Sunday, February 26, 2017

Half of America Has Same Two Thoughts at Once

Fully half the country tonight had the same two thoughts at the same time in quick succession: 

1. Why couldn't that also have happened on 11/9/16; and

2.  Can this please be a metaphor for the entire future? 

small fraction of the nation also wondered where Steve Harvey was and if this was all just a big conspiracy and stunt from the jump.

Meanwhile, #MAGAs everywhere were pissed about LaLa Land even though they didn't see it, had never heard of Moonlight, and still think taco bowls are Mexican food. 

Legal Weed is Maybe the Only Thing Saving America from Itself Right Now

No one could have predicted that when the Founding Fathers drafted the Constitution and structured the republic, dank-ass nugs would be the ultimate savior of their democratic vision.

Safe to say, the country is tragically divided right now, with one half pretty much totes cool with Nazis, and the other half more or less praying to die in a fire 25 times a day. 

But one thing on which ALL Americans (except Jeff Sessions) can agree is that the legal sticky-icky should stick around, otherwise Americans be like . . . WUT. DAFUQ.

Confederate-flag wielding rednecks with no teeth and mud-flaps on their Ford F-150s in Alabama, and vegan hippies pretzeling themselves into child's pose on a yoga mat near a winery in Napa can all find common ground in torching a giant 420 blunt packed to the gills with chronic.

Now that legal weed is a $3B (as in BAZILLION) dollar industry, elected officials hailing from states where THC gummy bears are raking in green gold doubloons by the bushel are suddenly paying attention and rightfully scared for their jay-oh-bees.

They might be scurrying away like rats from their enraged, soon-to-be-uninsured-and-dying-of-cancer constituents, but they'll never escape the reality that ganja, Mary Jane, da trees for your mind, or whatever you want to call it is the one thing that unites everyone who can and will fire Congress the second they harsh America's mellow.

So before siding with Jeff No Bong Sessions, Congress would be wise to think twice and stop and frisk their constituents for the dime bag that's inevitably somewhere on their person right now.

Kumbaya, y'all!

Please Allow Me to Narrate This Cauliflower Grilled Cheese Video

One of my favorite things on the internet are those food videos where a recipe that takes 10 hours to make in real life zips by in 30 seconds of fast-forwarding. For example, the unicorn cookies that poop sprinkles, which I exposed previously as a total fucking con.

Now I'm about to do the same with this recipe for grilled cheese made with mushed-up cauliflower instead of bread for some reason. 
The video recipe can be found here, but let me save you some time by breaking it down into these easy steps:

1. Dust off your Cuisinart and pulverize a giant head of cauliflower because "bread is overrated." Yeah. Like Meryl Streep is "overrated" according to POTUS. As someone who's had the misfortune of following a gluten free diet for the past 8 years, I can tell you for a FACT that bread is actually highly underrated. Also--and unlike an entire head of ground cauliflower--it won't give you explosive diarrhea.

2. Crack three eggs and mix them into a bowl with the cauliflower, along with Parmesan cheese, salt and Italian seasoning. 

3. Take a minute to look into this bowl of oatmeal-colored mush with the consistency of dry wall spackle and acknowledge that you could already be eating a perfectly serviceable grilled cheese by now if you'd just used two pieces of bread instead.

4. Take an ice cream scooper, which for some reason you are now using to scoop cauliflower mush instead of ice cream, dump two scoops of the mixture into a pan with olive oil, and "shape [them] into toast."

5. Look at the two scoops of "toast," take stock of what you're doing, and tell yourself to get your fucking life right. You are using an ice cream scooper to shape two balls of cauliflower-raw egg goop into pretend toast. Ask yourself what led you to this place.

6. Get one banana. Contemplate ending this project, going into your garage, shoving the banana in your tailpipe, turning your car on, and sitting in your car until you fall asleep forever.

7. Decide against #6, and cook the two pieces of "toast" for five minutes per side. During these ten minutes, stare into the pan and pray it ignites a structure fire that forces you to start your entire life over again from scratch, because again, how did you get here?

8. Sprinkle grated white cheddar cheese on top of the cauliflower and tell yourself once again that this is a huge mistake. There is no reason to defile grated cheddar cheese by sprinkling it on two piles of future farts instead of on greasy tortilla chips to make nachos.

9. Pull apart the so-called grilled cheese and watch as it completely disintegrates into your bare hands and creates a disgusting, greasy, inedible pile of soggy, limp fried cauliflower and cheese.

10. Run your hands through your hair and all over your face. Look in the mirror and tell your reflection that you deserve to have your entire head covered in cauliflower and cheese grease for making this recipe.

11. Sit on the toilet and cry until tomorrow.

That's exactly what I plan to do when I make this for dinner tonight.

The Pajama Game

I don't know why exactly, but the musical "The Pajama Game" was a super popular performance at my sleepaway camp in the late '80s and early '90s. 

Every summer, 20 prepubescent Jewish kids from the suburbs would pretend to be beleaguered factory workers in 1954, and, well, let me just say their acting lacked depth and verisimilitude. 

Yet somehow, I still know every word to "Hernando's Hideaway" and "7 and a Half Cents." Not exactly a good use of precious neurological real estate, is it?

In any event, nowadays the pajama game carries a whole different meaning for me. 

It's a little style game I play with myself: Try to see how close I can get--and how often--to wearing pajamas 24/7 without anyone being able to obviously tell that's what I'm doing; or if they can, the pajamas still vaguely pass as real clothes.

The cotton tunic and leggings look is a great example of this. Also the yoga pants and hoodie sweatshirt. Both of which, by the way, are my two biggest go-to's for pajama clothes.

Like I basically want to get to that point where I can still be a gainfully employed and productive member of society, yet the only difference between getting dressed and putting on pajamas will be that the former involves putting on a bra (and SOMETIMES jeans), and the latter involves taking a bra off.

Other than that, pajamas and real clothes should just always be one and the same.


Saturday, February 25, 2017

Je Suis That Mom Whose Otherwise Pretty Well-Behaved Daughter Lives in a God-Forsaken Pig Sty that She Refuses to Clean Ever

I stand before you today in solidarity with that mom whose otherwise pretty well-behaved daughter lives in a God-forsaken pig sty that she refuses to clean up. 


Je suis that mom. All across the First World, there are candlelight vigils/burn barrels full of junk, people are changing their profile pictures to photos of their daughters' disgusting bedrooms, and the Empire State Building is lit up in pink to symbolize the primary color palette of this unmitigated shit show. 

One time, I sat on the couch and streamed several episodes of Hoarders back to back. The show features people who call in a team of interventionists that come into their house wearing masks and Tyvek suits to pick through piles of rotten banana peels, old regional newspapers, Taco Bell chicken chalupa wrappers, and other vile detritus. The hoarder wrings her hands and cries as the clean-up crew goes item-by-item, trying to convince her it will be okay to part with a broken tea kettle and half-empty tube of 17 year-old Aquafresh toothpaste.

Je suis that interventionist, except I'm yelling and not speaking in dulcet psychotherapist tones. Je suis SCUH-REAMING at my daughter in disbelief that SHE COULD POSSIBLY LIVE LIKE THIS.

Je suis THREATENING LOUDLY to take every single last gum wrapper, roller skate sneaker, and three-month old math homework worksheet that is on the floor, on her bed, on top of her dresser, under her dresser, under her bed, in a corner, in the hamper, in one of the many storage vessels designed and failing to rectify the situation, and pour gasoline on them, and set them all ablaze in a giant bonfire in the back of our house.   

Je suis that mom who gets all kinds of advice for different systems, charts, carrot-and-stick reward strategies, and other verified parenting techniques and self-help books to push the boulder of childhood cleanliness up a mountain of goodwill whose summit is forever out of reach.

Je suis that mom, and I stand in solidarity with her.

The Torso

Amsterdam is one of my favorite cities in the world. I've been there only three times for brief visits, but I love it.

There's something about the friction between sketchy modern grit and majestic old European urban architecture that creates a kind of umami flavor. The narrow row houses amid chaotic bike and foot traffic remind me of New York City below Houston Street, which makes sense because the Dutch settled New York. The undulating canals, concentric streets, and overpasses create a disorienting sense of repetitive foreverness--like being inside an infinity mirror that makes you feel lost without being afraid. 

The last time I was in Amsterdam, we were visiting friends from Juneau who had moved to Europe. Geoff and I were walking down a cobblestone street, our kids skipping up ahead, when we happened upon a shop window full of latex sex toys, one of which was a full-sized human torso with breasts and a penis.

Now, "chicks with dicks" is what I named our favorite weeknight go-to dinner (chicken with pasta, sausage, and broccoli), but it was also the name of a late-night porn show on Channel 35 Time-Warner Cable in NYC circa 1988, so I've always been rather fond of the concept, if not the actual anatomical arrangement (personally). So it wasn't the fact that there was a latex model of this that was troublesome to me. 

It was the fact that it was a disembodied torso.

I mean, I get why they made it that way. It's like, here's the least amount of material you need to recreate these two body parts and make this thing affordable. So why waste money on limbs and a head, when all you really need for business purposes, so to speak, is the torso? 

So I get the logic. What I think would be hard however, would be leaving Amsterdam with that as your only souvenir. Because it would have to be your only souvenir. It was a life-sized torso, like I said. So effectively you're flying back to wherever you came from with one-third of an extra person made of silicone, which I imagine sort of changes your packing strategy.

For example, you could very easily envision getting to the point where you're forced to carry-on the torso separately as its own item, and then what? 

You have to have a lot of guts to roll that down a conveyor belt through Dutch TSA at Schipol. I applaud anyone who can pull that off, for real, because I think carrying on a disembodied human sex torso with boobs and a dick for an entire international air terminal to see would be a bridge too far. Even for me, for whom almost NO bridge is too far. 

Here's the only possible solution: They've got to ship it, and they have to do it in brown paper packaging. That's all there is to it.

I think I'll put this tip on Trip Advisor: the next time you're in Amsterdam and are browsing around for a life-sized, disembodied silicone human torso with breasts and a penis, make sure you choose a store that will ship it directly to anywhere in the world.

Friday, February 24, 2017

Shopkins Ain't Shit, School Lunch is Not a Top Chef Quick Fire Challenge, and Nothing Matters Anyway

Kids today. I swear.

This morning, Isaac told Geoff the school lunches he lovingly packs in a compartmentalized, BPA-free container each weekday morning don't have enough "pop," and by "pop" he meant "pizazz," not Coke or Sprite as described in the Midwest. 

I asked him to elaborate, and he said, "you know, like a Gogurt or something. Like other kids get Gogurts."

I guess it's our own fault for letting him and Paige burn their eyeballs and neurons out on too many cable cooking shows while we sleep half of each weekend morning away.

Am I surprised that a First World six-year old critiques the presentation of his lunch and the lack of portable yogurt therein, despite his parents' relentless efforts to instill in him basic gratitude for running water and not living under a pile of rubble as bombs and drone-fired missiles rain overhead?

No. No, I am not. I'm not surprised, because Shopkins, and also nothing fucking matters anymore. I know I sound like the captain of Team Petty when I say this, but Shopkins ain't shit.

When WE were kids, we had Beanie Babies, Garbage Pail Kids, and those little plastic charm bracelet thingies that are exactly like Shopkins, but with even more plastic because you attached them to a plastic chain with plastic clips and wore them as jewelry.

'Member? I know you do. That tennis racket was dope.

Anyway, all of this unmitigated useless crap--the charms, the Shopkins, the Beanie Babies, and possibly even the Garbage Pail Kids--will outlast us all anyway. Long after the forests and oceans reclaim our ephemeral edifices of lust and greed, teeny tiny harmonicas and itsy bitsy purple cupcakes with googly-eyeballs will dot the landscape as the sole evidence of humanity's contribution to the cosmos.

All of which leads me to a new level of nihilism, which in case you didn't know is Nietzche and Kierkegaard for truly giving ABSOLUTE ZERO by way of fucks anymore.

As a society, we now care more about what bathroom people use than we do about them dying of preventable diseases and bankrupt from medical bills.

Our POTUS is a manifestly delusional, likely senile, sociopathic, treasonous, semi-literate, lecherous oligarch who is scissoring the Constitution into red white and blue confetti like Edward Cheeto-Hands with the help of Congress, all at the direction of a repellent, rheumy-eyed alcoholic who legit wants to destroy democracy and perpetuate the master race.

Meantime, those with the gall n' balls to make the painfully fucking obvious foregoing observations are besieged and lurked on the daily by thirsty AF, sorryass, unemployed neo-Nazi trolls and farm-fresh, cage-free, Twitter egg basement-dwelling motherfuckers with nothing better to do than get all up in our shit like white supremacy on rice.

And all the while, American Girl dolls with their cross-country skis, trundle beds, and allergy-friendly tiny plastic food (all of which will also outlast humanity) have a better quality of life than almost all their sentient human counterparts.


Let's put a Gogurt in that lunchbox and arrange some Shopkins on a table, because why not? Nothing matters anymore anyway, and IDGAF!