Middle School

I discovered the most fantastic of interwebs joys today: Playlist dot com.

This magical site allows you to create your own various playlists, using music already available for free, and then gives you handy ways to bother ALL of your friends with your musical tastes. This concept made me so happy that I immediately joined up and started playing with it.

I listen to a lot of extremely varied artists and genres; there were so many options for a playlist. So what did I make first? What else? A compilation based on nostalgia for the days when the height of my hair (in inches) was always greater than or equal to the number of Vuarnet and Hard Rock Cafe shirts in my closet, combined.

I give you Mix Tape: 1989.

I've been enjoying this collection of songs practically nonstop since I created it yesterday. But that's only one of the benefits; I also learned a few things. For one, I noticed that back in Middle School, as now, I didn't limit myself to only certain types of music. I also realized that I have never had good taste. Finally, and most importantly, I discovered that you can't get any Paula Abdul songs for free online.

In conclusion, I want to tell everyone to go to Playlist and start wreaking their own havoc.
Except for Paula Abdul fans.
I have nothing to say to them.

The Water Cooler

Being dead inside, I always have to keep an eye on the "social interaction" portion of my work day, and not just get right down to business all the time. Apparently people like to chat. Since How's it going? is pretty lame and impersonal, I try to mix it up: How was your weekend? or Did you do anything fun for Flag Day? When possible, I customize it to the individual: Are you getting excited for your vacation? or How'd your dog's birthday party turn out?

Because of just such efforts to make small talk, I had the following real life conversation yesterday. It was only one small piece of a long and serious  e-mail discussion on a technical solution, with a person I only barely know, but it just about made my whole day. I had to share.

Me: How’s life in the new cube?

Co-Worker: It’s ok, but a little dungeon-y. On a positive note, I am right next to the ‘Dance Floor’, though, so when I feel like doing the Macarena all I have to do is walk a few feet.

Me: I hope you don’t have too many sudden urges to do the Macarena, or recreate any other short-lived dance crazes, because that would really interfere with your productivity. Plus, people might look at you funny.

Co-Worker: I can say unequivocally that I have never had an urge to do the Macarena, even when it was the craze. I’m more of an Achy Breaky Heart kind of guy. (Wasn’t that just about the most horrible craze of all?)

Me: You’re right. That was the most horrible dance craze. His mullet made my heart too achy breaky to participate in any dancing.

Who says IT people are boring?
Oh, right, I do. Well. My bad.

Several Places at Once

I'm having a lot of disconnected thoughts at the moment. Here are the main topics.

Having a life is overrated
I'm glad I'm not a homeowner; I have not now, nor have I ever had, a desire to own property. Partly it's my general commitment issues, but mostly it's because if something broke and I was solely responsible for fixing it, it would stay broken. My bathtub faucet has been running hot water like, well, a faucet, for months. The "leak" was fixed once, and now apparently can't be fixed again, so the solution is to tear apart my whole shower area and rebuild it anew. My response was "Awesome! But how long will it take?" They claim the work will all be done in one day, tomorrow. I'm not so optimistic about the one day thing. I imagine I'll be without any bathing facilities for a bit longer, meaning I will be staying home where I can stink without offending anyone. Sounds great, huh?

I heart oregano
Last week I got some fresh oregano in my produce order, which I had never seen before. My whole life I've only had the dry flakes from the jar, bland but still mildly bitter. I had written it off as a useless herb, but the fresh stuff is really good! Especially on roasted asparagus with garlic and bacon.

Books are usually better
I finally bothered to watch Up in the Air, and I didn't really like it. It wasn't bad, but I truly loved and identified with Ryan Bingham from the book. The book wouldn't have made a good movie, though, since it had no standard plotline, just a lot of interesting characters, internal struggles, and random events in one guy's life. So while the film would've been good on its own, the fact that it claimed to be based on the book ruined it for me. Because it really wasn't.

Having a life is overrated, part 2
I've been loving watching hockey every night lately, but the way my teams are playing, they might all be out of the playoffs after the first round. That means I'd be away from the TV and back in the world by maybe next week. But what if I don't want to go?

I think I need to get out of the city, even if just for a day. Look at the way my mind is wandering! I must be going crazy...

In Front of the Television

Dear American TV Networks,

PLEASE show more regular season hockey.

Thanks,
Girl 2

Seriously. I had seen a few live games because I knew boys in high school who played, but I first started really watching hockey when I was a junior in college. At that time, ESPN2 showed a game or two every night, and I always tuned in. By the time I moved to British Columbia for grad school, I was hooked. I watched as many games as possible at home -- usually one or two a day, just with basic cable -- and shelled out the cash to see it live at GM Place a few times a season as well.

It only got nerdier from there. I subscribed to The Hockey News. My credit card had my favorite team's logo on it. I was an expert on every team and player in the NHL. I would've kicked some ass in fantasy hockey. I didn't, though, because I already beat my ex at Playstation hockey 90% of the time; I didn't think his ego could take me dominating his fantasy league as well.

But that was Canada. When I moved back to the States, I found out that if you don't have a team in your hometown, which I don't, hockey on TV was rare. I didn't have the cash to shell out for special NHL cable packages, so apart from catching a game here and there, like the fantastic moment where my boy Midget finally hoisted Lord Stanley's Cup, I stopped paying attention to hockey altogether. It was all TV's fault!

This year I realized how much I missed my old favorite sport, and started trying to follow the NHL again, despite American Television's attempts to thwart me. Now that all 3 of my teams are in the playoffs, their games are finally being shown and I'm in hockey heaven.

So why can't I be here all year long? Come on, American TV, work with me... make my friends hockey widows the year round. I'd really appreciate it. Even if no one else would.

The Pit

I'm apparently too sick to work, so since yesterday afternoon I've been stuck on my couch, bored and cranky. To help pass the time, I just watched the documentary Hype, chronicling Seattle's music scene, its rise to a national grunge movement, and everyone's total irritation about being exploited back here in the unwashed city. It was really well done, with some excellent concert footage from back in the day.

It's amazing how music brings back memories, both good and bad.

On the bad side: Around 1995, I took out of town guests to the top of the space needle, and most of the Seattle souvenirs they were selling involved Pearl Jam, Soundgarden or Nirvana. Much worse, I remember with perfect clarity the day in the summer of 1993 when my friend Howard called to tell me that Mia Zapata had been found dead. With slightly less distinction I remember sitting at work 10 years later, reading that her killer had been brought to justice, and really not taking any solace in it.

Mia's distinctive bluesy voice and the pounding puck rock of the Gits are among the positive memories, though. I spent nearly every Friday and Saturday night of the early to mid 1990s seeing PNW bands at either LaLuna or the XRay Cafe -- Portland's two main all ages venues of the day. If I left the gigs without an injury, it was a boring night. I would go into the pit (back then people were polite in their violence, if that makes sense), but usually spent most of the night working up to the front of the crowd, where I'd stay, my ribs crushed between the stage and the pulsating masses. I never got hurt badly -- a lot of nasty purple bruises, a few split lips, a nose bloodied by a stage-diver's boot -- they were just badges of honor back then.

The music of the time, of course, is the best memory that the film brought back. Now, many years down the road, if you gave me a list of artists who played live in Portland between 1991-94, I'd be hard pressed to tell you who I saw. But play a song of theirs, or show me a few minutes of live footage, and it's all back. I never got much into the Sub Pop publicity machine; their bands cost too much to see. My favorites were the ones I could see week after week for $2 at the door, sing along with, chat to after the show: Hazel, Crackerbash (listening to my original copy of Tin Toy on vinyl as I write this), the Gits, Cherry Poppin' Daddies (before the "swing" thing they tried, WTF?), Big Daddy Meatstraw, the Posies... I could go on.

Over the years I've made a lot of moves and restarts in my life, and I've always been able to walk away from the people, but the music has stayed with me. I can't say that I've talked to any of the best friends I went to these shows with in the last 15 years, but I've for damn sure listened to the music we so loved. People come and go, but music? Music is forever. Maybe that's why it stirs up so much memory and emotion: it's the best friend of all.

Bed

I'm totally sick. Not sure what I've contracted, but I feel like walking garbage. I needed a few provisions, though, so I mustered all my strength and wandered to the local QFC... where I ran into people I knew. I felt like saying, "Look, it's taking all I have just to be upright at the moment, I can't manage small talk too. Go. Away." But I didn't, because it's not their fault.

Or maybe it is. I've never seen them at that QFC before. Now I'm sick, and there they are. Conspiracy?!

I should have seen this coming, because last night was manic, happy and full of energy. Whenever I get totally taken down by an illness, I feel really good the day before. It's as if my body wants to give me a last hurrah, which is nice of it, but would be nicer if it sent out a little memo or something.

FYI: This is the last moment that you'll feel good for quite some time. Take advantage of it. Don't spend the evening watching Clue for the second night in a row and writing something stupid on Twitter every half hour.

Hypothetically. Not that I did that stuff last night.

Ugh. Back to bed.

Veronica Sawyer High

It's sad but true: high school goes on forever. Whether it's work, your social circle, it's all the same crap -- just drunker and saggier. At least I'm finally one of the Cool Kids!

Although, I guess if Heathers taught us anything, it's that being pretty and popular isn't necessarily the very best thing for you. But it will get you a hot boyfriend like 80s Christian Slater... Wait. I'm off topic.

Point is, even now, everybody's trying their hardest to fit into the right crowd, as if their lives depend on it. Rio and I each have an elite list of 'gay boyfriends,' with only five positions each, coveted by boys near and far. At the bar, we have an entourage; Marcus jokes that before he has even met some new hot guy, we've adopted him. Beyond that are a whole host of hangers-on at the fringe, hoping that one day we'll accept them. And the tragedies? Erm... maybe they can start an Audio-Visual Club?

Yesterday morning as I was getting ready for work, a truth popped into my head: I'm going to disband the gay boyfriend network. It's stupid, and it doesn't mean anything. I'm over it. Today I asked Rio if this would cause some sort of disturbance in the force, and she just shrugged. So there we go. I started it, and now I finish it.

My husbands, Neal and Ryan, have earned their titles and places in my heart with their own merit. Chris will always be a little bit my boyfriend, but the whole system? Pointless. It's juvenile, and reminds me of the insecurities of high school when we all had to promise that we loved one friend more than another, or get the silent treatment for days.

I'm not saying I'm all that mature, but this particular thing just seems stupid to me. Over the last couple of years, I've been taking stock of what's important in my life, and it's about the people who matter to me, not a rank. As Gabe put it, "We're friends. You want to assign a number or not, that's fine, but either way we're friends.That's what matters to me."

Amen, brother.

Date Night

You gotta love fortune cookies. They're a fun shape, they taste delicious, and they come with a prize inside!  When I opened my fortune cookie yesterday, inside was the following message:

There's a secret romance blooming! Go for it, in spite of your hesitation.

Apparently this romance is so secret that even I don't know about it. But it did get me thinking about the whole dating subject, so I thought I'd finally record my Worst Date Story.

A couple of years ago, I was asked out by a guy who was a fellow regular at my happy hour haunt. He seemed like a good enough chap, so I agreed; we planned to meet at a restaurant and bar close to both our homes, and then we'd see where the night took us.

He was 15-20 minutes late. It doesn't seem like much, but as someone who is generally punctual, I see lateness as a lack of respect for other people's time, so he was already starting on the wrong foot. When he finally arrived, before we could even order dinner, he was off talking to other people, leaving me to sit on my own some more. Evidently he had frequented this particular establishment some years in the past, and still knew several people who worked or drank there. He spent most of the next couple hours walking away from me to chat with his old friends, never including me in the conversations, not even introducing me to any of them.

When he finally began to sense my annoyance (or maybe I just told him he was being a jackass), we left his old buddies to go to another bar down the street. He selected a booth which would easily hold 6 people, but sat half an inch from me. He ordered us shots, on a weeknight when I had to work in the morning. And then he noticed that I smelled good.

He asked if it would be okay if he smelled me. Only slightly creeped out, I allowed it. He put his nose directly on my neck, inhaled deeply and said, "Oooooh, that's so good. It's, like, intoxicating." And then did it again.

Shortly afterward, I finished my drink, pried his hands from my person, and went home.

No, we didn't go out again.
I mean, come on, Dude had game, but he was a total hipster. Ew.

The Butcher Shop

Ok, I may be food obsessed. I'm working on my issues. But really. Is there anything better than slow cooked meat?

When Chef Academy began airing, I sat in a hotel room in Gaithersburg, Maryland, watching Chef Novelli challenge his new students to produce their "signature dish," but he only gave them an hour... or was it 90 minutes? Either way, I was not impressed. I burst out, "There's no WAY I could do that! All my best dishes take HOURS to cook; most involve braising or slow roasting!" I don't often put hours of effort in, but the process takes that long regardless.

Of course, as a reformed vegetarian, foodie, and total glutton, I'm also picky about where my meat comes from. Because I can't buy any non-factory-farmed meat in stores around here (not even the 'natural' or 'organic' ones), I'm really happy that Bill the Butcher is opening a shop much closer to me. It will be nice to not have to pay for shipping from New Jersey to get meats that are good for my health, the animals, and the earth. Although I may continue to do so, because where else can I get duck bacon?

Anyway.

Last week I found myself with a beautiful big cut off the rump of a cow that spent its whole life happily in a pasture, munching on grass. Of course, 4 pounds of beef is a lot for one broad to consume on her own, so I cut it in half to get some variety. I made the first hunk brisket style, spicy and sweet with a lovely brown crust, and the second half I braised in red wine with some mushrooms, shallots, etc. Both were fantastic -- tasty and tender, and gave me days of versatile leftovers. Mmmm... I think I'll go heat some up now...

Because there's just nothing better than slow cooked meat.