Candieland

To everyone looking for a Christmas Wii...

2007-12-15T11:37:00.001-08:00

..I would like to say "nyah nyah nyah."

I heard they were hard to find, so last summer I called around until I found a Wii at a Wal-Mart in Lancaster. I gave it to my daughter then, figuring she can buy herself more games with her Christmas money.

If you need me, I'll be wearing my coconut bra and sipping rum out of a hollowed pineapple in my jacuzzi, laughing at how smart I am. Only crying on the inside because I look terrible in coconut, rum gives me a headache, and I'm really just sitting in a dirty bathtub and the water is making me pruney.

Oh my god, they did WHAT???

2007-12-15T11:36:00.001-08:00

When I listen to people bitch about petty shit, I can't help but feel a little envious.

I wish my life was so simple and uncomplicated that I could get worked up because somebody got my order wrong, instead of being too preoccupied to care since it doesn't really matter, in the grand scheme of things. I know someone who will share a blow-by-blow account that I pay attention to, at first, only because it MUST have an interesting pay off because otherwise why would she bother frothing at the mouth, only to learn that the person I'm listening to obviously has no concept of what an actual problem is.

Good for her.

I hope we can all achieve a life that is so perfect that a misplaced candy bar is the end of the world, because surely that will mean the end of poverty, war, murder, and unkindness in general.

Meh. Christmas

2007-12-15T11:34:00.000-08:00

I didn't grow up celebrating Christmas, but, for the past nine years, I have been living with a guy who gets into it, so I went along, and had fun. Now that I'm on my own again, I just don't care. Maybe it's because I'm getting divorced and this is my first solo holiday in many years, or maybe it's because I'm reverting back to my pre-Steve state in many other ways as well, but I really have no desire to go through all the holiday shopping bullshit.

I haven't put up the tree, gone shopping, made cookies, or cut a single snow flake. I don't miss it. I asked my daughter if I should put up the tree and her response was, "Why? It's just a stupid tree." That's my girl. This year, she gets money. I think trees should be outdoors where they are happy. I used a fake tree when I was with Steve because I don't like the idea of bringing a living thing into my house, decorating it, then watching it die. Where is the dignity in that?

My life is very busy and interesting right now and I just don't feel like I have time for all of this holiday hoohaw. Was I only amusing myself with the Christmas preparations in the past because I was looking for something different to lift me from my ennui?

I have no sentimental attachment to Christmas whatsoever. I was taught at a young age that Christmas was a pagan holiday made over by Christianity (look it up, you can find the info in any encyclopedia) and, not being into lies, I never allowed an image of Santa Claus or Jesus ("Praise Jeebus!") into my house, and I just viewed it all as a cultural holiday. Not that Jesus is a lie, it's just there is no way he could have been born in the winter, and what does a Christmas tree and mistletoe and the Yule log and Holly berries (cough*pagan*cough) have to do with his birthday anyway?

Honestly, I don't care. I think Christmas is nice, people can act nice and do sometimes do nice things this time of year, and holidays can ease the winter doldurms. Let's not forget all of the Christmas parties. I'm not going to get into the rude behavior at the malls, because I think that would happen any time there are a lot of stressed out people condensed into one spot. I'll not explore how depressed some people get around the holidays, either.

Let's just think about the fun that Christmas can provide. If people want to have fun, then, by all means, have fun! I just get my dander up at the self-righteous hypocrisy that pops up every now and then, people mindlessly parroting phrases and going through the rituals with no thought to the meaning, and no self-examination. How can people go through their lives, automatically following tradition, without thinking? That always baffles me. And lying to their kids, ensuring the irrational behavior for future generations. Maybe people do it for the security. I don't know. Now and then if I tell someone I'm not into Christmas, I'll get a quivering lip and a teary eye, "B-b-but, it's Jesus's birthday!" Those people scare me. They are the ones who have the idea that celebrating Christmas equals being a good person that if you don't celebrate Christmas, then you must be bad.

There is the argument that, who cares about the origins of Christmas, as long as people are spending a day to celebrate Jesus? That quickly goes down the pooper when you consider the marketing, stress, billions of dollars, and commercialism. Not too many people are really thinking about Jesus through all of this. The ones who are thinking about Jesus in the middle of all of these distractions don't need Christmas to do it because they are probably thinking about Jesus every day anyway.

I wonder how many people would give up Christmas if they could do so without being pestered?

I enjoy observing the Christmas celebrations, but am very relieved that I don't feel pressured to participate this year. I love you, but don't expect a present. If you want to come over on the 21st for a Yule ritual in my back yard, drop me a line. I figure, if we're going to go pagan, why not go pagan, but let's not drag a Bible guy into it.

Unmet Expectations

2007-02-03T20:00:00.001-08:00

How often are you disappointed by something that is actually bad, or is it just that it didn't meet your expectations?

That happens a lot when you're a kid, before you learn about the world of marketing. You expect to be as happy as the kid on the commercial, all you need is that toy. Once you get it, you realize it doesn't come with a producer and an animator and a set designer and a soundtrack and really it's just a sucky piece of plastic and no, it doesn't make you happy.

The first time I vividly remember experiencing unmet expectations was when Crocodile Dundee came out in 1986. Everyone I knew was going on about what an amazingly hilarious movie it was and talked about it endlessly. By the time I saw it, I had this movie so built up in my head that I was let down. That is what everyone was going on about? I've since learned my lesson and make an effort not to saturate myself with a movie before I see it.

Can the same thing go in other parts of your life, such as relationships? I've found that people can build up expectations about others that always end in disappointment. The fewer expectations you have, the better, really. Okay, some expectations are good, little nuggets like, don't hit me, don't have sex with my friends, don't fart at the dinnertable, but then again, those are more like hard-and-fast-rules.

Some people go into relationships with huge expectations. They are usually easy to spot because they come off as a little needy and seem a little too "bonded" early on, when they are in that dizzying state of belief that their expectations have FINALLY been met. I had a boyfriend who always finished my sentences for me and then agreed with me before I even had a chance to say anything. He had built me up as the perfect girlfriend and so desperately wanted someone he could see eye-to-eye with, that he assumed naturally everything I said would be in perfect congruence with everything that he felt. I should have been wary when he told me he was in love with me on our second date. One morning he stomped out of my house in a huff because I said "Hi" instead of "Good morning." A simple hi did not fit into his expectations and he was bitterly disappointed.

A few years ago I met a nice woman who immediately started calling me her best friend. She often agreed with whatever I said, not even waiting for me to finish speaking, so she didn't really know what she was agreeing with anyway. This made me feel uncomfortable, because NO ONE should agree with whatever I say; not only do I talk out the side of my ass a lot, I also like to play Devil's Advocate, and I'm often just plain old wrong. I look at voicing a statement as a way of starting a conversation, not as laying down the rules.

I could see many times when I wasn't meeting her expectations as Best Friend. She would show irritation by turning bright red and shaking her foot and insisting that nothing was wrong. Once I invited a group of friends over on Saturday night and she said she would be there but didn't show up. The next day, when I called to see if she was okay, she told me that she told her husband, "If Candie really wanted me there, she would have called me last night." She built up that expectation on some rule that I wasn't even aware of.

Eventually, I was blind-sided by an angry phone call while I was shopping, and judging by the things she said, and continued to say over and over, you would think that I had slept with her husband, not made a change of plans. She had a sense of entitlement over my time, activities, and friends that frightened me. Later, when I reread an old email and finally discovered where the misunderstanding arose, I didn't bother explaining. What was the point? I had felt a huge sense of relief from being emotionally freed that I didn't see the need to go back to walking on eggshells again. It's better that she demonizes me and finds reasons to validate telling me she never wants to see me again, because, let me tell you, I will never meet her expectations as a friend.

We've all heard different people voicing disappointment over meeting a celebrity, and I sure know where that one is coming from. You see this person playing characters in movies, wearing glamorous clothes in magazines, making pithy statements on TV interviews, and then when you see them in their sweats standing in line at Del Taco it's a completely different picture. When you see how short your favorite stud muffin is or your favorite hot babe looks like when she's not taped and painted, your expectations don't just go unmet, they get thrown in the dirt and stomped on.

I've learned to never go out on a limb in recommending a restaurant. My favorite restaurants aren't just about the food, part of it is the wonderful experiences I've had there, the memories, the associations I hold to that particular spot. If I send a friend there telling her about this amazing wonderful delightful perfect enchanting restaurant, of course she is going to hate it. Not because it's bad, but because I built it up so much that they could only be disappointed. On top of that, they could go on a bad day, they could get a bad waiter, they could have different point of view of what amazing wonderful delightful perfect enchanting is, or they could just really hate feta cheese.

One restaurant that left my expectations unmet was The Olive Garden. People love that place, but why? I'm pretty sure if you went in the kitchen you would find an assembly line of "chefs" heating up TV dinners and sliding them onto plates.

I was 19 the first time I went to Disneyland, and boy was I disappointed. It was small, and I don't know, somehow less than what I imagined. Not as shiny. Too much plywood. After seeing this fabulous place on TV for my entire life, how could my expectations have been met? Eventually I got over it and look forward to my trips, but that's only after having some fun times to grow on.

Then there is meeting people from online. When I was dating, I would give an honest description of myself starting with, "I'm 5'8", long blonde hair..." and I'm certain some guys would immediately get an image of Pamela Anderson in their head. I could tell them I had a wart on my nose and they wouldn't even see that part. On a good day, I'm about as pretty as Owen Wilson in drag, so what can I say? Don't look at me, man, I didn't say I'm Pamela, you did that to yourself yourself.

We hear people say, "It was good, but just not what I was expecting." We sound like a nation of control freaks, like we have to exert our own power over the activities and appearance of other people, and if they don't fit our mental picture, we get pissed off. Don't look to another person to fulfill your need, because if you can't do it for yourself, no one can do it for you. Wouldn't we all be happy if, instead of trying to mash other people into our preconceived mold, sentencing them to doom, we suspended judgement and let people be who they really are? Fewer people would get discarded and, if you let the world be as it really is, you are in for a lot happy surprises, not bad ones.

In Essence

2006-12-13T02:11:00.000-08:00

A long time ago, a teacher told me that every time we breath, we are inhaling a molecule that had previously been exhaled by every person who has ever lived on Earth. We are inhaling Shakespeare, Hitler, Jesus, Doris Day, Jim Morrison -- anyone you can think of -- every few seconds. It's really fun to think about this when I'm in the presence of a celebrity I love. After two nights of Live concerts, Kat and I kept exclaiming, "We breathed air with Ed!" Once, an actor who was in not one but TWO movies with Tommy Lee Jones, kissed me (in a social-setting kind of way) and I'm still going on about it. A guy who breathed air with Tommy Lee Jones KISSED ME

I guess it would also stand to reason that we are drinking water passed from person to person as well. Water isn't created or destroyed, it just flows around the world in the form of rivers, oceans, rain, clouds, coffee, sits in bottles at 7-11 and pours out of our tap and swirls around in our toilets. If we're going by the whole inhaling-others-molecules-thing, it would make sense that every drop of water we are drinking was at some point inside someone else's body. You could be sipping recycled dinosaur piss as you read this.

How much of other people are we really absorbing? We know that dust is made up of mostly dead skin, think of how much of that gets breathed in every day. It probably falls in our food and we eat it. Not to mention sweat, sneezed-out-nose-droplets, skin oil, and hair. I saw a dentist, just once, who had a skin problem; his face was red and coverd with giant yellowing flakes. I thought about this as I was laying back in the chair with my mouth open, praying that a piece of his face wouldn't fall off and land in my mouth.

We have all heard about how every time you have sex with someone, you are, in essence, having sex with everyone they have ever had sex with. And everyone they have ever had sex with, and so on, and so on. Think of the Breck Girl commercials from the 70s and you get the basic idea. And I guess it's feasible, if you think about the microscope people-fragments that get left around all the time. So, if takes the human body seven years to regenerate its cells, you could have bits of millions of people floating around inside of you.

My friends and I used to play the "in essence" game, which is just another form of You've Got Cooties. Since Frieda kissed Nathan, and Nathan kissed Julie, in essence, Frieda has kissed Julie. We would keep going until it got really gross. Like the time that Ted took in a stray dog that had been hanging out in his yard.

"I let the dog sleep with me because it was cold, right?" He said as he sipped his beer over a game of darts. "I wake up in the middle of the night and he's licking my balls," and when everyone went "eeewww!" he added, "Don't worry, I made him stop, I wasn't sure if he bites."

While we were all wondering how far it would have gone if Ted had been sure the dog didn't bite, Nathan pointed out that Ted's dog had licked me on the mouth earlier that day. So, in essence...

"SHUT UP!" Having an ill-mannered dog jump up on me and lick my face is one thing; implying that, in essence, I had Tedsticle on my lips was quite another. We quit playing that game that night and many of us distanced ourselves from Ted.

Dogs are interesting creatures, they are too curious to worry about germs and DNA. A dog will drink out of the toilet, not even concerned with actual pee, much less imagined dinosaur excrement. They lick their own balls, no in essence about it; they'll lick their friend's balls, and in the case of Ted's dog, they will lick an strange man's balls. If they want to get to know you, they just take a sniff of your crotch and BINGO you have a new pal.

My dad learned this the hard way when he got out of the shower and realized he didn't have any clean underwear. My parents live up in the mountains, and with no close neighbors to worry about, Dad nonchalantly walked out into the back yard to yank a pair of boxers off the clothesline. It was then that a dog from up the road wandered onto the property and came back to introduce himself to my father.

Between shakes of laughter, my mom told me that my dad's screams of "Get back!" caused her to look out the back window. Dad was running around the back yard, flicking his underpants at a nice, sociable German Shepherd. The dog got in his final cold goose as Dad flew up the steps to the back porch.

I've come to learn that nudity and pets just don't mix. My parents live alone with a couple of dogs that stay outdoors. They have spent their entire lives outdside, running the property and hanging out in their house with automatic feeder/waterer, and you cannot force either dog indoors. I know this because sometimes, when it's late at night and kind of spooky, I try to get Gordo to come in the house and watch movies with us and he just stands on the porch and wags his tail, not putting one giant paw across the threshold.

The other night my mom opened the back door to let out some of the stifling heat -- there is no thermostat on the wood stove and the house sometimes heats up quickly-- and to listen to the relaxing patter of the rain. Gordo came flying into the house, soaking wet, only stopping for a brief hello. Mom was fairly surprised but went back to listening to the rain and watching the outline of the trees against the lightning. A few minutes later she heard my dad scream. Dad had been asleep in bed, too hot to get under the covers, in fact too hot to wear clothes. Gordo wandered into the dark bedroom to say hi to Dad by giving him a lick on the butt. At first, for some reason I didn't ask about, my dad thought it was my mom. What else could it be? It's not like the dogs ever come in the house. Well, imagine his surprise.

My own dog, Snake, is very jealous when anyone gets affectionate around him. If I hug my daughter, Snake jumps up on his hind legs and barks at us. More than once, when Steve leans over to kiss me, I'll have a confused moment until I realize that Snake has suddenly jumped up to lick my ear. I push Snake away and think, in essence, a molecule of everything that Snake has ever had in his mouth is now in my ear. I get up to find the peroxide when I make the decision: Gordo is never licking my face again.

hang on, let me write that down...

2006-11-20T10:51:00.000-08:00

I think Steve and I got married because we both write down things we just did, then cross them off, making a retroactive list as we go along. It gives us a sense of accomplishment, with none of that nagging guilt of writing something down that never gets crossed off.

There are few mundane activities quite so celebrated as The Making of the List. We don't always just write on whatever, we actually buy list paper to keep track of stuff we gotta buy and things we gotta do.

When Steve goes to the store without me, there's no worry involved because I share the blame when I make the list. The other day I added "shiitake mushrooms" to his grocery list, but before he left the house he came back to me to clarify.

"I know what a SPIT take is, but what exactly is a--"

"Remember that time that Snake chewed the cord to the fan?"

"Oh."

Not all of shopping lists are for the grocery store, we always have Target and a Trader Joe's lists going too, and then combine them all on one big list with subcategories for easier shopping. I regularly go to the hardware store, the fabric district downtown, and the art supply store so my lists sometimes look a little funky. Before I left to a go on a splurge fest, Steve asked me what I was after so I read my Master List out loud:

Self-leveling acrylic medium
Sanford 314
Copper tape
2 x 4s
solder wire
eye pins
alginate
Dupioni (root beer or green)
Liquid latex
sandpaper
rope
Vaseline
Rubber gloves

Steve looked concerned for a moment, then excited, then puzzled, until his face finally settled on serious.

"No dear, you are supposed to make your own list, not to pick up someone else's list you find on the ground."

Smart ass.

Every now and then I find one of Steve's lists and am equally perplexed. Why did he write:

Imposters
The Thing
Goldfinger
Top Secret
Die Hard
The Thing
Rope
American Graffiti?

Why do these particular movies belong on a list together? I know it's not his Christmas list because we already have them all. What is the common link? Why is The Thing on there twice? Is one of them the original The Thing and one is the later John Carpenter version? Then why are they not differentiated by dates or directors? How does he know which is which? What if these aren't the titles of movies at all but a list of chores he wanted to accomplish over the weekend? Good thing I've got my rubber gloves.

Often I wake up with lists and other little nuggets written on scraps of paper next to the bed, sometimes in my handwriting and sometimes in Steve's. I have a nice piece of paper with duckies all over it and scrawled in Steve's handwriting: "Featherduster." Steve said I asked him to write it down for me at 3am, but I don't remember doing that.

I do believe him: he has been taking my sleep-talking dictation for years. On January 2nd of 1999 at 6:47am I said, "You take airplanes and twist them into balloon animals. I want a doggie with the people still in it." I know this because Steve carefully recorded it for me on the back of an envelope. Since that day, I've tried several times to explain to him what I meant, but he still doesn't get it. Another morning, I told our cat, Jones, who had lost the use of one eye to cancer, "If you shaved your head, you would look just like a one-eyed Kojak."

Not everything comes from just sleep talking, drinking is also a good way to come across that "WTF was I thinking?" paper the next day. A few years ago, on Thanksgiving, my parents, Steve, and Cathy and I shared a suite in Vegas. Steve and I went to bed early, as is our habit (even in Vegas we're old) but my mom and Cathy stayed in the Casino until late into the night. I woke up sometime in the morning when my mom came bursting into our room, "QUICK! HELP ME FIND A PIECE OF PAPER! Cathy kept saying the funniest stuff and I have to write it down!" Mom tore the room apart until she found the obligatory notepad and pen next to the phone and furiously wrote for about three minutes.

The next day at lunch, as Cathy and Mom sat there holding their heads and gulping coffee, I asked my mom what was so gosh-darn funny that she had to write it down in the middle of the night.

"Oh yeah! Let me find that." She was already laughing as she started excitedly digging through her purse to find the papers from the night before. After glancing over them, she turned them over and looked on the back, her brows furrowed.

"That wasn't really all that funny," she said and threw them back in her purse.

Sometimes I get story ideas that I jot down on the nearest available paper, only to have no idea what it means later. Recently, an old yellow piece of paper surfaced on my desk:

V8
Tampons
2 electric toothbrushes
Brain transplant organic material for old "self" to absorb into

I might have brain transplants figured out, but it would take too long to explain. It has nothing to do with the two electric toothbrushes, that was a separate thought.

My friend Jennie sent me a book called "Found" for Christmas last year. Found is a really fun collection of just such things: lists and letters that people have found and sent in to be published. Everything is in its original form so you can appreciate the medium used, handwriting, and doodles. It's a completely fascinating read because it raises so many questions and gives you a scary look into the lives of our fellow Earthlings.

Scraps of paper everywhere, and I can't throw one of them away, because what if some day I can use them to crack the code? I don't know what code, but I'm sure I have it written down here somewhere.

Guide to spunky pop 80's music videos

2006-11-13T18:35:00.000-08:00

I remember being able to read a Mad magazine and watch music videos at the same time, my eyes could just dart back and forth to the pages on my lap and the images on the screen. Now it takes about 30 seconds for my eyes to focus from something close to something faraway, so darting is out of the question. Today I couldn't even see the little tiny cartoons drawn in the margins of the Mad from 1989 I found with my stuff in the garage. Even more frightening, what am I doing watching VH-1?

I remember when I wouldn't have been caught dead watching VH-1, yet, here I am, soaking in all of the old videos that I used to live for. I quit watching Music Television when they stopped showing music, I think I got out right about the same time Real World showed up. Oh well, if it wasn't for the MTV Music Famine of the 90s, I wouldn't have the same appreciation for the Golden Age of Music Videos today.

In the 80s, we would watch MTV about 18 hours a day, which gave us plenty to talk about at school. I was one of the few girls in my 8th grade class who wasn't in love with Prince, and yet they had the nerve to rib me about liking Culture Club. I ask you now, why are Eddie Izzard and Boy George considered transvestites and Prince is not?

Over the past 25 or so years of watching 80s music videos, I've noticed a few things some of the most popular videos had in common. I can't believe none of the people on the old nostalgia flashback shows have mentioned these important video elements, maybe they are too busy blowing smoke and making intelligent, pithy comments like, "It is a timeless classic, even now."

The essentials of a popular 80s music video:

1. Special effects. You may not recognize the cutouts, mirrored screens, the camera zooms, stop motion, and starlight lens filters as special effects, but, c'mon, it was all we had back then. The face-morphing in "Cry" was absolutely the cutting edge.

2. A segment showing the Rock Star hanging with regular folks. This is the part of the video where our Rock Star gets to show his down-to-earth side. Laughing and smiling, the amused Rock Star is clapping and swaying with people just like you and me that unwittingly wandered onto the set, who just happen to be professional dancers. Singing with a group featuring children and/or minorities gets you extra points. Tears For Fears suddenly seems so approachable.

3. A segment showing the Rock Star as a regular folk. Sometimes, our Rock Star would just show himself in every day situations, like fondling models, standing back stage while waiting to perform to a stadium of screaming fans, and and looking perplexed while driving a Ferrari, usually filmed in black-and-white, and then cut back to himself in a studio, singing a narration to his own troubled life. Or he might be working as a welder wearing designer jeans and sporting a $500 haircut and eyeliner, then suddenly bursts into song as he's walking down the street. See? Axl Rose has the same woes as you and me. We share your pain.

4. A touching/ackward/vulnerable moment. Peter Garrett's sheepish grin, or any time Phil Collins tried to dance, is a good example of the Rock Star's expression of raw humanity. Even when it's obvious that our Rock Star obviously spends 40 hours a week practicing expressions in front of the mirror.

5. The band performing. No matter what story arc, there have to be some intercuts of the band just playing their instruments, showing that they are still just musicians. Even if they are casually playing on the top of a mountain or in the middle of the desert. They're still just musicians.

6. Boobs

Did sombody sit down and write out this formula? Or did it evolve over time? Were there copycats or was it some sort of Campbellian cosmic consciousness thing?

My husband and shirt on Showtime!

2006-11-08T19:43:00.000-08:00

Steve was interviewed for Showtime talking about the Wilhelm Scream AND he was wearing a shirt I made for him. Just think, if I never got tired of his movie stories he never would have created that site and got on TV...so really, this is allllll Candie. :)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_PxALy22utc

This Wilhelm Scream documentary is on Showtime Video on Demand in the Masters of Horror section until December 31. You know, if you want to see it all big and clear.

Battle of the Cupcake All-Stars

2006-10-14T13:01:00.000-07:00

I know this is a really stupid use of time and money for someone who is allergic to wheat, but my daughter's birthday is coming up, and we wanted to have cupcakes rather than deal with cutting and serving a cake. I'm not really familiar with any of the bakeries in town, so I thought we should drive around and do a little taste test.

The only bakery I could think of off the top of my head was Martinos, which is near the corner of Magnolia and Victory, next door to the Valero, here in Burbank. I've never been in there before but my daughter had visited once with her Girl Scout troop when Martinos was over on Olive.

We bought two cupcakes for eighty cents each. One was vanilla with chocolate frosting and one was vanilla with lemon icing and cute little sprinkles. They had a lot of different pastries to chose from, and coffee and drinks and gelato and places to sit and scarf.

Next, we went to Yummy Cupcakes on Magnolia. I had never been in there either but I've noticed them before since they are next door to the Yoga place that I keep thinking about going to.

Yummy Cupcakes looked like a factory assembly line inside. Lots of employees dashing around, mixers going, concrete everything, and a display line of cupcakes behind glass. They had pumpkin seed cupcakes and black forrest cupcakes and all kinds of fancy flavors, and you could buy a spoon of frosting for fifty cents and they were selling tubes of sprinkles but I didn't see how much they were. I was a little surprised because I was expecting a little more effort in the decoration department, not cheesey piped clam shells or anything, but maybe some fondant shapes or something.

Since Yummy Cupcakes was so bare-bones and sold nothing but fairly plain-looking cupcakes, I figured, well, they're not doing anything else so they must really be focusing on making awesome-tasting cupcakes. I bought a red velvet cupcake with cream cheese frosting and a vanilla cupcake with plain green frosting for $2.50 each. I thought that was a little steep for a cupcake, but I don't mind paying for something that tastes good, so I gave them five bucks and left.

Next we went to Cindy's dad's house and the four of us cut the cupcakes into fourths and all tasted each flavor together, discussing the merits of each as we went along.

I rarely eat sugar, so sweets usually just knock me off my ass when I taste them. Sadly, the Yummy Cupcakes would have disappointed me even if they were free. The cream cheese frosting was good, otherwise the cake was bland and dry. The regular frosting was just regular frosting, there was nothing wonderful and magical about it that made it worth a dollar, much less two dollars and fifty cents for one freakin' cupcake.

The Martinos bakery cupcakes were CUPCAKES. The cake was especially good, very moist with a nice texture, not crumby at all. Not that a little crumb would have been bad, but they were so happy being cupcakes that all of the cupcake molecules wanted to stay together.

Almost anyone can make a chocolate cupcake taste good, but if you can make a really good vanilla cupcake, then, well, you are a GOD. I'm not just talking out the side of my ass, I'm a supertaster and vanilla flavoring is something that I'm especially sensitive to.

If you're not familiar with supertasters, our tongues are about as sensitive as a dog's nose. I taste the way a dog smells. No, that doesn't sound right. I mean, I can taste things that are outside the range of the normal human taste bud. I'm not making this up, you can look it up in an encyclopedia or, I don't know, the Internet or something. I cannot stand Hagen Dazs ice cream because it has a horrible chemical taste, brussels sprouts make me weep with pain when they touch my tongue, and coffee is unbearably bitter unless you dump so much sweetener in it that it's not coffee anymore.

So, if you like a good moist cupcake, go to Martinos. I think Yummy Cupcakes is cruel, serving mummified cupcakes without even a decent drink to wash it down.

This isn't over yet, however, I'm going to have to try other cupcakes around LA now, I want to see if overpriced crapcakes are the norm, if for no other reason, I want to see how long Yummy Cupcakes could possibly stay in business.

What's with the backpack ads?

2006-10-08T23:09:00.000-07:00

The same thing happened on my message board!

The Googlebot picked up my last name, Kelty, and decided to post ads for backpacks on my site!

In case you didn't know, the name Kelty is famous for backpacks. This is what I nabbed from the Kelty Backpack site:

In 1952, Dick Kelty, a carpenter, builder, and avid outdoorsman, started making backpacks for his friends in the Sierra Club for 24 bucks a pop. His friends were grateful. These 24-dollar packs revolutionized backpacking, implementing for the first time Kelty's ideas of a hipbelt and lighter aluminum frames. Soon, Kelty and his friends were exploring the Sierra Nevadas with heavy loads, no shoulder pain, going farther, longer, and happier into the wilderness than ever before.

Five years later, Dick Kelty quit his carpentry business to start an outdoor gear company. Staked out in an old garage, he welded aluminum tubes into frames while his wife, Nena, cut, sewed, and fitted the pack bags. Today, Kelty gear promises the same dedication to innovation and getting outdoors that Dick Kelty had forty-eight years ago.

Kelty started as a company making it easier for friends to enjoy the wilderness, and that's what we still do. We just have a few more friends.

About ten years ago, my dad and Dick Kelty were staying at the same hotel in Palm Springs. Neither one of them knew this until Dick was checking out, and the clerk told him that there was another Kelty staying in the hotel. It's not a name you hear all the time, so Dick left his business card with the clerk and asked him to give it to my dad.

Eventually, Dick wound up sending us a great deal of geneological research that his daughter had done. We found no direct relation, but according to a book I read at a Scottish store in Solvang, Kelty was a family name rather than a clan name, so technically, all Keltys are related if you go back far enough. Like, if you go back far enough, we are ALL related to Mitochondrial Eve. It was still interesting reading all of the Kelty research. By the way, Dick Kelty died in Glendale a few years ago.

All I really know about the direct Kelty side of my family is that Grandpa Kelty would talk about his grandpa who came into the United States through Massachusets with his brother. That, and Ginger Rogers is his cousin. That would explain the tap dancing.

So, there you go, the Googlebot picked up my last name and is now trying to sell you backpacks. Next, maybe it will be Candie's shoes?

fashion

2006-10-08T22:50:00.000-07:00

(from my site, May 5, 2005)

I'm getting dressed to go meet Rain for coffee. I don't actuallly drink coffee too often (see Brawny Story) but it's more of a description of our social activity, not an inventory of what we're actually drinking. I will drink decaf herbal tea, as I always do. But saying that I'm meeting someone for tea makes me sound 1) English, or B) like a little old lady. I am neither. On top of that, to say "I'm going to meet Rain for tea" sounds like something else, maybe that I'm collecting raindrops for a really natural beverage, or that I've been drinking bongwater.

Going through my clothes as I'm looking for something to wear to meet Rain for, errr, coffee, I found a pair of pants I accidentally bought a while back. You know the ones, the low-rise jeans that threaten to show off your hoohaw. I want to show off my hoohaw even less than other people want to see it. They should really come with a warning label. "Warning, you will randomly flash your ass at strangers when you sit down" would be a good one. I only wear them with a really long shirt. I'm not knocking the people who actually look good in this style of pants, but shouldn't there be a weight limit on these things?

This leads me to a few strongly-held beliefs I have about fashion. First, a really good rule of thumb when shopping for a skirt is not to buy one that is wider than it is long. You would think that was common sense, but we've all seen the belly fat and stretch marks spilling over the tops of all the low-waisted pants like over-filled muffin pans, so obviously common sense isn't always a factor. I keep my unsightly business hidden safely under my Levis, thank you.

There is a Mediterranean restaurant in Pasadena that has the most amazing Sunday brunch. One weekend my friends and I noticed they only bring out the really voluptuous belly dancer for the brunch buffet. She's beautiful and talented, but she really must keep the cost down for the restaurant owners. As soon as I see that belly jiggling my way I always put down my fork. I can barely squash down my buffet guilt as it is, I don't need a visual reminder vibrating in my face.

I can just see Gary and Harry in the kitchen.

"The kabobs are going fast! There is hardly any poached salmon left! Quick, bring out Katya!"

The silent alarm goes off, Katya rushes into her garb as she slides down the pole and quickly takes her place on the floor.

(I don't know that her name is Katya, but I think that's a pretty good name for a belly dancer.)

I would like to explain something to all the Hot Topic shoppers out there. Buying clothes that already have safety pins neatly sewn into them, with pre-made reinforced holes so they don't rip, is the lamest shit in all of creation. It defeats the purpose of wearing safety pins in your clothes at all, and makes a mockery of the hard work of your punk and new wave predecessors. Listen here, sonny boy, back in my day we put our own damn safety pins in our clothes and we liked it.

Since I've dyed my hair red (Rubine by Manic Panic) more people talk to me on the street than they used to, at least now the comments aren't about my boobs anyway. Two men have asked me if it's my natural color, but most people say some variation of "I like the red." When I see another person who has colorful hair we are now immediately obligated under some unwritten rule to stop and talk to each other.

My brother, who has an affinity for tattoos, often stops to talk to other people about their tattoos, so now I know what their conversations are like. Where did you get it, how do you like it, that's some nice work there, look at mine here, I'm thinking of having this done, that sort of thing.

There is one guy I talk to sometimes at the mall. He has a pink mohawk. Our conversations were pretty benign until one day, when we were talking about the endless upkeep, he said "Yeah, it's a lot of work letting people know you're cool."

Excuse me? I thought he was joking, but no, he was serious. I quickly scanned his clothes to check the status of his safety pins. Dying your hair a certain color doesn't make you cool. It doesn't automatically make you uncool. But dying your hair so that other people will know you're cool is defininately uncool.

Hey, it just occured to me. Rain is from New York, I'll have to ask her about the pizza.

pizza

2006-10-08T22:48:00.000-07:00

(from my site, May 1, 2005)

Why I'm awake tonight: Why is the Greek food in Chicago so different from the Greek food in Los Angeles?

And what is the emotional upset about pizza? I get so tired of hearing my out-of-state friends go on about pizza.

"Oh, yeah, Missy? Well you haven't tasted pizza until you've been to (Chicago or NY, depending on where they are from.)

One friend of mine from New Jersey (who was excited on his first visit to LA, by the way, when we were at Taco Bell and a guy named Juan made his burrito) would not stop talking about how superior the pizza is in New York. And what can I say? I've never been to New York, we're not on our way to New York, I don't give a shit and I just want him to shut up. Personally, I like the woodfired stuff at Avanti's in Pasadena but apparently no one wants to hear about this newfangled West Coast crap.

After living in LA for a while he finally found this place downtown that made pizza "Just like they have it in New York" so he dragged me down there at whatever time of night to try it. He was so excited! Staring at me with his mouth open, his eyebrows up, his hands poised in midair as if they are waiting to grab my response as it comes out of my mouth. I took a bite. Whatever. It's a kind of bland and flat, and too moist. Too much cheese.

There is nothing I can say. If I like it we'll have to discuss how much I like it. If I don't like it he's going to spend the rest of his life trying to convince me that I'm wrong. It's fine though, I'm not knocking it, but I sure don't share my friend's enthusiasm.

I nod. "It's good," I say, trying to chew without making the moist ball of dough touch my tongue. Too late, the slimey crust made contact with the inside of my mouth and I gag a little bit. "Ooo, trying to chew too much at once there. Yeah, that was really good."

"Don't you just want to eat here every day?" he asks, digging in.

"I don't know, man, that's kind of a long drive just for pizza," I say.

Wrong answer, just so you know.

Not long after that, another NJ friend ordered me a pizza from Joe Peeps, so I could see what real pizza is like. It was alright. A beam of light didn't shine down from heaven or anything, but it tasted good with lots of Louisiana Hot Sauce.

Later, I met Dearinger, a die-hard Chicagoan. After hearing her go on about Chicago pizza for a couple of years we were finally able to complete this endurance test when I accompanied her to Chicago. We took a taxi to a place called, I forget what it's called, I'm wanting to say Porquoi or Pernod but that wasn't it. Anyway, Amy gave us the name over the phone so I thought we were going out for French and I dressed up. Beer, people screaming at the many TVs, me in a $300 jacket. Got it? Okay.

The pizza was kind of soupy, lots of stuff in it. Sort of like an Italian stew served over bread, fat soaked into the crust. It was okay. On my more recent trip to Chicago I was able to try the deep dish pizza at a variety of restaurants, just to make sure I hadn't gotten ahold of a bad one, or maybe I had too much tequila before. No.

I told one of my Chicago friends, a transplant, that I had pizza for dinner.

"Oh yeah? What place?" he asks immediately. Oh no, has he caught pizza fever already?

"Uh, I don't know, some place that starts with a P," I answer.

"Could it be 'Pizzeria'?" he asks.

"No, I'm not that stupid," I answer. I check the sign later. Pizzeria Oro.

What is it about the freaking pizza that makes people come to LA and drone on about how much better it is at home? Does this have something to do with homesicknesses and yearning for the familiar greasy teat they grew up on? I've never tried to push pizza on anyone, although I'm from Oregon and we're not really known for our pizza. The next time I'm in Chicago if I order chicken and cilantro with goatcheese on a wholewheat crust will I be bludgeoned to death?

Does everyone get so charged up over their food, or do I just hang out with a bunch of proselytizing pizza pushers?

i ruv ru

2006-09-25T19:26:00.000-07:00

Everyone is making fun of Barbara Walters for saying that her dog said "I love you," to her. Why? My dog, Snake, part chihuahua and dachsund, talks to me all the time. Not only does he manage to form words, but he uses them in context. I will only list the instances when I have witnesses to Snake's words, but the experiences are many.

At first it was just enthusiastic meows, and we would joke about the dog spending too much time with cats. Now Snake calls me Mom all the time. That's not such a big deal, "mom" isn't too far off from a dog's normal dog sounds. The funny part is that he only says mom when he's with me.

When my husband comes home from work, Snake always meets him at the door. One day Snake let loose with a big "HELLO!" in his dog voice. Steve and I just looked at each other and said, "Did you hear that too?" A few weeks ago when I was leaving to go have lunch with my friend Cathy, Snake jumped up and yelled "Bye, Mom!" When we got outside, Cathy asked, "Did Snake just say bye mom?" I'm so glad when other people hear it too.

A really handy use of Snake's talking is when he wants to go out. He runs to wherever Steve or I happen to be, back and forth to the back door, barking and yelling "OUT!" until someone opens the back door. The only time he says "out" is when he wants to go out, and sometimes we don't open the door until he says it.

We used to have a cat named Raven who liked to smack Snake in the back of the head when he went near the food bowl. Twice I have heard Snake say "No" to Raven when he was confronted in the kitchen. Another time, when I said "No" to Snake, he said "No" back to me, matching my inflection perfectly, mocking me like a little smart-alec.

The other night, in front of a group, I held up a piece of chicken for Snake and told him I would give it to him if he said Mom. After three tries, he finally got out a convincing "Mom!"

Recently when my daughter was getting ready to go to her dad's house, I gave her a big hug and told her I love her. Snake jumped between us and said "I love you!" I'm so glad I had witnesses for that one! We all heard it.

The most suprsing talking dog experience I had was when we were riding in the car. Snake had been hanging out the window, and after a while I rolled the window up. He started waving his front leg at me and said "row rowl," several times. I didn't understand what he meant until he jumped up on the glass and waved his arm and said "row rowl," again. He wanted me to "rowl" down the window! I did, and he was happy.

The funnest Snake vocalization is when he listens to Steve and I talk and occasionally interjects a "Woooo!" as if he is commenting on our conversation. It makes us feel good when we can impress our dog.

Snake's talent has landed him a few voice-over parts. He did replacement vocals for the dogs in Legally Blonde 2, Bringing Down the House, the Unreal 2 video game, and he will be heard in the upcoming movie Flushed Away. Yes, my dog works more than I do.

I don't know, I've seen dogs on America's Funniest Home Videos who said things like "I love you" and "My mama," and stuff. If you live with your dog, spend lots of time together, it doesn't seem so far-fetched for the dog to start imitating speech. The interesting part is when the dog uses words in context.

The other day my mom and I were talking about how much Snake talks. She said, "He kind of gives me the creeps, maybe you should shoot him." I'm pretty sure she was joking, but if you get to thinking about what we "know" to be true, a talking dog is creepy. I think more people are just afraid to talk about it because they don't want to be called crazy.

Erik Viking

2006-09-25T19:22:00.000-07:00

I first saw Erik the Viking in the theater in Malmö, Sweden in 1989, on the rare occasion that a movie is released in Sweden before it is released in the USA. After recently having attended a rock concert and being one of the few who danced, I was surprised at the uproarious reaction this movie.

By the time the credits started rolling, it occurred to me that I was watching Erik Viking with a group of actual Vikings, and that it really helps to have knowledge of Norse mythology. Here in the United States, we have plenty of movies that represent our past, real or imagined; but imagine how fun it must have been for our Scandinavian brethren to watch an international release where they had the inside scoop.

Erik the Viking was written and directed by my favorite Python, one of the most clever and talented people in the world, Terry Jones.

In the opening scene, Erik, played by Tim Robbins, meets Helga, (James Bonds Miss Moneypenny,) and accidentally kills her. This leads to much introspection, leaving Erik feeling unfulfilled by all of the raping and pillaging. He convinces the other Vikings to go on a quest to ask the gods to end the Ice Age and bring Helga back to the land of the living.

To explain how the voyage went, let me just say that Leif the Lucky was the first one to die.

On their quest, they find the dragon of the North Sea, visit Hy-Brasil, cross Bifrost the Rainbow Bridge, and enter Valhalla most of which is invisible to the Christian Missionary who tags along with the hope of making a few converts along the way.

Eartha Kitt is always fascinating to me, so I loved her as Freya.
Charles McKeown, John Cleese, and Terry Jones can each floor me with a mere change of expression, and Gary Cady (seen more recently in the Footballers Wives) was a very lovely Keitel Blacksmith. The legendary Mickey Rooney played Eriks crass grandfather.

Part of the reason this movie didnt do well is that a lot of people went in expecting something else, so they were disappointed. People who are familiar with Norse Mythology often appreciate this movie; perhaps the story relied too much upon expecting the audience to be familiar with the Norse Sagas. The editing was a little jarring in places.

No matter what the reason that this movie wasnt more popular, just know that this is not a Python film. Its clever and a littleoffbut its subtle, as if someone turned the Python knob down a few notches. Actually, Erik the Viking was originally intended to be a Monty Python film, but after the death of Graham Chapman, the others dropped out. At the last minute, John Cleese replaced Jack Lemmon as Halfdan the Black.

Erik the Viking is one of my favorite movies in the world, so I have coaxed nearly everyone I know to watch it with me at least once. Not counting the sentimental attachments connected to my first experience seeing this film in Sweden, Erik the Viking is smart, thoughtful, funny, and deserves a viewing. Even the credits are amusing!

Now, why cant we find this amazing movie on DVD?

money well spent, but for the wrong reason

2006-09-17T23:27:00.000-07:00

I get some of my sense of adventure from my mom. We both always like to try new things, go new places, and sometimes will pick the less attractive item just because no one else has one like it. I often find myself getting into situations that common sense would dictate "No! Stay away!" but I have to go along just to see what is going to happen.

My mom's daring side often comes out when she's on eBay. Sometimes, when she sees an unusual auction, her curiousity overwhelms her and she has to place a bid. Last spring she won an auction to receive a psychic reading and a picture of her spirit guide. For only eight bucks, how could she go wrong?

A few weeks later she recived a letter in the mail.

There's not a lot to say about the letter. It droned on about people we don't know, situations we have never been in, and my mom's Aunt Olive, who never existed, but is apparently now mom's spirit guide. She mentions the two sons my mom is going to have, Michael and Anthony, which is odd because my mom is pushing 60 and has three sons, none of which are named Michael or Anthony. She said my gramma is visiting my mom on the farm, but fails to mention which farm. Is Mom supposed to meet Gramma at Knotts Berry Farm? That's the closest farm connection I could come up with. At any rate, the letter made no sense, which is strange because usually, if someone just takes random guesses, they can at least come up with at least something that a person can identify with.

The really fun part, however, was the last page of the letter. It revealed the big mystery: the drawing of Olive, my mom's spirit guide! The spirit guide who watches over my mom, guides her through life, stays with her every step of the way, is none other than:

keep scrolling...

just a little bit further now...

I'm speechless.

the up-side of global warming

2006-09-17T23:25:00.000-07:00

I'm certain I'm going to hell just for thinking like this this. Polar bears are drowning, the oceans are filling up, glaciers are melting, indigenous people are losing their way of life, not to mention it's getting freakin' hot for people like me who do not enjoy the sun's cruel touch.

But think of all the cool new stuff that could show up!

I keep fantasizing that the thaw is going to uncover the most intact mammoth specimen ever, and I can finally get that mammoth hybrid Ive always wanted. I don't dare dream of a mammoth clone, since freezing explodes the DNA into even smaller pieces so it can't be used for any Jurassic-Park-like experiments. But maybe some other treasure, like a homo sapien predecessor that has been frozen for tens of thousands of years in a block of ice, lying there in mid-scream with a spear in his ass, just like Kennewick Man, only this time with something covering his bones. Maybe under all that ice, some clue is going to show itself that could reveal how the first people came to North America.

On the other hand, if the oceans are actually getting higher, the water could be covering up some as-yet-undiscovered archaeological site. There is a theory that man came to North America by boat, traveling along the Bering Strait and/or the Aleutian Islands, and because the sea levels are higher now than they were 30,000 years ago, their possible camp sites along the beach would be long gone by now. There is no way we could suck up some of the ocean long enough to look.

New islands are appearing from under the melted icebergs; maybe a pre-historic site will show up on one of those islands. It's so sad, yet intriguing. At the very least, some sort of new artifact, uncovered by the melting ice would be an awesome find.

That doesn't mean that global warming isnt horrifying, but I cant help but wonder about what is going to turn up!

Little Fella

2006-09-06T07:37:00.000-07:00

Originally posted in May 2006:

Yesterday my nephew called me and asked me to come help him. When I got to his house he was out front holding a tiny baby bird in one hand, and was trying to keep the ants off the baby bird's dead sibling, at the same time trying to balance his giant backpack that he was still wearing after getting off the bus.

The baby bird had his mouth wide open and was whistling for some food. We buried his sibling and fed the bird bits of moist cat food poked into his mouth with tweezers.

My nephew watched over Little Fella until we took him to the wildlife hospital in Calabasas. He was so careful with the little tiny pink thing and was sad to let him go. It's so cool when a kid sees a helpless creature as something to take care of rather than something to abuse.

UPDATE: In August 2006, three months after River discovered Little Fella, he was walking through the front door of his house and a finch flew in! How often does a finch just fly into someone's house? The wildlife hospital had told him that Little Fella was a finch --was he coming back to say hi? I think it's quite a coincidence!

Works better than Ex-lax

2006-09-06T07:35:00.000-07:00

Today was my nephew's 13th birthday party. We took River to the funpark for go-karts, mini-golf, and laser tag, then went back to Kat's for cake and presents. I called my husband, Steve, and asked him to pick up some pizza before he met us at Kat's.

We were milling around Kat's living room, admiring the balloons and crepe paper, when Steve called me to let me know he had just pulled up out front and would I please come out and help him carry in the pizza and our presents. I was almost comatose from doing batting cages out in the sun, but figured I better be helpful, and not do something mean like send my ex-husband out to help him instead.

When I walked out the front door I was surprised to see two police officers crouched down next to the front of Kat's truck. Sunday isn't a parking restriction day, could it be they were going to give Kat a ticket, but for what? Who knows, in my experience Burbank cops are strict (I was once detained an hour and fifteen minutes and given an $80 ticket for having a brake light out) so I started walking over there to ask them what the problem was.

All of the sudden, the two cops jumped out from behind the truck, cocking their rifles and running toward me, screaming. I've been around guns most of my life but there is something alarming about a two armed men running toward you screaming, with that "clickik" sound coming from the gun. I froze for just a second, wondering if perhaps they found out about that time I parked 22 minutes in a 20 minute zone, but when one cop yelled "Where is he? Where is he?" and headed toward the neighbor's yard, I realized they weren't coming after me. Instead of yelling back, "He's bringing the pizza!" I sprinted back into Kat's house and slammed the door behind me.

If you see a gun, there is a possibility that soon there will be bullets flying through the air, that I know. I burst into my nephew's birthday party screaming "GET DOWN! GET DOWN! THEY HAVE GUNS!" and everyone just looked at me. I don't know how I earned this reputation, but everyone thought I was the type of asshole who would think that would be a funny joke.

Apparently nothing came of this incident, we didn't hear any gunfire, there were no corpses strewn about the lawn, no bullet-ridden desperados clawing at the front door, but the experience really did liven up River's birthday party. It was way more fun than hiring a clown.

My dolls for sale at Enchanted Devas!

2006-09-06T07:32:00.000-07:00

A few years ago I started making these Goddess dolls based on the Egyptian Nile Goddes, Nathor, from about 4,000bce.

I sold about fifty billion of them (give or take a few) online, and they were even featured in Art Doll Quarterly, but now you can only get them at Enchanted Devas at 5050 Vineland in North Hollywood. Enchanted Deva's will also be carrying my steel-reinforced bodices soon too. That means less time selling and more time creating for me!

So, go to Enchanted Deva's and buy lots of stuff! Remember, Christmas is coming up and no one wants any more of that Wal-Mart crap!

What the Huff?

2006-09-06T07:31:00.000-07:00

For years, I refused to get involved in any new TV shows. I've been watching the Simpsons since the Tracy Ullman days so of course I have to keep watching, but that's it. I won't get involved in any other shows. Except Barney Miller, it's my favorite show of all time so I have to watch it when it comes on even though I've been watching the same episodes for almost 30 years, and of course I tune in to a Golden Girls episode now and then. But nothing I have to watch on a regular basis. I just can't handle the emotional investment. Okay, every two months or so I'll turn on The Office and My Name is Earl, but that's it. I will not be sucked in!

Along came Arrested Development. Once I got hooked, it got yanked out from underneath me. I was almost relieved of the burden of keeping up with the show. Really. I'm better off without it.

A month or two ago I ordered Showtime so I could watch their new series, Brotherhood. Honestly, I only watch it so I have an excuse to look at Jason Isaacs once a week, but I got the unexpected gift of learning new phrases like "Wicked Pissed!" and "Fuckin' Retahded!" When I was skimming through Showtime on Demand, I noticed the second season of Huff. I love Oliver Platt because he reminds me of my husband, and surely Showtime isn't going to be ditching this show anytime soon. They don't even have commercials, I'm actually paying to get to watch it, so I'm safe, right?

After watching the second season of Huff, I got curious about the first season. I couldn't find it to rent anywhere so I had to go buy the DVDs. I figured it was a worthwhile expenditure because I would be all ready for season three when it came out. Anytime now. When is season three of Huff coming out? I'm dying to know what happened with Tupper leaving the firm and that whole dead hooker thing and will he be a good dad and Teddy almost killing his girlfriend and does he ever take that pill that could help him but might kill him and does Huff move back in and will Izzy ever move back to her own place? And will Byrd always be an over-privileged brat?

While watching the Emmys yesterday I found out that Huff had been cancelled. What am I supposed to do with all of these questions? I can't even look at my season one DVDs; was it all just lies, or did it really mean something?

Now I hear that Arrested Development is coming back. I don't even know what to do with this information. I'm afraid to care, but once again I'm sure I'll be courted back with flowers and boxes of chocolates and promises of change.

The Wicker Man

2006-09-06T07:30:00.000-07:00

SPOILER ALERT
The Wicker Man IMDB page 1973

The other day I rented the original The Wicker Man so I could have a refresher before seeing the new movie starring Nicholas Cage. I first watched The Wicker Man many years ago because my old boss had told me about it. He was explaining to me how all pagans are actually Satan worshippers, and I replied that no they aren't, because they don't believe that Satan exists so how could they worship him? and he said "Oh yeah? Just watch The Wicker Man!"

This morning when I looked at the IMDB page from the 1973 The Wicker Man, I started reading the user comments, and then the message boards regarding the movie. I was absolutely shocked at how seriously some people take this movie. These must be the same people who go to pagan message boards to ask the regular posters there, "the insider's view" of the Harry Potter movies. Not only that, when people call The Wicker Man a "classic masterpiece" I'm more than slightly concerned.

The Wicker Man (1973) was so incredibly retarded that it was one of the funniest movies I've ever seen. The horrible songs, and I mean horrible, so you sit there with your mouth hanging open because you can't believe what you're hearing, and who could imagine a movie with so much sex and nudity could be so boring? I guess if you want to put yourself into the situation that the main character is in, you could feel frightened at the feeling something sinister was going on, I get that same feeling when I go to Olive Garden. In the end, after watching this "classic horror film," I was really only afraid of Christopher Lee's hair, both his own and the Cher wig and purple chiffon; and Brit's fancy little butt dance against the door that was meant to be erotic but was more like a febrile convulsion.

The Christian cop thought he was investigating a missing girl but really that girl was used as bait to lure him into being a human sacrifice. The pagans were evil, the Christian was martyred, and, in the end, everyone sang a song with Lambchop elbows. The writer wanted to make a movie about modern-day human sacrifice, and so he did, the idea is very scary, and it was very convenient to use a group that most people, especially thirty years ago, didn't know much about. Comparing the residents of Summerisle with any actual people is ignorant. The setting and circumstances were the product of someone's imagination and only an idiot would use The Wicker Man to make a logical point about religion. Why? It's not real!

After seeing it multiple times, I'm still not sure how my boss meant that pagans are Satan worshippers. That's okay, I'm done trying to figure people out, it's time for breakfast.

1973's The Wicker Man is C H E E S E Y, but amusing. See it if you like boobs, both the breast and the idiot kind.

and your little dog, too

2006-09-06T07:27:00.000-07:00

I'm officially tired of seeing girls carrying around Chihuahuas like they were knock-off Louis Vuitton bags. Louis Vuitton is, by the way, playing a practical joke. Why else would something so ugly be so expensive? I picture him laying there night after night, giggling away on his huge pile of money. I'm not sure how one giggles with a French accent but Im imagining a foppish chortle.

Sorry, Dad, I know you work for Louis sometimes, but its true. You're in an industry that hawks ugly purses.

Anyway, back to my point. A chick carries around a little dog and then everyone else has to do it too. Jelly bracelets and Birkenstocks are one thing, but monkey-see-monkey-doing a living creature is sad. Think about the final outcome: the dog is going to live about 14 years, which is about 11 years longer than the duration of the average style. When it's not cool anymore, its just a small puddle machine, and the liquid/body weight ratio is astounding.

Little dogs usually like to be carried, so that works out well for them, but they dont like to go outside to pee when its cold, and Im pretty sure they dont like to wear clothes. Once I put a sweater on my dog and he flew backwards around the house and ran into furniture and mowed over a few cats and upturned the trashcan. I had to catch him and hold him down and undress him. It made me feel mean so I don't put the sweater on him anymore, no matter how much he stands there and shivers while holding one paw in the air.

Whats going to happen to all of those nervous little dogs when theyre no longer cool? They're going to go to some twitchy little dog jail where theyre going to have caffeine withdrawals and suffer terribly from the cold. The yipping will be deafening, but at least they won't have to wear those humiliating outfits and get splashed by an overturned Starbucks when a neanderchick wearing espadrilles tries to drive the SUV and talk on the phone.

I'm not knocking the little dogs, I love little dogs. I'm the proud mother of a wienerhuahua named Snake. I got my first dog, a Chihuahua named Puddles, in 1974, then I had a Chihuahua named Chico, a Chihuahua named Buggs Alive, and a Chihuahua named Brutus (thanks Viki!) a Dachsund named Ginger and a miniature pinscher named Cowboy Bob. I won't go into the names of all the big dogs, because thats not really my point. My point is, dogs are not accessories; they are responsibility.

Somebody please tell me women aren't getting pregnant because its cool to sport a big belly. Can't we just get knocked up the old-fashioned way, by accident? Or are babies the new Chihuahua? That couldnt be, Paris hasnt been seen with one, has she?

Art vs. Money

2006-07-18T11:16:00.000-07:00

Recently, I started a Hollywood/Movie blog on my husbands website, Hollywood Lost and Found. At first, Steve was a little hesitant. When he started his site, his mission was to create an atmosphere that spread his joy of working in the movie industry, and share the information that he has learned about the art of creating movies.

Steve is a full-fledged artist in every sense of the word. He expresses his creativity in everything he does. Not just in his job, Im talking about the heart-shaped peanut-butter sandwiches he makes my daughter, the sculptures that he spends hundreds of hours on, the snappy, surreal comebacks hes always throwing at me; his entire life is a creative outlet.

To be a true artist, you have to keep in close contact with your inner child. One of my favorite quotes is from Picasso: All children are artists. The problem is how to remain an artist once he grows up. Steve has no problem with this. Our house is filled with toys and tools, Steves favorite clothes have robots and cowboys on them, he still has that look of awe on his face when he watches Superman, and most importantly, he never uses the Grown-up Tone of Reason to squash my dreams.

This is why Hollywood Lost and Found has no gossip, leave that for the pissy prom queens and dissatisfied. There are already enough critics out there too. Some critics are necessary, but too many self-appointed know-it-alls, and we just have a bunch of wienie-assed complainers.

We are, however, starting a Recommendations section on Hollywood Lost and Found, where we are going to write about movies that we love and suggest others might like to watch too. The list will be very, very long.

The movies on our lists will be nowhere near perfect, but neither is art. Its not really interesting to have a painting of a person that looks exactly like a person. Thats not art, thats an illustration. Praise to those who have the talent to render something so exactly, but unless it registers an emotional response, I dont really want to put it on my wall and look at it every day.

The same holds true with movies. So many people in this crazy town moan about what is wrong with any given movie, missing the overall picture. Beauty is more than the sum of its parts, which has been proven time and time again by some of the most beautiful people in the world.

If a movie strikes a chord with a large amount of people, I have to take a moment to think about what the moviemakers did right, after I pick it apart in my mind. This doesnt always work, of course; to this day I have never been able to sit all the way through Titanic, but I cant deny that its was extremely popular.

Are good movies the ones that make the most money? I couldnt tell you, I know many people who list some of the most predictable, rip-off, cookie-cutter crap among their favorite movies.

After working in art galleries, I cant help but notice similarities between what makes a popular work of art and what makes a popular movie. The answer to both is that whatever strikes the biggest emotional chord with the most people is going to be the most popular. It has nothing to do with technical application, skill, reality, or any of the issues that armchair critics go on about.

Of course there are fads that will come and go. Yesterday I watched Three to Tango, starring Matthew Perry and Neve Campbell. I think of Matthew and Neve as Flavors of the Week, the people who get into movies because they happen to be popular at the time. Neither is particularly good looking or talented, in fact, they can each be used to illustrate my beauty is more than a sum of its parts point. Dare I say, they were each a fad.

Now that their fad-dom is over, for the time being at least, theyre not really making any super big movies. I dont think anyone can argue, logically, that either is a particularly good actor. Neither is particularly good-looking. But we sure did see their faces everywhere for a while. This happens a million times over in both the art and movie world; the fads come and go, but there are a few good pieces that will always be there for the connoisseurs.

If we didnt have fads, how else can we explain Sarah Michelle Gellar and Freddie Prinze, Jr. being cast in the their completely inappropriate roles in the Scooby Doo movies? The right role doesnt always go to the right person, movie studios are only thinking about what will make the most money. Oh gawd, but Matthew Lillard was dead-on perfect as Shaggy.

How can we try to sell art in a country where people go to Wal-Mart and buy computer-matched paint and wallpaper borders to decorate their living room? The people who believe that coordinating is the same as designing. These masses are the ones that make the genre films, the fad actors, and the mass-produced Thomas Kinkade paintings so popular.

I think the answer is, art doesnt have mass appeal so its not going to make the most money. People want what is safe, like having a chart at the department store tell them that their wall paint matches their tablecloth, which matches their wallpaper. They want their leading man to get the leading girl and live happily ever after. Since art doesnt make the most money, then were not going to see as much of it.

An art critic isnt going to waste his/her time reviewing a mass-produced painting that someone bought at the local mall, so why do others waste their time critiquing the latest studio genre flick? Enough already!

Even though we have opportunities to post gossip, you wont be finding any of it on Steves site, and were too busy with our own lives to worry about what other people are up to anyway. Steve wants his site to remain a positive learning experience, if I feel like having a bitch-fest, I have to do it on my own blog. Like now.

Sedona and Shuddupa

2006-07-14T21:45:00.000-07:00

Cathy Dearinger and I cant resist an opportunity for a road trip. This time, her daughter wanted to go visit a friend near Sedona, Arizona, so I went along with Cathy to drop her off.

I had never visited Sedona before and it was beautiful. If you have never had the opportunity to see it firsthand, I suggest you Google some pictures. Its a resort town with awesome red rocks all the way around it, and lots and lots of shops.

The first morning, in the 101 Omelettes restaurant, right after she told the waitress that she would like Omelette number 66, Cathy informed me that she was going to move to Chicago. I felt like one of those chicks whose boyfriend breaks up with her in a public place so she wouldn't make a scene. Before I could react, Frank, Cathy's boyfriend in Chicago, called her on her cel phone.

"I'm in this place with 101 Omelettes."

Pause

"66."

Pause.

"I just told her, I have to go, okay?"

For the next two days, Cathy and I stayed in Sedona and did all of the touristy things; eating, shopping, looking at art, and driving around taking pictures of the scenery. There, that was done, now we had to get back in Cathys car, Cupcake, and keep moving.

Our first destination was the South Rim of the Grand Canyon. Floating through the country north of Flagstaff, singing along with America, living the laid-back, care-free, Horse With No Name lifestyle, Cathy was remarking that it was funny that I was singing the low parts and she was singing the high parts, even though my voice is higher than hers, when all of the sudden I felt something large and furry beating against my thighs under my dress.

A large, rabid mouse must have been hiding in the car. Even though I was securely seat-belted in, I managed so fold my legs up underneath my body while letting out my cool-as-ice girly screams. A brown moth, about an inch across, fluttered up from where it lay dazed on the floorboard. I screamed louder.

"A MOTH! A MOTH!"

Cathy swerved around, trying to figure out what was going on, because surely one little moth couldnt cause all that trouble.

The killer moth was eventually sucked out after I opened the window and whimpered for a while. I tried explaining to Cathy that Im not really afraid of a moth, I was just surprised, and it really felt like a mouse or a rat or something was attacking me. She gave me the same sideways, concerned look she gave me when I had sleep deprivation-induced Brawny Man hallucinations as we were driving through Amarillo last year.

The Painted Desert, some of the most amazing landscape Ive ever seen, calmed me down eventually, and I was able to relax again. We pulled over at Little Colorado Gorge, or whatever it was called, so I could hike around and take some pictures, and even bought some handmade jewelry from a Native American beside the road.

I had never seen the Grand Canyon before, and I have to say, it was quite awe inspiring. Its definitely one of those things you have to see for yourself, because there is no picture or video that can prepare you for it.

The South Rim of the Grand Canyon, which is desert, has a 25-mile road that goes along the canyon, so we stopped at each view piont and hiked around and took pictures. In the bathroom, I was rather alarmed to find my panty liner was completely missing. Panty liners are really nice when youre traveling, about halfway through the day you can take it off and throw it away and its like having clean underwear all over again. I searched everywhere and that baby was GONE. When I mentioned this to Dearinger, she suggested that the moth stole it.

After an hour or so of getting in and out of the car and hiking, with nothing to drink and the sun beating down on us, we were dehydrated and exhausted. By time we reached the resorts at the end of the road, we were shaky and weak and desperate to find some food and water. We finally found a parking spot and wandered into the nearest hotel, El Tovar, hoping to find any sort of sustenance available.

We trudged up to the tuxedoed maitre d in the lobby restaurant and with my dry, dusty tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth, I was able to rasp out a request for a table. We were informed us that it was 1:57pm, and the restaurant closed at 2, but were let in anyway. We didnt have to die right there on the spot, so that was good.

Alin, our Romanian waiter wearing a saucy little bowtie, brought us little goblets of ice water that we chugged down between the chunks of focaccia bread that we stuffed into our mouths. When I was halfway through my Navajo taco I was able to stop and breath, no longer had to lean on the table to hold me up, and take smaller, slower bites. The family at the next table was relieved when their children quit staring us.

After our dessert, which was garnished with lots of whipped cream, chocolate drizzles, and orchids, Dearinger and I got back on the road. As we were driving North through the Painted Desert, I looked at the map and convinced her that we werent too far from the North Rim of the Grand Canyon, and wouldnt it be fun to see both sides in the same day, especially since we got to drive past the Vermillion Cliffs on the way.

Two hundred miles later, we found ourselves driving a small mountain road with beautiful trees and lush green meadows with about a million deer frolicking in the beautiful trees and the lush green meadows and about every five minutes, one or two or three of them would suddenly frolic out in front of the car. Between dodging the deer and my screams of "HURRY! WE HAVE TO GET TO THE GRAND CANYON BEFORE THE SUN GOES DOWN!" Dearinger was a bit of a nervous wreck by the time we reached the lodge. The view blew my mind. I cant describe it, just go see it for yourself.

The lodge at the North Rim has more than 180º view of the Canyon and everyone was sitting out on the balcony enjoying the sunset. When I asked the clerk if there were any rooms available, she told me no, and that the nearest lodge was 18 miles away.

"In which direction?" I asked.

"What?"

"Which way is the other lodge?"

"Um, the only way you can go is the back the way you came, the Canyon is on the other 3 sides."

Oh yeah, I had noticed that.

Now it was dark and Dearinger made me drive. We didnt find anywhere to stay, or eat, and finally had to buy snacks at a gas station. When we came out of the little store, it was pouring rain. I thought driving through a black mountain road with deer darting in and out of the trees was hard before, but the rain, and trying to eat trail mix, made it even more of a chore. Now the deer werent just running in front of me, but some of them were just standing in the middle of the road staring at me. I could see them in the flashes of lightning.

We thought we were going to make it to St. George, Utah, but I stopped in Mt. Carmel Junction instead. The night clerk in the Best Western was, for some reason, standing behind the counter wearing rubber gloves. Through our whole conversation and the checking-in process, he never took them off. I slept with the light on that night.

The next morning, after we ate at the place with the sign advertising Ho-Made pies, we headed through Mt. Zion, where the guy would not let me in with my Grand Canyon receipt. Instead, he allowed me to pay another $25 and get a year pass to all of the National Parks. Guess Ill be going to Yosemite a lot this year.

When we got to St. George, Dearinger and I decided we were tired of our CDs so we stopped at Best Buy before we headed into town to shop. After buying five new CDs and a camera battery, I got back on the freeway and kept driving West. By the time we figured it out, neither one of us wanted to go back. So much for St. George.

The next stop was Vegas. Dearinger and I spent Thanksgiving with my family in Vegas a few years ago and hadnt been back together since. A Jacuzzi room at Caesars Palace and an evening of gambling was just what the doctor ordered.

We had planned to stay another night at Caesars, but I found out that Dearinger had never been to Laughlin. Why spend two nights in the same spot when there was undiscovered country down the road? I convinced her that we should go, so we had only one stop in Vegas before leaving town.

My husband, Steve, is a sound effects and voice guy, and several years ago he did the voice of the Coca Cola Polar Bear in the commercials. You know the, mmmmmm sound after the smiling bear, who is sitting ass-down in snow, has a sip of ice-cold Coke. Thats Steve. Therefore, I frequently feel compelled to buy Steve Coke products. I made Cathy stop at the Coca Cola store on the Strip so I could buy my hubby a little something.

After the Coke store, we strolled through the M&M store so we could buy pink and green M&Ms to match our luggage (my suitcases are fuchsia pink and Dearingers are lime green.) We were standing at the counter paying for the M&Ms, when a guy comes up to me and says, "Thats my bag," and tries to rip my giant red Coca Cola bag out of my hand.

"No its not, its my bag," I said. That should take care of matters right? No.

"Security! Security! This woman stole my bag!" The next thing I know, this man is wrestling me to the ground and trying to take my bag away from me. "I have the receipt! Its right here! Give me my bag!" he's screaming at me.

Im completely freaked out, but relieved to know that Dearinger has my back. Together, we fought off my attacker while he shredded my beautiful red Coke bag to bits. He was screaming for Security. I was screaming for Security. It was like we were two toddlers fighting over a toy at day-care, only he was about three seconds away from having his balls ripped out through his throat.

We finally broke his grip free and he demanded to see my receipt. I took it out of my purse and started to show it to him when I got really angry.

In the middle of thousands of smiling M&M products and the hundreds of families buying cute little presents for their happy little children I screamed, "IF YOURE TOO FUCKING STUPID TO KEEP TRACK OF YOUR OWN BAG, DONT TRY TO TAKE MINE YOU ASSHOLE!"

Just then, the man's wife showed up, and told him that she had their Coke bag. The man and his wife RAN out of the store just as Security showed up. I yelled to him but he kept going. I ran after him but Dearinger caught me and calmed me down.

"Listen, Candie, its not like a moth flew up your skirt. Lets just go, okay?"

The M&M people gave me an M&M bag to replace my shredded Coke bag, and Dearinger led me back to the car after I talked to the security people. I really wanted to hunt this guy down and make him suffer. I hate mean, stupid people. I mean, here we are next door to a giant Coke store, with dozens of people walking around carrying Coke bags, this guy misplaces his own Coke bag so he automatically assumes I have it and he can intimidate me into giving it to him? What other kinds of mean and stupid things does this guy do on a regular basis? But, its not worth ruining our trip, and karma will catch up with him sooner or later. I eat a cookie and a bottle of water and try not to stew.

In Laughlin, we walked into the Flamingo and asked the clerk if they had any vacancies. He stared at us blankly.

"You mean available rooms?"

You would think a hotel clerk would be familiar with the word Vacancy but Im finding its not safe to make assumptions when you travel. I also learned that its hard to get actual sourdough bread when youre away from California.

Laughlin was fun, as we both won back ten times what we invested in our gambling ventures. The next morning, after breakfast in the big boat, and more gambling winnings, we went back to Sedona.

This time, instead of staying at the Matterhorn, which was fairly nice for a motel, we stayed at the White House, which is painted green and purple (not white) and had a cockroach that appeared to be dead but every time I looked at it, it was somewhere else, and the TV didnt work.

After breakfast this morning, we picked up Dearinger's daughter at her friend's house. Her friend, by the way, works at the same resort in Sedona where Dearinger's daughter was conceived 20 years ago. Dont mention this as it grosses her out. I made friends with a nice cat, then we headed home.

We never did find the panty liner.

So, you're saying the octopus didn't take a dump?

2006-06-26T21:46:00.000-07:00

Because, I have to admit, I was actually a little disappointed when I did a double-take at the headline and found out that Japan wasn't exporting octopus excrement.

Octopus Dumplings
Quote from article:

..."When I was a small boy, it was street food that made me feel good and warm inside," Sase said at a recent interview....

This goes with my thought I had last year on my Pizza Blog...people really do find comfort in the food of their youth. Except maybe me, because I am less adventuresome with food every year, and there is stuff I ate --and enjoyed-- when I was a kid, that I wouldn't touch now.

What pops into my head at the moment is a piece of dried elk I bought at a small grocery store in rural Sweden. It was in the shape of a small tube, was hanging from a string, and when the guy cut it down and handed it to me, it looked for all the world like a dehydrated, used tampon. Don't judge me, I was hungry.

Speaking of food in Sweden, when I first got there, I kept ordering "hamburger" on the menu and bought packages of it at the store, because, you know, it's hamburger, right? Only in Sweden, if you want ground beef you order Oxfars. Hamburger is ground up horse. Forgive me Flicka, I just thought Swedish cows tasted funny. Don't tell Santa, but I also consumed reindeer in Sweden. Over there it's okay because reindeer don't pull Santa's sled, I think he can fly by himself or something.

When I was a kid in Oregon, it wasn't unheard of for my family to raise and our own food. Not dogs and cats, but we cooked up lamb, chicken, ducks, and geese, and whatever else wandered onto our plate. I have to say, I don't know if it's because it's so fresh or what, but pets taste funny.

My dad and my brother used to go hunting a lot, so I have eaten different kinds of deer and moose, and some really interesting homemade sausage. Parts of the cow I wouldn't dream of putting in my mouth today, such as testicles, tongue, and heart, were some of my favorite foods when I was a kid. Also chicken gizzards and hearts, although I never quite got into liver. It tasted too much like a McDonald's meat patty. They claim it's 100eef, but they never specify which part of the beef animal it comes from.

I won't touch crustaceans, anything that causes me to have heart palpitations while it's alive is not something I will eat. Steve used to have a pet crawdad that scared the crap out of me. Krusty got out one day and hid under some dirty clothes in the bathroom. I found him when I was cleaning up, and I did several laps around the house screaming before my four-year-old daughter brought me to the couch and calmed me down. To this day, if Steve wants to threaten me, all he has to do is make "pinchers" with his fingers and I back off. Steve's not mean though, at Elephant Bar a while back, he was quite concerned when he couldn't find the tail to the piece of fried shrimp I was eating. I thought it was a chicken strip and bit right into it, wondering why it was so crunchy.

Even though I don't eat most water creatures, I do enjoy salmon, and I've eaten a lot of different kinds of caviar --either on little crackers or straight out of the jar with my fingers--but not like my sister-in-law's grandmother in Sweden. We were at the summerhouse one day, cleaning some pike my brother had caught in the lake, and Mormar came out and collected all the pike eggs in a bowl, mixed in some vinegar and salt, and stood there chowing down on the roe while we cut off the heads and gutted. She said it tasted too good to share, and I didn't argue.

Sometimes fresher is not better. I don't want to eat something so fresh that I ever had to look it in the eye. I never did get the hang of sushi. This is a chapter from The Zach Chronicles, where I write about my first experience with sushi:
"Tuck it! Tuck it!" Kat and I shouted. It was one of our favorite activities; bursting in on Zach in the shower and making him do the Silence of the Lambs dance for us.

"Cant you go watch TV or something?" moaned Zach. "Let me finish my shower in peace!"

Kat and I obligingly left Zach alone in the bathroom and I finished getting ready. After all, this was a big event; today for the first time I was going to try sushi. And Zach, a seasoned sushi-eater, was going to show me the ropes.

Having spent most of her life as a vegetarian, Kat bowed out of the sushi-bar trip, but I was determined to go on. What is this food that everyone is making such a fuss about?

"Be sure and not tell me how it goes," Kat said as she went home.
I was a little nervous. Although I had come from a family of hunters and so had eaten a variety of hooved mammals, I had very limited experience with creatures that came out of the ocean. Lobsters and crabs are nothing more than large, freakish spider monsters, shrimp look like and have the consistency of ears, and fish should be caught while you drink beer and cooked thoroughly over a fire or in a frying pan.

Zach, and most of my other friends, assured me m that I would love sushi. So here I go, ready to brave a new eating experience.

The first thing I noticed when I sat down at the sushi bar was the fish tanks.

"Hi little fishy!" I waved to the little guy swimming around a few inches from my face. This is kind of cool, cozy atmosphere, they even had aquariums. What a nice touch, very relaxing. Just as I was beginning to bond with my new orange friend, the guy behind the bar reached his hand in the tank and scooped the little fish out. I heard some whack whack whacks behind the counter and the chef proudly handed the plate, a little lump of something pink, white, and black, to the person sitting on the other side of Zach.

"Was that the-?" I stood up and looked over the bar. Oh god, it was. "I'm not sure about this."

Zach nodded absentmindedly and looked down at the list in front of him. I picked up my list and scanned it quickly with my eyes.

"Z?"

"Yes, C?"

"Does the caterpillar roll have real caterpillars in it?"

Silence.

"Zach? Does the caterpillar roll have real caterpillars in it?" I asked a little more urgently this time. I looked to the woman on my left. She had a small purple tentacle hanging out of her mouth that she sucked in like spaghetti. "Z? Why wont you answer me?"

"Shhh, geez dont yell. Now what do you want to try first?" he asked. Zach wasnt getting, or was ignoring, my panic.

"What do you suggest?" I whispered. "Nothing with fish in it, okay?"

"Uh, okay, why dont you have an avocado roll then," Zach said. He handed our order slips to the chef and got us each a Sapporo.

"Whats that green stuff on the outside of the food?" I asked Zach, watching another plate go by.

"Oh, and wrap that avocado roll in rice paper, please," Zach told the chef. "Dont worry, you wont get any of that green stuff."

Zach showed me the wasabi and soy sauce. I tried the wasabi and washed it down with a little beer. This place wasnt so bad after all, anything spicy had to be good.

A moment later the chef handed me a plate.

"Is that my food I smell?" I asked Zach. For something that had no fish in it, it sure smelled like the underside of a dinghy.

Zach dug heartily into his plate but I stared at my little lump of food for a moment. I picked it up and looked at it carefully. Nothing in there looked like it had been swimming around in front of me only seconds before, but still...

Zach turned and looked at me, chewing.

"Whats the matter?" He asked after taking another swig of Sapporo. "Dig in".

"I dont like the way it smells," I whispered.

"Just take one bite," Zach urged.

I held my breath and brought the fork to my mouth. I felt a shaky, cold feeling in my stomach. I finally tore off a little tiny bite and moved it around my mouth.

I dont know what everyone else was eating, but I had something they found wrapped in toilet paper in the alley. There is no way this is going down, there's just not enough wasabi in the world.

I slid my plate over to Zach who quickly popped my roll into his mouth with his chopsticks. He ordered himself another round of sushi from the chef and called a waitress over.

"Vegetable tempura for the lady, please," requested Zach.

Now were talking. Veggies, all crispy-fried and crunchy, covered in nice hot wasabi.

I like sushi!
"When can we go again? I asked, two Sapporos and a plate of fried vegetables later. Zach had eaten a wide array of colorful mounds in veritable silence.

Zach waited until we got to the parking lot to light up. He didnt say anything on the way home.