The Glutenistas Are Coming

Recently, I have been eating very well. This means several things and each of those several things means several others, so it is likely that this first - and arguably most concise - sentence should be repeated and the sentiment should be heretofore shit-canned.
I have been eating very well.
Since the beginning of yet another glorious summer hiatus, when my hours have largely been my own to spend, I am finding that I have more time to consider, plan and execute several meals a day. Without the caterwauling of the service bar printer to swallow my minutes and hours, usually leaving me saying something like: How is it 4:15? How come I haven’t eaten anything yet? Perhaps I’ll have this lime out of the garnish tray and wash it down with some more espresso.
So my diet was poor, sure. By the end of a longer day, stomach empty, I would opt for a menu of convenience. This was any protein-based plate of digestible food-based products that could either be procured from the restaurant kitchen in exchange for future energy drinks, or whatever drive-thru I passed on the way home. Arby’s was the culprit most nights. I knew it was getting bad when I knew their hours and would tailor my cleaning and closing duties to coincide with being the last car through the window.
Having confessed all that, I will tell you that I am enjoying one of my favorite morning time dishes, something I have named "hot shit in a bowl." It contains protein, vegetables and is accompanied by OJ, coffee and water. It is balance at its finest.
If time and space permits (which it will eventually) I will leave you a recipe for "hot shit in a bowl" somewhere down the line. Unless I have already done that, in which case, the next version will be V2.0.
The first portion of my hiatus also included a ten-day trip with my lovely girlfriend who enjoys the finer points of life as much as I do. With literally nothing on our itineraries once we reached the Gallup Homestead in Littleton, we spent our time talking about food, preparing food, and then eating the food we’d prepared.
We drank wine - - a slightly faded magnum of 2000 Arrowood Cabernet. And a still-tight, still beautiful bottle of 2001 Justin Isosceles. We fresh squeezed grapefruit juice for greyhounds, fresh squeezed limes for reposado margaritas. For four hours we nibbled on an antipasto that had hard salami, manchego, cabernet soaked white cheddar, parmesan, blackberries, apples, peaches, proscuitto di parma, port reyes blue. . . silliness. And then we made dinner, king crab legs and filet mignons. . .
This isn’t bragging, this is memory building for the next time I spill JackntheBox sauce on my keyboard while trying to slam together a blogpost before collapsing. You’ll notice that collapsing must have won more times than blogposting did, as this may be only my fourth post this year. . . aie.
In a related point, my body hates gluten. I’m almost positive of it and the doctors at Littleton Medical are proving me right as we speak. For the first five days on the road, I suffered from what we’ll just call "unhappy guts" syndrome. Hindsight, this was brought on by the six delicious WHEAT beers I drank each day.
86 the pancakes from delightful mountain diners in aspen.
86 the beers, vodkas, whiskies and other libations made from grains
86 the pizza dough, the hamburger buns, the pastries
86 wheat, rye, oats, barleys. . .
For a while I was depressed. The odd gluten-charged food favorite would pop into my brain and I would sadly blurt it out, much to the chagrin of my travel partner - who, after the first sixty or so, rolled down her window and stuck her head out into the wind to hear something else.
From sadness comes joy.
I have decided to make moonshine.
In looking for alternatives to my favorite libations and finding potato vodka but nothing more than potato vodka. . . well, there is gluten-free beer as well, but I haven’t gotten that desperate yet.
Yahimake Moonshine - Citrus
The project is underway and is going well. I am currently infusing 32 oz of potato vodka with lemon and grapefruit peel. It will coalesce in a mason jar in my closet for two weeks, after which point I will drink it. Gluten shall perish without me. Success will be mine. I’ve already made the labels.



*(I'm waiting for suspense on the hot-shit-in-a-bowl recipe)*

Make Your Own Drinks

I am going to start saving the world again, so let’s all make sure that our laces are tied tight and that our hands are fixed firmly at ten and two. First let’s make a few news blips to bring ourselves up to speed since, what - -March 26th.
1. President Barack Obama came to Arizona State University and addressed a sold-out stadium of red-state people and was publicly denied a degree based on the fact that he hasn’t "done enough yet." Because he is a graceful orator and a good man, he sidestepped this ridiculousness by saying that Michelle has a list of things for him to do as well. When I attended ASU I can remember solidly that there was a large cross-section of people who had received degrees in unprotected sex with a focus in drunk driving and confused assault. The only thing that confused me is why a proudly lowest-common-denominator school (my alma mater) would dismiss a man who has "done" politics to the point of gaining the highest office, has "done" school to the point of degrees from Harvard and Columbia (two schools that sent back my application). . . and yet is supposed to react any way but indifferent to a school that received (I kid you not) an honor in High Times during my tenure there for having, concurrently, the highest rate of STDs and the lowest GPA. That was Manzanita Dormitory - 1998/1999. . . go figure.
2. I have purchased a new car. And no, of course it’s not a real "new" car, it is new to me and has been lovingly manufactured in this millennium. If you’ll remember, I had been driving a rock solid ‘95 Explorer that breached 212,000 miles before, among other things, the brake lights stopped working unless you really pounded the hell out of them. Now then, if a situation calls for really pounding the hell out of the brakes there is a good chance that any and all traffic behind you will be grateful for the split second warning you have afforded them. In the normal slow-to-a-stop kind of traffic situation, every single tanned-Beamer-Owner will holler from his air-conditioned leather fort that your brake lights aren’t working, and that he (in a grandly more important and more expensive car) nearly hit you.
"I nearly hit you back there," says tan bald man.
"Thank you for not, I appreciate it."
"Your brake lights are out."
"They are?"
"Yeah, that’s really dangerous, you know."
"It is daytime sir," turning the radio up slowly... "Did you not see my car decreasing in speed with all the other cars?"
"What?"
"Have a nice day, sir, I’ll get that taken care of immediately."
After summoning all the mechanical know-how I possess and stringing an extension cord and a desklamp out to the carport, I surmised that a large wrapping of electrical tape around the wires attached (some detached) to the brake pedal would buy me a few more weeks. On the way to the hardware store to purchase electrical tape I had an important choice to make:
Yellow Light.
Do I (A) really pound the hell out of the brakes hoping to signal frantically a dim reminder that my car will be coming to a complete stop in short order or do I (B) accelerate through the intersection knowing that I will miss the turn for the hardware store but likely spare the life of the young blond girl behind me who is writing her term paper on her blackberry while eating a banana and adjusting her makeup. . .
I saved that girls life, made a right turn into a car dealership and said the following.
"I would like to give you this car and take another one home with me. I would like the newer of the two cars to also be a stick shift, have reliable everything, and be less than 10k. Also, I have to be at work in 2 hours. Ready? Go."
Turned out just fine. Altima. Stick shift. Sunroof (kind of a double edged sword in Scottsdale where the sun will actually light you on fire if you let it see the top of your head like that.)
3. As I hope you have surmised, I have once again taken the summer away from playing bartender to pursue writing projects. . . let’s all keep playing nice together.
4. Go Nuggets.
5. I’m on Twitter, I don’t know how it works really, but if I text it something funny, apparently it comes up on other peoples computers. My Twitdonym (this is getting silly) is MatSnapp - - I think I’m supposed to put an "@" on there. . . so let’s give it a go: @MatSnapp
6. Looks great. Stay tuned.

The Girl Scout Board of Tourism

Don’t start, I already know, and I’m already sorry.
Anyway. Aloha from Scottsdale where it is a charming 63 degrees at sunset. We had some wind today, that was the pinnacle of our weather-laden afternoon. I said this to my mother today over the telephone.
"We had some wind today, that was the pinnacle of our weather-laden afternoon," I said.
"They’re canceling school for tomorrow already, we’ve gotten six new inches of snow in the last three hours, I’m eating soup with the fireplace on and a Paul Newman movie in the DVD player. . . I’m so happy."
"But the wind was pretty bad here, it like, blew stuff around."
"I know honey, it sounds awful. I’m sorry it was so windy."
"Yeah, that’s better. Thanks," I said.
"The puppies are all curled up in front of the fire," she says.
"MOM!"
"Right, it’s not good, its not fun, but I did make chocolate chip cookies," she says.
"This is outrageous, Mother."
"Sorry honey."
It is our decidedly pleasant, albeit occasionally windy, climate that causes tourists to flock to Scottsdale, it encourages professional baseball teams to hold their training games a couple blocks from my house, it encourages family members and longlost friends to seek refuge on your couch for a little while under the ruse of "visiting you." Sure. Like I’d see you every March if I lived in Fargo - - you just love my cooking and my jokes. . . oooh.
In all honesty, this years barrage of guests was quite well rounded, multi-generational, and exciting to say the least. The first guest was none other than AndyE who posts to this blog (when there is a blog to post to, right?) Following AndyE was an up and coming chef of the noteworthy quality and charisma, Gray Rollin. Gray had been the Chef de Cuisine at IO and had helped out at Pacific’o on Maui. Kris and I dropped Gray off at the airport on a Friday and picked up our next two guests on a Sunday morning.
For five days I got an up close and in-your-face crash course on what it is to be a 23 year old midwest girl. I think I passed my tests both as babysitter and chauffeur and only slipped out of a responsible role when encouraging tequila shots before going shopping for cowgirl boots. I look at this one of a couple ways.
1. When babysitting, any good babysitter will tell you, there is a time when the "children" are off to bed and the babysitter gets to eat ice cream on the house-couch and watch television. This is the portion of the babysitting job that is the "gravy." Being paid to eat someone else’s ice cream is the gravy.
2. The "children" I was in charge of were of drinking age so no real impropriety took place. It’s arguable that drinking tequila at 10am on a Tuesday is improper, but it is also arguable that shopping for cowgirl boots brings with it its own set of variable rules.
So if I am going to spend an hour shopping for cowgirl boots with no "bedtime" for the "children" in sight, then I am going to drink a double shot of Cazadores Repo before entering the leather-walled boot-ique. That will by my gravy.
This also gave me the opportunity to tell the good folks at the restaurant that I "had family" in town and couldn’t pick up or work extra shifts this week. This is true as Krissy’s little sister was one of my charges (francesca-formerly-formisano-currently-jirsa or FFFCJ) and I call her my family when it gains me time off or when she needs reprimanding. We ate cupcakes, and shopped for bargain jeans, we ate ice cream and talked about lactose intolerance, we had modeling shoots in the desert, read magazines by the pool - - - by the time they’d left I’d secured all my Girl Scout Badges and was halfway to finishing a crocheted (read cro-shayed) set of tea cozies. . .
This dip into the sacred feminine was cured later by chugging motor oil, eating a large steak, and whistling obscenely at only marginally attractive women from a speeding car. Manly, I say. Manly!
Anyhow - - on the update front, all else is well. The weather is hovering near hot but not dropping all reservations and going for broke quite yet. I am asked all the time what my plans for the summer will be since my plans for the summer are usually the things of envy. I’m not sure I can readily and rationally take three money-earning months off during a time when money is as tight as the muscles in my legs after an impromptu game of racquetball.

However.

I would like to go to Argentina.
Or Australia.
I have a friend who is vacating his house in Napa.
A month at the cabin outside of Denver sounds pretty good.
A few weeks in Littleton is always sublime.
Lake Keuka in upstate New York?
Hunting down publishing leads in Manhattan?

I’ll work on it. I’ll let you know. The website is up and running. It is very simple and one-dimensional, but it serves a purpose. I think it serves a purpose. Either way - - its out there. http://www.yahimake.com/
I’m off to shave my legs and bake a pie. Or I’ll rebuild the carburetor and shoot a wild animal with an assault rifle. I’m versatile at this time of the evening.

The Pioneer Adds 25 Things

There is a wave of honesty going on in the ether-world. Apparently it is now the time, since it is free, to spend an inordinate of time doing two things: Facebook and Introspection.

No, introspection is not a cool new program from Mac, it is something that causes perfectly happy people to discuss their fears in an open forum. Some of them, as perfectly ironic as it could be, are fearful of discussing things in an open forum. I love it. I once wrote a piece that was this VERY thing and luck stands on my side that it was picked up and published somewhere. So I have proof, I'm saying. I was introspective before Facebook told me to be introspective. I had titled it, originally, the Modern Male's Manifesto.

It was an attempt at getting girls. I wrote things that people should know off the bat, things that other people just kind of forget to include during times of emotional growth. And it kind of worked - - but not for me. A friend of mine showed it to people he knew and was abundantly rewarded with sexual and social favors. That is all neither here nor there, the published version held the title of "These Are My Answers" and was published by Denver Syntax at the following address: http://www.denversyntax.com/issue11/fiction/snapp/answers.html

For the sheer excitement of it all, let's see if we can't put out another 25 to add to it. A version 28.0 before version 29.0 includes geritol and a walker. These aren't numbered, but there are definitely 25 of them.

As I have been writing this, the egg yolk that I gently caressed into an over-easy state has popped and infiltrated the sliced banana. There is a solid and strong reason we don't serve banana omelettes, the two flavors aren't "cohesive."

I have been bored out of my skin lately. I feel a little like a person who works in a Blockbuster and has to watch the inhouse previews over and over again. There were exciting bits one time, but now it's just noise and pictures.

I have found and am enjoying Ohs, a cereal that Josh Hogan's Mom used to buy for him and I would eat while he and I shot pool in his basement listening to PM Dawn.

Living in Scottsdale has made me money-hungry and image-conscious.

Living in Maui made me financially ambivalent and image-blind.

Living in Denver made me lazily impoverished and image-ignorant. I actually looked like a yeti, a poor, happy yeti.

Reading those three places makes me wonder why Scottsdale is my address.

I have been eating way too much candy lately. If broccoli was filled with synthetic peanut butter and had a thin candy shell, we might have a ball game. But its not.

I have once again given myself too many projects to complete. Doing it this way allows me to give 10% to ten projects instead of 100% to any of them.

Man, that is annoying, isn't it? Ahh introspection, you devil you.

I worry that I've spent a lot of time studying wine and fine dining for the culmination, both professionally and financially, to have fallen in a time when people don't want to "go out" as much any more.

I'm concerned I've broken my thumb. It clicks.

I bought QuickBooks yesterday at Best Buy and while the price tag said 199.99 it only rang up as 99.99. If this means that simply owning a copy of QuickBooks makes everything half as expensive or makes everything twice as valuable, I can't believe I didn't buy it earlier.

Gas was still the same price on the way home.

Speaking of which, it's going back up, huh?

Oprah told everyone that one way to save money was to tip 10-15% for great service at a restaurant. I wonder if this means I'm allowed to pay the electrician 50%-75% of what he usually gets for doing his job well, or maybe I could fly to Chicago and assault Oprah with handfuls of raw beef.

I hate it when people order Mojitos.

I am mystified by long-distance runners.

I think Jack Johnson, while comfortably predictable, is a genius.

I am concerned that the global economy won't support my eventual vagabond status.

I would like dual citizenship.

I don't believe that Terminator 1, 2, 3 will start happening in 2012. I believe that we will likely remake Terminator 1, 2, 3 in 2012 and people will watch them by swallowing tiny computers and washing them down with synthetic orange juice.

I don't know how to use QuickBooks. I do know Anita. And Anita knows QuickBooks, but she's busy as hell right now. Shame about that.

I'm voting we all start moving to big community houses, communes if you will, have group meals and group entertainment. It sounds fun.

I'm not sure that my 25 live up to what they could have been but it was my goal to not stop typing, just keep writing. No real editing or second thoughts. I think I threatened Oprah Winfrey with beef at some point, I hope she knows that I can't afford a flight to Chicago because she told everyone to short-change the recession-proof restaurant industry. I'd like to show her a simple equation. Less People + Smaller Gratuities = 20%-40% decrease in financial strength. It's a double-edged sword, Winfrey, it's a recession for the little people too.

The Year of the Taco

So it's 2009, the year of the taco. And for you taco lovers out there, your ship has finally come in. There used to be a dessert that I was fond of, it might still be at my local grocer but I haven't spent any time thinking about it until JUST NOW. . . does anyone else remember the ChacoTaco? Is it ChocoTaco? Anyhow - those were a delicious rip off of the taco, and now we seem to be folding anything smaller than a fist into a tortilla and calling it a taco.

Because there is no money available, my sweet girlfriend and I were gourmet window shopping for dinner on the internet, checking menus and prices from the safety of our own home so that the embarrassment and sticker shock of a delicious meal wouldn't leave us hungry for days ahead. We're finding places that allow a person to bring your own booze, BYOB for those who drank their frontal lobes away in college and have forgotten.

And bang, there it was - for you local people in Scottsdale, check out Coup des Tartes. The menu is reasonable, the ambiance is perfect unless you are seating next to an awkward meathead and his bra-less blond first date who didn't stop crying from the point that the entrees arrived until we left quickly out the front door. No amount of grocery store reisling was going to fix that date.

"Good evening, welcome to Coup des Tartes," said the waitress. "Feel free to open your wine whenever you'd like. I apologize, but we don't have the filet mignon tacos available this evening. Everything else on the menu is pretty straight-forward, I'll be back in a moment to answer any questions."

We opened the wine, a selection from Alpha Omega that was purchased by someone else and has been a member of the auspicious wine collection which has seen less and less inductees over the last months.

"What is it with all these f'ing tacos?" says delightful girlfriend to me. She says f'ing because its quieter and less offensive. Also, the meathead and his sad date hadn't arrived yet and we didn't want to bring any unwarranted attention to ourselves. After meathead and Mrs. sat down, we could have re-enacted the central scenes from Donnie Brasco with our hair on fire and no one in that tiny room would have noticed.

"What do you mean?" I ask.

"I'm so sick of seeing tacos everywhere. Italian restaurants have meatball tacos, french bistros with mignon-tacos, Asian restuarants with dim-sum tacos, stir-fry tacos prepared tableside with mexican wok. . . Geez. Leave the tacos alone!"

You'll notice it now, the tacos have taken over. Fish, chicken, steak, pork, shredded pork, marinated and shredded pork, pork that was raised on chicken and fish. . . whatever you want. Have it taco-style. I'm surprised that Ford and GM haven't introduced a new economy car called the Taco to inspire people to buy new cars and to help their executives afford to dine at restaurants where the restaurant brings the wine for you. Schmucks.

Just a thought - enjoy your January.

The Don Rickles Pillowfight

Sorry everyone for being away so long, I’ve been waiting for a bailout. And while the hope is still strong, the fires of American Patriotism and Oh Shit Rescuism burn just as brightly in my chest as they ever have. I have been doing my fiscal end of year numbers in order to accurately report my figures to the bailout commission and I have come up with the following:
"This blog has suffered cutbacks in 85% of its sweat equity and 100% of its income. While 2008 is financially secure with this ultimate or penultimate post, I will need $87 billion to survive the 2009-2010 fiscal calendars."
I am cautiously optimistic about receiving this influx of cash and have outlined the re-structuring of this blog to incorporate an all-green approach to more or less cracking wise in a semi-public arena. I pledge, with my $87 billion gaining interest in the federally insured banks . . . wait, maybe I’ll put it in a tequila box under the bed instead. . . anyway, with that money taken care of I won’t have to worry about any of my more financially ambivalent choices and I’ll be able to write a blog every day instead of, I don’t know, working to earn a living wage. Because the level of my financial ambivalence will increase 600%, I will in turn be stimulating the economy and helping the local restaurant and bar infrastructure largely by overtipping my former restaurant-mates who are still trying to earn a living wage.
Speaking of working to earn a living wage, the increasing difficulty of serving people food and wine that they can’t afford has become a daily issue.
"Would you like a glass of wine?"
"No," they’ll say, patting their pockets, "recession and all, maybe a few more lemons for my water."
"I understand what you mean," I say, patting my own pockets. "While we appreciate you still coming in, I can’t let you have the table much longer unless you order something other than bread and sugar packets."
"Oh."
"I know, it’s kind of a bad rule, but I’ve been here since 9:40 this morning and as it rolls into the three o’clock hour I’ve got twelve dollars in tips in my pocket, five of which go to the restaurant’s other employees."
"I see. Well, we’ll finish up our budget meeting here and we’ll get out of your way, sorry about that."
"Wouldn’t it be easier to order lunch?"
"No, no. Who can afford to do that? Geez, we don’t work at Ford, we’re bankers over at Wachovia, or Chase. It’s Chase now, I’m sorry I keep forgetting."
The credit card rich of Scottsdale have also run to the hills and are no longer slapping their plastic down on the bar top for their $10 Grey Gooses. I imagine somewhere that they are slapping that same weathered credit card down on linoleum for a Moons Over My Hammy instead.
"How much for a full plate of extra hashbrowns?" these young, power-dressed Scottsdaleys might say.
"Extra hashbrowns are seventy cents. We are running a special on scrambled nest eggs though."
"Seventy cents? Geez," looking around the room, patting their pockets. "Just a few extra packets of jelly then."
"Of course."
Enough of this recession depression around Christmas time, let’s talk about a brand new prison I’d like to invent. I have been dipping my toes briefly into the world of corporate advertising/marketing. The joys of freelance writing mean that I get to do that kind of thing. One week I’m doing marketing pitches for tw telecom and the next I’m editing text in a self-help book dealing with auto-erotic asphyxiation and making sure that it’s spelled correctly in its twenty-three occurrences. What I’ve learned from this foray (yes I know, we’ll get back to prison in a minute) is that the corporate world loves, simply L-O-V-E-S their meetings.
"Bob, we haven’t had a meeting in at least an hour, why don’t you grab Tina and Fred from accounting and we’ll have a meeting about this lack of meetings."
"I was just about to schedule one with you to talk about this very thing. Do you think we should have a bite to eat at this meeting or should we go out for lunch?"
"Jesus, Bob, I don’t know. I think conference room four is open, I’ll have my secretary set up a quick meeting about whether or not our meeting on meetings should be a lunch meeting or a catered meeting."
"Whew. Should we conference in Tina and Fred to get their input?"
"Yes, we should. Send them meeting invitations on their blackberries to have a conference call during our meeting about our lack of meetings meeting."
"I’m calling my secretary right now, she and I will meet, we’ll get those invitations over to their blackberries."
"Good."
"Good."
What I have also learned is the cunning genius that is involved in advertising, both print and television. Each word, each image, each font, each pixel is scrutinized at a three-tiered level before showing the "product" to the "client" or even the head of the creative department. It is with this new knowledge of the red tape and endless meetings that I will announce my dumbfounded joy at the following advertising campaign.
"Five."
"Five-Dollar."
"Five-Dollar-Footlong."
This is why we need a prison. It wouldn’t be a normal kind of prison. It would be pretty silly, actually. If you are the lead creative director on an ad campaign like this one from a sandwich company which will remain nameless you will be sentenced to up to two years AWAY from the advertising world. During this two year sentence, you will be required to drink heavily and watch your own commercials for several hours each day. You will also be subject to group therapy where you will jingle-sing in the round with the other inmates, perhaps after which you will be encouraged to work as a group to sell American made products to the rest of the world, things we can definitely make in abundance, like say housing developments with parks and swingsets and community centers - - and make them attractive financially to third world countries who can’t afford them like, say, Turkmenistan. The whole prison will be funded by bailout money and upon release from prison the advertising executives will be encouraged to find work in another field to pave the way a new generation of jingle-makers.
It sounds more like rehab than anything else, but if we could get some positive exporting dollars from it - not enough to make money, because that’s not the American way, just enough to write it off as a loss - and we could take a few of these jingle-masters out of the game for a while. Think of it though, all those wonderful used-car-salesmenesque people in one room at one time, working together to sell Tract-Shax in beautiful Turkmenistan, and likely doing such a good job that there would be a noticeable outflux of wide-eyed expatriate consumers.
"Look at that community pool with the decorative fire-spires! Those grills at the community center can fit twenty kabobs! It says that each three bedroom space can hold four families, that keeps the rent cheap! Let’s go, Millie, let’s move to Turkmenistan!"
What else is going on that I should make known. I’ve hired an accountant to help me write off what seems to be an ever-increasing addiction to Starbucks pumpkin loaf. I am continually impressed with the wonderful world of music that exists at Pandora.com. For what might be the sixth year in a row, despite the begging from my family members, I am unable to devise a proper Christmas Wishlist. This happens for three or four reasons. First, I never know what I want and when I sit down to think about it I go partially braindead. It is on par with looking for ones glasses without ones contacts in. Secondly, when I finally do sit down and put words to paper, I end up asking for things winning lottery tickets, the opportunity to bash Don Rickles with a pillow, publishing contracts, new cars, increased height - and (because I have been in Scottsdale too long and am reluctantly soaking it up like a image-driven teabag) wristwatches I can’t afford and shouldn’t own.
"Is that a Cartier Roadster?"
"It is actually."
"That’s what, five grand?"
"Seven."
"What do you do?"
"I make about 9k a year doing odd writing jobs. I also bartend."
"Hmm."
"Yep."
"Is that your ‘96 Ford Explorer with the chipped bug shield?"
"Yep."
"Looks good, man."
"Runs good too."
Thirdly, and this I’ve adapted from Ms. Krissy, I feel strange asking people for specific things because it takes the mystery out of opening gifts and giving gifts. Santa Claus didn’t get his bailout check this year either, so instead of making him feel guilty by asking for directions to Don Rickles’ house or an expensive time piece, I’ll ask for the same good things I do every year. Quality time with people I like, a few extravagant occasions that feel more poetic than ordinary, gift certificates for music and steak, and a new bug shield for my ‘96 Ford Explorer. Image isn’t everything, but it IS important when it comes to the quality of one’s bug shield.

Merry Christmas

(Except for you, Don Rickles, you’re still in the penalty box. Bah humbug to you, sir. I kid, I kid, you know, I don’t know Don personally or his wife Barbara, but I mean this from the bottom of my heart, with the most sincerest sincerity, it’s over. You’re washed up. Let me inherit your kingdom, stop stealing my ideas. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.)

New Mail: Shua, Shua, Shua, Shua, Shua. . . Shua.

I’ve heard of crowd participation in the past, the occasional off-color comment from an unruly fan base, but never in my limited fame have I come across a pundit so in tune, so incredibly well-informed that he/she has the capability of commenting a dozen or so times in the span of 24 hours.
I applaud you, Shua, for you have made me proud. Not as proud as when I found you in the backyard of the house one winter evening with an empty bottle of MD 20/20 and the cushions from the couch beneath your quietly sleeping head.
By way of an update, I’ll tell you that the most recent hiatus from the blogosphere has been family holiday travel, new copywriting clients and the continual need to serve people wine and beer. I’m hoping to unleash a good old fashioned six-page rant here in the next few days so keep your eyes and ears ready. I’m sure that Shua will agree that new material is easier to comment on than old material.