|b l o g|
Having spent seven-&-a-half years half (my other half) inside a television has its 'benefits.' Thus: I find out that former high school classmate Austin Scarlett is on Bravo's Project Runway. And looks like he might bloody well win it if his first three performances (including the winner made of cornhusks) are any indication. (I refuse to speculate on why he's shown crying in the preview for the next episode.) Amy, materterally, says, 'he was always very talented.' And her friend [correction: no, it was someone else] went to the prom with him in a dress he designed. Well, he designed her dress & his dress. Feedback: he looks like (if this is possible) a 'feyer junior Kressley brother' & 'there hasn't been a man in lipgloss that gave me such tingles since Nick Rhodes of Duran Duran.'
If you want to hear awful things instead, the Guardian will fill you up.
I'm afraid this is destined to be another post typed through a fit of quivering. I watched a history of Monaco on History International (best digital channel) last night. Monaco, it should be noted, is one of my favorite places to walk 2.092 miles aimlessly in 100 degree weather. This Franco-Italian condo-park, of course, is a state half the size of Central Park, known for people throwing themselves out of windows for gambling debts & others catching fire near the harborfront in motor-racing accidents. According to the television: the history of the Principality began with the completion of the restaurant-bordello-casino at the Hotel de Paris in 1864 & ended with film star Grace Kelly dying in a state funeral in 1982. In between, Aristotle Onassis was there, fine wines were saved from Krauts, & there was even a bloody opera house (great in the winter, and between La Scala & Paris), but there was NOT ONE SHRED OF MOTOR-RACING. Rallies have never finished there. Grands Prix have not left evidence in the form of full-sized bronze statues of Championship-winning McLarens & Mercedes in public squares, nor of a flower-bedecked driver named Juan Manuel Fangio, nor is every third retailer near the water (demarcated by permanent red-white racing curbing; and the whole country is 'near the water') a grubber of racing dollars/euros. The populace of 32,000 (half a Clifton) is . . . LORD JESUS! The show on Nice & Cannes didn't omit to mention the film festival. Sincerely: Happy Christmas!
Ho ho. I'm enjoying some fruitcake right now. Laugh away.
Two cross-lingual realizations today: 1) the Feisty Lemur of email@example.com (see entry below) could be Feisty Le Mur, an unbreakable French gangster, & 2) in that episode of Everybody Loves Raymond where a gibbering (French African, evidently) shopkeeper accuses a hood of sneaking something into his 'posh-posh,' he's clearly talking about a 'poche.'
Another realization: an article on Secaucus makes me queasy.
I'll estimate that in the past two months I've gotten twenty calls from this number, belonging to some one-percenter group of crack-licking telemarketers in the Tampa area. I understand this must be because my number is online, for the convenience of friends & publishers. I'd tell the good folks of Nameless Co. to stop calling, but in nineteen of the instances the caller was a machine or I didn't pick up (and I don't now, of course), &, the one time the caller was a desperate woman, I was going to have a proper dinner & I brushed her off with the usual excuses & threats ('I don't need free gas coupons'; 'Sorry, I'm bound & gagged right now'; 'I'll kill your entire family'). When, filled with l'esprit d'escalier, I call back to tell them 'what's up,' I get an unresponsive recording offering me a foolish chance to be taken off their list of prospective lucky folks given the opportunity of taking advantage of 'many cost-saving programs.' Just enter your number, Erik. Unfortunately, my phone number, successful recipient of a score of unwanted, undue, unloved, unmanned, unethical, unearthly spam calls, is an 'INVALID ENTRY.' (Oh, & yes, I do know the trick: enter your invalid number at least three times & it is finally acknowledged, & you'll be off the list 'within the next twenty-four hours.' Except this doesn't work. IT IS SIMPLY ANOTHER BLOODY LIE.) In text, with some substitutions, this is an example of what goes through my head in such moments:
727 471 0405
1 727 471 0405
1 (727) 471-0405
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Lambsblood, shithate, horrortwat, mungfuck, double cunt, rotted pustulence of all the syphilitic, mongoloid forefathers of Tampa Bay, O venom! Holy God above, do something glorious & awful!
I'm hoping that my listing in the National Do Not Call Registry will do something about this.
Choose your own adventure:
1. Pass Jai Rodriguez on 10th Ave.
2. Find Samantha Hancock & Josh Goldfond.
3. Get a call from David Icaraf.
I know which is best.
Until tomorrow, I'm living in a foodless wasteland. For the past few days I've been eating at any stooled or even seatless foodery that would have me. I'd been wondering for a while whether Massimo's, the successor to Pizza (Impotent) Colore, at Nassau and Tulane, was any good. (Also, I have boundless admiration for Slice, & want to do the world of pizzaphiles some good.) Is there any difference? The verdict on a plain pie, straight from the oven (gas, it seems).
There is a difference. I reckon it's slightly worse. I liked the generous spread of slightly sour, pleasantly tomato-acidic sauce. But the cheese was bland (a bit saltier, lads) & too greasy as well (& at the same time overpowered by the sauce), & this makes for a soggy-topped slice.
The crust was the weakest component of the pie (& this is always the big liability, isn't it?). Too thick, too hard, too Ellio's. There is a fine layer of squishy dough near the surface, & I wonder what would happen if the crust (assume better ingredients, too) were half as thick & cooked for a quarter as long, say, in an oven (brick? with coals?) three times hotter.
Now we are bloody talking, aren't we?
1. A piece of mail. From a bank:
88 College Road West
Prinston, NY 08544
2. (What used to be) local news: Mine Area finally looking up (first item). 'Police could not say Monday what prompted a post-Thanksgiving Day melee that saw 200 people pour out into Van Dunk Lane . . .'
A week after Ralf Schumacher withdrew his investment from a Slovenian sex chain, Stirling Moss has come out as a public proponent for the tumescent Levitra (this link being to increase my traffic a thousandfold), & indeed will front a publicity campaign for GlaxoSmithKline. 'The way I look at it is, if you had a headache you would take an aspirin, so if you can't get an erection why not take a treatment?' Indeed, Sir. 'I first had problems getting it [my penis] up after my accident at Goodwood in 1962.' Note: Goodwood is a real place, most famous for a motorsports festival, not one made up because the name conjures the horn. 'At that time a very nice nurse called Christine helped me to sort the problem naturally.' Note: naturally. 'I just think it is nice to be able to do something to help people who might not otherwise seek medical advice [massage parlors].' Why he's not trying the nurse treatment again I don't know.
Also: some people having suggested that I create more inanity at erikkennedy.com, there is more. And there shall be more.
Also: MacBlog (even the term is now incoherent) rankings should never come back.
As some of my reader/s may be aware, I've been looking at real estate listings (some good examples) quite a lot lately, and I've become enamored by the orgy of strange possibilities listings suggest (let's live in Sunset Park! no, Gowanus! no, under that tangle of highways!) & the more or less stupid language of the business. I was more than a little delighted, then, to come across this flyer on a post on Nassau St. I have it with me: 'STUNNING 1BR DOWNTOWN!' Fantastic! Let's go on. 'Princeton.' Oh. 'Located right downtown.' Hmm. 'Very close to Record Exchange and Annex Bar.' This is ridiculous, but there isn't much else to say. And no matter where this place is, this is true. 'Rent $1025 per month, but well worth it,' gentle stranger. Live on South Tulane St! For only a grand a month, the lures of the Annex & Record Exchange can be yours! Drink Sam Adams! Buy records from surly people! 'Contact: firstname.lastname@example.org.'
Dietrich Mateschitz, Red Bull boss, on David Coulthard: 'I believe that he's not only a good-looking driver, but also a great racer.' This is some comprehensive assessment here.