the IDIOT QUEST TASTE EXPLOSION

Last week was about rejection. This week is going to be about stuffing myself with things that make me feel good! Some of these things will be food. Ew. I mean, all of these things will be food. I’m not going to go on some sort of stuffing-other-things into myself rampage. What I’m trying to say is, this blog is gonna get real food-centric for a minute. Remember when this blog was about edibles? I don’t really. I pretty much created this thing so that I could make fun of people who take food too seriously. And then I quit cooking, because, ugh!, it’s just so much work! So much time! So much calories! But you know what? I say fugg you to calories, to work, to time: I’m making pot roast! Matter of fact, I already made pot roast. And I took pictures. So there’s a good chance that if you’re a faithful reader of this blog (hi, Mom!) that you will see pictures of this pot roast. Other things I’m doing: making dinner with Steph and Becky tonight. Jord will be there too, but probably acting more like a deejay and alcoholist than cook. Will there be dancing? You’ll just have to ask me tomorrow. (There won’t be dancing.)

Today is recovery day two from Strep Throat. Apparently I’m eight years old, or, as my doctor gently put it: “Have you been hanging around a lot of young children?” No, sir doctor, I have not. “Well, it’s really unusual for someone over 18 to have Strep.” Don’t know what to tell ya. Haven’t been around any children. No children. Ever. Keep them away from me.

For lunch today I wasn’t feeling spectacularly outgoing, so I heated up some canned sauce and cooked some cheese-filled ravioli. The only good thing about this situation is that  I had some feta on hand, the last remaining morsels that I bought along with some spinach that I had forced myself to choke down over the weekend. This purchase occurred after I decided I was going to die from eating too many french fries and Uptown Burgers. Pretty sure I’m okay now. Except for this whole death-like illness thingy.

But onto happier things: I like feta cheese. In fact, I’m relatively certain that the path to happiness is sprinkled with feta cheese and lined with bacon. My favorite feta in Minneapolis is sold at Bill’s Imported Foods on Lake Street near Lyndale. Pretty sure they make it there, along with their mozzarella. I’ve never asked if they make it, because they scare me, but it sits in large watery vats that don’t look an inch like commercial pre-packaging. Here is their super informative Web site: Oh so much imported foods!

For those of you who did not click that link, good. Let me tell you about that Web site: it’s super low-tech and not at all interested in marketing to you. It’s more like, “Oh. Hi there. I see you must have heard about us. Here’s our store hours and our address. Do with this information what you will.” If you should decide to visit Bill’s, you will find that the ambiance is much the same. Which is why I like the place. It’s doesn’t give a fuck about you. Yet the people who work behind the counter–typically an older woman and a middle-aged man who could be her son, a pair that I’ve always assumed are the owners–are warm but not necessarily friendly. They own an imported foods store–not a Bath & Body Works–and they don’t put up pretend niceties. Plus they have aisles of canned shit that takes forever to find at huge supermarkets. Last time I checked, they have a tahini section, which is fun, and there is almost an entire aisle devoted to dried fruits and nuts. I’m a sucker for both.

You should visit Bill’s, because I’m concerned that they will one day close, and then I will no longer be able to taste their feta. So don’t ruin this for me. Thanks. Also, bring cash. They don’t accept your modern forms of payment.

Only once have I written a letter to a famous person with the hope that she would think I was awesome. It was to Sharon Olds, the depressing poet, who I actually rather enjoy, probably because she talks about dirty stuff. Anywho, she never wrote back, so I never wrote anyone again. Psh. Whatever. I’mOverIt. Really I wasn’t too terribly offended, mostly because I once read an interview with her where she spoke about never reading newspapers, watching television, or paying any attention to her environment, all so that she could focus on her writing and shiz like that. In other words, she is the polar opposite of everyone in my generation. Especially me.

So I found this letter from John Kricfalusi, the probably smelly but also probably really cool cartoonist behind Ren & Stimpy. It’s written to a young fan. On the one hand, Mr. John is kind of butt-head for assuming the kid wants tips on drawing and cartooning. On the other more relevant hand, this letter is totally awesome. Dude even gives out his e-mail address (along with the completely realistic explanation that he would probably never have the time to answer him.)

I may just write a letter today. Probably to Amy Sedaris, who I would like to morph into. I’ve gotta run; the cat is puking. Wish cat vomit were a marketable venture. I’d be rolling in major benjamins. I’d have like five benjamins, maybe. What’s a benjamin?

SOMETHING YOU SHOULD LOOK AT: Cartoonist is awesome to children.

1.)   You never really see any statuses that say things like, “Man, today I am hungry! Stupid life.” Statuses are usually more like, “Dude, a snow plow hit my car. FML LOL.” America, which is the same as Facebook, should start celebrating the ordinary. Today, update on the obvious. Maybe you can start out with: “woke up today. don’t know what to do now.”

Give it a try! Let me know how it goes.

Or you can do whatever the hell you want.

Have a great day, Internet! I’ll be busy processing your leave from work. Also, don’t get killed by that blizzard-ish thing, Minnesota-region.

1.) You know, I can be an obsessive person. That is, when I’m not being a really apathetic lazy person, I can be spr obsessive and Type A. Honestly! What? You want a relevant example? Well, lately I’ve been won over and possessed by The Awl, a Gawkerish—minus the pop culture—site that I first brushed off for its snobbery, and it’s lack of pop culture. But something has happened: either I’ve become snobbier, or they’ve settled down a bit. It’s likely the former. Whatever the case, I’ve become passionate(!) about it.

2.) There’s currently a transfer of commenting power occurring on the Internet. All of the Internet’s good commenteurs have headed over to The Awl, where they’ve parked their snark-filled asses and set up their 40 oz. Cum-N-Go brand convenience store coffees with the curly straw of their choice, and have begun making stellar content for this still fledgling e-rag. Seriously: sometimes the Internet feels like a vapid (but enjoyable!) dump where one goes to see what lucky comment slag is “FiRST!11!!!” But The Awl reminds us that some people went to good colleges, or perhaps read good books before digital became the thang thang thang, and that these people now use their powers for increasing common good for promoting themselves in an intelligent manner.

I give The Awl four and half out of six Golden Digital Phalli.

Suggested Reading For Beginners: Oriental Snack Review with Mary HK Choi

Gawker Media is going to begin offering their writers the opportunity to be full-time employees. This is big news for people who enjoy health insurance and the panache of real employment. Or maybe they still won’t get health insurance. It’s hard to say, seeing as how I really know nothing about this, and this blog is totally okay with ripping off real-ish reporting, as is typical in today’s e-environment.

But still! Real employees! So what does this mean? You guessed it: the move obviously signals the triumphant return of the writer as a central figure in society. No longer will your relatives scoff when you suggest you’d like to make a career penning charming little stories about sexually confused hipsters. You’ll be understood, and liked. And that’s what the Internet taught us this morning.

Also, I’ve ordered an iPhone, because I’d like to be poorer. And cooler!

Image: Gawker Media founder Nick Denton is the man responsible for making writers feel like real people.

Sometimes I think we are given days off to remind us how simple and boring our lives would be if we didn’t have jobs to hate. Oh, wait: I don’t think that at all. My free time is freaking glorious. When else would I have an hour to make the above graphic, which is a rip off of Grand Marnier’s saucy new print campaign? I’d have to do such work after the business-day, probably sacrificing my much valued head-against-pillow time.

Anyhoo, I’m in the mood for a cocktail, preferably one made with Grand Marnier. I’ve been staring at the ad for the last hour or so and I think it’s really started working. Even those legs are begining to look delicious. Never has such a sharply angled ankle intrigued me before, but maybe that’s the power of the drank. Sauce–oh, the sauce!–it is too powerful a liquid, and these wintry breaks bring out the booze-hound in every one I know.

In other booze news, Thanksgiving was cheery enough. And, on a separate yet subconsciously related note, I finally find Michael Chabon’s writing interesting. “A Model World” has me putting check marks and smiley faces by scores of his lines, which is odd, because I’ve never had the attention span for him before. Not that he’s boring, but he writes as though he expects to be read solely by upper-middle class Chardonnay-sippers who hold Master’s degrees in library science. Chabon makes the reader giggle not with exacting wit, but typically through description that runs the course of a boomerang:

He wore a fancy, European-cut worsted suit, a purple and sky blue paisley necktie, a blazing white-on-white shirt, and tiny sparkler in the lobe of his left ear. His nose was large, bigger even than Ira’s and of a complex shape, like the blade of some highly specialized tool; it dominated his face in a way that made the man himself seem dominating.

I’d better get back to making check-marks. Only an hour or so until we have to catch the bus, the transportation that allows us to responsibly behave immature all evening.