Tempted By the Fruit of Another

Lately this song has been stuck in my head way too much, but not nearly as much as this Erasure song. If that's too gay for you, watch this instead.

I also realized that the month is almost up and I haven't even posted a recipe of the month. I actually really didn't intend to keep that going and I've only done it for one month, but here it goes. Thanksgiving is a holiday chock full of wonderful desserts and I pretty much think dessert is the bee's knees, but my last recipe was for a dessert, so here's a slightly more heartfelt one.

Holiday Casserole

One cup (or more if playing traditional Thanksgiving sports like football)
7-11 Good friends
10-20 Friends' friends (optional)
10-12 Close family members
400-450 Drinkies of choice (Three thirties of Keystone Light mandatory)
Weather cold enough to require sweaters
Pumpkin Pie
Turkey
Canned cranberry
Fireplace (optional)

Mix friends with friends' friends, combining liberally with drinks, generally during night-time and early morning hours.

In separate place combine family with fireplace, sweaters, and cocktails. Add turkey, cranberry, and pumpkin pie to taste.

I wholeheartedly recommend this recipe for Thanksgiving, and it can be repeated at Christmas and New Years, but turkey, pumpkin pie, and canned cranberry need to be replaced by, in order, candy canes, eggnog, and a mistletoe. I really don't believe in mistletoes and also you're substituting an edible ingredient for a non-edible one, but think of it as a garnish. As something green/living, it's also probably high in fiber. I also don't like candy canes that much, but they are mandatory and they've got a multitude of flavors this days. Also, the cups are to be replaced by Christmas crackers. Here is a preview of the fun you can expect:

Chronically Underdressed

With Thanksgiving on the horizon, cold temperatures are pretty much the norm here in the northeast. Knowing that, I still decided to travel with nothing heavier than a fall jacket, and maybe a sweater and thermal or two for good measure. That's because on those rare ocassions that I do dress properly any sort of remotely brisk movement causes my body to perspire. And since most establishments keep themselves super-heated to compensate, even if I manage not to sweat or freeze outdoors, I will surely begin to feel the awkward ocassional drip and growing dampness in the armpits of my shirts upon entering.

Since I probably hate sweating more than I hate freezing, I find myself chronically underdressed for the winter. Take this morning, when I headed out for a four or so mile run. Yesterday, heeding the warnings of my cousin about the temperature, I headed out in pants and some form of high-tech running top designed to be light while still warm. On what amounted to twenty to twenty-five minutes of running, I found myself already perspiring to what I'd consider an excess after probably just ten minutes. Not wanting to repeat my mistake, this morning I traded pants for shorts, and threw on an earband or whatever they might technically be referred to. While I failed to repeat my mistake, I managed to make a different one. With a light snow falling, pants were certainly in order as my legs turned a reddish hue and developed that classic itch, becoming more pronounced when I finally returned to the indoors.

It's the kind of thing where you expect to learn your lesson, but I really don't see that happening anytime soon. When I head out shortly to do whatever it is I plan to do for the next little while, it will undoubtedly still be snowing and I will undoubtedly simply throw on a medium-at-best-weight jacket over nothing heavier than a thermal.

And in semi-homage to Overheard in NYC I'll share my favorite overheard in Boston line of the day so far. While running up (or was it down) Comm Ave, throngs of BU students surrounded me. As I said, I was quite underdressed so almost expected to hear some remark. Instead I hear from one male student to two others, in response to a girl in the opposite direction wearing sunglasses, "It's not even sunny, why the fuck would you be wearing sunglasses?" I'm sure it's been said before, but it probably needs to be said again (and again). I'd talk about the Bills for a jiffy but…ouch…

Knife of [D]Reams

Many years ago, knowing what a huge nerd I was, my mother purchased The Eye of The World for me as a birthday gift, said novel being the first installment in the late Robert Jordan's Wheel of Time series. As it was, however, I would not actually read the book until some years later. Doesn't matter. I'd long been a sucker for fantasy, enamored from an early age with the animated version of The Hobbit. In particular it had really sweet songs, like "Down, down to goblin town…" It's the kind of thing where I'm pretty sure no one has any idea what the fuck I'm talking about. But the point was simply that I liked fantasy and yes, I even played Magic: The Gathering for a time.

So I won't deny enjoying Eye of the World and going on to read the next couple of novels and enjoying those as well. Somewhere down the road, however, things took an ugly turn. Slogging through 700-1000 pages just wasn't fun anymore when characters would die and be reincarnated, maybe even as the opposite sex, and so much of the same shit was being reiterated. I understand that was probably done for people who hadn't read from the very beginning like myself, but damnit, who starts in the middle anyway? I guess maybe a lot of people. It's cool to answer your own rhetoricals. Anyway, I am now realizing I certainly brought a lot of this up in my old blog, but I'm assuming people either forgot, didn't read it in the first place and/or still don't care.

Still I managed to make it through the first ten books. I even read the shitty prequel. But book eleven, it just couldn't be done. I started it three separate times, and it is my fourth, and current, attempt that prompted this post. Having just finished reading Lolita, I felt the time was ripe for decidedly lighter fare. As there was set to be one more book I decided to check online and see when its expected release was, hoping details of book eleven would be fresh in my mind on its release. While I used to joke that Jordan better not die before finishing the damn series, luck would have it that just this past September he did indeed tragically pass. Luck was certainly terrible word choice. And for as much as it makes me an asshole, I'm certainly disappointed that I'll never get full closure to the series, even with a posthumous twelfth publishing.

On the brighter side there are the romances inspired by the series, prompting marriages with character-themed weddings and all sorts of hilarious shit. And by hilarious, I mean frightening.

And since blogging should never feel like a chore, I'm gonna cut myself off, but not before a quick comment on Tim Horton's, which runs shit in Canada. They're also sparsely located in the United States. Apparently the franchise began in Delaware and, though I think that means the state, I think I ate at a Tim's in Delaware, Ohio once. Having spent several vacations in Canada and as well as visiting family in western New York state (as opposed to West New York, NJ), I am well versed in Tim. To me, it is inferior to double D's, but I'm sure it is affected some by what I grew up on. Their donut selection was very limited, with a weak sauce jelly donut, but they did have a bomb peanut crunch glazed cake donut you don't get down these parts and, if it suits you, the maple donut. I can't recall how much I liked their munchkins either, but since they're called timbits, at least the name is excellent. And since I'm talking donuts, I'll take the opportunity to mark Krispy Kreme as horrendously overrated and select the 7-11 blueberry cake donut as the sleeper pastry of the week to whet appetites for the wondrous dessert-fest that is Thanksgiving.

Dreams of Multicolored Calcium Pills

I would have said vitamins, but that wouldn't be specific enough. The other day which, by now is probably at least a week ago, I dreamt of multicolored calcium pills for some reason. That's all that sticks out as particularly vivid. The only reason I bring it up is because I wanted to drop something on the blogosphere before I am likely without interweb for a few days.

Yesterday I decided to shave for the first time in, well I can't even remember to be honest. I simply happen to be against a cleanshaven face because it a) makes me look a healthy 16; b) requires some solid razorburn-inducing upkeep; and c) did I mention I look 16? Plus I need maxiumum hair distributed around my head and face to balance out my crazy eyebrows. But you've got to mix it up every now and then because it's fun to look like an entirely different person. If God did not intend for man to shave, He would not have provided man with the intelligence to invent the razor, although I remain baffled as to how Adam dealt with follicular outbreak. I always threaten to shave my dad's beard since I have never, not even in photographs (save those of his extreme youth), witnessed him sans beard, but these are empty threats because we all know certain things aren't meant to be seen. It'd be akin to seeing Dr. Claw's face in Inspector Gadget except that apparently they've already done that. Trust Hollywood and greedy toy marketers to fuck that up. Bastards…

In the meantime I've got to pack, maybe set up some Domino Rally and, if I were smart, shave off the mangled mane atop my domepiece.

Shitcan Ramalamadingdong

I can't help disliking the New England Patriots, and today's victory over Indianapolis didn't help, but it really didn't ruin my day because the Bills won for the third straight week. Far more important than win-loss records, we have Tom Brady's head. Everyone has to take at least one bad picture, and so I decided to stick up one of good old Tom where his head looks quite out of proportion.



There are plenty of other pictures of Tom looking silly, but I thought this one took the cake. I'm sure the inordinately large upper part of his cranium can be accounted for by his large brain. Hell the guy's a stud on and off the field, even if I could complete a pass with that offensive line, so please no mention that I'm taking a cheap shot. A celebrity or athlete that can't take criticism is akin to a recreational runner (a category I sometimes fall into) calling it quits the first time someone calls him a faggot. Also, the daily readership to this blog is probably less than Brady's net worth (in millions), so why should he care? One thing you won't find in the blog is me thinking anyone gives a shit about my opinions.

While it's commonplace for people like Tom to be photographed by absolute strangers, it happens far less often for me so I'm going to document the three or so times it has happened. Since the most recent occurrence was just about a week ago, I'll start there and then we can take it to back in the day. So there I was, walking through the streets of New York City on a Tuesday evening, when I came to a crosswalk where a lady had a video camera. Whenever people are taking photos or video I do my best not to get in the picture just because I know I'd appreciate it if they did the same for me. So that's exactly what I did as I noticed myself in her field of vision only, as I did so, the camera moved with me. I thought it was coincidence until I moved again and, again, so did the camera. Google might be videotaping me everywhere I go and my cell phone might be tracking my position with GPS, but strangers videotaping you, that is downright invasive.

The next most recent incident involves my running down the Charles River about two years ago on an unseasonably warm Christmas day. I just checked my running log as proof, showing the temperature at a balmy 48° which, in retrospect, was probably too cold to not be wearing a shirt. So the story. Not much. As I ran down the Chuck, a lady in a group of about five, with a video camera, took video of me as I ran by. The group had an air of foreign tourism, but I don't know how that is at all relevant or validates my choosing to tell this story.

The first incident I recall, could be the most boring yet, and took place in nearby Highland Park as I ran down Route 27. It was evening and I was again shirtless, although this time it was Jersey summer and thus actually balmy. As I ran into oncoming traffic to avoid a crowded sidewalk, a girl leaned out of her car to snap a shot. Yup, that's it. Once I started this idiocy, I figured I had to finish it.

Lastly I wanted to bring up the trend of combining words but I'm a bit too tired to do it justice. It really all started with an early episode of the OC that merged words to give us the interfaith holiday Chrismukkah. Now the OC may not have credited itself for inventing this word, but it did make me want to vomit the way it was eaten up, spawning Old Navy commercials and the like. Hell, since my childhood I'd been calling it Chanumas, which I think has a much smoother flow and, trust me, I never thought I was remotely clever for doing this. I should note that countless others likely came up with the same damn thing. Those recent AT&T commercials are what reminded me of the plague I had hoped had receded to simply the realms of gossip columns concerned with the goings on of Bennifer (one "n" or two), Brangelina, and the like. Damn, I said "and the like" again. Too tired to correct it. I wonder if people get exclusive rights for such idiocy. How about GwenGavin StefRoss for Gwen Stefani and Gavin Rossdale since it sounds like Glengary Glenn Ross? I agree, sounds like shit. But I'll tell you right now, if Tom knocks up Gisele repeatedly, yielding a family of six (six pertaining to children/miniature humans, making for a total of eight if parents are to be included), I have full copyright of the term BradyBundchen (©Me 11/5/2007 1:35am).

Things To Do In a Bathroom

No, this isn't going to be a list of pranks that can be played in a restroom, like dropping a cantaloupe in a public toilet from a height of four feet. It's not my intention to have this blog take on an entirely toilet-related tone, but a couple of things in this post may pertain to just that. As for one bathroom countertop activity, right on the heels of my "Blow" post, comes this news that Martina Hingis is retiring after testing positive for cocaine, a charge she doesn't want to spend time contesting. Martina contends in the article that she has only heard that cocaine produces feelings of euphoria. Then again there's also a quote saying "She's a great legend, one of the most well-liked players on the tour." From what I remember of Hingis' heyday she was a pretty big brat, and comments like the ones included here aren't helping her case. I'm not accusing her of actually having taken coke because frankly I could care less and I get enough nosebleeds as it is.

As I was getting set to take a train home after class the other night, I decided to stop and take a leak in Penn Staon rather than ruin my streak of never having used a New Jersey Transit [on-board] restroom. There was a surprisingly long line, with every urinal accounted for, two dudes about my age in front of me, and maybe a half dozen other schmos to my rear. Conventional wisdom and urinal etiquette told me that, as available urinals opened up, those at the front of the line would be given priority. Apparently not so. Not one, but three of the guys behind me simply cut in front to man recently vacated urinals, ahead of myself and the guy in front of me. Is it really going to ruin my day? No, but it is rude, and that's why I was hoping someone (which leaves myself and the other guy) would have had the gumption to simply urinate on the guy who'd snagged his stall and said, "Oh sorry, I didn't see you there." Alas no, but it was one of those classic bonding moments where you shrug your shoulders, shake your head, and give a knowing laugh to the other guy. And if you think pissing on a guy for this minor offense is excessive, remember I could have said, "Now you can have your cake and eat it to," to a man I'd pushed face down into a urinal.

Today I was gripped by that unmistakeable urge to relieve myself in the secondary fashion while at a Barnes and Noble at around noon. For whatever reason, I must have started a trend because, for a not so crowded store I quickly had the company of two other folks who, judging by aural signals had a more dire need than myself. I'm also always glad to hear the sounds of the preliminary flush and the ripping of toilet paper to place a protective layer; it makes me feel good to know I'm not the only person who might be a little neurotic.

Anyway, that's all I've got time for at the moment, but tomorrow I'll do my best to cover Tom Brady's oddly-proportioned head, the annoying trend of combining words, and a couple of weird instances of being videotaped or photographed. Also, don't forget to set your clocks back an hour at two am tomorrow. Does that mean bars are open one hour later? How did I only think of this loophole now? Regardless my old-ass laptop still operates on the assumption that last week still marked the return to standard time so I've been full of occasional false hope that I've been wasting one less hour a day than I really have been.