sugarpockets just reminded me of my longstanding wish for her to pimp up some snacks. over the summer i stumbled onto this website, where (most likely stoned) brits make giant versions of their mysterious snacks. like what the hell is a scotch egg?
some of the pimped snacks blew my mind: the cola bottle, the tunnock's teacake and the all-american and all-delicious hostess cupcake. not to mention, look at that fool and his giant custard creme.
sugarpockets, c4ts and i tried to come up with our own pimp-worthy snacks: combos? milanos? in fact, most pepperidge farm cookies (i'm looking at you, chessmen) would be pretty good writ large.
on a legal note, the website was first called pimpmysnack.com until mtv sent them a cease and desist letter (c4ts, you and i can only dream about receiving such attention). the creators then changed the site name to www.pimpthatsnack.com. oh really, the "my" was misleading the masses? fucking lawyers.
ah television. often undeservedly vilified and maligned, my love for it began when my parents decided that it would be a useful way for me to learn english (not unlike madison - sqwak!!). of course, their benign, nay, innocent hopes, no surprise, had some unintended consequences as my amateurish game show and saturday morning cartoon watching metastasized into a veritable obsession. tv taught me many valuable lessons in life, e.g., an egg eventually will lead you to that secret party, fat dudes marry hot ladies and nothing's gonna stop us now.
when i see posts like this one i think, hey, i'm not alone in this world.
despite my personal philosophy that once anything becomes a job it immediately loses all appeal, i thought maybe being a tv critic wouldn't be so bad. then i found out you need a freaking harvard degree to make it around here. jeez.
While we Americans take little interest in the world outside our borders, it should be noted that the cricket World Cup is currently taking place in the West Indies. This quaint tradition--a placeholder for the bad old days of colonialism--is of signal importance in households around the world--even as English dominance in the sport has faded and thrashing erstwhile colonial masters has lost some of its appeal.
In the end, Pakistan was on the wrong end of the worst upset in cricket history, and one way or the other--because of murder or shock--its coach paid for it with his life. That's cold. Cold for the streets, and makes basketball March Madness look like backgammon at the old folks' home.
at the subway station this morning i was reminded of that cloying cosby-hosted show, as a girl (about 8 or 9 years old) straddling the armrest of those wooden subway benches yelled out to her dad, "daddy, my vagina hurts!"
they recently renovated my floor and have begun hanging up "artwork," i.e. things that resemble castoffs from a hotel auction from the 80s. photos of car interiors, paintings that look like those fruitopia ads from the mid-90s, pastel renderings of benign new york landscapes. heinous stuff.
i was walking down the hall with someone who's more familiar with these parts and i said, "[redacted], can't we get better artwork around here?" he replies a few seconds later, "E, you said it right in front of the woman in charge of buying the art."
I have always always argued that there's a really disturbing connection between blind jingoism and irrational sports allegiances. It's not an original notion. I believe it was Noam Chomsky who said that we, as Americans, learn chauvenism at an early age--screaming at the TV when an 18-year-old kid misses a three-pointer, painting our faces with our team's colors, spewing invectively when talking about a rival team. Because our dad maybe grew up in Riverdale liking Joe DiMaggio, we come to accept as truth that the Red Sox are the devil's minions--literally, an evil wrought upon this earth. Considering we get totally worked up about something as trivial as professional or college sports, it's easy to see how presumably professional people in our government can say to the Pakistani head of state: "We are going to bomb you back into the stone age," unless you cooperate with us. Our team is better; your team is made up of an indistinguishable mass of terrorists. There is no gray area.
Now, that said, to know me is to know how much I love watching college basketball, and how much I adore my team--the vilified Duke Blue Devils. And as unsettled as I am by this fact of my character, I too experience an unnatural joy when they win--which they haven't been doing a lot of this year. It's how I'm conditioned. But one thing I've never felt when thinking of Duke's rivals--Maryland, North Carolina--is disdain. That's something I just don't get. I mean irrational love is one thing, but irrational hate, well, that should give us pause; no matter what the form. Now, my Duke friends might say that to love Duke is to hate Carolina. But I don't see it. I want Duke to beat Carolina when they play, but when Carolina plays other teams I wish them well. They're Michael Jordan's Tar Heels. What's to hate?
Okay, okay. Maybe it's all in good fun. Those of us who have a connection to Duke or Carolina can talk smack about one another, but here's a real headscratcher: What is up with the random-ass people who detest Duke and love Carolina, but have absolutely no connection to either? What is that about? Homey, you went to Tufts or Santa Clara or wherever. You ain't gotta horse in this race. You couldn't find Franklin Street on a map of Chapel Hill. But yet, you do things like this: send vituperative emails to the Michigan Law School listserv denouncing Duke, address me with homophobic slurs at sports bars when I cheer for Duke, and post videos on YouTube, like this one--from my friend Nick's brother, which, my lecture aside, is actually pretty funny--though the "you even suck at rape" line is stunningly uncool:
someone at work today revealed to me his love for magnum p.i. (for the record, i always thought magnum wore both a detroit tigers cap and a hawaiian shirt, but apparently that venn diagram doth not meet). thinking about hawaiian shirts reminds me of only one thing: trader joe's. i have an unabashed and unquenchable love for that place. it was the silver lining amidst those dreary days in ann arbor. sure it was snowing in may, but who gives a shit when you can hang with not only trader joe, but trader ming and trader giotto?
anyway, i was super-psyched when TJs decided to open an outpost in new york. i think this excitement lasted for about 2 months, when it dawned on me that the anxiety over whether i could reduce my trip to 8 items so i could join the express line, fighting off those pesky nyu kids buying nothing but cereal, going to a separate store to buy wine, then taking two trains to get home, oh, i dunno, seemed stupid.
joe, someday you and i will be reunited and it will feel so good.
On this, the eve of the most wonderful day of the year, I am reminded of something former Utah basketball coach--and current ESPN commentator--Rick Majerus (pictured) once said to his colleague--and former Duke hero--Jay Bilas. At the Maui Invitational in 2005, a pre-season event at which all, coaches and commentators alike, tend to wear--what else?--Hawaiian shirts, Bilas decided to be an uppity bitch and sported a polo instead. Majerus' response? "Jay, only a guy who gets out of the shower to take a piss would wear a shirt like that." And with that, my final Four predictions: Florida, Georgetown, Texas A&M, and Kansas--with Georgetown--my first love, woman or basketball team--winning it all.
i asked some friends today whether this plan to fire a host of AUSAs was evil. and dil, i think correctly, noted that this may not even warrant a footnote in the catalogue of evils wrought by this administration. i originally thought, really? attempting to decimate the DOJ because it didn't align with your master plan isn't evil?
then i came home and when the levees broke was in my mailbox. about 10 minutes in i grew increasingly depressed. where to even begin? i'm at a loss. fuck you, george w. bush. fuck you, too, dick cheney.
and this is a little disingenuous coming from a billionaire, but i'll take it.
This is the 5-day forecast in Ann Arbor. It's a useful tool since it also charts the state of my happiness. Right now--at the time of posting--the temperature is 71 degrees with sunny skies, which means I'm like Drew Barrymore after 5 espressos. Behold as my joy rots and dies from within over the next few days: The forecast for Saturday calls for snow and below freezing temperatures--that is, a 50% chance of my morphing into Rep. Obey (D-WI) after being confronted with people who want him to vote against the supplemental funding for the War or, much to his chagrin, use a filibuster in the House, an august body, in which of course there isn't one:
reader(...s?), i am feeling overworked and underinspired. and y'know, it hit me, if c4ts can have unlimited shoe-related posts, then i will not cease with my gawker-related posts. i should celebrate that which gives me joy. which do i love most - postsecret? this post about brunch? this train wreck of a post, which i simultaneously love yet loathe? i mean, it is terrifyingly classist, but how can you not remark on people whose weddings involve the following: 1) First dance is to Michael Buble's "That's All"; 2) Wedding song is "Unchained Melody"; 3) Guests made to sing Bob Marley's "One Love" as the couple walked down the aisle?
even though i now live in nyc, i still don't receive my new yorker until at least wednesday. i can't wait for this article. i hope it exhaustively chronicles his journey from tub o'lard with a fan to haughty manorexic. woot. and for those of you who haven't yet read last week's, definitely read the one about AIDS in south africa, joan acocella's article about the choreographer of edward scissorhands, and whichever louis menand article it was. otherwise, forget the one about chalk. snooze!
Did your mom used to wear these too, back in the day? A heated argument ensued in the comments section of the earlier posted Kicks (Part 1), but we can all agree the shoes above are patently awesome.
sugarpockets just reminded me of my longstanding wish for her to pimp up some snacks. over the summer i stumbled onto this website, where (most likely stoned) brits make giant versions of their mysterious snacks. like what the hell is a scotch egg?
