Food Meme, ho!
From Queen Mediocretia of Suburbia
Copy this list into your blog, including these instructions.
Bold all the items you’ve eaten.
Cross out any items that you would never consider eating.
Optional extra: Post a comment at www.verygoodtaste.co.uk linking to your results.
(Or, at least go read the article. It's very good.)
(Or, go here and do the American version.)
Show Your Ignorance: Wikipedia link to anything you had to look up.
(I have no idea if any of the links work, except for the link to the Queen, above)1. Venison -once upon a time, a side of roadkill deer, fed us throughout the winter. And, that's a true story.
2. Nettle Tea
3. Huevos rancheros
4. Steak tartare -- rather, the Ethiopian version
5. Crocodile - and, alligator
6. Black pudding - One of my very favorite things, ever.
7. Cheese fondue
8. Carp
9. Borscht
10. Baba ghanoush
11. Calamari -- usually the fried rings, but once I ordered a pasta dish that had whole, little squids on top, suckers and all. I couldn't eat it. Not even after the squids were removed.
12. Pho --Grand
13. PB&J sandwich
14. Aloo Gobi
15. Hot dog from a street cart
16. Epoisses
17. Black truffle
18. Fruit wine made from something other than grapes
19. Steamed pork buns
20. Pistachio ice cream
21. Heirloom tomatoes
22. Fresh wild berries
23. Foie gras
24. Rice and beans 25. Brawn, or head cheese
26. Raw Scotch Bonnet pepper --um, yeah, I'm the Pepper Princess
27. Dulce de leche
28. Oysters
29. Baklava
30. Bagna Cauda
31. Wasabi peas
32. Clam chowder in a sourdough bowl
33. Salted Lassi
34. Sauerkraut
35. Root beer float -and coke floats, and all that jazz
36. Cognac with a fat cigar -- at Nino's, with Jerry Clinton. I have photographic evidence.
37. Clotted cream tea
38. Vodka jelly/Jell-O
39. Gumbo
40. Oxtail
41. Curried goat
42. Whole insects - not, I might add, on purpose
43. Phaal
44. Goat’s milk --does cheese count?
45. Malt whisky from a bottle worth £60/$120 or more
46. Fugu
47. Chicken tikka masala --one of my favorite things in the world.
48. Eel
49. Krispy Kreme original glazed doughnut
50. Sea urchin
51. Prickly pear
52. Umeboshi
53. Abalone
54. Paneer
55. McDonald’s Big Mac Meal
56. Spaetzle
57. Dirty gin martini
58. Beer above 8% ABV
59. Poutine
60. Carob chips
61. S’mores
62. Sweetbreads
63. Kaolin - Kaopectate? Yeah, I've had that.
64. Currywurst
65. Durian I could not eat anything that smells like rotting corpses, no matter how it tastes.
66. Frogs’ legs
67. Beignets, churros, elephant ears or funnel cake
68. Haggis
70. Chitterlings
71. Gazpacho
72. Caviar and blini
73. Louche absinthe - no, just the non-louche type
74. Gjetost
75. Roadkill -- see #1 above
76. Baijiu -- I guess the Everclear cherries I eat every weekend don't count???
77. Hostess Fruit Pie
78. Snail
79. Lapsang souchong
80. Bellini
81. Tom Yum -- and the soup, too!
82. Eggs Benedict
83. Pocky
84. Tasting menu at a three-Michelin-star restaurant
85. Kobe beef
86. Hare
87. Goulash
88. Flowers
89. Horse
90. Criollo Chocolate
91. Spam
92. Soft shell crab
93. Rose harissa
94. Catfish
95. Mole Poblano
96. Bagel and lox
97. Lobster Thermidor
98. Polenta
99. Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee
100. Snake - though I'm not sure what kind of snake.
Is this the way it always is?
I watched about an hour of the convention last night. This is the first political convention that I have watched in, well, ever. Strike that. I vaguely remember being subjected to the conventions of 1980, but I was all of 11 that year.
I'm not sure what compelled me to watch the RNC convention this year, when I didn't even watch the DNC, and I'm an Obama Fan-boy (retsknif). Strike that. I was morbidly curious about Sarah Palin, much in the same way I was morbidly curious about New Kids on the Block in the late 80s. In the end, I found the New Kids more worthwhile.
First, I had to turn the damn TV off during the middle of Guiliani's speech. I think I grew to dislike that man more in 15 minutes than I've grown to dislike Bush in 8 years. And, ohmygod, the stupid, fucking cackling, like he knew something the rest of us didn't. My inner conspiracy theorist had involuntary thoughts that he was in on the 9/11 attack, and he was pulling the wool over the eyes of all those ancient republicans. Seriously. What was the average age? Like 87? It looked like the whole of Affton was airlifted in to fill out the crowd.
I turned the TV back on in Time for Palin's speech. I found most of it innocuous, with the exception of exploiting her oldest and youngest child. But the attacks! Were the democrats as bad? What is so heinous about having been a community organizer? It's not quite as noble, I suppose, as joining the PTA, and being a hockey mom (which she self-deprecatingly described as being a pitbull with lipstick).
God Bless America. I had to change the station.
I can't even write about this anymore without getting all worked up and making no sense. I think I'll just curl up in a ball until November. Wake me when it's over.
90210
A big fan of teen shows (they off-set the medical and legal dramas that complete the other half of my daily viewing), I enjoyed 90210. I totally didn't get the "I'm Silver, you can call me Erin" but I won't answer business until Kelly Taylor popped in. I didn't see the final seasons of BH90210, but I'm assuming that Kelly's Baby Daddy is Brandon? (On a side note, I missed the first 10 minutes and thought Lori Laughlin's husband was Brandon, and had a serious problem with the ages of his kids, until, you know, I heard someone call him Harry.)
Shanae Grimes (who plays Annie) is late of my favorite teen drama: Degrassi, which is, of course, a Next Generation show, as well. I didn't expect the show to be the original which may be why I wasn't disappointed. For the most part, I found myself comparing it to Degrassi, and in some ways to Summerland, instead. Further, I had read nothing about the show (except that Shanae Grimes would star) so I had no expectations to be dashed in the watching.
I suspect, though, that during the regular season it will conflict with House or some other show, so it will be relegated to DVR status, which will mean I probably won't watch it regularly.
So, there. For any of you who care.
Whiskey Kills Germs
OK, now I'm done for. I have no time to be sick. Normally, I like being sick. I like staying home and laying on the sofa and watching Law and Order marathons, and sucking down NyQuil. I really, though, have no time to be sick until October, but I think I'm sick. I have that heavy-headed, feverish ache, and a tightness in my stomach, as well as a stiffness near my lymph nodes (cervical and axillary).
I don't even feel like whiskey. One of the Assistants had this nastiness last week. The minute she left my office, after asking to leave early, my throat began to hurt. I knew this was coming. I only hope it is accompanied by diarrhea. I had the flu once, where I dropped a pant size by the time it was all over.
O-Bama O-Eight
Today I ate lunch at Buffalo Brewing. On our way into the restaurant from the car I noticed two Obama signs stuck along the berm. I mused aloud about stealing one (I mean, why TWO in the same location, right? Spread the love). On the way back to the car I mused again, though silently, about stealing one and then noticed an Obama flag flying above a doorway in the building. Hey! Maybe this is a campaign office! Maybe I can get a sign without stealing one!
I started filling out the required paperwork, and then asked, "Do I have to make ANOTHER donation?" Office Lady said, "You've already made one?" I told her I've made several (the most recent one to get a 1st edition Obama/Biden T-shirt), so she just gave me a sign (assembly not included). Otherwise they're like 8 bucks. I'm not entirely sure I understand this, but according to johnmccain.com, he's charging for yard signs, too, only his are only $7.00. I think this is funny, in a way. Like competing gas stations each undercutting the other by mere cents. Interesting way to influence a following.
So, I have my long coveted Obama yard sign. Since I have a house this year, this is the first campaign where I've been able to support the candidate of my choosing. Plus, the 'hood will know that I'm not just whitey-with-a-house, but I'm down with the people, too.
Tom, on the other hand, will not be thrilled, I'm sure. I wonder how long before I find the sign in the garage.
Wish I were in Key West
I've been home for three weeks, but I'm ready to go back to Key West. Actually, I'm really ready to go anywhere. I'm at my breaking point. Fortunately, my replacement starts on Tuesday, so there's light at the end of what now seems to be a verra* long tunnel. Unfortunately, the next week is going to be hell. And, probably, the week after that. Frankly, I don't see being anything like settled and organized before the middle of October.
I realized that I haven't even written about our trip to Key West. This is mostly because I've been completely slammed at work, and by the time I get home, I'm in no mood to turn on the laptop. So, my apologies to those people waiting to see my handful of pictures, or the video of Ashley on the back of the mechanical bull. I had a good time, although I missed Tom like crazy, and more than once Ashley found me weeping in some bar or another. We hung out with the Man and his friend Rawbert** on our first night (the night of the mechanical bull) and accompanied the Man and Rawbert the next day to do some fishing. Friday afternoon and evening, and Saturday Ashley and I did the normal KW things: I hung out at the Tower Bar at Turtle Kraals; we hung out on the Afterdeck at Louie's Back Porch; we visited Peppers of Key West, where we tasted a gazillion hot sauces, and I ventured into the "insanely hots" (extract sauces). Eventually, among a few other sauces, I purchased a bottle of Mad Dog 357 (with a bullet). At 600,000 Scoville Units, I can tell you that it is in fact, insanely hot. But in a really, really good way. As I think about it, a toothpick or two's worth every day might, in fact, be the thing to jump start me out of my funk (like instead of, say, electroshock therapy).
We ate at Blue Heaven on Saturday night, and on Sunday, we packed up our gear and headed to the airport, stopping first to kayak at Boca Chica for a couple of hours. As Ashley put it, "It was a little too Deliverence..." so we cut our half-day trip early, and headed North.
And that about sums it up.
*I found Diana Gabaldon's Outlander on someone's reading list. I don't remember whose it was, but it was someone whose choice in reading matter I respect. Whoever you were, THANK YOU. I'd dismissed this book (and subsequently, the series) as so much historical romance, but I really enjoyed the first one (which I read in Key West), am nearly done with the 2nd and have the 3rd and 4th sitting on my shelf. There's nothing better than a good book except a good book with 5 sequels. Oh, and I'm peppering my speech with Scottish-isms.
**This is how Robert spelled his name in a text message to me. He's a raw foodist. See, that's cute.
Benjamin Kubelsky
Tomorrow is my birthday. I'm having dinner with Jay next Tuesday, and I'm sure I will sit there and marvel that this is a person who has known me for 26 years. This is a person who has known me since before I had boobs! I marvel similarly when Wally celebrates his birthday, although not about the boobs part. In Wally's case, we weren't set up to even BE friends, let alone friends 19 years later. Greggy is supposed to be in town in two weeks, and already yesterday, even, I marveled that we've been friends for 21 years, even though the only reason I knew him was because he was the boyfriend of my roommate freshman year, who ultimately left after first semester. Greg went on to date my new roommate, and then the next year, my suitemate. About 10 years ago, he married a woman that he'd met at a wedding the summer before I met him (as the boyfriend of my crazy roommate).
I marvel at the passage of time, I guess.
On a completely unrelated note: I hooked up the Fit yesterday. I marveled that after 22 minutes of various training (strength, balance and aerobics), I had lost .9 lbs, .2 BMI points and lowered my fitness age from 53 to 39. What a miracle product! I still have zero balance, and can't bop a soccerball off my head for shit, though.
No, You can't make me.
Welcome to Monday:
1) My mother always said, if you can't say something nice about someone (and by extrapolation, something) don't say anything. So, I'm not.
2) The internet is whiny (whoops, there I go, but at least I wasn't specific)
3) Don't Poke the Bear
Today, a year ago
I think a year ago at this moment, Michelle and I had finished our pedicures and massages and had stopped at the Pig for a couple of celebratory drinks before heading back to Clydesdale Cottage to prepare for round 2 of bridal preparations.
Tom and I went to a wedding on Saturday, and I cried during the ceremony. I've always cried at weddings, but as I told Blocker the day we stalked the wedding of the Stepford Bride, I think when you're single you cry because you regret it's not you, but when you're married, you cry because you're remembering your own wedding. That was certainly the case on Saturday.
I also remember thinking, weddings are a pain in the ass. It's a lot of planning and money for an event that lasts about 5 hours.
In any case, I left for work this morning and was greeted by the most perfect morning. There was even a little chill in the air. Not so, August 11, 2007. Not so, August 11, 2007. (It was so hot THAT day, it deserved to be said twice).
Nevertheless, August 11, 2007 was the best day. Ever.
And ever.
You can't really tell how hot it was, can you?
Key West
I'm getting the hang of this traveling stuff. I'm not even wigged about the fact that I have 3 days to prepare for our trip, and haven't even started. That is, I think I'm going to be taking used undies and socks with me (I always, always buy new undies and socks when I travel; I don't know why, but I do). Ashley and I are supposed to meet tonight to plan the logistics, etc. and one of the things I hope to get to the bottom of is what she's really, really taking with her (she's claimed she's taking nothing but her swimsuit, wrap and flip flops). This way, I can gauge whether or not I need to go shopping.
It looks like I will have a legitimate purpose for wearing my crocs. The Man invited us to go "deep sea" fishing with him and his posse on Friday. I had demurred, even though Ashley had some interest. I laid out the facts for her the other day, and she demurred. So, I demurred for the both of us when The Man called me yesterday from Key West. "The girls will be devastated," he said, and my heartstrings pulled a little. I did the math: It's 7:30 til about noon or 1:00. I felt myself caving. When I called Ashley and told her that The Man had called and that he may have talked me into going fishing on Friday, I heard the excitement in her voice when she said "Really?" So, today, I de-demurred when The Man called this morning to ask me if I knew that the upper bar of the Bull and Whistle was clothing optional. Although I knew this, I've never been there. The Man, as of last night, was able to cross this off his bucket list. (ooh, maybe I shouldn't have written that out loud). He suggested we could all go back on Friday after Fishing.
We could.
[We] won't.
I can't speak for Ashley, though.
Ooohhhh....
I saw former co-worker today; I was behind her in line at the caf and she barely acknowledged me, until the woman that replaced her came up behind me in line. And then she was all like "Hi! Hi!" and then said to me, "So, are you the Manager now?" I told her that I was, and before I could say anything else, she suddenly looked surprised, like she finally registered what I said, and then was all like "Really?" With more than a hint of disbelief. And then with a toss of her head said "Good luck" with more than a hint of I-Don't-Really-Mean-That. This little encounter led me to believe that she made the manager remark, hoping to get some kind of dig in.
Which makes it that much sweeter. Also, I have a brick house, and although "[she] wanted a brick house, but it didn't work out that way."*
*her response to another former co-worker's question before a staff meeting, regarding the house they just bought.
Letter of Recommendation
I asked the recently former chair of our board if he would write a letter of recommendation for the graduate program I'm applying to. He gave me the letter in a sealed envelope yesterday, but then sent it to me via email today stating that he thought I might like to see what I'd passed on: He lauded me well, and then I came across this statement that caused (for the 2nd time today) tea to fly out of my nose:
Randomonium
The following are not necessarily related.
Ghosts from the Past (from most recent Ghost to oldest Ghost):
My kissing cousin was at the Pig and Whistle on Saturday. I didn't immediately recognize him--in fact, I didn't recognize him at all until a half hour or so after I arrived, he asked if I still hung out at Nothin' More than Phelan's. However, as soon as I walked in, he said, "What are you reading? A book." I looked at him and replied, "You've heard that one before, I guess."
Yesterday, when Tom and I went to Dobbs to get my car, I saw the Stranger sitting in the waiting area just inside the door. I didn't say anything, because I mean, what would have been the point. Tom is especially sensitive to the topic of the Stranger since I was involved with him just prior to dating Tom, and because Tom was at the Pig on Mardi Gras when I met the Stranger and his friend. He felt like he'd been ditched, so he left. And, also, Tom had already taken a shine to me by that time, and was insanely jealous that I was involved with someone else. Insanely jealous. I will say, though, that it seemed a little fitting that on the day of my promotion at Mario I would see the Stranger, with whom I had just become involved when I started with Mario.
Celebrations
Tonight Tom is taking me to The Shaved Duck to celebrate my promotion. On August 11, we have reservations at Niche to celebrate our 1st Anniversary. (We can afford stuff like this again).
New initiatives
I should be starting the Certificate in Healthcare Ethics program this fall. I'm excited to be doing something academic again.
We're having a staff retreat in the fall, and my activity is a half-day Urban-Challenge, Amazing-Race-like scavenger hunt (The Campus Challenge, Nearly-Amazing Race, I think I'll call it. I need to come up with checkpoints and checkpoint clues. For those of you who know where I work, any suggestions and clue-writing would be appreciated.
Old Business
My trip with Ashley to Key West begins in less than 2 weeks. Since the trip begins with a road trip, I thought maybe we could bring appropriate Driving-thru-the-Keys Road Trip Music. I thought I'd make a mix. Any suggestions? Or, again, if anyone wanted to make a mix for us, that would be appreciated also.
Over due
(Taking a cue from The Queen, I have named my former employer Eliot -- my current employer is Mario. Her former employer I think she has referred to as Elliot, but they, I believe, are different Eliot/Elliots.) So back when I was working at Eliot, I had a friend who told me the story of how for 7 months, she was a mail carrier in Mt. Olive, IL. She was responsible for delivering the mail to half the town. She hated it. One thing that struck me in her story was how she began to despise her neighbors because they subscribed to magazines, which apparently, are the bane of mail carriers' existences.
Today, Payroll hates me. Last Thursday I received a raise, effective July 1; today I received a promotion, which carries with it another raise. Effective today. The payroll deadline is tomorrow. That, I'm sure, is way too much paperwork for one person to generate without payroll grumbling.
But, you know what? I don't really give a damn. I earned this. For the first time ever I actually feel like I've been rewarded and acknowledge for my work and my knowledge base. This has been a really big year; I nailed three things in the last year that I wanted but never thought I'd have: a husband, a house and my boss' job.
I can't wait for my former boss and my former co-worker from hell to find out...
4 Things, all unrelated
Got the notification about my raise for my current position. Much sweeter than previous year's raises. Administrative details and HR are holding up the process on the other, way sweet, sweet deal, but it is a certainty, I was told this morning while receiving my current raise.
When I'm done with this post, I'm going to head east on Sidney and see if Veruca is serving lunch yet. I read that this was supposed to begin this week. I could call, but I really need to get out of the office, and if I know they are not, I'll continue to sit here. There's a hot, humid day out there that I need to enjoy!
I've made appearances in the Post Dispatch and the RFT over the years, but last night presented me with an opportunity to appear in the Belgian press! as a taste-tester of InBev's Belgian beers. A reporter for a Belgian newspaper brought a passel of beers to the Pig and Whistle last night (accompanied by a photographer who is a native of Kirkwood, but lives in Columbia). I tried the Hoegaarden. (BTW: the Belgians say "Who-garden" but that's not as much fun to drink as "Ho-garden." Also, Flemish Belgians speak Dutch). I gave sound bites. Great ones like "This tastes, I don't know, European" and when further pressed said, "You know, this is a wheat beer. The local AB products use corn and rice as adjuncts." I should have sent him my short essay on living near the brewery. Anyway, we all had our pictures taken and I think Little N wrote down the website.
I received a summons for Grand Jury duty last night. But, I have friends in high places, and hopefully, I won't have to serve past the selection afternoon.
Monday Blues
I am feeling very out of sorts today. Partly because I'm so far behind with work; partly because the thing at work isn't FINAL, and I must continue not to count my chickens. If that piece were just settled finally, Tom and I could break out the Veuve Clicquot. I'm going to remain nervous that something is going to fuck up the deal until it's done.
According to the AVP, during a meeting on the state of the budget with me and the other manager: "We're closing the position today (the minimum 3 days) so we'll be talking next week." The other manager thinks I'm crazy to be nervous about this, but I can't help but think it's too good to be true.
It's been a big year.
In other news: I saw the Man on Saturday night, with his girls. I haven't seen the girls in several years. The first thing I said to the oldest: "Oh my god! You have breasts!" (and no, I did not follow this with "And they are so perky!")
The first thing I said to the Man when he walked into the Pig: "Oh my god! What happened to your hair?! Do you have cancer?!" No-neck nearly choked on his beer. I'm very sensitive after a day of Jack Daniels. (Now that I think about it, he never did answer me. Uh-oh).
I'm going to go put my nose to the grindstone, now, and hope that isn't too painful.
Bang
The weekend started this way:
I celebrated. In the middle of this celebration, the POB walks in the Pig with Bird. I spend a rollicking evening with the two of them (the POB was already 3 sheets gone and telling exaggerated stories of our past). They talked me into paying homage to Epps at the PrintShop. This was my first time there since it opened and when I walked in the PhormerPhilandering Irishman did a double-take and was very kind to me.
So was the POB. Until.
I opened my mouth without thinking, and out spewed one of the POB's "secrets". It was in context. Think about it. You're standing there at the bar, talking to two of your ex-boyfriends friends, people he's known, been drunk with, whose sofas he's lived on for longer than you've known him. These guys are giving you a ribbing, because you're the ex-girlfriend and suddenly after a lot of years you are around to give ribbing to. They start making ribald comments about your ex-boyfriend's balls, and in your celebratory (and okay, drunken) stupor (but that's the POB's own fault) you realize that something about that statement isn't right. "Wait" you say, "What balls? The POB only has one." At this point, something tips you off that perhaps these people didn't know this (like, say, one of them saying "Really?").
Well, whoops. But, you don't know what the big deal is. The guy is giant-sized. EVERYwhere (which may have been where the conversation initiated). He has a kid. He made you, his ex-girlfriend, cry because of his manhood (and you mean that in more than just a physical way). So, what's the big deal? Your tits are not the same size. In fact, once upon a time, you had one reduced (the one that now, is the smaller of the two). It doesn't mean anything.
Unfortunately, the POB didn't see things the same way. Based on his follow-up phone calls (6 of them between 1:59 and 2:08 in the morning) he probably will not darken the doorstep of the Pig and Whistle and ask me to feel his muscles anytime soon (much to the joy of my husband).
So that was Thursday.
The weekend progressed into Saturday. Saturday night, we went all Fellini on the neighborhood, and rode the scooter to Berkeley's house, where we joined her and the Little Irishman in the pool. Berkeley lives a block away, but that didn't keep me from wearing the leather beanie helmet that Harley gave me last week. We were so fucking cool, everyone on my block wanted suddenly to be a fat, white chick with a scooter.
I was so fucking cool, in fact, that when I went inside, all soaking wet and dripping, to find the Little Irishman (who was passed out), I slipped on the short flight of stairs leading to the side door. The pain was nearly unbearable; much like when I broke my ankle 5 years ago. I called for Kathy. I called for Tom. I simultaneously called for the Little Irishman. Whatever. Eventually, I had to limp and crawl back to the pool, where I whined about my injury. In fact, my foot, at the time, had a weird bruise that looked as if a shark tried to take a bite out of the side.
Sunday morning I could not walk. Sunday morning I could not execute the stairs. Sunday morning I felt much like I did Labor Day 2003 only this time the problem was my knee. Unlike Labor Day 2003, I have a trip scheduled to Key West in 3 weeks. So, instead of opting immediately for the Emergency Room, I opted for denial. Unfortunately, denial lost out to paranoia of broken knee things, and so I asked Tom to drive me.
An agonizing 2 hours later, the PA returned to my isolation booth and said only, "Nothing's broken. But, do you maybe want crutches?" A few minutes later crutches appeared, but no one else. A half hour later I was about 34.928 seconds (or so) from discharging myself. Fortunately, I held out for that extra .928 second, because the nurse strolled in with not only a 3-day doctor's note, but a scrip for Vicodin. "Ooh, package deal," I thought.
I spent Sunday RICE-ing on the back porch, and yesterday, when the pain was still too great in my knee, I took advantage of one of my doctor days, and spent most of the day on the sofa with Tom watching movie after movie after movie, and reading book after book.
Today, I'm back at work; I've already made an executive decision (or gave an executive opinion, anyway) and I'm still as behind as I was last week. At least it's a four-day week, only.
Woo. Hoo.
I had a meeting today, that resulted in some very good, very welcome, very good news. Drinks tonight will be celebratory.
Way Out Way After
After the Tom Waits show on Thursday, Berkeley and I went back to the Pig (despite the fact that we, um, live a block away from each other, we drove separately to the Pig and Whistle. Don't ask, it made sense.) I wasn't really feeling the Pig and Whistle vibe and suggested that we go have one -- just one -- at the Way Out Club, since its not far from our respective houses and on the way, anyway. Plus, Berk knows Bob and Sherri. Plus, where better to go than the Way Out Club after seeing Tom Waits?
I negotiated a group discount on the cover charge, and in we went. Side note: two weeks ago, after a drunken evening with Ashley (on the night we decided to go to Key West), I decided to get a tattoo, as I passed by Trader Bob's. Unfortunately it was 10:10 and Bob's closes at 10. Who knew of such a thing? A tattoo parlor (why do they call 'em parlors, anyway) closing at 10 pm. On a Monday night, I could maybe understand this, but on a Friday? Who gets a tattoo during the day, anyway? I digress. So, as long as I was on the block, or rather on the sidewalk in front, I decided to have a drink at the Way Out. I had to pay an 8 dollar cover. Then I bought a 4 dollar Jack and Diet. And then, feeling all out of place wearing a pastel T-shirt, carrying a Burberry plaid bag, and reading a Maeve Binchy novel, I left. I had a similar feeling at the Chuck Palahniuk reading with my pastel T-shirt, khaki skirt and Burberry bag. That night at The Way Out, I kicked myself for not bringing in a Chuck Palahniuk novel -- I had one in the car. So, like I said, I left. But not after watching the weirdest film short I'd ever seen, involving a man with a large studio apartment containing a glass cage in which a girl is go-go dancing. He lets her out of the cage and she goes a little nuts, so he puts her back in the cage where she dances endlessly. It ends with the guy covering the cage with a dark sheet. In the context of the Way Out, it made a certain kind of sense.
Back to Thursday. Kathy chatted up the bartender who I came to understand was Sherri, the owner. And then, as I stared drunkenly at the bar, I noticed a sticker that said "Dangerous Curves." My synapses fire differently when I'm toasted, apparently, because I called Sherri over and asked, "Do you double as Sherri Danger on Friday afternoons?" Who knew? (Yes, I'm sure that lots of you knew. But, I didn't. And I'm not sure how I didn't. But, whatever). And then, as more synapses began firing, I asked, "Do you ever play the Pipettes?" (I listen every Friday). She not only confirmed that she did, but complimented me on my correct pronunciation of their name (apparently, some people call them the Pipe - ettes). So, that was my second A-HA moment. (Recall that when the Pipettes showed up in my mailbox, I had no idea what had inspired me to put them in my music queue). Last night, when I related this story to Ashley, I said "I was solving mysteries all over the place!" and she drolled, "You're a regular Nancy Drew."
My bizarre film short played again, preceded by and followed by others. The video is some kind of anthology called "Real Strange Video" or something. I think Bob told me he'd make me a copy. It pays to have certain friends, I guess. If someone now would only provide me with a copy of Hide and Creep, I'd be the happiest woman alive. Which is funny if you think about it. (If you follow that link, please note that Horror movies are buy one, get one, and that Hide and Creep would bundle nicely with Shaun of the Dead.)
A month from today, Ashley and I will be getting ready to drive back up the Keys, ending our long weekend in paradise. That has nothing to do with The Way Out Club, except that coupled with a Tom Waits show, a night at The Way Out Club is sort of a paradise of its own.
Tom Waits
I'm not a reviewer, so this will be brief. Tom Waits was awesome. He played some things I didn't expect; some things I did; and didn't play a lot of things I didn't expect. But really, it wasn't really about the music. It was a culmination of 10 years of becoming a Rain Dog.
In the late 80s, I first saw Tom Waits on the David Letterman show, probably a repeat, performing "Downtown Train" -- the Rod Stewart version had recently been released and was a favorite of mine. He stayed under my radar, though, for another 10 years, when I decided one late fall afternoon in Chapel Hill that I absolutely needed to buy a Tom Waits album. I pulled The Essential off the shelf, paid Chapel Hill Phil and went home only to discover that in my haste, I'd purchased a John Waite greatest hits album instead. So much for being hip.
I tried again on my next CD shopping jaunt (which happened every other weekend, coinciding with payday week). After lunch at Mama Dips, I scooted over to Chapel Hill Phil's. I grabbed Rain Dogs because that's the one with "Downtown Train" and then asked Chapel Hill Phil to recommend a second album. He suggested Swordfishtrombones, and after the John Waites debacle, who was I to question. I took them home; popped them in the Aiwa, opened a beer, sat out on the porch which over looked the creek, behind which I could make out the Budweiser distributorship (which always assuaged my homesickness and settled in).
The first thing I realized: I was not hip enough for Tom Waits. The CDs were promptly shelved and forgotten until SmartBrian Redux the following January. I knew that Brian was a fan and I shared my dismay with him. I even told him that I loved Shawn Colvin's cover of "Heart of Saturday Night" but couldn't imagine Tom Waits singing this song. After trivia and dinner, I went back to SmartBri's, ostensibly to listen to the Tom Waits version. Which we did, but ultimately this led to the end of a year and a half of self-imposed celibacy.
Tom Waits now had a special place in my heart. I bought some Tom Waits training wheels in the form of Closing Time and Heart of Saturday Night. Later that year, Mule Variations was released. I bought it, of course, and it played continuously in my car. It was in my car, in fact, the weekend I drove up to Berwyn, IL to see Steve Forbert at Fitzgerald's. I had plans to stay the night with my friend Bill who lived in Willowbrook, and driving through Berwyn on my way to the Expressway, listening to Mule Variations, I finally, finally GOT IT. I was hip enough for Tom Waits, I was. I'd just driven alone to an area of Chicago I'd never been, met up with people I'd only known through discussion boards and email, and now I was driving through a strange part of town in the middle of the night. It all made sense.
From that point on, I waited and waited and waited for an opportunity to see Tom Waits live.
So, imagine my chagrin, when a half hour before the show began, Bob Matonis* sits in the seat directly in front of mine. I looked at Berk and the guy sitting next to her. I'd just uttered mere moments before "I hate the Bob Matonis."
"You have to be fucking kidding me," I said.
I poked Bob on the shoulder. "Bob," I warned, "If you dare stand up in front of me and do your stupid dancing thing, I will KICK. YOUR. ASS. And, I'm not even fucking kidding. You will not ruin this show for me."
He said, "You must not be familiar with the Bob Matonis etiquette."
"That must be like military intelligence."
He ignored me, and explained that at shows like this (where, I guess, there are seats) he stays seated and "grooves to himself." But, he warned me, if people in front of him are standing then he will stand and at that point all bets are off.
For the most part, he was well behaved. During the encore, he stood, just as he said he would and began to do the lateral version of the Bob special. Fortunately, my view wasn't hindered (although, I did find it distracting). However, the poor girl to his left nearly missed several elbows to her face. I poked him again. "Dude, you really need to get out of her personal space." And I poked him again for good measure.
The End.
*You can figure this one out. I refuse to be a hit on a google search for his better known name.
Next up: The Aftershow Show
