoch). These guys didn't do much, and sort of faded out after Hitler's unsuccessful attempt to overthrow the government in a beer hall (for which he was of course arrested, allowing him to chill out on the government's dime and scribble out Mein Kamph). What the Vereinigung can be credited with, however, is injecting a young Hitler's anti-semitism with angry steroids of the worst kind. They arguably pushed Hitler to The Final Solution.

Reverting back to earlier where I discuss a person's intent: I am of the opinion that the Glenn Becks of the world (along with the Malkins, Bachmanns, Coulters, Limbaughs, Palins etc.) feed off the energy, money, and fame thrown at them by their supporters. This is made evident by their tendancy to not fact-check and grow increasingly emotional and/or belligerent depending on audience response. Meanwhile, their bosses and advertisers care primarily about the money and thus allow the show to go on. Do I think Beck truly believes his own BS? Sometimes. Do I think he'll go for the far-reaching controversial splash rather than the more tame-but-accurate analysis? Everytime.

Hitler got a lot of followers after the Beer Hall Putsch trial, where he was allowed to speak for an unlimited amount of time in his own defense (I would like to applaud the Norwegians for denying Anders Behring Breivik this opportunity). He got even more after Mein Kamph, and it snowballed from there. He got alot of followers because Germany's was on the verge of complete and total economic collapse and the German people were humiliated by the Treaty of Versailles. This meth-head got on a soapbox at precisely the right time. He blamed the Jews for (among other things) instigating the arms industry strikes that weakened the German forces and supposedly lost them the war. German's were pissed, and this guy was on fire.

Conditions are no where near like that here. But they are still frightening. Conservative commentators "talk Christ but walk Corporate," if I may quote the brilliant historian Thomas Frank. These guys are big business. The media is big business. No matter how destructive and selfish big business is, it is the one thing that has always been immune to criticism from social conservatives because they know better than to bite the hand that feeds them.

Conservative commentators use "God-talk" to create an hysterical backlash: anger over abortion and gay marriage flows seamlessly into anger over welfare and the size of government (even though they're are totally unrelated). These people hijack Christian exuberence and use it to fear-monger their way into the minds of alot of suseptable people. Meanwhile people like Glenn Beck feed on the attention and wealth and will do anything to generate that continuously. Even if it means irrationally comparing a youth camp sponsored by the left-wing Labor Party to the far, holy-hell-thats-far, right-wing Hitler Youth.

Glenn Beck just wants attention, and he's getting it. Screw it, let him. What we cannot do is start nodding our heads because we feel pissed off one day. Or because we found God and Glenn Beck says he's a man of God so we have to follow whatever he says (Don't Christians fear the false prophet?). Glenn Beck is going to get someone killed. He wont pull the trigger, but he'll whisper in the ear of the guy that will.

For the record, the shooter in Norway was a radical conservative.

"It's Just a Movie!" - Toy Story Edition

2011-02-07T19:24:00.000-08:00

As another 80-degree LA winter day comes to a close, I find myself, yet again, plopped in front of my computer in a desperate attempt to escape the snapping jaws of boredom. Alas, it is too late. So, I have decided to take these lemons, whip up some lemonade, and ride out the sugar high in the form of a totally unnecessary and absurdly in-depth view of yet another movie I don't totally get: Toy Story.

I wouldn't have nothin' if I didn't have you."

So I figure my attention span won't allow me to explore all three movies anymore than yours will allow you to read them even if I did. I've decided to stick to the Toy Story universe in general and see where that takes me. I don't know, whatever. Just go with it.

1) This one has been bugging me for a decade and a half: Why doesn't Woody have a gun?

"The word I'm searching for, I can't say, because there's preschool toys around."

I don't buy that its some sort of anti-violent thing, because Buzz was rocking karate-chop action and a scary laser. I also don't think that it had to do with kids choking on the small pieces because those of us who have seen the movie 786 times are well aware that Woody's hand-stitched poly-vinyl hat was perfectly removable, thank you very much. The guy was local law enforcement for crying out loud. He should have been assigned a gun (and subsequently shot Mr. Potato Head at point-blank range. More on that asswipe later).

2) Where was the father throughout all of this?

"What, is Andy's Mom losin' her marbles?"

Don't get me wrong, Im not complaining here. As someone who's likely to divorce a handful of times in my life, I get it. I'd just like to point out that at the beginning of the movie, the drooling baby sister is, like 7 months old (I don't know. I'm really bad at deciphering the approximate ages of other humans. I applaud the genius of those carnival guys that do it). Anyway, this means Andy's dad peace'd the hell out about 5 minutes after this lady punched out kid number two.

I will say that it is nice to see a single mom in a Disney movie for once. I swear, before Pixar came along I was fairly certain that DIsney writers had a basic template involving sociologically disconnected, motherless hotties with overactive imaginations and piss-poor love lives and just sort of worked from there. Seriously, the mothers were either non-existent, referenced as dead, or shot in the face shortly after the opening credits. Andy's mom made sure her daughter and gay son had birthday parties, Christmases, pizza nights, and plenty of toys to choke on. Get it, girl.

3) Why does Mr. Potato Head have to be such a dick?

"...and I packed your Angry Eyes, just in case."

I know that without this idiot's relentless misunderstanding of nearly every situation, the movie would not have a plot. Seriously though, this bastard is dangerous. He's out to get Woody from the start and none of the toys seem to notice or give a crap. Haven't these play things ever heard of a coup d'etat? (Don't answer that). Even worse, at the end of the first film he is rewarded with a friggin' wife. Sure, Mrs. Potato Head is annoying and a bit gossipy, but she loves her husband and he doesn't deserve love. He deserves Sid's operating room.

4) Am I the only one who think's SId is kind of awesome?

"Well, we have ways of making you talk."

Think about it. This kid wasn't torturing animals or lighting buildings on fire, he was just, you know, experimenting with his toys. Unlike Andy, this kid was totally independent (though probably neglected), and really knew how to spice up playtime. The doll's head on the erector-set spider legs? That's the work of a genius, my friends.

Ah! And here's a little tidbit for you. Check out this still from Toy Story 3. Sid makes an appearance as the trash man, looking suspiciously like more than a few guys I've dated in my years (insert issues here).

5) When a human leaves the room, the toys are allowed to scatter. What I don't get is how they've NEVER been caught. It seems every other scene involves one of the toys hearing someone noisily flailing up the stairs and hastily alerting the others before bashing into 15 other panicking toys on the way to their hiding place. Tell me, how would this scene play out if, say, Andy were watching a movie downstairs before becoming drowsy and wearily drifting off to his room. His socks, not making a sound in the hallway, would allow him to enter his own damn room unannounced to find the pig and the weird dinosaur with little arms playing battleship. The sight would cause any kid to go absolutely and indiscriminately crazy. Just sayin'.

6) Who in the HELL gave that pizza kid a driver's license? Better yet, who gave him a driving job? Its shit like this that causes insurance pukes like me to lose sleep at night.

"Look! A Spaceship! It's a Spaceship, Buzz!"

7) What are the rules that determine the mobility and general intelligence of the toys? Some of the stuffed animals could talk, while it seemed others weren't even alive. Those weird Dutch egg things could hop into each other, which was weird because I considered them to be objects.Sid's little sister Hannah's toys couldn't talk at all (and this was before Sid mutilated them). Same goes for Bo's sheep, the troll doll, the barrel monkeys, and the racecar Just curious.

8) Okay this is the big one. This one really frosts my cookies.

"This isn't flying! This is falling...with style!"

How do Buzz and Woody fly at the end?! Everytime I raise this issue with someone I get the same response (other than a general eyebrow raising as to why I am discussing the inconsistencies of Toy Story in general). People say it was the rocket. Ahh, but no. If you remember, they cut the rocket loose and proceed to fly - actually fly - to the minivan. Buzz maintains, and even briefly increases, altitude.

I remember being pissed the very first time I saw it. Remember, one of the rules of good, established storytelling is defining your universe and determining what your characters cannot do. Although these toys were alive, the rest of the world still functioned as normal. Last time I checked, gravity was still workin' just fine. Again, not a big deal, but they could have finished it off a little differently.

Okay, in conclusion of this nonsense, I shall once again give a shout out to the character I thought made the most sense. This one goes out to the vastly under-appreciated Mr. Spell, who selflessly sought to educate the other toys in both loss prevention and self preservation through his informative seminars on "Plastic Corrosion Awareness" and "What to Do if You or Part of You is Swallowed." Thank you Mr. Spell!

See the Bandages? They're Mummies...

2010-11-13T12:19:00.000-08:00

(not ghosts!)

Alas, I understand the confusion.

So, my Ma tought me how to make these Halloween Mummies. They're really fun to make and taste good enough to make an anorexic fall off the wagon ('cause she'd, like, wanna eat em! Get it? She hates eating but theyre so good!)

I find my posting this quick how-to to be wildly inappropiate for two reasons (not counting my previous attempt to make light of eating disorders): One, it's November 13th and therefore you'll look like an idiot (should have gone with the stupid cookies decorated to look like fat turkeys/the NBC logo) and Two, Mummies are disgusting.

According to Wikipedia, Mummies are "corpses whose skin and organs have been preserved by exposure to chemicals, extreme coldness (ice mummies), very low humidity, or lack of air when bodies are submerged in bogs" (Bogs?)

Who wants to eat a caricature of that? Why, you and your friends of course! Don't worry about these little fuckers reminding you of charred bodies wrapped in soggy bandages. They sorta look like ghosts anyway.

Here we go:

-Get Nutter butters
-and a basting brush (or, uh, a clean paintbrust. CLEAN!)
-White Chocolate chips
-Mini Semi Sweet Chocolate chips. If they don't have them, get black icing. My ma thinks red-hots would work, but that freaks me out. Don't get the full size chocolate chips or they'll look like crazy-mummies (unless you want to use one and go for a cyclops-mummy. I digress).

Melt the white chocolate over low heat until its all smooth. If you can't keep your chocolate covered mitts our of your mouth, pop in a piece of gum and save yourself the sugar rush.

Paint one side of the nutter-butters with the white chocolate. Don't paint the back or it'll stick. Paint the sides. After you finish 'em all, drag a fork across their little bodies to create the look of bandages (mmmm...preserved flesh!).

After you finish all that, place the eyes and stick them in the fridge overnight (or at least 2 hours) so everything sets.

I also recommend making a place card or something clarifying that they are MUMMIES...and not ghosts. (Seriously, ghosts are not peanut shaped!)

Enjoy!

The Little Things...

2010-11-13T12:06:00.001-08:00

Yeah, how about a round of applause for the seating outside my gate in Kansas City! I haven't appreciated this kind of intuition since I discovered those hooks under the bar where you hang your purse. Let the phone/laptop/ipod/soul charging commence...

Related: This guy next to me just sneezed so loud I thought I was going to have a heart attack. I didn't know whether to laugh, cry, or slug him in the neck.

A Verbal Thrashing to Judgy McJudgerson in the Elevator This Morning

2010-11-02T10:19:00.000-07:00

You know, one of my favorite episodes of Sex and the City features a pissed off Carrie Bradshaw marching through Manhattan to the Upper East side apartment of friend Charlotte York. She's pissed at Charlotte and has showed up at her door, exasperated, ready to let her have it. Charlotte can't believe she walked all the way over in her new shoes.

"These shoes pinch my feet...but I love them." - Carrie sobs, thus delivering one of the greatest lines in the whole damn series.

"I'm in a financial cul-de-sac!"

I love my high heel shoes more than human babies. Some leave my toes looking like strangled, purple sausages by the end of the night. Others are, to me, more comfortable than a pair of flip-flops anyday. I don't care how many old trolls roll their eyes in the elevator and mumble something about how when you are as busy as they are, shoes must be selected on comfort, I'm rocking my heels until they have to pry them off my dead, lifeless limbs. After which I sincerely hope rigor mortis causes me to kick that shoe thief right in the eyeball.

I'm happy that lady's Dr. Scholl's Squeegie-Sols make it even easier for her to pick up her 19 kids from soccer practice before stomping off to the airport to pick up her mother-in-law. You know what? My "stripper shoes" make every single day of my painful quarter-life crisis damn near bearable. They pinch the living daylights out of my feet, but I love the hell out of them.

On that note, its time to return to the land of functioning adults.

Apparently they also call it, "The City of Big Shoulders"

2010-10-01T16:00:00.000-07:00

(and other mindless musings on my wanderings in Chicago...)

"Chicago has a strange metaphysical elegance of death about it." - Claes Oldenburg

Aside from child-like curiosity and general love of being out of the office, there were about 37 reasons I was excited to go to Chicago this September. Could be a certain nostalgia with the Midwest (the peaceful remains of an otherwise disastrous phase in my post-college existence), or perhaps a romantic idealization with Prohibition/Organized Crime (I still can’t get my hair to do that 1920s wave thing). Either way, Chicago certainly did not fail to deliver.

Let me just say first that Los Angeles was in the middle of a Holy-Shitballs Heat Wave when I departed on Monday afternoon. 113 degrees of smoggy, skin cancer goodness beat down on me as I awaited my flyaway bus to Union Station (read: do your friends a solid and take them all the way to the damn airport). When I landed, it was 49 degrees in Chicago.
You know how they say lazy people who suddenly over-exercise run the risk of dropping dead of a massive heart attack? I am sure a 60 degree change in temperature, along with humidity, jet lag, and a Xanax hangover isn’t so good on the ol’ bones either.
25 bucks later, my cab driver dropped me off at the Congress Plaza Hotel on Michigan Ave. (I was supposed to stay at The W, but I discovered this place shortly before I left).

The Congress Plaza was built in 1893 and is apparently one of the most haunted places in Chicago. It features the Gatsby-esque “Gold Ball Room,” along with creepy old elevators, huge chandeliers, and a night check in guy/caretaker that I am not entirely certain was alive.

"You've always been the caretaker here..."

I swam past the pools of blood pouring out of the elevator, got to my floor, side-stepped the creepy twin girls, and entered my room shortly thereafter. It had a fantastic view of Lake Michigan (at which point I would like to comment on the weirdness of seeing a body of water that big without waves).

Tony...I'm Scared

Most of the next day was spent in the office, doing office-like things.

I did, however, use the long working day as an opportunity to make some interesting and perhaps inappropriate generalizations about Chicago and its people. Huzzah!

1) They get to work friggin’ early. Like 6am early.

2) Every person I passed on the street was either white, or black. Ponder that for a moment.

3) Chicagoians are used to the kind of cold that would keep a wooly mammoth preserved for an entire geologic age. This being said, they dress as though it is about 20 degrees colder than it actually is. 60 degrees ain’t that bad, but everyone around me was in light coats and scarves.

4) New York makes you want to yell in a bad accent. In Los Angeles you wear tight clothes and talk about who you know. DC makes you want to go back to school and get 17 advanced degrees (or at least up the ADD meds). Chicago? Chicago makes you romanticize the early 20th century. Although crammed with newer, and unnecessarily tall buildings, Chicago is full of very old structures that remind you of a time when men carried Tommy-guns and ended sentences with, “see?” A time when rich décor and elaborate architecture was still classy. Most importantly, a time where all women could successfully construct finger waves.

Get it girl.

5) People are noticeably more overweight than in other cities I have seen before. This being said, more than a few Chicagoians I spoke to directly expressed their concern with chemicals in food. They fear saccharin, aspartame, corn syrup, soy, fast food meat, and generally anything else with a long list of ingredients. Apparently it's either brain tumors or a fat ass (Too far?...too far).

6) They dye the Chicago river green on St Patty’s day.

"Like microwaves and Facebook, I get the feeling this won't end well"

7) Freeways are called “expressways.”

8) White women in Chicago (actually, the midwest in general) seem to be really serious about their hair. I see alot of big-fat highlights, A-line cuts, torture-by-flatiron, etc. Even women in shitty clothes had perfectly blow-dryed hair... highlighted within an inch of its life.

Getting dressed takes 30 seconds. Hair? 2 Hours

Later that evening I went to a neighborhood called Wicker Park to hang out with a friend I met about a year or so back. Kinda looked like Silverlake, Brooklyn, and San Fran all in one. Yet the little things (rust-colored subway track suspended over a section of a three way intersection, horizontal business signs shorting out) gave it its own Chicago twist.

This is not Wicker Park. I just needed to stick this cool downtown shot somewhere. Go with it.

I spent the entire evening at a place called the Violet Hour (http://www.theviolethour.com/). They had a menu of insane cocktails with the weirdest ingredients, but they certainly result in a fun buzz. My friend grew up on the south side of Chicago, but received a Dartmouth education before emerging himself in the wild world of Insurance. You know, philosophizing on politics with those who see eye-to-eye with you is always a fun way to spend an evening. However, hearing things from the point of view of a person with an entirely different background, not to mention a Chicago upbringing, was particularly enlightening and thus worth a mention here.

I woke up in the morning with a sugar-hangover-headache and, I swear to god, a feeling that there was a ghost in my freezing-cold room. I decided then was a good time to pack my shit, fumble with that damn remote-control express checkout TV thing, and get the hell out of there.

"Come and Play with Us..."

I still had one more day to spend in Chicago. Alas, it involved the kind of work that'll induce sleep better than Ambien...or even C-Span.

"Frankly I'd rather be playing with the dead twins"

Oddly enough, the Chicago branch of my company happened to be moving offices during my visit, so I got a taste of the old and a glimpse of the new. Basically, everything looks exactly the same as our Los Angeles office except, you know, its Chicago outside.

After a productive day collaborating with my heavily-accented Midwestern colleagues, I headed to the airport and flew the hell home.

It wasn’t until I settled back into my apartment that I realized how different Chicago really is. Most cities have a certain characteristic, if not pop-culture familiarity, that makes them feasible to get your head around. Chicago is a classy kind of old, a different kind of quirky, and an interesting kind of diverse. The weather and the wind would make it difficult for me to imagine myself living there. Alas, it was certainly one of the more notable wanderings of my year.

"Chicago is not the most corrupt American city. It's the most theatrically corrupt." - Studs Terkel, 1978

That's all.

On having your mind blown...

2010-03-01T10:51:00.000-08:00

You know how every now and then you learn something new that apparently everyone else already knows? It's like you missed that day of school or something. Bewildered, you sit with the feeling that the lights are on, but nobody's home.

My brilliant friend from high school, Megan, just passed the New York bar. Yet, it is only in the last few days that she learned that the phrase, "For all intents and purposes," was not said, "For all intensive purposes."

See what I mean? I love things like this. They don't speak to anyone's intelligence but rather, offer an honest glimpse at a person who just so happened to miss a random piece of information.

Now its my turn. Last night, I am plopped on my keister at my Aunt's house when this really old guy pops on the screen. He starts going off about the census report, making sarcastic remarks about the family politics involved in choosing "Person Number 1" and "Person Number 2." It was like he was promoting the importance of the Census, but also making fun of it. It was brilliant. I was perplexed.

Everyone else in the room was sort of watching with a familiar smirk that I could only recognize as the look of people enjoying something they had seen before. I knew my dunce moment was impending.

Alas, despite watching 60 Minutes for years (but apparently not finishing), it turns out I am the only human being in the Western Hemisphere who didn't know who Andy Rooney was.

We are going to excuse the fact that I showed up late to this party and just be glad I showed up at all.

Fun Recipe No. 2 - Pumpkin Cheesecake Bars

2010-02-10T10:33:00.000-08:00

Okay...maybe just a bite. ONE bite.
Alright stoners...saddle up. This one is easy easy easy to make and it will make you feel like a pro. So, without further ado...

Stuff You'll Need:

-15 by 10 inch Jellyroll pan (or a shallow pan. You know what, just buy a damn tin one at the store)
-3 eggs
-1 16oz pkg o’ pound cake mix (don’t use angel food cake. That’s just wrong)
-2 tbsp butta!
-4 teaspoons pumpkin spice. (Find it in the spice aisle next to the cinnamon. Keep looking…keep looking…There it is!)
-8oz of cream cheese. Get the full fat kind. Do it.
-15 oz can of pure pumpkin. DO NOT get pumpkin pie mix. Get pumpkin. Like I said.
-Kitchen Aid or hand held mixer. Do not tell yourself you can do it by hand. You will only fail miserably and make yourself terribly upset.
-14oz can of EAGLE sweetened condensed milk. NOT EVAPORATED milk. I have made this mistake before and regretted it ever since.
-1/2 cup o’ mixed nuts

-Preheat that oven to 350 (if you are my sister, make sure you REMOVE the pans you store in there because getting them out later will be painful for everyone involved)

Let's start with the crust:

1) Combine butter, pound cake, 1 egg and 2 tbsp of pumpkin spice. Mix with wooden spoon to combine it and then use the mixer until its crumbly. WARNING – use a big bowl, and use the mixer on low or you will catapult crumbs across your kitchen.

2) Press into the bottom of the pan.

That wasn’t so hard was it?

On to the filling!

1) Soften the cream cheese in the microwave for 35 seconds (or leave it out for 30 minutes before you do this). DON’T melt it.

2) Use mixer and beat cream cheese till fluffy. SLOWLY add in the condensed milk, can of pumpkin, and the remaining 2 tbsp of pie spice. Mix until it has the consistency of pudding

3) Pour over crust. Top with Nuts

4) Bake for 30-35 minutes or until set.

5) Cool for at least 30 minutes (I prefer to cool overnight)

6) Cut into bars. Makes about 48.

"It's Just a Movie!"

2010-02-09T11:24:00.000-08:00

It's raining outside, and I'm in the mood to write. I am also in the mood to apply my cynicism and over-analysis to yet another mediocre family flick. So, in following up to my recent Willy Wonka investigation, I am pleased to bring you an obnoxious line of questioning to the holiday favorite: Home Alone.

Buzz, it's your girlfriend! Woof!

Home Alone, released in 1990, is the story of a young brat who is left home alone as his family flies off to Paris for Christmas. Left at the home under the presumption that he "made his family disappear," Kevin, well, does a bunch of kid shit and then booby-traps the house in an effort to thwart two apparently invincible-though-moronic robbers.

The Wet Bandits. "That's the WET bandits! W...E...Erm.......T! ..."

I remember seeing this 2 or 3 times in the theaters and laughing my 6 year old ass off. Who knew that gratuitous violence, when not resulting in bloody injury, could be so damn hilarious? Watching the movie at 25? Still funny, but alot of things don't make sense. Once again, I cannot ignore the insanity with which some things are carried out (most notably, the characters' general mistrust and the overall incompetance of the grossly underused Chicago Police Department). More on that later.

Let examine:

1) Why don't the parents stick up for Kevin...at all? I get that Kevin is a little shit, and the house is crowded, but Buzz was unneccessarily disgusting and rude, the girl cousins or whatever were completely bitchy, and Uncle Frank was just a dick. Sure, there were 15 people in the house and he was the only one making trouble, but I refuse to believe that shit was unprovoked. I'd have been ripping heads off.

"Look what ya did you little jerk!"

2) How in the hell did the parents manage to board the plane without Kevin? I get it, they were in a hurry and the neighbor brat looked like Kevin, blah blah blah. I don't care. Those parents would have had to have his passport and boarding documents because Kevin could no doubt be trusted with them. Who ended up with them? When they were carefully helping Fuller, the youngest, through security, did ANYONE ever think, "Hey, where the hell is Kevin?" That's just bad parenting right there.

3) You people couldn't get ahold of ANYONE?!? Anyone? At all??? Call the police, fire department, search and rescue, child protective services, local news, neighborhood watch, every local business within walking distance, every volunteer organization in the area, the CHURCH THAT WAS 2 BLOCKS AWAY. Fax everyone on the west coast. Hell, include his damn picture on the fax since you no doubt still possess the kid's passport. Finally, if the Chicago PD is being difficult...Call Again. Call again and again and again until they take your ass SERIOUSLY. In other words, don't stop until the marines barge through your front door with a battering ram, storm the house like its a meth lab, and retrieve a no doubt traumatized Kevin from under his parents' huge red bed. Get SOMEONE on the phone!!!

No No No No No! This is CHRISTMAS! The season of perpetual HOPE!

4) Note to Uncle Frank: asking the McCallisters if it makes them feel any better that you forgot your reading glasses is a dumbass thing to say.

5) Okay, why didn't the pizza guy call the police when Kevin turned up the mobster movie? If that kid really believed he was being shot at, you'd think he'd high-tail it back to Little Niro's and TELL SOMEONE?!? Really, the general theme of refusing the assistance of local law enforcement is baffling to me.

"Too bad Acey ain't in charge no more"

6) What would lead the Wet Bandits to the sudden conclusion that Kevin is Home Alone? I know that while pillaging the neighbors, they overheard the voice message from the father, but surely they believed that someone else was home with an 8 year old? How do you go from thinking there is a party the night before to suddenly coming to the conclusion that an 8 year old has been left alone indefinitely?! Shit. Even if he was home alone at the moment you saw his decorating the tree, surely someone was on their way back??? Plus, they never factored in the apparent mafia murder they thought they witnessed.

Dad, can you come here and help me?"

7) I would like to know why Kevin never thought to tell someone what was going on, especially when he knew he was about to get robbed and possibly mutilated. However, I will forgive this as it is apparent he was afraid of unintended consequences (juvie, creepy foster families, being fed to the downstairs furnace...)

"Hello"

8) I get comedic slapstick comedy, but these guys were impervious to both pain and visable injury! The iron should have knocked Marv's face in a la Casino. The swinging paintbuckets should have blown all of their teeth out. Nail through the foot equals GAME OVER. The blowtorch should have melted Harry's head off. What about when they beat the shit out of eachother with the crowbar? If nothing else, the swing into the side of the brick house should have been the END of the confrontation, period.

9) If creepy neighbor shovel man is such a good citizen that he salts and shovels everyones sidewalk, didn't he notice that all the houses were being robbed all week? On that note, these people were careful enough to have automated lights in their house to deflect intruders, but no actual ALARMS!?!

"Ooooo mummies!"

10) Didn't the police think to question Kevin at all after Marv and Harry were arrested? Further, wouldn't they want to question the PARENTS? I also wonder why creepy shovel man never thought to ask about Kevin's family. You'd think after rescuing someone who was about to have their fingers chewed off, you might want to , I don't know, keep them company?

11) On that note, was Harry really going to chew Kevin's fingers off? Ew.

Okay, that is all for now. I will once again leave off with a shout out to my favorite character of this film. This one goes out to Buzz McCallister, who, although fat and rude, came up with the best way to list a series of facts I have ever seen.

We have smoke detectors...

Cheers.

Fun Recipe No. 1 - Chocolate Mousse Pie

2010-02-08T15:27:00.000-08:00

This is a picture of a slice of Chocolate Mousse Pie. It's the most delicious dessert in the world and it's sort of easy to make, as long as you can seperate an egg and whip egg whites (the two hardest steps).

So in my traditional bossy and dry tone, Imma teach you how to make this calorie bomb. You can make it for your sweetheart on Valentine's Day (spike it with Ipecac Syrup if you hate the bastard).

Here we go:

Crap You'll Need:

-9 in Springform pan. Don't even think about using a bundt cake pan. You'll be sorry. Very sorry.
-6 eggs
-2 pkgs of Safeway Chocolate Chuck Brownie Cookies (basically, they're Chocolate Chocolate Chip Cookies)
-2/3 sticks o' butta
-12oz bag of nestle semi sweet chocolate chips
-a bunch of powdered sugar
-Quart of Heavy Whipping Cream
-Kitchen Aid or hand held mixer. Do not tell yourself you can do it by hand. You will only fail miserably and make yourself terribly upset.
-A plan for how you're gonna lose the weight you're about to gain.

Ok got it? Here we go. Let's start with the crust:

1) Break those brownie cookies up and toss 'em into a bag. Smash em until they resemble dirt from a potted plant. A food processor helps, but I'm betting you don't have one. So smash away.
2)Melt the stick of butter. All the way.
3) Pour butter into bag with crumbs and squish it with your hands until you have an even, damp mixture. Mmmmm.
4) Press into ungreased springform pan. Start with the bottom and work up the sides. Crust should go to the edges. If you run out, your crust is too thick. Keep workin'
5) Done? Good, stick it in the fridge.

Okay on to the filling. Basically, you are making three mixtures and you are going to FOLD (not mix, FOLD) them together at the end).

1) First thing: Seperate 4 of the eggs. Thus, you should have a bowl of 4 egg whites and a bowl of 4 egg yolks. Dont get ANY yolk in the egg whites. Again, you will fail. Remember you have 2 more eggs that you are not seperating. Those'll come in, don't worry.

2) Melt the chocolate chips in a little bitty pan over really low heat. Stir it so it doesn't burn and keep going until its all melted and smooth. Turn heat off and let it cool for 3 minutes. Then, add two whole eggs plus the 4 egg yolks to the melted chocolate and stip it. Got it? Good. Leave it alone and move on to the next mixture.

3) In a big bowl, whip the egg whites. Yes, if you whip egg whites long enough, they whip up like whipped cream. Wow! Be patient though. It takes a LONG time. Like, a full 10 minutes on high speed. It's like magic though, you whip and whip and whip and suddenly...it thickens. When STIFF peaks form, you know you've made it. make sure its fully done or...FAIL. Stick whipped egg whites in the fridge.

4)3rd mixture: Pour 2 cups of heavy whipping cream and add 6 tbsp of powdered sugar into another big bowl. Whipp until stiff peaks form. Don't over whip or it will "break" and look yellowish. This will only take 3 minutes

Combining it:

1)FOLD egg whites in with whipped cream. To do this, get one of those plastic floppy spatula things that bakers use. Put some of the egg white on top of the cream and FOLD (bring the bottom to the top, folding it over itself. Don't start mixing like a jerk). Add slowly, folding...folding. With me?

2) When you're done, fold the chocolate in. Slowly. Little at a time. Fold Fold. Mouse should look like, and be about as thick as, brown puddling but taste 300 times better.

3) Pour it in the crust. Should come to 1/2 inch below crust.

Refridgerate overnight! Preferably 15-24 hours! Make sure there are no cut onions or garlic in the fridge or it will take on the taste.

15 Minutes before you serve, whip 1 cup of whipped cream with 3 tbsps of powdered sugar, just like you did yesterday, and spread over the top.

Finally: make sure you remove the outside of the pan. Don't be a jackass and try to dig it out.

Enjoy!

A Lesson from Sarah Palin

2010-02-08T12:25:00.000-08:00

A funny thing happened this weekend. I was watching the madness that was the Tea Party Convention, a far-right circus act that concluded Saturday evening, with Alaska's very own Sarah Palin. For over an hour Ms. Palin rambled about the failures of the Obama administration, lambasted large government, high taxes and a defecit problem with no end in sight, and promised a return to "common sense" small government and low taxes should she find herself leader of the free world.

Sunday morning I tried to gather what I could from the media as to the general reaction of the convention, and Palin's speech. Meet the Press had Dee Dee Myers, former press secretary to Bill Clinton, commenting on the Tea Party agenda in general. Opposite her was a Republican "talking-head" commenting on how Palin has really shown herself to be quite a contender (though specifically for what I do not know). Other than this, the media was fairly silent on the matter as it was, after all, Sunday.

I was left, therefore, on my own to figure out how I felt about her speech and the Tea party movement in general. This was fine by me. This is how it should be, after all.

First off, I don't believe that Sarah Palin will run in 2012. If she does, I don't think the RNC will allow her the nomination as she is too much of a liability. The alternative, running as a third party candidate, will guarantee a (possibly historical) landslide victory for Obama. If she runs, she is going to have to explain why she resigned. Thus far, we have no other reason to go off of other than she just didn't like the job. It was too hard. People were mean to her. Whatever.

She would never be able to debate Obama. Ever. She is simply not well-informed enough so as to ever be properly briefed and prepared to discuss the specifics of actual issues in depth. I believe that if you want to debate real issues and express discontent with policies you do not agree with, you have to show up ready to talk about those issues in depth. It is okay to fundamentally disagree with Obama's principles. Millions upon millions do. However, if you choose to stand on your soapbox and proclaim revolution, you had better take the next step: educating yourself on everything about the presidency and the decisions made within so you can discuss them at length.

This is the problem with the media. They have oversimplified issues and seemingly de-mystified public office, giving American's the false impression that anyone can do it. It takes a great mind to lead a country. It takes a great mind to lead a congressional district, a school district, or a girl scout troop. Empathy, self-control, morale, and brains. Calling for common sense in government is one thing, but believing that politicians who have done little more than give 10-word sound bites as to why something is or isn't working is irresponsible.

What I did learn from my Sunday of Political Contemplation is that Sarah Palin, in my opinion, is a walking, talking microcosm of a general attitude in this country. The first is a legitimate fear, frustration, and intolerance with the size of government. Another is a fatigue with the constant blaming of the world's problems on President Bush (who, I might add, oversaw the largest expansion of government since LBJ). Finally, a competitive nature that has reached the point where issues are irrelevant, and instead, politicans alone lead the cause. This is evident by both the right's blind refusal to cooperate with Obama in any way (even if it were on an issue they would favor under Bush), by the Tea Party's assigning of an already infamous figurehead to what was supposed to be a grassroots movement, and even some niavete on the part Democrats for thinking Obama was without political flaws. Politics has reached a point where one side of the aisle wants the other to fail. Political discussion, in short, bears little resemblance to the actual issues at hand.

Monday morning I woke up to find MSNBC, CNN, NBC, and ABC talking not about the contents of Palin's speech, or how the convention represented a growing attitude that should not be dismissed (but rather investigated at length). Oh no. Instead, they focused on Palin's criticism of Obama using a teleprompter (as have the presidents before him) while she had a few notes on her hand. Was this fair? Was she a hypocrite? Or, were these just little cliff notes to remind her of her talking points.

...and the wonder why the intellect has been replaced with mindless sport.

It's not "Just a Movie!"

2010-02-05T10:23:00.001-08:00

You know, I am really tired of getting this response when I ask what I feel to be legitimate questions about the details of a movie. See, I don't buy it. A movie, by nature, sets up a universe for you and asks the viewer to accept and imagine within the parameters of that universe. Thus, when a movie breaks its own rules, or just plain doesn't make sense, I have questions. Tough questions. I want to speak to someone.

As a result of both this annoyance and a persistent case of ADD, I have decided to post a list of questions pertaining to a movie every now and then.

The first? Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory.

Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, a 1974 Film based on the Roald Dahl book, brings to the silver screen the story of broke-ass Charlie, a blonde American kid living, for whatever reason, in Europe. You know the story, the kid gets the 5th ticket and ends up inheriting the the factory from Gene Wilder, a Michael Jackson-ish loner with hair almost as fabulous as Charlie's.

I accept the movie's ridiculous plot, I really do. That is part of the fun. However, there is a constant, persistent weirdness with the way certain things are carried out that I feel this film must be the first to be subjected to my line of questions. So without further ado...

"WTF, Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory?"

1) The factory, and therefore Charlie's town appears to be in Germany. Many of the townspeople are American, but several (including the Teacher, are British). What's the deal there?

2) Why does the teacher have to be such a dick?

If you were to eat 200 Wonka Bars, apart from being dreadfully sick..."

That class size was pretty small, so surely the teacher knew a thing or two about each of his students. Surely he knew Charlie was poor as fuck. It just wasn't necessary to berate him for only being able to purchase 2 chocolate bars. As a licensed educator he is no doubt educated somewhat in child psycology and development. Thus, when Charlie meekly admitted that he doesn't "care much for chocolate," the teacher should have known Charlie was covering for the fact that he ain't got no money (take yo broke ass home!) and been cool about it. Dick.

3) Why are the Grandparents sharing a bed? I can see two, but four? Where is the father? Why did he leave his broke, old, crusty parents behind and why isn't the mother asking some TOUGH questions about it?! ("Mr and Mrs Blahblah. Your son is a deadbeat. He has left this family to go run off with 'Debbie the Cabaret Singer' and that means your days of sitting in bed with my parents are OVER. I am no longer obligated to sponge bathe your old, wrinkly skin. GTF out!)

4) On that note: Why isn't the mother asking some questions about the fact that the lazy ass grandfather is SUDDENLY able to get off his ass when it comes time to go to the factory? YOU"VE BEEN ABLE TO WALK THIS WHOLE TIME?!?

5) Even more on that note: Why didn't the mother smack the shit out of Charlie when he announced he was taking Grandpa Joe? Charlie, you little shit, your mother does everything around here! She even washes your smelly underwear on a badass, old-school washboard. Grandpa Joe does nothing but lay on his ass, slowly developing gangrene (its beginning to smell like almonds!) while faking paralysis. In addition, he is stealing money from the newspaper delivery fund, which effectively supports the entire family, to purchase tobacco, only to pass himself off as a hero when he buys you a friggin' chocolate bar with your own money!

6) Okay, I get it. The tickets are a big deal. But I am really supposed to believe that the Queen would drop a million pounds for a box of bars? Bitch, buy yourself, and 3000 other people, a lifetime supply of chocolate and wait for the PBS documentary, "Tour of the Wonka Factory" to come out. Done and Done.

7) No one thought to ask why Slugworth randomly showed up right as the tickets were found?

"10,000 of these..."

Okay maybe not the other four, since he showed up when the media did, presumably a few days later. However with Charlie, he was lurking in an alley minutes later! Charlie, despite being in shock, should have said, "Dude, if you are stealth enough to have spies in the factory detecting exactly where the tickets were being shipped out to, why didn't you just a) have them snatch a gobstopper while they were there or b) win one of the damn tickets yourself? Creepster." Instead of testing these kids on their loyalty, Wonka, you should have tested them on their common sense!

8) Really Augustus? You fat slob.

9) Wouldn't that contract they had to sign in the waiting room, being illegible and basically forced, be considered executed in bad faith?

"You're Always making things Difficult!"

10)How do I get my paws on one on those gold hand coat hangers?

11)How is it that all of the tickets just happened to be discovered by 11 year olds? Wonka said he wanted to find a child (which in itself raises serious questions). Did he ever consider that, say, a stressed-out twenty something woman might find a ticket in the midst of losing her battle with chocolate avoidance?

12) In the end Wonka decides to move the entire Bucket family into the factory. Let's examine the costs in 2010 USD:

(this being at the VERY LEAST)

Suitable Lodging for the Buckets: $5,000/mo.
Food: $1,000/mo.
Healthcare: Free because it's Europe (huzzah!)
Shit Charlie is gonna need because he is a kid: $500/mo.
Utilities for the Buckets: $500/mo.
Allowance for the Buckets: $1,000/mo.
Private School Tuition/Tutor for Charlie: $50,000/yr
Business Advisors for Charlie: $100,000/yr
Lawyers to figure out this mess: $250,000
Business School for Charlie: $50,000/yr.
Funeral Costs as the Family Starts Dying off: $20,000
Additional Lawyers to make sure Charlie's Father Doesn't Return Looking for "his" Share: $25,000

Years before Charlie generates any income for the business: 15-20

Really, Wonka? You couldn't find ANYONE to run the factory? It is going to take more untrustworthy adults to prep this little bastard than it would just hiring another nice pervert like you. Jackass.

That is all for now. In closing I would like to say to the ever-inquisitive Mr. Mike TeeVee (who raised a good few questions himself in the movie's dismal remake):

You are a god among ants. Don't let anyone tell you any different.

Two Palm Trees Walk into a Bar...

2009-12-16T08:45:00.000-08:00

So I've been living in Santa Monica since June, and I love it. Dry cleaners, coffee shops, craft stores, boutiques, and about a squillion Starbucks cover every acre not previously occupied by a Palm Tree or an overpriced home. People walk almost everywhere, and hundreds of joggers and park-Yoga enthusiasts can be seen from before Sunrise to long after Sundown (though I do admit, they are hard to avoid running over during the peak exercise hours of 7-10am).

Living on the Westside has many ups, and a few downs. Yet, even the downs are more like minor inconveniences that are completely forgotten after a 2 minute walk to a coffee shop or to TCBY. In fact, they are inconveniences you merely laugh away as you consider how nice it really is to live in a land of perpetual sunshine and a non-existent crime rate.

Let's Examine:

Probably what I love the most about Santa Monica is the food. The quality of food is actually pretty surprising given the size of the women you see walking around. Surely with food this good, someone must be eating it?

I live on Idaho and 7th, just a very small block south of Montana, which is perhaps less known than, say, the 3rd Street Promenade. Yet, on Montana, one could find everything they need to fill their every gluttonous whim. Spumoni is a small Italian cafe with an extensive Gnocchi menu and the best pasta dish you'll ever have (Rigatoni Siciliana...trust me).
The chicken caesar salad and the tapenade served with the bread are just stupid. Right next door is a TCBY that is open until 11pm, and in the event that you need to kill your carb-induced coma: a Starbucks on the other side. Down a few blocks on the corner of 10th and Montana is a really interesting Caribbean cafe called Babalu. I haven't really tried any signature dishes, but their breakfast can kill even the most persistent hangovers.

On this street there are probably a dozen small restaurants, positioned between the boutiques, delis and wine shops, that I have yet to visit. The place I frequent the most is positioned half a block away, on 7th and Montana: Pavilions. Surely, it is your ordinary small-to-medium Grocery store. Yet, being a 2 minute walk away and with a system that lets me take the shopping cart home and leave it in the alley, Pavilions is like the Mecca of weeknight eating. Any recipe I want to try, any wine impulse I have, and any desire for the latest People or US Weekly can be satiated immediately.

By far the best place in Santa Monica, and probably the entirety of Southern California for that matter, is Bay Cities Italian Deli and Bakery. You can get Sandwiches, Cheese, Wine, Spice, Olive Oil, Sausage, and bread that an Atheist would praise the sweet baby Jesus over. The line is long and its closed on Mondays, but besides this, Bay Cities is the best thing to happen to Santa Monica. Go there, and if you don't, lie to me and say that you did.

If you are in my area, and you don't know me well enough to call me, a few other places to try are Amici's, Guido's, or Makkai (if you're on a nice date); Barney's, South, The Parlor, or Father's Office (if you're trying to have a casual time and possibly get laid); and again, Bay Cities if you're going to cook an Italian meal and possibly propose (anyone?...no?).

Be careful if you go to Santa Monica to go Shopping. Boutiques like LF and Planet Blue are out of control with the prices. This being said, they do have great sales. My personal favorite is Zara, which you've heard of and you can find it on the Promenade. If you don't like it, there are 500 other places to try so there's no point in examining this. Moving on.

-If you like Yoga go to Power Yoga
-If you like Ballet go to Westside
-If you are going to the beach, walk there don't park. Better yet, ride a bike.
-Go to Helen's on 25th if you need to buy a bike.
-Make it over to Abbot Kinney in Venice at least once in awhile. Venice is a hip older sister to Santa Monica, or better yet, a 'Silverlake-by-the-Sea". You may have a really great time, or you may have a really boring time. Either way, its worth a shot.
-Stay away from Yankee Doodles. There is nothing in there for you. For that matter, avoid Johnny Rockets too. And CPK.

-This is a big one: After you visit Bay Cities in the morning, find a place to sit with a Mimosa around 4th and San Vicente. The men, they run/lift weights/walk dogs/do Yoga with no shirts on and they are in perfect shape. (Feel free to email me a thanks for this suggestion).

If you are thinking about moving to Santa Monica, here is what you need to know:

1) Get in touch with me. I'm fairly new here myself and I am still going through East-Side withdrawals.
2) Get used to not having a Target/Wal-Mart around. Many convenience-type places you didn't even realize you depended on are practically non-existent. Instead, you will find boutiques with $900 lamps.
3) Try not to drive on the weekends. Walk to the store, to the movies, to the beach, and to the restaurants. Browse the swap meets and farmers markets and garage sales. Walk to Michael's or Joanne's and make something. Cook something you've never cooked before (don't try a wine reduction. You'll only ruin your pan and make yourself cry).
4) Be careful where you park. The Santa Monica Parking people don't mess around. Tickets are like, 65 bones.
5) Know that Santa Monica is rent controlled. Further, rents are going down, and landlords are willing to drop even further if they're desperate. You may end up paying more at first, but the pricing wont really increase after that. Always use Westside Rentals.
6) Be aware of neighbors that have been there awhile. They are, for whatever reason, always a pain. Yet remember, they are rent controlled so they are probably paying half what you are. The landlord would love nothing more than to get them out and raise the rent to market. Don't take shit from these people.
7) Be happy. If you're not happy, Fake it 'till you make it. The streets are wide and uncongested, the palm trees and tall and pretty, and the beach is right there. It'll catch on.

I learned that in Rome, they have a term for overly fussy, public complainers: brutta figura. As for us Americans, it is more in all of our nature to complain to the managers or try to get an extra 20% off when the hem in frayed. However, you will find there is a certain easy-goingness in Santa Monica as well. It could be the beach, the Yoga, or the fact that many of these people don't work (for whatever reason). It could be the lack of noisy traffic or the ease of obtaining caffeine in the mornings. Hell, it could even be the jogging men. Whatever it is, it is not a bad place to visit, and certainly not to shabby a place to live.

Come on out.

I am in Europe!

2009-11-23T03:41:00.000-08:00

And when I go places, I like to write about it so I have it forever. Also because it gives me something to write about and, as made evident by the rest of this blog, I often have a hard time with that. Alas, Enjoy! (links below)

Paris Pt. 1

Paris Pt. 2

Paris Pt. 3

Paris Pt. 4

Paris Pt. 5/Londontown Pt. 1

You did good guys. You did real good....

2009-10-30T16:27:00.000-07:00

Vote for 'em here.

Chode Potato

2009-10-28T10:41:00.000-07:00

Because I am bored.

Seven Days Without Facebook is Some Weak-ass Shit!

2009-10-26T10:08:00.000-07:00

Facebook both sucks and is awesome.

Things that are AWESOME:

-Tagging every picture I can get my paws on. Even people in the background. Tag em. Tag em ALL.

-Having an instant fix for my pathological need for attention. All I have to do is have a witty headline for whatever the hell I am doing and behold! 15 comments from people I could just as easily call/see in person.

-Putting lots o' pictures up of all the fun and exciting things I do, complete with clever captions for entertainment value!

-Occasionally linking to my blog (something I actually care about and am trying to shape).

-Untagging ugly pictures of me because somehow it will cause people to think I am a shitty looking version of myself.

-Mindlessly clicking through a high school acquaintance's wedding/baby pictures for alot longer than I should.

-Harrassing my mother, sister, aunt, cousin, Alisa and Danny to no end.

-Poke around the site of a boy I met the day/night/weekend before. I am not ashamed to judge based on a history of frat-boy man-pile pictures with beer, sideways hats and hand signals. I simply leave dry-yet-disdainful comments and stick the poor bloke in the platonic friend category. Next!

Now, onto things that SUCK

-Knowing that you got up at 5am, you're fucking tired and "Ugh, it's Monday." On Thursday, you are "excited about the weekend" and "get to see (insert friend no one knows here)." Saturday you are hungover and Sunday you really hope your Team wins. Jesus at least Twitter is funny. The most guilty of this crap? Me.

-Being tagged in a photo where you look like a beast.

-Jackass people I work with/go to Kabbalah with/vaguely know making assumptions because my pictures involve my weekend outings. I yawn, and in reply I get a "Hey are you tired? Too much partyin' eh? Eh?" Oy!

-Emotional Cutting. In short, this is what you do when you go to the Facebook site of someone you know you shouldn't go to the Facebook site of and look at pictures you don't want to see and click on links you don't want to click on. People look at us, we look at them. What a negative shitshow.

-Facebook Chat. I'll hit you up. Otherwise, leave me alone.

-Facebook in General: My life has no ambiguity. There is no mystery. No "I wonder what he/she is like" or "I'm curious about..." Nope. Its all there. Described in detail on a newsfeed and laid out in pictures. Everyone is connected and dependent and enslaved. It causes you to not function without having to pause and share every thought and gather the thoughts of others. Had a great day in (Insert City Here)? Post it on Facebook, because it didn't really happen unless everyone is envious/entertained by it.

So what to do?

Well, I am a proud/ashamed Facebook addict. Thus, I have decided against getting rid of my Facebook and instead decided to abstain for one week. I will take note of the effect this has on my life in general. At the end of the week, I will probably post a link on my Facebook linking to this blog where people can read about what I did while NOT on Facebook.

Or...maybe I won't. Let see what I learn.

For now, Goodbye Facebook. You have left me in a tired, bored, trance for too long. You have caused me to hold on to things I should let go of and let go of everything else but you. You have fried my brain and worn out my laptop battery. I have missed dance classes and TV shows and sleep. I am done for one week.

...because I don't think I could give it up for longer than that.

I went to Italy!

2009-10-09T10:09:00.001-07:00

And if you want to read my long, narcissistic ramblings about it, you've come to the right place.

Day 0 - Chess in the Airport and the resulting Madness

Day 1 - Train Station Hysteria and the Beauty of Firenze

Day 2 - David, what a Man!

Day 3 - Trains, Skulls, and a Forgotten Stumbling Home

Day 4 - Confusion in the Sistine Chapel, Wikipedia Tour Guides, and Italian Crazy People

Day 5 - Euro Extortion and the Danger of Being Alone

Day 6 - Chain of Screaming and the Venice Alternative

Day 7 - Executions, Flying Rats, and Kissing Italian Boys

A Day from Mama Sue's June Visit

2009-10-09T10:05:00.000-07:00

A little late, but worth a post.

I should have known that my mother, a heavy packer under normal circumstances, was going to greet me with 4 suitcases holding no less than 850lbs of shit. She had been in Brooklyn for 2 weeks prior visiting East Coast family. This being said, I ask you - I BEG you - to tell me why this woman felt the need to travel with 6 cookbooks.

I arrived at my cousin Amanda's house where my Ma was babysitting Dominic, Amanda's newborn baby (of course that's his name, right?) "Nanny Fanny Pudding n' Pie!" - I hear shouted as soon as I walk in.

Enter Mama Sue. Buckle up, its gonna be one hell of a ride.

Amanda was due to be home in an hour, so until then, we were on nanny duty. I had never met Baby Dom. I should take this moment to enthusiastically proclaim that Dom is the most beautiful baby I have ever seen. Olive skinned, big brown eyes, and a smile that takes up his whole face. I love that little man more than anything. I will also point out that it is an amazing thing watching your mother be, well, a parent. It has been, presumably, twenty years since Mama Sue had to change a shitty diaper or burp an infant yet she was able to revert back to newborn mother status like it was nothing. Warming the bottle, putting the kid in the carrier thing, bouncing it in her lap (you know, whatever it is people do with babies). She had it down like it was a routine. Come to think of it...this dog-and-pony show was probably nothing compared to raising me.

We headed off to dinner after that. It is at this point that I should mention that there are a few things, as a Destefano woman, that you would rather have a root canal than deal with. A notable one is being in a situation that may require another Destafano woman to shout an an innocent bystander. To put it plainly: my mother HATES being interrupted by strangers trying to sell or tell us something. She hates random chatty people, Academy Award acceptance speeches, poorly behaved children, and all other humans that contribute to social awkwardness. Someone in a shopping mall is freaking out? You'd rather die than deal with the already icky situation in the presence of my mother.

To provide an example, I will use the dinner we had that night at a brewery in Burbank. Me, my sister, our closest friends, and Mama Sue had an amazing dinner and probably a few too many cock-a-ma-tails on the back patio of the restaurant. 10 feet away, there was another large party that finished and left as we were still ordering dessert. The busboy proceeded to clear the tables that were pushed together, and then the waiter came to separate them back to their original locations. I should remind you that this is patio furnature on a concrete-like surface. Therefore, this waiter's determination to reorganize everything in a frenzy created no much noise we couldn't hear eachother to order dessert. There would be 5 seconds of silence, and as soon as Ma began, "how about the tiramisu?' He would begin dragging another metal table with a deafening screech.

Finally she stopped mid-sentence, glared over at the poor guy, threw her arms in the air and shouted, "REALLY?!? Really?...."

I hung my head and took slow breaths in an effort to slow my pulse down.

Besides Ma's quick (and implied) verbal thrashing at the waiter, who totally deserved it might I add, the night was uneventful after that. I hadn't slept in days because, apparently, making sure you see someone off to the middle east for two months is a week long bar hopping event with 20 other people. Needless to say, I needed to get some sleep.

A great day with Mama Sue.

Dear Jackass.

2009-09-30T21:13:00.000-07:00

If I could write letters to various versions of myself, I imagine they would say something like this:

6-year old Danielle: "Even though Mom warned you never to interrupt her when she's blow drying her hair, this doesn't mean you should awkwardly beat around the bush when you need to run in to tell her your 2 year old sister badly busted her head open while running full on into the corner of a wall."

8-year old Danielle: "Don't worry. Your unexplained paranoia about not getting to bed by 8pm and thus not getting enough sleep causing you to wake up stupid will go away. It will, in time, be replaced by other anxieties that will take years to friggin' sort through. In the meantime, stop crying to Mom and Dad about it every single night. You're freaking them out."

10-Year old Danielle: "Okay. When you start 5th grade, be ready for your teacher to humiliate you in front of 5 of other kids because she is going to take offense to something harmless you said. Three days later, when angrily yelling at the whole class, she will use you as an example and actually re-tell your story from the days before, thus royally embarrassing you and scarring you for life. Make sure you're ready so you can tell her to fuck off."

12-Year old Danielle: "Go to a Kabbalah class. All hell is going to break loose and you are about to start feeling really ugly. This'll help, I promise. In the meantime, practice your toe-touches now. You are supposed to be captain of the 8th Grade Cheerleading Squad, not Ashley. If you let her get it, she's going to treat you like shit all year long and make you feel even more awkward."

13-Year old Danielle: "Stop being so competitive with the new neighbor girl, Kirsten. And for the love of god, stop bossing her around and yelling at her. She's going to end up being one of your best friends so you're just wasting time and pissing her off."

14-Year old Danielle: "Dude, Lance Bass is gay. Either get over it or keep your mouth shut and keep the *Nsync posters off your wall. Otherwise, your family and friends will never let you hear the end of it. Not even 10 years later."

15-Year old Danielle: "Don't worry, your boobs will grow. In fact they'll be a good deal bigger in college when you put on 10lbs."

16-Year old Danielle: "Don't get a speeding ticket two days after you get your license. Jackass."

18-Year old Danielle: "Don't mix tequila and beer, even if they make you. You will barf on a scary girl's bed in the sorority house and she will be really mad. Don't worry, you and Alisa will still end up being best friends, but you should probably go ahead and shoot for an early start. Stop mixing your alcohol. Seriously."

19-Year old Danielle: "Remember not to park your car in the Golds Gym lot next door. They'll tow and it'll cost you hundreds of dollars and several frantic hours in a junkyard to get it back. Apparently cars being registered to your parents makes a damn shit show of the paperwork."

20/21-Year old Danielle: "I can't really remember what you're doing but I'm guessing you are having a blast and still scoring good grades..like a boss. Carry on, carry on."

22-Year old Danielle: "I know you're bored at your new job, but you're gonna love it and it will do amazing things for your life. In the meantime, I should warn you that the company can read your emails. That guy you've been shit-talking to? Yeah, he's about to get fired and then they are going to go through his emails. Along with his unfinished business they will find an archive of your verbal diarrhea. Although you will discover, and later appreciate, your boss' tough-love mentoring style, everyone else will just think you're a jackass. Stick your head in those insurance books and keep it there."

24-Year old Danielle: "Remind Alisa that she needs to be careful where she parks outside your apartment. Otherwise, a dreadlock party is going to cost her $325 in towing and tickets, and she is not going to be happy about that one either. Oh, and regarding that one thing: Hang in there. You'll totally get it when your 25."

25-Year old Danielle: "Get your ass to sleep. You have an early day tomorrow."

Goodnight!

Blame it on Neptune

2009-09-29T22:39:00.000-07:00

I've been reading about my generation lately. It seems like every economist, psychiatrist, mentor, parent and politician has us figured out. Or rather, they seem to understand why it is that we cannot be figured out. See, we are not lazy, but we can be loath to move until ready. We desire both success and wisdom, but are mystified as to how to get there. Most importantly, we are dependent, yet we do not know how to ask for help. Our generation seems excessively idealistic, but without a plan.

Apparently, its a Neptune thing. I recently heard that the astrological placement of this slow-moving planet has somehow shaped our dreams, ideals, and intuition, and may explain our similar confusions and disillusionments.

Whether or not this is true I do not know, but it did get me thinking.

Our generation really does over idealize everything. We have deep feelings and beliefs about our life's purpose and we all know we want to reach the top. We all know we want to be happy. What we don't know, however, is how to get there, and who we want to be when we arrive. We fantasize in pictures about achieving our goals and living the worry-free life of an accomplished person with all the time in the world to help others. Yet these dreams do not include clear pictures of ourselves. What has this ideal version of ourselves learned? What paralyzing struggles built us up to this point of success and fulfillment? If fantasies come from the ego, are we likely imagining ourselves humble? Wise? Peaceful? I doubt it.

The Facebook-era has caused us to become little more than a picture of ourselves. We fool ourselves into thinking we are who we choose to portray at any given moment. Yet, on the other end of this, we truly do have ideas and inspirations and a desire to share.

I think what gets us all so down, though, is the extreme lack of clarity on what to do next. Work a little harder on tomorrow's to-do list? Make 15 more phone calls? Save money? I get the feeling that isn't it.

I wonder if this universe, which we are all apparently trying to conquer, is trying to show us how it operates so that we might actually have a shot. Ever the idealists, we think we can build our vehicle and rise to the top alone. If it takes longer than we want, we work harder and harder until the eventual disillusionment sets in. Disillusionment, that horrible, relationship-ending, impulsive, self-defeating low. It makes you just want to move far away so you can shake things up (and re-build your little fantasy).

Little. That is what my dreams of success and accomplishment are. They are nothing more than a Facebook album or an episode of Entourage. The times I ask for help and appreciate the wisdom of others are the times I get closer to seeing how big the world really is. Oddly, it has only been in this humility that I have ever tasted any success. We have to let go of the things we think we desperately want and embrace that which we are terribly afraid of. Embrace the confusion and instability as an opportunity to test our spiritual certainty that if we let go, ask for help, and worry about the well-being of others, this universe may just worry about the well being of ourselves.

For now, we will continue the symptoms of our generation's quarter-life confusion, but I think we should do so with a little bit of the idealism we are known for. However, this time, instead of imagining ourselves as the ones who will come up with all of the answers, let's have a little faith that the world itself has the answers and, by law, we will find them if we open up, ask the right questions, and change our nature every day. That path will light up for us soon, I'm sure of it.

This one doesn't need to go on the Bucket List

2009-08-10T17:52:00.000-07:00

I ate chicken feet today. Chicken Feet.

Let me back up. Today, I went on a business lunch with a few of my co-workers and some underwriters. We decided to eat Dim Sum, which is like a kooky Chinese drive-by buffet. You sit down, and a bajillion waitresses with carts come out offering already-prepared dishes consisting of anything you can imagine. Its a feeding frenzy. Potstickers, bau, dumplings, congee (look it up) and lotus leaf rice filled the table within minutes. The talk of the table, however, was the oft-mentioned but never actually confirmed menu item: Chicken Feet ("Phoenix Talons").

Of course there is always the jackass that has to place the order to keep things interesting.

For whatever reason (boredom, curiosity, pathalogical need for attention, etc.), I decided to try me some real chicken fingers.

Well, let me just say that the look exactly like they do in the picture above, except breaded and fried. As you would imagine, there is no meat on them so you are essentially eating the breading, sauce, and underlying boiled skin of poultry feets.

I respect other cultures, I really do. All jokes aside, the feet weren't that bad. This being said, I cannot figure out for the life of me WHY THE HELL a part of the chicken with no meat is a delicacy? What next, the browbone of swine?

I should point out, however, that Chicken Feet are also eaten in Jamacian, Peruvian, and South African Cultures. I am pleased to report that in Durban, South Africa, chicken feet, served with the damn head, comprises a dish known as "walkie talkies." Clever.

In closing, I will say that I left that B-Rated dim sum restaurant today a little more worldly, a little less cynical, and a lot more nauseas than I had entered.

Where is a dollar-menu Crispy McChicken when you need one?

Coffee Talk

2009-08-07T16:39:00.000-07:00

Guy Friend of Mine: "Hey, wanna grab dinner, or a drink, or coffee sometime?"

Idiot Girl: "OMG I'd loooove to grab coffee! Let's do it!"

Chances are, what pisses you off about the exchange above is the girl's grammar. Perhaps its the fact that it occurred over Facebook.

Nope. Not me. You know what gets me steamed? The fact that she wants to grab coffee.

Everyone has pet peeves. Hell, I have about 30. I hate when girls stand in a corner and pose for pictures for the entire party, I loathe people who begin a sentence with, "I'm the kind of person who," and I really abhor when people ask, "where abouts?" when inquiring as to the specific neighborhood of Los Angeles that I live. My pet peeve with coffee dates, however, is perhaps one of my weirder-yet-stronger ones.

Why is it that many people think walking up to a Starbucks counter passes as a date worthy activity? What is this, high school? Stopping by the mall after? I heard friggin Pacific Sunwear is having a sale on Hurley. Gimme a break.

We are urban twenty-somethings in the throes of a Quarter Life Crisis. The last thing we need is self-inflicted awkwardness brought on by the inherent 20 minute time limitation of a coffee date. The idea of grabbing a cup of coffee for a date is just weird. Its like asking someone to come pump gas with you.

Ladies (especially you Silverlake "artists/waitresses)," put your big girl panties on and grab a drink, one with alcohol, if you don't want to commit to a meal of food (and for heaven's sake, put on a damn pair of high heels).

Discuss...

Outstanding

2009-07-21T14:59:00.001-07:00

My Friends are Geniuses

2009-07-16T10:10:00.000-07:00

So I was surfing PerezHilton.com today and he did a post on our friend Adam Harvey! Adam is the significant other of our dear friend Heather Knight, who is a smokin' hot social roboticist, artist, and current employee of Jet Propulsion Lab in Los Angeles.

Adam invented a purse that flashes when it senses other camera flashes (using technology that cameras with flashes already use), thus destroying paparazzi photos. It has been getting more and more press lately, and this morning, the Queen of All Media himself gave a shout out.

Check out the Perez post here

Why can't I think of this shit? Best I'll ever do is come up with an insurance policy, um, offers some really good coverage? Damn.

Speaking of other genius things I wish I had thought of, Harry Potter was absolutely, #$@#! amazing. Best one so far. The actors have finally rose to the occasion and for the first time, become the Harry, Ron and Hermione I envision when reading my favorite books. What the hell am I gonna do until the 7th movie comes out?!?

Heather will probably put a robot on the moon by then.

Harry Potter e il Principe Mezzosangue?

2009-07-15T17:09:00.000-07:00

To commmemorate opening day for Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince, I'm posting what is likely the greatest picture of Danny Celentano EVER.

Blog Faux pas?

2009-07-15T16:42:00.000-07:00

Shit. Maybe I'm not that original after all.

Actually, I'm not original at all. Danny was the one who tried to help me come up with a name for my blog. He thought of Blog Cabin, and a few other honorable mentions:

1 - Blogwarts, which, despite the totally awesome Harry Potter reference, I neglected to choose because it sounds icky.

2 - Blogustus Gloop, which is genius, but might fly over the heads of those who do not immediately connect it with the beloved Willy Wonka character.

So, I decided on "Danielle's Blog Cabin."

I just found out "Blog Cabin" is being used. Adding insult to injury, I should point out that it is being shamelessy wasted by these clowns. Yes, the group comprised primarily of gay republicans (which is like saying evangelical democrat) decided to start a blog, and some clever jackass had to say, "Hey guys! How about...wait you're gonna love this...how about...BLOG CABIN!" Probably got a friggin standing ovation.

Well, in the spirit of equal opportunity, this straight democrat is keeping her blog name for now.

Unless somebody comes up with something better.

If it take all night long...

2009-07-15T15:29:00.000-07:00

Question: Danielle, how do I have fun in traffic on the way to work?

Answer: You don't. Traffic blows.

But if you want to prolong your inevitable trip to the loony-bin, listen to Sam Cooke. If I have any wisdom to share with you today, and I probably don't, this is it. I recommend Good Times

Whatever Milks the Money Cow

2009-07-15T14:59:00.000-07:00

Natalie Portman Better Not Mess This Up

Check out that link. They're making a movie about everyone's FAVORITE Norse warrier, Thor! This means there will be like a two to three day window where my last name may actually almost maybe be cool.

Hey but check out the hot Australian dude playing the God of Thunder.

Yes Please. Two Please!