President Obama gave a serious, and seriously hopeful speech to a Joint Session of Congress. He got cheers from both sides of the aisle.
Bobby Jindal's rebuttal speech was apparently written by someone who writes Golden Books as their day job. "Americans can do anything," repeated in a sing-song Miss Nancy voice.
If this guy is the best the Repugs have to offer, Obama's a shoo-in for a 2nd term.
Obama in a knockout.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
The Bacon Explosion
It's bacon. Wrapped in sausage. Wrapped in Bacon. Sliced and served on a hot Pillsbury Grand biscuit, it's frankly, a mouthful of heaven.
Mine looked like this in progress:
After three mouthwatering hours in the oven (a meat thermometer is imperative), with some periodic basting with a good barbecue sauce, it looked like this:
Since pork is essentially picnic food, as far as I'm concerned, I served it with potato salad and a good red wine.
So delicious.
Apropos of nothing, I got into my single-digit jeans today.
Mine looked like this in progress:
After three mouthwatering hours in the oven (a meat thermometer is imperative), with some periodic basting with a good barbecue sauce, it looked like this:
Since pork is essentially picnic food, as far as I'm concerned, I served it with potato salad and a good red wine.
So delicious.
Apropos of nothing, I got into my single-digit jeans today.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Pork tastes goooood...bacon tastes goooood
The Bacon Explosion experiment is underway!
Right now my apartment smells like heaven.
Photos and report to come in tomorrow's post. I hope they let me use my computer in the cardiac unit.
Monday, February 16, 2009
Fall 2009 Fashion Week
If you're riding the subway this week, you may have noticed an increase in the number of girls who only take up half a seat. Super-slim things with the nervy air of woodland creatures clutching huge shoulder bags. Yep, the models are out in force, because it's Fashion Week. A recessionary Fashion Week, with some notable absences from the tents this season (Betsey Johnson, Vera Wang), but still the shows go on.
This year's Fashion Week went off with a bang, as two models ate it on the Herve Leger runway in Bryant Park. Here's video (the stumble happens about :45 in), and you've got to love this 15-year-old's big, gap-toothed grin as she gets to her feet.
It's not quite as dramatic as the Spring 2009 Prada show from last year (favorite moment: when the model gives up and takes off the shoes in disgust and finishes her walk barefoot), but I have to wonder, do the designers secretly hate these girls?
This year's Fashion Week went off with a bang, as two models ate it on the Herve Leger runway in Bryant Park. Here's video (the stumble happens about :45 in), and you've got to love this 15-year-old's big, gap-toothed grin as she gets to her feet.
It's not quite as dramatic as the Spring 2009 Prada show from last year (favorite moment: when the model gives up and takes off the shoes in disgust and finishes her walk barefoot), but I have to wonder, do the designers secretly hate these girls?
Sunday, February 15, 2009
TWTWTW
Monday: Alex Rodriguez admitted that he took steroids, leading me to wonder again about the American fetishization of sports. We've created a culture that values winning at any cost as well as grabbing the biggest payday you can, so who are we to bitch about professional athletes cheating in order to hit the most home runs and earn their fat contracts?
Tuesday: The world watched, agog, as a sitting US President held a press conference without uttering a single cracker cliche and answered questions with obvious care and thought. WOW. And all without calling a single reporter by a stupid and insulting name. Oh, and welcome back from Siberia, Helen Thomas.
Wednesday: Joaquin, Joaquin, Joaquin.... He knocked Farrah Fawcett off of Letterman's list of Top Ten Weird Interviews.
Thursday: Continental Flight 3407 goes down in icy fog near Buffalo. Part of me wonders if Sully used up all the aviation luck for 2009.
Friday: Despite ongoing knee-jerk, party-before-country obstructionism of the Republicans, the stimulus bill is passed by the Senate by a vote of 60-38. Sherrod Brown leaves his mother's funeral to be present for the vote. Republicans all but admit that they get their marching orders from Rush Limbaugh, and we Dems think that's just fine by us.
And I (inches from a clean getaway) almost made it through this entire post without mentioning Uterine Clown-Car whack job Nadya Suleman, who turns the entire pro-choice/anti-choice thing upside down by becoming a whipping-girl for both sides. In a state (California) that is issuing IOU's instead of tax refunds it may only be a matter of time before Nadya the Grifter is chased out of the state by citizens with torches.
Tuesday: The world watched, agog, as a sitting US President held a press conference without uttering a single cracker cliche and answered questions with obvious care and thought. WOW. And all without calling a single reporter by a stupid and insulting name. Oh, and welcome back from Siberia, Helen Thomas.
Wednesday: Joaquin, Joaquin, Joaquin.... He knocked Farrah Fawcett off of Letterman's list of Top Ten Weird Interviews.
Thursday: Continental Flight 3407 goes down in icy fog near Buffalo. Part of me wonders if Sully used up all the aviation luck for 2009.
Friday: Despite ongoing knee-jerk, party-before-country obstructionism of the Republicans, the stimulus bill is passed by the Senate by a vote of 60-38. Sherrod Brown leaves his mother's funeral to be present for the vote. Republicans all but admit that they get their marching orders from Rush Limbaugh, and we Dems think that's just fine by us.
And I (inches from a clean getaway) almost made it through this entire post without mentioning Uterine Clown-Car whack job Nadya Suleman, who turns the entire pro-choice/anti-choice thing upside down by becoming a whipping-girl for both sides. In a state (California) that is issuing IOU's instead of tax refunds it may only be a matter of time before Nadya the Grifter is chased out of the state by citizens with torches.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Apparently I'm the Go-To Gal for Losers
So this past week, an email shows up in my inbox from an address I don't recognize. Turns out it's from some guy I went on ONE match.com date with in Colorado, get this -- in 2001! Hello? To top it off, he attaches the SAME photo that he had on his profile eight years ago. Needless to say, he got the immediate delete.
Later on that night, I get a text message on my cell phone from the same guy, which frankly is just creepy, because I didn't get this cell phone number until after I moved back to New York in 2002. How the FUCK would he get my phone number? Again, relegated to the deleted-without-response bin.
Though for all I know, he could be sitting outside my building gettin' his Robert John Bardo on.
WTF? Dude? Are you serious? You were a LOSER. And you wore DOCKERS.
Seriously, do I gots to get me Gavin de Becker on speed dial?
Later on that night, I get a text message on my cell phone from the same guy, which frankly is just creepy, because I didn't get this cell phone number until after I moved back to New York in 2002. How the FUCK would he get my phone number? Again, relegated to the deleted-without-response bin.
Though for all I know, he could be sitting outside my building gettin' his Robert John Bardo on.
WTF? Dude? Are you serious? You were a LOSER. And you wore DOCKERS.
Seriously, do I gots to get me Gavin de Becker on speed dial?
Valentine's Day 2009
I was supposed to go out and run a bunch of errands and hit the grocery today, but when I got out of the shower, not only was AMC showing "Casino," it's been followed by "The Godfather." How can I even leave the freakin' house now? Answer: I CAN'T.
My office mate is making THIS for her boyfriend for their Valentine's Day dinner, and all I can say is that he owes her oral sex nightly for the rest of her life. Since I consider bacon to be a primary food group, this is my idea of heaven!
My office mate is making THIS for her boyfriend for their Valentine's Day dinner, and all I can say is that he owes her oral sex nightly for the rest of her life. Since I consider bacon to be a primary food group, this is my idea of heaven!
Belatedly Elated for my Hometown
By the time this happened, Roni and I had consumed two Allen Brothers filets mignon, two bottles of good red wine and a couple of beers, but still -- I cracked the bottle of Dom Perignon that a vendor had given me for Christmas, and Roni and I partied for a couple more hours. Needless to say, I slept on top of the covers, in my clothes, straight through my alarm, waking at 6:15 for a 6:45 car service pickup, requiring me to run around my apartment with speedy cartoon music playing, tossing random things into a suitcase and shouting "Roni, wake up! You have to leave RIGHT NOW! My car is going to be here any minute." I think I was still drunk when I got to Kennedy, but that's okay, since I slept the entire way to Los Angeles, no doubt wafting gusts of alcohol on the poor guy sitting next to me. Thank GOD for business class with its fluffy blankets, good pillows, and seats that recline (practically) all the way.
Go Steelers!
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Grammys 2009
I'm completely enjoying the Grammys this year, despite its occasional air of PBS fund-drive oldies concert. I'd rather listen to the One Remaining Top with Smokey, Ne-Yo and Jamie Foxx than the ready-to-break-water M.I.A. any day. But then again, I'm old.
Speaking of PBS oldies concerts, Neil Diamond is on! He looks great, but apparently can't sing anymore. And it just isn't the same without the silver sequined shirt. Again, old.
And welcome back, Whitney Houston, we've missed you and you look gorgeous!
Conspicuously, blessedly absent: Beyonce. (Yes, I know, she seems like a very nice person, but I have an irrational dislike for her, mainly because rumours of her talent have reached me, but I've yet to see any real evidence of anything other than great marketing and some catchy, mostly-forgettable pop tunes. Quick! Sing "Bootylicious" right now! Can't do it, can ya?).
And did anyone else find it odd that Gwyneth Paltrow introduced Radiohead, of which her husband's band is a weak knockoff?
Speaking of PBS oldies concerts, Neil Diamond is on! He looks great, but apparently can't sing anymore. And it just isn't the same without the silver sequined shirt. Again, old.
And welcome back, Whitney Houston, we've missed you and you look gorgeous!
Conspicuously, blessedly absent: Beyonce. (Yes, I know, she seems like a very nice person, but I have an irrational dislike for her, mainly because rumours of her talent have reached me, but I've yet to see any real evidence of anything other than great marketing and some catchy, mostly-forgettable pop tunes. Quick! Sing "Bootylicious" right now! Can't do it, can ya?).
And did anyone else find it odd that Gwyneth Paltrow introduced Radiohead, of which her husband's band is a weak knockoff?
Sully is My Co-pilot
Don't know if you caught Captain Chesley Sullenberger on "60 Minutes" tonight, but of course I was riveted to the TV.
I loved his demeanor, his "I was just doing my job, ma'am," air of calmness.
I loved the inscrutable, yet vaguely insulted, look he gave Katie Couric when she asked the asinine question, "Did you pray?" before answering politically that he left that to the folks behind him on the plane because he had other things to do, like TRYING TO LAND THE PLANE IN THE RIVER. As if God had anything to do with it, instead of his 29 years of experience, training as a fighter pilot, glider pilot, accident investigator, and flight instructor. Sheesh.
And I so want one of those "Sully is my Co-Pilot" t-shirts one of the passengers was wearing at the re-union. I'd store it right next to my Yankees "Scooter 3:16" t-shirt, which for some reason always garners me a lot of dirty looks every time I wear it.
Go, Sully!
I loved his demeanor, his "I was just doing my job, ma'am," air of calmness.
I loved the inscrutable, yet vaguely insulted, look he gave Katie Couric when she asked the asinine question, "Did you pray?" before answering politically that he left that to the folks behind him on the plane because he had other things to do, like TRYING TO LAND THE PLANE IN THE RIVER. As if God had anything to do with it, instead of his 29 years of experience, training as a fighter pilot, glider pilot, accident investigator, and flight instructor. Sheesh.
And I so want one of those "Sully is my Co-Pilot" t-shirts one of the passengers was wearing at the re-union. I'd store it right next to my Yankees "Scooter 3:16" t-shirt, which for some reason always garners me a lot of dirty looks every time I wear it.
Go, Sully!
First-Person Account from Flight 1549
So my sister is married to a pilot who flies for one of the legacy carriers, and one of their pilots was deadheading on Flight 1549, and she sent a first person account to her union, and my sister shared it with me on pain of death if I forwarded it, because it's supposed to be confidential.
All I can tell you is that it is very, very cool.
Sorry.
All I can tell you is that it is very, very cool.
Sorry.
25 Things about Jane
No.
You know what?
Fuck all of you and your fucking 25 things.
Don't assume that knowing 25 random facts about me means that you know anything about me at all! What you can safely assume is that if I compile a list of 25 things, it is merely another constructed persona that may or may not have anything to do with who I really am. Knowing that I fucked the redheaded pressman last week doesn't tell you anything more than I fucked a redheaded pressman, for God's sake! Whatever conclusions you draw or judgements you make about me from that fact are just your conclusions and judgements, and they may or may not be true, but honestly, have nothing to do with me.
"25 Things" is just another one of those stupid questionnaires (only without the questions) that people used to send around by email; you know, the ones with the penetrating questions like "Coke or Pepsi?" "Vanilla or Chocolate?" These questionnaires got old really fast (somewhere around 1998 or so) and every one that has shown up in my inbox since then has been the recipient of a swift delete-button boot.
I could probably go through this blog and my original blog and pull out two sets of 25 random sentences and present them as my 25 things. And with those two sets of "facts", I could portray myself as the meanest person in the world, or the next reincarnation of the Dalai Lama.
So no, I won't be crafting a list of carefully honed "facts" about me in hopes that it will show you how quirky, sensitive, kooky, or deep I am. If you want to know me, it sure isn't going to happen with some list.
You want to know 25 things about me? Pick up the phone and have a conversation with me. Make a plan to have a drink or a hamburger with me so we can talk face to face. Come over to my house and let me cook you comfort food while we drink wine and talk about the world we live in and life in general.
And there you have it. I just had to say it, because frankly, "25 Things" has totally ruined Open Salon.
You know what?
Fuck all of you and your fucking 25 things.
Don't assume that knowing 25 random facts about me means that you know anything about me at all! What you can safely assume is that if I compile a list of 25 things, it is merely another constructed persona that may or may not have anything to do with who I really am. Knowing that I fucked the redheaded pressman last week doesn't tell you anything more than I fucked a redheaded pressman, for God's sake! Whatever conclusions you draw or judgements you make about me from that fact are just your conclusions and judgements, and they may or may not be true, but honestly, have nothing to do with me.
"25 Things" is just another one of those stupid questionnaires (only without the questions) that people used to send around by email; you know, the ones with the penetrating questions like "Coke or Pepsi?" "Vanilla or Chocolate?" These questionnaires got old really fast (somewhere around 1998 or so) and every one that has shown up in my inbox since then has been the recipient of a swift delete-button boot.
I could probably go through this blog and my original blog and pull out two sets of 25 random sentences and present them as my 25 things. And with those two sets of "facts", I could portray myself as the meanest person in the world, or the next reincarnation of the Dalai Lama.
So no, I won't be crafting a list of carefully honed "facts" about me in hopes that it will show you how quirky, sensitive, kooky, or deep I am. If you want to know me, it sure isn't going to happen with some list.
You want to know 25 things about me? Pick up the phone and have a conversation with me. Make a plan to have a drink or a hamburger with me so we can talk face to face. Come over to my house and let me cook you comfort food while we drink wine and talk about the world we live in and life in general.
And there you have it. I just had to say it, because frankly, "25 Things" has totally ruined Open Salon.
Saturday, February 7, 2009
Etta James and Jane Agree about Beyonce
Sasha Frere-Jones' extended wet kiss of Beyonce's behind aside, I've been telling anyone who will listen that Beyonce is the most supremely mediocre superstar we've got. Anyone with ears can hear that the woman can't sing her way out of a paper bag, at least not without serious mechanical assistance.
Note to Sasha Frere-Jones: Beyonce will never fuck you, so writing a review that makes her sound as if she is the second coming of Billie Holiday, Aretha Franklin, Diana Ross, and Whitney Houston all rolled into one was really just a waste of your time. Aren't you embarrassed to have called this middling-talent pop star "brilliant" and a "genius?"
Apparently, Etta James agrees with me.
Note to Sasha Frere-Jones: Beyonce will never fuck you, so writing a review that makes her sound as if she is the second coming of Billie Holiday, Aretha Franklin, Diana Ross, and Whitney Houston all rolled into one was really just a waste of your time. Aren't you embarrassed to have called this middling-talent pop star "brilliant" and a "genius?"
Apparently, Etta James agrees with me.
Any Storm in a Port
If you travel to the opposite coast several times a year, it can be pretty tedious to eat breakfast, lunch, and dinner with the same salesperson every day, no matter how much you enjoy his or her company. No matter how much I enjoy being wined and dined at Los Angeles' best restaurants, sometimes I just want a night in the hotel with room service and cable television.
And chances are, they probably have their own moments of, "Oh, Jesus, I have to eat ANOTHER meal with this mouthy New York chick?"
So as a service to my LA salespeople, I've found myself a West Coast playmate.
I picked him out about a year ago.
He was at the time the lead sheetfed pressman at one of my vendors; he recently moved to our other LA vendor where he is now the daytime sheetfed supervisor. Totally not my type. Anyone who knows me knows that my type runs toward the Big, Dumb, and Galooty, and I have been more than vocal in my disdain for redheaded men (I've always believed that while red hair on women is beautiful, exotic, and sexy, I've always characterized it as a birth defect in men).
Dave is short (again, going against type, with my current NYC Special Naked Friend standing 6'4"), no taller than me, with a head of flaming red hair, but he has a certain twinkle in his eye that got my attention. Oh, and a tight little surfer's body. You know how it is -- when you meet someone simpatico and you look at each other and you both kind of cock your head to the side like you're hearing something? And you say to yourself, "Huh. I think I need to have that."
So, now I've got a playmate for those nights when I just want to order room service and roll around naked on an acre of bed with a furry little Redheaded Sex Monkey.
Ain't life grand?
And chances are, they probably have their own moments of, "Oh, Jesus, I have to eat ANOTHER meal with this mouthy New York chick?"
So as a service to my LA salespeople, I've found myself a West Coast playmate.
I picked him out about a year ago.
He was at the time the lead sheetfed pressman at one of my vendors; he recently moved to our other LA vendor where he is now the daytime sheetfed supervisor. Totally not my type. Anyone who knows me knows that my type runs toward the Big, Dumb, and Galooty, and I have been more than vocal in my disdain for redheaded men (I've always believed that while red hair on women is beautiful, exotic, and sexy, I've always characterized it as a birth defect in men).
Dave is short (again, going against type, with my current NYC Special Naked Friend standing 6'4"), no taller than me, with a head of flaming red hair, but he has a certain twinkle in his eye that got my attention. Oh, and a tight little surfer's body. You know how it is -- when you meet someone simpatico and you look at each other and you both kind of cock your head to the side like you're hearing something? And you say to yourself, "Huh. I think I need to have that."
So, now I've got a playmate for those nights when I just want to order room service and roll around naked on an acre of bed with a furry little Redheaded Sex Monkey.
Ain't life grand?