Saturday, August 30, 2003
A CHEESEBURGER, AT McDONALD's? What was I thinking?
McDonald's doesn't have cheeseburgers, I was told early this morning when I took a detour on the way home from work to the 24-hour outlet in the Crystal City section of Arlington County, Virginia. Um, OK, which part are you out of?" I said to the speaker in the drive-through lane. Answering such a puzzler was beyond the English-language capabilities of that employee, so he brought in a manager, who pointed me to the "late-night value menu" or whatever the hell it was that I should have seen in the first place.
I used to take pride in my familiarity with the fast-food chains' identities. Twenty-some years ago I scoffed at Steve Martin for talking about getting a "malt" at McDonald's ("A shake," I yelled at the phonograph). I scoff at the idiots in line in front of me. (Onion rings? That's Burger King, as Eminem correctly points out.
But I'm losing my touch, obviously. First there was the hamburger incident, where I made the mistake of asking for that obscure menu item at one of those limited-menu airport outlets in Minneapolis or Pittsburgh or wherever, and now this. You'd think "hamburger" or "cheeseburger" would have a certain resonance at McDonald's. But I had to settle for a No. 6 -- the Big N' Tasty combo. It was fine. Mainly I wanted the fries.
McDonald's doesn't have cheeseburgers, I was told early this morning when I took a detour on the way home from work to the 24-hour outlet in the Crystal City section of Arlington County, Virginia. Um, OK, which part are you out of?" I said to the speaker in the drive-through lane. Answering such a puzzler was beyond the English-language capabilities of that employee, so he brought in a manager, who pointed me to the "late-night value menu" or whatever the hell it was that I should have seen in the first place.
I used to take pride in my familiarity with the fast-food chains' identities. Twenty-some years ago I scoffed at Steve Martin for talking about getting a "malt" at McDonald's ("A shake," I yelled at the phonograph). I scoff at the idiots in line in front of me. (Onion rings? That's Burger King, as Eminem correctly points out.
But I'm losing my touch, obviously. First there was the hamburger incident, where I made the mistake of asking for that obscure menu item at one of those limited-menu airport outlets in Minneapolis or Pittsburgh or wherever, and now this. You'd think "hamburger" or "cheeseburger" would have a certain resonance at McDonald's. But I had to settle for a No. 6 -- the Big N' Tasty combo. It was fine. Mainly I wanted the fries.
Wednesday, August 20, 2003
MEDITATIONS on heat and light, inspired by two things: an erroneous overheard comment about Detroit being in the Central time zone, and news of Europe's long, hot summer.
1. I did most of my growing up near Detroit, where I remember the attitude being "the hotter, the better." Seventy degrees was considered quite warm, and it was a threshold of sorts for swimming-pool weather. Among my two brothers and me, that turned into the parody "It's 40 degrees: Let's go swimming!" (Later in life we worked that into a Celsius joke.) Eighty -- eighty! -- and you were really living. Florida, not surprisingly, is Mecca to Michiganders.
2. Detroit, while "Midwestern," is in the Eastern time zone. I'll spare your head from spinning and point out that what this means is that daylight hours get shifted way back. There was a lot of waiting for the school bus in the dark, but there were also those glorious summers in which daytime/playtime lasted till something like 10 p.m. My most concrete memory of that is having to be called back into the house on July 20, 1969, to watch the first moon landing, which happened pretty late in the Eastern time zone.
3. I did the rest of my growing up in Phoenix, where my family moved in 1979. (We were ahead of our time.) I'll skip the "it's a dry heat" part and point out that the most disconcerting thing to me wasn't the 115-degree daytime highs, but the 85-degree overnight lows. Also, the phenomenon of an open car window providing an oven blast rather than a welcome breeze. Those midnight swims after eight hours on the night police beat, first at the family home in Mesa and then at Shadow Creek Apartments, in Mesa but almost Tempe, were wonderful. Mecca for Phoenicians was always-cool San Diego.
4. The bad thing about always-cool San Diego is that the ocean is never warm enough for comfortable swimming. I got a taste of that a couple of weeks ago when Jacqueline and I did our pretty-much-annual beach weekend in Rehoboth Beach, Del. As we later found out, Atlantic temperatures are crazy cold this year for some reason. I'm used to "it's fine once you get in" ocean swimming, but on the Sunday of our visit, even though it was pretty warm outside, the water felt like frostbite no matter how long I stayed in. I toughed it out, though, because it's not often I get to go in the ocean, and I'm glad I did. For about an hour after I got out, my skin radiated this wonderful tingling sensation. If this came in drug form, a lot of people would be hooked.
5. I'm essentially an indoor cat. I don't dislike nature, but my natural inclination is to stay inside. July 20, 1969, notwithstanding, Mom sometimes had to order me to "play in the yard" in the summertime when I'd rather be in my room sketching the cars and houses of my imaginary automotive and real-estate ventures. I've been known to play tennis indoors during the summer. Along the same lines, al fresco has never been my preferred dining atmosphere. But I changed my tune on that in the summer of 2001 when Jacqueline and I went to Paris, Zurich, Salzburg and Munich. Because (a) the Europeans don't understand air conditioning and (b) those European destinations tend to be refreshingly free of the summer humidity that plagues much of the United States, we found ourselves eating outside whenever possible.
The most ridiculous example of European attitudes toward A/C came at the Drei Lowen, our hotel in Munich. The hotel is relatively modern and boasts of air conditioning, but the highest setting was nowhere near enough, even given the relatively mild summer we encountered. So we ended up sleeping with the windows open, despite the ample street noise below. Good thing we had earplugs left over from the U2 concert in Zurich.
1. I did most of my growing up near Detroit, where I remember the attitude being "the hotter, the better." Seventy degrees was considered quite warm, and it was a threshold of sorts for swimming-pool weather. Among my two brothers and me, that turned into the parody "It's 40 degrees: Let's go swimming!" (Later in life we worked that into a Celsius joke.) Eighty -- eighty! -- and you were really living. Florida, not surprisingly, is Mecca to Michiganders.
2. Detroit, while "Midwestern," is in the Eastern time zone. I'll spare your head from spinning and point out that what this means is that daylight hours get shifted way back. There was a lot of waiting for the school bus in the dark, but there were also those glorious summers in which daytime/playtime lasted till something like 10 p.m. My most concrete memory of that is having to be called back into the house on July 20, 1969, to watch the first moon landing, which happened pretty late in the Eastern time zone.
3. I did the rest of my growing up in Phoenix, where my family moved in 1979. (We were ahead of our time.) I'll skip the "it's a dry heat" part and point out that the most disconcerting thing to me wasn't the 115-degree daytime highs, but the 85-degree overnight lows. Also, the phenomenon of an open car window providing an oven blast rather than a welcome breeze. Those midnight swims after eight hours on the night police beat, first at the family home in Mesa and then at Shadow Creek Apartments, in Mesa but almost Tempe, were wonderful. Mecca for Phoenicians was always-cool San Diego.
4. The bad thing about always-cool San Diego is that the ocean is never warm enough for comfortable swimming. I got a taste of that a couple of weeks ago when Jacqueline and I did our pretty-much-annual beach weekend in Rehoboth Beach, Del. As we later found out, Atlantic temperatures are crazy cold this year for some reason. I'm used to "it's fine once you get in" ocean swimming, but on the Sunday of our visit, even though it was pretty warm outside, the water felt like frostbite no matter how long I stayed in. I toughed it out, though, because it's not often I get to go in the ocean, and I'm glad I did. For about an hour after I got out, my skin radiated this wonderful tingling sensation. If this came in drug form, a lot of people would be hooked.
5. I'm essentially an indoor cat. I don't dislike nature, but my natural inclination is to stay inside. July 20, 1969, notwithstanding, Mom sometimes had to order me to "play in the yard" in the summertime when I'd rather be in my room sketching the cars and houses of my imaginary automotive and real-estate ventures. I've been known to play tennis indoors during the summer. Along the same lines, al fresco has never been my preferred dining atmosphere. But I changed my tune on that in the summer of 2001 when Jacqueline and I went to Paris, Zurich, Salzburg and Munich. Because (a) the Europeans don't understand air conditioning and (b) those European destinations tend to be refreshingly free of the summer humidity that plagues much of the United States, we found ourselves eating outside whenever possible.
The most ridiculous example of European attitudes toward A/C came at the Drei Lowen, our hotel in Munich. The hotel is relatively modern and boasts of air conditioning, but the highest setting was nowhere near enough, even given the relatively mild summer we encountered. So we ended up sleeping with the windows open, despite the ample street noise below. Good thing we had earplugs left over from the U2 concert in Zurich.
Tuesday, August 19, 2003
Re: Thank you!
Re: Approved
Re: Wicked screensaver
Re: Your application
Re: That movie
Re: Your details
Yeah, I have nothing better to do than delete hundreds of virus-bearing e-mails per hour.
Re: Approved
Re: Wicked screensaver
Re: Your application
Re: That movie
Re: Your details
Yeah, I have nothing better to do than delete hundreds of virus-bearing e-mails per hour.
Saturday, August 16, 2003
LIZ PHAIR was in town tonight, and we had tickets! I love Liz Phair. Yeah, the new album is a disappointment, and the sellout philosophy she has adopted is a bit disturbing, but I don't care. The first three albums were classic. "Whip-Smart" isn't the critics' favorite, but I think it might be the strongest. "May Queen" is one of my favorite songs ever, and "Jealousy" isn't far behind. Of all the acts I'd never seen live, Liz Phair was the one I wanted to see most. When I heard she was touring, I bought tickets immediately. Good thing, too: The show -- like her last one in Washington, which I missed -- sold out.
Usually I take the scared-I'll-miss-something approach to shows at the 9:30 Club and similar venues, and so I get to stand around with sweaty people and listen to sucky opening acts and get a sore back. Jacqueline and I did this, more or less, for X and then for Blondie, also at the 9:30 this year. This time, for once, we would be cool. All day I checked out the 9:30 Club's Web site, which always posts estimated starting times for all the acts. This time, however, somebody forgot to update the site, and so most of the day Friday's times were posted. When the update finally came, it said simply: "Doors Open 8:00. Sold Out." And the club wasn't answering its phone number, or even putting up a recording. But from experience and the Web site's FAQ, I reasoned that headliners normally don't start until 11 or 11:30, so we had a leisurely 9 p.m. dinner and called a cab around 10:30. Normally we'd take the Metro or the bus, but it was rainy out and we can afford the occasional lazy luxury and frankly we aren't getting any younger.
Yellow Cab's line was busy for a while, and took a while for the cab to arrive, and the driver took the slowest route possible, so we were prepared to join Liz Phair already in progress as we walked in -- but we got lucky. No music yet! Not only that, the backup musicians started to take the stage about 10 minutes after we staked out our position. Excellent!
The lights went down and the applause started to swell, and up to the microphone stepped . . .
Some hillbilly yokel! Yep, Liz's set had come and gone.
Well, yes, the show was billed as "Jason Mraz & Liz Phair." But all the articles about the show and about Liz Phair's tour made it clear that this was a Liz Phair show. Jason Mraz is from Virginia, so I figured the billing was a bit of a local suck-up but it was also chronological. It didn't say "Jason Mraz With Liz Phair." They got equal billing, but it had to be him and then her. It just had to.
The sad part is, I would have liked to have seen the opening opening act, the Mersey-beat Norwegian teenager Sondre Lerche, whose style is at least something that would appeal to Liz Phair fans. But Jason Mraz (no offense -- some of my best friends are hillbilly yokels) isn't someone I could bear to listen to, even without bitterness and disappointment coursing through my veins. Mraz is a Dave Matthews Band/John Mayer opening act, not a Liz Phair opening act, and certainly not someone Liz Phair should open for. This was just so wrong on so many levels.
So, let's see, $25 plus $5.50 "service charge" per ticket, a $14 cab ride there and a $10 cab ride back. Eighty-five bucks well spent.
Usually I take the scared-I'll-miss-something approach to shows at the 9:30 Club and similar venues, and so I get to stand around with sweaty people and listen to sucky opening acts and get a sore back. Jacqueline and I did this, more or less, for X and then for Blondie, also at the 9:30 this year. This time, for once, we would be cool. All day I checked out the 9:30 Club's Web site, which always posts estimated starting times for all the acts. This time, however, somebody forgot to update the site, and so most of the day Friday's times were posted. When the update finally came, it said simply: "Doors Open 8:00. Sold Out." And the club wasn't answering its phone number, or even putting up a recording. But from experience and the Web site's FAQ, I reasoned that headliners normally don't start until 11 or 11:30, so we had a leisurely 9 p.m. dinner and called a cab around 10:30. Normally we'd take the Metro or the bus, but it was rainy out and we can afford the occasional lazy luxury and frankly we aren't getting any younger.
Yellow Cab's line was busy for a while, and took a while for the cab to arrive, and the driver took the slowest route possible, so we were prepared to join Liz Phair already in progress as we walked in -- but we got lucky. No music yet! Not only that, the backup musicians started to take the stage about 10 minutes after we staked out our position. Excellent!
The lights went down and the applause started to swell, and up to the microphone stepped . . .
Some hillbilly yokel! Yep, Liz's set had come and gone.
Well, yes, the show was billed as "Jason Mraz & Liz Phair." But all the articles about the show and about Liz Phair's tour made it clear that this was a Liz Phair show. Jason Mraz is from Virginia, so I figured the billing was a bit of a local suck-up but it was also chronological. It didn't say "Jason Mraz With Liz Phair." They got equal billing, but it had to be him and then her. It just had to.
The sad part is, I would have liked to have seen the opening opening act, the Mersey-beat Norwegian teenager Sondre Lerche, whose style is at least something that would appeal to Liz Phair fans. But Jason Mraz (no offense -- some of my best friends are hillbilly yokels) isn't someone I could bear to listen to, even without bitterness and disappointment coursing through my veins. Mraz is a Dave Matthews Band/John Mayer opening act, not a Liz Phair opening act, and certainly not someone Liz Phair should open for. This was just so wrong on so many levels.
So, let's see, $25 plus $5.50 "service charge" per ticket, a $14 cab ride there and a $10 cab ride back. Eighty-five bucks well spent.
MINOR HOUSEKEEPING NOTE: For the handful of Off-Topic readers interested in my site on the Tucson band the Phantom Limbs, I've updated the page after years of neglect. You can now find the lyrics from the "new" (ahem, 2000) album, plus a couple of new links. And I'm no longer claiming to be 39 years old.
Friday, August 15, 2003
NOT TO PISS OFF the Waitstaff American Community or anything, but just how much drama can you inject into the act of carrying a plate from one place to another?
I'm watching "The Restaurant," the NBC reality series about the launch of chef Rocco DiSpirito's Italian place in New York. I'm seeing waiters and waitresses refuse to follow simple directions or use common sense and then wonder why they're being fired or reassigned. I saw one employee complain that being nice to people just wasn't her style -- but she should be gainfully employed in the service industry anyway.
I'm not saying that waiting tables is an easy job, but it is a simple job. There's a difference. A lot of highly technical jobs are easy for those who know how to do them -- but far from simple, so few people have such knowledge. Rolling massive boulders uphill? Simple! Not easy. I put waiting tables in that category. I don't have any desire to do it, but I'd do it if I had to, and I'd do it well. I'd write down what people order and then bring it to them. None of this "I can remember" crap. I'd suppress my own ego and not fall into the drama-queen trap of taking everything personally; being nice to problem patrons isn't my style either, but it would be my job.
(And, for the record, I'm anything but a problem patron.)
NOT TO SUCK UP to the Waitstaff American Community or anything, but I do think a tip for a nice dinner at a sit-down restaurant should generally be more than two bucks. In fact, I think a tip at the kind of restaurant where one leaves tips should be at least $2, even if the check is only $6 or $7.
The Food Network's "40 a Day" is predicated on cheapness, but I can't believe the lengths to which host Rachael "Mmmmmmmm" Ray takes this when it comes to tips. She basically tips 10 percent, no rounding up, no matter what the tab is. At Jaleo, the D.C. tapas bar, she ordered a couple of dishes (no drink -- another thing that bugs me about the show) that came to something like $16, and her tip was something like $1.60. For dinner!
(By the way, Rachaaaaaaaeeeeyl, I know you're not the only one with parents who can't spell, but the name pronounced "Rachel" is spelled "Rachel.")
I'm watching "The Restaurant," the NBC reality series about the launch of chef Rocco DiSpirito's Italian place in New York. I'm seeing waiters and waitresses refuse to follow simple directions or use common sense and then wonder why they're being fired or reassigned. I saw one employee complain that being nice to people just wasn't her style -- but she should be gainfully employed in the service industry anyway.
I'm not saying that waiting tables is an easy job, but it is a simple job. There's a difference. A lot of highly technical jobs are easy for those who know how to do them -- but far from simple, so few people have such knowledge. Rolling massive boulders uphill? Simple! Not easy. I put waiting tables in that category. I don't have any desire to do it, but I'd do it if I had to, and I'd do it well. I'd write down what people order and then bring it to them. None of this "I can remember" crap. I'd suppress my own ego and not fall into the drama-queen trap of taking everything personally; being nice to problem patrons isn't my style either, but it would be my job.
(And, for the record, I'm anything but a problem patron.)
NOT TO SUCK UP to the Waitstaff American Community or anything, but I do think a tip for a nice dinner at a sit-down restaurant should generally be more than two bucks. In fact, I think a tip at the kind of restaurant where one leaves tips should be at least $2, even if the check is only $6 or $7.
The Food Network's "40 a Day" is predicated on cheapness, but I can't believe the lengths to which host Rachael "Mmmmmmmm" Ray takes this when it comes to tips. She basically tips 10 percent, no rounding up, no matter what the tab is. At Jaleo, the D.C. tapas bar, she ordered a couple of dishes (no drink -- another thing that bugs me about the show) that came to something like $16, and her tip was something like $1.60. For dinner!
(By the way, Rachaaaaaaaeeeeyl, I know you're not the only one with parents who can't spell, but the name pronounced "Rachel" is spelled "Rachel.")
Thursday, August 14, 2003
TO BUY SOME OLD TENNIS TAPES from some guy in Italy, I needed a money order or similar financial instrument for 174 euros. (Yes, that's 200 bucks' worth of old tennis tapes. Shut up.)
The phrase "international postal money order" immediately popped into my head, and so I headed to my neighborhood post office. The line, of course, was very long, and, of course, the Too-Friendly Old Lady employee was chatting it up with every customer and working at a rate of two or three keystrokes per minute. If only my hero had been there, the guy who actually yelled at the old lady about how she shouldn't be socializing when so many customers are waiting.
Finally it was my turn, and Too-Friendly Old Lady could smell my disdain. She shuffled her feet and shuffled some papers and did that looking-at-you-while-not-acknowledging-you thing that the passive-aggressive lazyfucks of the retail industry do, and then she finally waved me over when she was good and ready.
Oh, lordy, she hadn't done a money order in years, and it took the assembled stampocracy a few minutes to decide who would help her with this task. She plowed ahead, to her credit, and pulled out a tattered old book for guidance. She and her designated helper seemed to be battling over who could "help" me, and finally one of them asked me where I was trying to send a money order. "Italy" seemed to puzzle them, but eventally they came to grips with the existence of lands beyond ours, and after some more fumbling they agreed that It Couldn't Be Done. Italy doesn't accept money orders.
Whether Italy accepts my money isn't really the issue, of course, but apparently no such money order exists. I should have known: Just imagine TFOL or her helper trying to calculate an exchange rate.
My bank is practically next door to the post office; surely, I figured, they could help me there.
Guess again. Oh, I could do a nifty balance transfer ("And what is the account number of the recipient in Italy?"), but getting a euro-denominated check of some sort would require calling the toll-free number on the back of my bank card and trying to get somebody from the home office to fly to Italy and pull a few strings.
I swear Western Union had an appropriate option a few months ago when I was first thinking of getting these tapes, but now I go to the Web site and there's an inordinate emphasis on how recipients must be "friends or family in need." Or maybe I'm taking that too literally.
I was ready to investigate the Western Union option further when I checked back at the tennis-video Web site only to find that it was shut down "due to copyright problems."
I guess that means the rightful owners of such "intellectual property" as Mikael Pernfors's 1986 French Open matches will be offering it for sale themselves. Right?
The phrase "international postal money order" immediately popped into my head, and so I headed to my neighborhood post office. The line, of course, was very long, and, of course, the Too-Friendly Old Lady employee was chatting it up with every customer and working at a rate of two or three keystrokes per minute. If only my hero had been there, the guy who actually yelled at the old lady about how she shouldn't be socializing when so many customers are waiting.
Finally it was my turn, and Too-Friendly Old Lady could smell my disdain. She shuffled her feet and shuffled some papers and did that looking-at-you-while-not-acknowledging-you thing that the passive-aggressive lazyfucks of the retail industry do, and then she finally waved me over when she was good and ready.
Oh, lordy, she hadn't done a money order in years, and it took the assembled stampocracy a few minutes to decide who would help her with this task. She plowed ahead, to her credit, and pulled out a tattered old book for guidance. She and her designated helper seemed to be battling over who could "help" me, and finally one of them asked me where I was trying to send a money order. "Italy" seemed to puzzle them, but eventally they came to grips with the existence of lands beyond ours, and after some more fumbling they agreed that It Couldn't Be Done. Italy doesn't accept money orders.
Whether Italy accepts my money isn't really the issue, of course, but apparently no such money order exists. I should have known: Just imagine TFOL or her helper trying to calculate an exchange rate.
My bank is practically next door to the post office; surely, I figured, they could help me there.
Guess again. Oh, I could do a nifty balance transfer ("And what is the account number of the recipient in Italy?"), but getting a euro-denominated check of some sort would require calling the toll-free number on the back of my bank card and trying to get somebody from the home office to fly to Italy and pull a few strings.
I swear Western Union had an appropriate option a few months ago when I was first thinking of getting these tapes, but now I go to the Web site and there's an inordinate emphasis on how recipients must be "friends or family in need." Or maybe I'm taking that too literally.
I was ready to investigate the Western Union option further when I checked back at the tennis-video Web site only to find that it was shut down "due to copyright problems."
I guess that means the rightful owners of such "intellectual property" as Mikael Pernfors's 1986 French Open matches will be offering it for sale themselves. Right?
Wednesday, August 13, 2003
"THE FINEST GIRLS FROM BALTIMORE."
Escort service? Spam subject line? Desperation pictorial idea from the editors of Playboy?
Historical footnote, actually, and one that makes me giggle more than historical footnotes generally do. Jacqueline and I have been watching Watergate retrospectives recently, and on a couple of them John Dean talks about some of the wacky schemes G. Gordon Liddy proposed as part of the effort to make sure Richard Nixon got re-elected in 1972. (And what a challenge that turned out to be!)
Liddy himself recounts an even more preposterous scheme -- to kidnap anti-Nixon demonstrators and leave them drugged in Mexico until the Republican National Convention was over -- and so I don't have any problem believing Dean when he says Liddy also proposed hiring prostitutes to lure Democrats onto an electronically outfitted houseboat where they would be tape-recorded in compromising situations.
As jaws dropped among the Nixon confederates present, Dean recalls, Liddy turned to Attorney General John Mitchell and harrumphed:
"General, I want to assure you, these are the finest girls from Baltimore!"
SPEAKING OF WATERGATE, for more than six years now my desk has been about 15 feet from Bob Woodward's office. I suppose I should have met him at some point, but whenever the idea of introducing myself occurs to me, I think of the starstruck Chris Farley character.
("Remember that time when you brought down a crooked president? That was cool!")
Escort service? Spam subject line? Desperation pictorial idea from the editors of Playboy?
Historical footnote, actually, and one that makes me giggle more than historical footnotes generally do. Jacqueline and I have been watching Watergate retrospectives recently, and on a couple of them John Dean talks about some of the wacky schemes G. Gordon Liddy proposed as part of the effort to make sure Richard Nixon got re-elected in 1972. (And what a challenge that turned out to be!)
Liddy himself recounts an even more preposterous scheme -- to kidnap anti-Nixon demonstrators and leave them drugged in Mexico until the Republican National Convention was over -- and so I don't have any problem believing Dean when he says Liddy also proposed hiring prostitutes to lure Democrats onto an electronically outfitted houseboat where they would be tape-recorded in compromising situations.
As jaws dropped among the Nixon confederates present, Dean recalls, Liddy turned to Attorney General John Mitchell and harrumphed:
"General, I want to assure you, these are the finest girls from Baltimore!"
SPEAKING OF WATERGATE, for more than six years now my desk has been about 15 feet from Bob Woodward's office. I suppose I should have met him at some point, but whenever the idea of introducing myself occurs to me, I think of the starstruck Chris Farley character.
("Remember that time when you brought down a crooked president? That was cool!")
Thursday, August 07, 2003
JUST MAKE THE HEADLIGHTS come on when the car is running and go off when it isn't, OK? A switch could override this in case you wanted to sneak up on somebody, say, or play drive-in with your new Philips flat-panel TV.
I've written before about the mounting evidence that driver's licenses are being handed out like Dum-Dum lollipops at a 1967 Kroger grand opening, but the headlight thing might be the best example. People just don't understand that their lights are to help them be seen as much as they are to help them see. Maybe they can see fine in the rain or at dusk or at midnight, so they don't bother to turn on the lights. Never mind that they're invisible to others even on a slightly overcast day. Now that automakers have at least had the sense, for the most part, to provide an audible warning if you turn the car off but leave the lights on, I see no reason not to use the lights whenever I drive. My Mini has some sort of "daytime running lights" scheme, but it's not full illumination and it's too much trouble to figure out. The manual route is just easier.
Cops don't understand the headlight concept any better than Cletis and company do, so my fantasy of mass ticketing on this issue will remain a fantasy. Maybe it's different in states with the good sense to have "wipers on, headlights on" laws.
Jacqueline and I decided on this rainy past Sunday to drive to Philadelphia and have cheesesteaks for lunch, and so I saw, or didn't see, a lot of unlighted dimwits. Half of them were into the whole tailgating thing as well, and so I spent three hours or so each way dodging invisible homicidal maniacs. "Tailgating," like "double parking," is a major euphemism. Just as double parking would be more accurately described as "leaving your car in the middle of the goddamn street," tailgating is actually "trying to drive through the people in front of you." I don't understand how I can be doing 80 mph and the person behind me can be doing 100. It doesn't seem physically possible, but it just keeps happening. When Mr. 100 Mph is invisible to boot, it makes the Amish lifestyle look better and better.
CHEESESTEAK NOTES: With this excursion to Geno's (right), I completed the Philly Cheesesteak Triple Crown, having previously had cheesesteaks at Jim's and Pat's. I liked the Geno's sandwich best, but I'm not sure I can call that a definitive judgment, because I'm still coming to grips with what a true cheesesteak is.
My first cheesesteak was at Gus & Gus Place (left) on the boardwalk in Rehoboth Beach, Del. Beef of indeterminate provenance, possibly even frozen Steak 'Em-style product, greasified with olive oil and interspersed with provolone and grilled onions on a decent roll. Add hot peppers and ketchup. Mmm. That first taste was 25 years ago, when my family frequently made vacation trips from Detroit to D.C. and points east, and now that I live in Washington I keep going back.
When I had my first "true" Philadelphia cheesesteak a few years ago, at Jim's (the only one of the troika that is an actual sit-down restaurant and not a ballpark-concession-style stand), it practically felt like health food. It was good, mind you, but the perfect fresh lean beef made for a disconcertingly grease-free experience.
This was before I learned that Cheese Wiz, otherwise utterly disdained by food snobs, is utterly mandated by food snobs when it comes to Philly cheesesteaks. Aren't food snobs fun? But maybe that would have provided that extra greasy kick.
So I ordered Wiz when I visited Pat's (right) a few weeks back, on the way to a three-day tennis camp in the Catskills with my brother Kenneth, and I got a fine sandwich, but nothing to write home about. When I returned to Philadelphia's Italian Market section with Jacqueline the other day to try Geno's, I experienced an excellent sandwich, mainly because of the quality of the roll. I think I owe Pat's another chance, because the consensus seems to be Pat's over Geno's, and I honestly remember very little about the roll at Pat's. Part of the problem, I think, is that I discovered the hot-pepper protocol belatedly. In Washington and at Rehoboth, you ask for hot peppers and you get that red hot-pepper relish. At Pat's and Geno's, you order only the basics and you take care of other details yourself. The peppers are whole squash-ball-size peppers and you're supposed to break them up yourself. I tried this midway through my Geno's experience and it made all the difference. (I also tried a "pizza steak" at Geno's, which is basically a cheesesteak with pizza sauce. Good, but I prefer the vinegary tang of ketchup.)
My use of ketchup on a cheesesteak is probably sacrilege to many, but there are worse sacrileges. Order a steak sandwich just about anywhere but Philadelphia -- even at Gus & Gus -- and "lettuce, tomato, mayonnaise" is the assumption. It has been posited at Chowhound.com that this is characteristic of a Washington-style "steak and cheese sandwich" -- something entirely different that is good in its own right. I don't buy it. Putting lettuce, tomato and mayonnaise on a cheesesteak is an example of the same everything-gets-the-same-condiments myopia that has Subway "sandwich artists" mindlessly putting their plastic cheese on your tuna.
I may be fooling myself in the name of culinary correctness, by the way, but at the moment I'd give the cheesesteak I had at Geno's a slight edge over my Gus & Gus standby. Jacqueline still votes for the Guses.
BTW, Geno's is decidedly not the place for anyone in the "Free Mumia" camp. The late Officer Daniel Faulkner is close to the hearts of the ownership, judging from the signs on display and the T-shirts worn by employees.
I've written before about the mounting evidence that driver's licenses are being handed out like Dum-Dum lollipops at a 1967 Kroger grand opening, but the headlight thing might be the best example. People just don't understand that their lights are to help them be seen as much as they are to help them see. Maybe they can see fine in the rain or at dusk or at midnight, so they don't bother to turn on the lights. Never mind that they're invisible to others even on a slightly overcast day. Now that automakers have at least had the sense, for the most part, to provide an audible warning if you turn the car off but leave the lights on, I see no reason not to use the lights whenever I drive. My Mini has some sort of "daytime running lights" scheme, but it's not full illumination and it's too much trouble to figure out. The manual route is just easier.
Cops don't understand the headlight concept any better than Cletis and company do, so my fantasy of mass ticketing on this issue will remain a fantasy. Maybe it's different in states with the good sense to have "wipers on, headlights on" laws.
Jacqueline and I decided on this rainy past Sunday to drive to Philadelphia and have cheesesteaks for lunch, and so I saw, or didn't see, a lot of unlighted dimwits. Half of them were into the whole tailgating thing as well, and so I spent three hours or so each way dodging invisible homicidal maniacs. "Tailgating," like "double parking," is a major euphemism. Just as double parking would be more accurately described as "leaving your car in the middle of the goddamn street," tailgating is actually "trying to drive through the people in front of you." I don't understand how I can be doing 80 mph and the person behind me can be doing 100. It doesn't seem physically possible, but it just keeps happening. When Mr. 100 Mph is invisible to boot, it makes the Amish lifestyle look better and better.
CHEESESTEAK NOTES: With this excursion to Geno's (right), I completed the Philly Cheesesteak Triple Crown, having previously had cheesesteaks at Jim's and Pat's. I liked the Geno's sandwich best, but I'm not sure I can call that a definitive judgment, because I'm still coming to grips with what a true cheesesteak is.
My first cheesesteak was at Gus & Gus Place (left) on the boardwalk in Rehoboth Beach, Del. Beef of indeterminate provenance, possibly even frozen Steak 'Em-style product, greasified with olive oil and interspersed with provolone and grilled onions on a decent roll. Add hot peppers and ketchup. Mmm. That first taste was 25 years ago, when my family frequently made vacation trips from Detroit to D.C. and points east, and now that I live in Washington I keep going back.
When I had my first "true" Philadelphia cheesesteak a few years ago, at Jim's (the only one of the troika that is an actual sit-down restaurant and not a ballpark-concession-style stand), it practically felt like health food. It was good, mind you, but the perfect fresh lean beef made for a disconcertingly grease-free experience.
This was before I learned that Cheese Wiz, otherwise utterly disdained by food snobs, is utterly mandated by food snobs when it comes to Philly cheesesteaks. Aren't food snobs fun? But maybe that would have provided that extra greasy kick.
So I ordered Wiz when I visited Pat's (right) a few weeks back, on the way to a three-day tennis camp in the Catskills with my brother Kenneth, and I got a fine sandwich, but nothing to write home about. When I returned to Philadelphia's Italian Market section with Jacqueline the other day to try Geno's, I experienced an excellent sandwich, mainly because of the quality of the roll. I think I owe Pat's another chance, because the consensus seems to be Pat's over Geno's, and I honestly remember very little about the roll at Pat's. Part of the problem, I think, is that I discovered the hot-pepper protocol belatedly. In Washington and at Rehoboth, you ask for hot peppers and you get that red hot-pepper relish. At Pat's and Geno's, you order only the basics and you take care of other details yourself. The peppers are whole squash-ball-size peppers and you're supposed to break them up yourself. I tried this midway through my Geno's experience and it made all the difference. (I also tried a "pizza steak" at Geno's, which is basically a cheesesteak with pizza sauce. Good, but I prefer the vinegary tang of ketchup.)
My use of ketchup on a cheesesteak is probably sacrilege to many, but there are worse sacrileges. Order a steak sandwich just about anywhere but Philadelphia -- even at Gus & Gus -- and "lettuce, tomato, mayonnaise" is the assumption. It has been posited at Chowhound.com that this is characteristic of a Washington-style "steak and cheese sandwich" -- something entirely different that is good in its own right. I don't buy it. Putting lettuce, tomato and mayonnaise on a cheesesteak is an example of the same everything-gets-the-same-condiments myopia that has Subway "sandwich artists" mindlessly putting their plastic cheese on your tuna.
I may be fooling myself in the name of culinary correctness, by the way, but at the moment I'd give the cheesesteak I had at Geno's a slight edge over my Gus & Gus standby. Jacqueline still votes for the Guses.
BTW, Geno's is decidedly not the place for anyone in the "Free Mumia" camp. The late Officer Daniel Faulkner is close to the hearts of the ownership, judging from the signs on display and the T-shirts worn by employees.
Wednesday, August 06, 2003
SPEAKING OF TELEPHONES, are these devices still so new and mysterious that wooden adherence to protocol trumps common sense? How many witness the following scenario every damn workday?
- R-i-i-i-i-ng.
You: "Shipping Department, Stan Johnson speaking, may I help you?"
Caller: "Hi, Stan, this is Wanda Oglethorpe. Is Charlie there?"
You: "Sure thing. Hang on."
You: "Charlie, it's your wife on Line 2."
Charlie: "Shipping Department, Charlie Oglethorpe speaking, may I help you?"
- Charlie: "Hi, honey. What's up?"
- Charlie: "Hi, Harry. What's up?"
YES, I BOUGHT the stupid cell phone. I don't plan to turn the cute little thing on all that often, or to have it set for anything but "vibrate" mode when I do, but that didn't stop me from going on an orgy of downloading "ring tones" at two bucks a pop on Saturday morning.
"The Real Slim Shady" caught my eye right away, and so of course I got that one. Also from Eminem, and appealingly more obscure: "The Way I Am." Also conspicuously tasty on the main download page: the "Peanuts" theme, which you probably didn't know is called "Linus and Lucy."
So that's $6 before I even started searching and scrolling through the other options. The preview clips are too often actual versions of the songs rather than authentic representations of what they would sound like as cheesy ring tones. (So you're more likely to shell out the $2 just to hear just how cheesy they might be.)
The truth about novelty rings, of course, is that the novelty wears off very fast. Somebody at work has "Play That Funky Music, White Boy." Cute when you first realize what it is, but then you don't want to hear it ever again. The annoying thing isn't so much the novelty as it is the very nature of an unanswered phone, whether the ring is that disco classic or "Turning Japanese" or the Vivaldi or lunch-wagon notes that most people seem to choose between. As one colleague put it while an unattended cell phone chimed away, "Wouldn't it be great if those things were portable?"
Another colleague uses "vibrate" but doesn't seem to understand the concept. You're supposed to be alerted by a sensation in your pocket, not a vague insect noise coming from the thing sitting on your desk, right?
Anyway, I'm up to $6 when I hear the unmistakable head-banging, Beavis-and-Butt-head-thrilling introductory notes to "Smoke on the Water." How perfect for a ring; make that $8. And, while I'm there, what's that other unmistakable iconic metal tune I always mistake it for? Oh, right, "Iron Man." Check. Ten bucks.
Now it's search-and-scroll time. Blondie? There's only "The Tide Is High," but I have to get it ($12), if only to program the phone to identify it with any call from brother Kenneth, who loves Deborah Harry and the boys even more than I do. Nothing really good from R.E.M., and the Pretenders choices are horribly rendered.
Too few novelty ring tones actually work as ringing-phone noises. You need that hook, and you need to get right to it. Too often, these things simply reproduce the song. An all-hook version would be all the more annoying, true, but a ring isn't meant to play on and on and on (see vibration and portability notes above).
The tune-tones that work best, I found in my explorations, are the hooky '80s synth-pop songs that sounded like cell-phone rings before we knew what cell phones were. "Don't Go" by Yaz; "In-Between Days," "Close to Me," "Just Like Heaven" -- any late-period Cure. "Just Can't Get Enough" by Depeche Mode.
I rounded out my purchases (and arrived at a default ring, in case I'm ever actually awaiting a call and not in a vibrating mood) with a twist on the above: one of my favorite mid-period Cure songs, "Let's Go to Bed." Great hook, and not something everybody will immediately recognize. Fourteen bucks. You could do worse with an addiction.
I bravely resisted Tom Tom Club's "Genius of Love" and Bananarama's debut, with Fun Boy Three, "(He Was) Really Saying Something," among many others. "Rich Girl," from when Hall and Oates didn't suck. Adam and the Ants' "Stand and Deliver," maybe not the best ring choice but deliciously semi-obscure. Numerous TV themes, including "Love American Style"!
Sadly, "Our Lips Are Sealed," the Go-Go's version (again, girls upstage Fun Boy Three), perhaps the greatest single the '80s produced, wasn't there.
"The Real Slim Shady" caught my eye right away, and so of course I got that one. Also from Eminem, and appealingly more obscure: "The Way I Am." Also conspicuously tasty on the main download page: the "Peanuts" theme, which you probably didn't know is called "Linus and Lucy."
So that's $6 before I even started searching and scrolling through the other options. The preview clips are too often actual versions of the songs rather than authentic representations of what they would sound like as cheesy ring tones. (So you're more likely to shell out the $2 just to hear just how cheesy they might be.)
The truth about novelty rings, of course, is that the novelty wears off very fast. Somebody at work has "Play That Funky Music, White Boy." Cute when you first realize what it is, but then you don't want to hear it ever again. The annoying thing isn't so much the novelty as it is the very nature of an unanswered phone, whether the ring is that disco classic or "Turning Japanese" or the Vivaldi or lunch-wagon notes that most people seem to choose between. As one colleague put it while an unattended cell phone chimed away, "Wouldn't it be great if those things were portable?"
Another colleague uses "vibrate" but doesn't seem to understand the concept. You're supposed to be alerted by a sensation in your pocket, not a vague insect noise coming from the thing sitting on your desk, right?
Anyway, I'm up to $6 when I hear the unmistakable head-banging, Beavis-and-Butt-head-thrilling introductory notes to "Smoke on the Water." How perfect for a ring; make that $8. And, while I'm there, what's that other unmistakable iconic metal tune I always mistake it for? Oh, right, "Iron Man." Check. Ten bucks.
Now it's search-and-scroll time. Blondie? There's only "The Tide Is High," but I have to get it ($12), if only to program the phone to identify it with any call from brother Kenneth, who loves Deborah Harry and the boys even more than I do. Nothing really good from R.E.M., and the Pretenders choices are horribly rendered.
Too few novelty ring tones actually work as ringing-phone noises. You need that hook, and you need to get right to it. Too often, these things simply reproduce the song. An all-hook version would be all the more annoying, true, but a ring isn't meant to play on and on and on (see vibration and portability notes above).
The tune-tones that work best, I found in my explorations, are the hooky '80s synth-pop songs that sounded like cell-phone rings before we knew what cell phones were. "Don't Go" by Yaz; "In-Between Days," "Close to Me," "Just Like Heaven" -- any late-period Cure. "Just Can't Get Enough" by Depeche Mode.
I rounded out my purchases (and arrived at a default ring, in case I'm ever actually awaiting a call and not in a vibrating mood) with a twist on the above: one of my favorite mid-period Cure songs, "Let's Go to Bed." Great hook, and not something everybody will immediately recognize. Fourteen bucks. You could do worse with an addiction.
I bravely resisted Tom Tom Club's "Genius of Love" and Bananarama's debut, with Fun Boy Three, "(He Was) Really Saying Something," among many others. "Rich Girl," from when Hall and Oates didn't suck. Adam and the Ants' "Stand and Deliver," maybe not the best ring choice but deliciously semi-obscure. Numerous TV themes, including "Love American Style"!
Sadly, "Our Lips Are Sealed," the Go-Go's version (again, girls upstage Fun Boy Three), perhaps the greatest single the '80s produced, wasn't there.
Tuesday, August 05, 2003
NO, NO, RELAX. I'M NOT TAKING YOUR PICTURE; THIS IS JUST A GUN!
In a front-page article (but way down in the jump, fortunately), I failed to catch a reference to al Qaeda's plans to put people on planes with cameras disguised as weapons.
Yes, I is a editor.
In a front-page article (but way down in the jump, fortunately), I failed to catch a reference to al Qaeda's plans to put people on planes with cameras disguised as weapons.
Yes, I is a editor.
Monday, August 04, 2003
HANK STEUVER of the Post on above-ground swimming pools. If I were a no-nonsense copy editor, I'd disdain this sort of thing. But, deep down, I'm all about the nonsense.
Sunday, August 03, 2003
THERE'S NO USE trying to figure out what's going on in spammers' little pea-brains, but what is the deal with the names they make up? Has some sort of alternate-universe market research shown that people are more likely to open strange e-mail when it comes from Jenny Jones, Jenny Knowly, Hott Harmey or Hott Johnes?
Saturday, August 02, 2003
AT A POTBELLY SANDWICH WORKS location the other day, a manager explained the lack of macaroni salad thusly:
"We had some problems with the recipe. They're working on improving it."
Whoa. It wasn't great macaroni salad, but for a chain establishment it was just fine. What are these mad scientists formulating?
I guess this would be as good a time as any to finally deliver the chain-sandwich-shop review I promised, oh, about a year ago.
The problem with reviewing chain sandwich shops, at least for me, is that when I find one I like, I overpatronize it until I get sick to death of it -- and then I spend months cleansing the palate with the reassuring blandness of Subway. Anyway, here's an approximate ranking.
1. Schlotzsky's Deli. Maybe it's just because there's no Schlotzsky's convenient to my home or office that the place is such a special treat, but I don't think so. The Original, a take on the classic New Orleans muffaletta, rules. The price isn't great, and the nutritional information is frightening, but that is one great sandwich.
2. Quiznos. The Traditional has an olive component in common with the Schlotzky's Original, and the toasting really does make a difference, especially with the sesame-seed rolls. Mmm. Come to think of it, Schlotzky's toasts its buns, too, but not to the extent that Quizno's does. The Traditional is less an Italianate cold-cut extravaganza than a good ol' American sampler: roast beef, turkey and ham. With ranch dressing. Everything's better with ranch dressing. I was also fond of a limited-time-only sandwich called the Spicy Monterey Club, featuring Chef Jimmy's Three-Pepper Chili Sauce, but that one appears to be no more.
3. Cosi. At Cosi, you get to choose from a slew of fillings to be stuffed into a freshly baked flatbread pocket. The bread is crunchy-ish -- think thin-crust pizza rather than naan -- but it's pretty darn good. Expensive, though. To paraphrase Travolta in "Pulp Fiction," "That's a pretty fuckin' good [$7] sandwich!" I've gravitated toward the tuna/romaine/cheddar/vinaigrette number, but there are too many good choices for me to firmly recommend just one.
4. Potbelly Sandwich Works. Again, there's toasting. But Potbelly distinguishes itself with prices that are very low even considering its relatively (and refreshingly) small portions. The menu is pretty small, but, as the kids say, it's all good. Potbelly's Original/Traditional equivalent is the Wreck -- salami, roast beef, turkey, ham and Swiss -- but I go all over the Potbelly menu. There's even a PB&J.
5. Subway. Sigh. It's Subway. How do they make everything so uniformly flavorless? This is the most conveniently located chain to, well, everywhere, so it's hard to avoid eating there. It's better than the candy machine, and there is a lot of variety.
6. Blimpie. I had high hopes for Blimpie, until I ate at one. It's not disgusting or anything, it's just Subway without the variety.
"We had some problems with the recipe. They're working on improving it."
Whoa. It wasn't great macaroni salad, but for a chain establishment it was just fine. What are these mad scientists formulating?
I guess this would be as good a time as any to finally deliver the chain-sandwich-shop review I promised, oh, about a year ago.
The problem with reviewing chain sandwich shops, at least for me, is that when I find one I like, I overpatronize it until I get sick to death of it -- and then I spend months cleansing the palate with the reassuring blandness of Subway. Anyway, here's an approximate ranking.
1. Schlotzsky's Deli. Maybe it's just because there's no Schlotzsky's convenient to my home or office that the place is such a special treat, but I don't think so. The Original, a take on the classic New Orleans muffaletta, rules. The price isn't great, and the nutritional information is frightening, but that is one great sandwich.
2. Quiznos. The Traditional has an olive component in common with the Schlotzky's Original, and the toasting really does make a difference, especially with the sesame-seed rolls. Mmm. Come to think of it, Schlotzky's toasts its buns, too, but not to the extent that Quizno's does. The Traditional is less an Italianate cold-cut extravaganza than a good ol' American sampler: roast beef, turkey and ham. With ranch dressing. Everything's better with ranch dressing. I was also fond of a limited-time-only sandwich called the Spicy Monterey Club, featuring Chef Jimmy's Three-Pepper Chili Sauce, but that one appears to be no more.
3. Cosi. At Cosi, you get to choose from a slew of fillings to be stuffed into a freshly baked flatbread pocket. The bread is crunchy-ish -- think thin-crust pizza rather than naan -- but it's pretty darn good. Expensive, though. To paraphrase Travolta in "Pulp Fiction," "That's a pretty fuckin' good [$7] sandwich!" I've gravitated toward the tuna/romaine/cheddar/vinaigrette number, but there are too many good choices for me to firmly recommend just one.
4. Potbelly Sandwich Works. Again, there's toasting. But Potbelly distinguishes itself with prices that are very low even considering its relatively (and refreshingly) small portions. The menu is pretty small, but, as the kids say, it's all good. Potbelly's Original/Traditional equivalent is the Wreck -- salami, roast beef, turkey, ham and Swiss -- but I go all over the Potbelly menu. There's even a PB&J.
5. Subway. Sigh. It's Subway. How do they make everything so uniformly flavorless? This is the most conveniently located chain to, well, everywhere, so it's hard to avoid eating there. It's better than the candy machine, and there is a lot of variety.
6. Blimpie. I had high hopes for Blimpie, until I ate at one. It's not disgusting or anything, it's just Subway without the variety.
Friday, August 01, 2003
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, A.J.!. My nephew, Anthony Jaurigue Jr.,
shown with me in Phoenix last Christmas, when we were both
much younger, turns the big oh-one today. Wish I were there!
FROM MY BROTHER TERENCE in Phoenix,
with the subject line "Odd Lineup":
with the subject line "Odd Lineup":
Across town, no doubt: Chris Difford, Exene Cervenka and that girl who Jill kissed.
Glenn Tilbrook, lead singer of Squeeze, will perform 7 p.m.
Saturday at Nita's Hideaway, 3300 S. Price Road, Tempe.
Opening acts will include musicians Jill Sobule and John Doe.
