Boogie Nights neighbors

Last week a little porn company moved in next door. They also rented out an office in this small-timey industrial complex around the corner, and every night all these chicks in new Mustangs show up, the kind that have the low-rise jeans and big old handlebar tattoos over their asses. They've already started filming at the house, which has a pool and hot tub, and I guess they rent the office so they can have a separate business address for when perverts stalk them. Seems like S.O.P. for a porno outfit. So far it looks like they do mainly BBW gonzo, with really skinny studs. Must be kind of a niche thing. I want to run across one of them casually one day and offer to cater the sets. It'd be a nice excuse to do some good cooking, get paid, and have a really weird afternoon.

Rat in the garage.

I was lying in bed on the "cusp" of sleep at around 2am when all of a sudden there was this horrible gushing noise in the garage. I figured the hot water heater had burst a hose, and if that was the case then a lot of my storage boxes were going to get ruined, so I jumped up and ran in there.

Apparently some rat had jumped across the faucet of the laundry sink and pressed on the hot water lever, because hot water was shooting out of it at full tilt. Shaken but relieved, I turned it off and made a mental note to make handle-clips out of old coat hangers. If that happens again while no one's around, there could be real damage. I also got the Rat Zapper out. The Rat Zapper is this little shoebox-size thing with four double-A batteries and an electrical floor that electrocutes rats who wander in after the bait (we throw in dog kibble). It looks sort of dumb but it really works. It killed a rat the size of a corn cob last time I set it up. I prefer the Rat Zapper to traps because it's bloodless and instantaneous. Sometimes when you use traps you just snap off like half the head and they wander around for a while, spreading bad karma and jammy thick blood.

Okay, back to bed. While I was up I put some phyllo dough in the fridge to defrost. I thought that maybe tomorrow I'd bake a Napoleon of phyllo, roasted red pepper, mozzarella, and chopped kalamata.

I'm allergic to brandy; lost hat

I went down to the Corner-Sav to get some Corn Nuts and an egg sandwich and behind the counter I saw this row of liquor bottles. Thanksgiving was here and there was a chill in the air so I thought hey, why not get some brandy. That's an autumn/winter type drink. So, I picked up a bottle and it gave me the hiccups immediately. This stinks. I've had the hiccups for almost two hours.

When I was walking down there I saw this baseball cap on the darkened sidewalk. I examined it and it said AMICI'S, the name of this local thin-crust pizza chain. I walked about ten feet past it and then thought that there might have been a dead body in the hedge along the sidewalk, you know, that belonged to the hat. I walked back and peered into the hedge but didn't see any feet or hands or anything. That's when it dawned on me: I watch too much Law & Order.

Is Thom Yorke a douchebag?

He's the guy from Radiohead. I read a big interview with him today and he sounds like kind of a wiener. "Politically active vegan," that kind of thing. Like Moby but with singles that don't rely on Gwen Stefani. I've always thought that he made pretty sweet music but now after listening to his self-indulgent whineliners he comes across more like the mope who quit high school to lose weight and work on his pallor.

My dad always said that Jay North got famous too fast. In 1959, at age eight, Jay played Dennis the Menace, and from that point on was apparently typecast and unhireable. He explored a life of drug addiction and weight gain and now works as a prison guard in Florida. Thom and Radiohead hit the big-time right out of college and apparently their mentality is suspended in the early-20s aspic: a lush death-ambrosia of emotional fear, inability to use Microsoft Excel, and terror at the prospect of waking up the next day lest they be a robot with a large black rubber differential instead of a neck.

I guess I don't need Radiohead to explore the depths of micro-personal despair any more. It's great stuff, and they're unparalleled in pulling it off, but quit being the Beastie Boys, you know. I don't want to watch a snowy-haired MCA chiki-cha'ing a mic and pronging like a land-elf. I want him to be reading about epidemiology in an upholstered chair on the upper west side. He's old enough to be my extremely young father, for christs's sake.

Chris did not move to Spain.

Chris didn't move to Spain, as threatened, but he has been considering taking a vacation at the cabin (his family has a place up in the gold country) soon. He grew up in that area and gets kind of nostalgic for it when it's snow season. Maybe I'll tag along and do some hiking and fishing. Or maybe I won't, and just sit around eating things out of bags and using the computer instead.

In other news...Cornelius wrote me. His big romantic adventure was kind of a flop (duh) and he's headed home in about a week. Says he's bringing me one of those big furry hats and some kind of rare vodka that we can't get here. It'll be nice to have him back around -- the place has been kind of a frat house since he left. He has this normative effect on the place, where people aren't as inclined to leave dishes and dirty magazines around. Except for Lyle. If we had the Pope coming over, Lyle wouldn't think twice about wearing his old "CHOAD MAN" t-shirt and drinking MGD out of a vase.

Election Night

It's pretty tense around here. It looks like Kerry's leading by a marginal amount, with four hours left in the vote. Chris is pacing around the house making all kinds of bold claims about moving to Spain if Bush wins. His thinking is that people always threaten to move to Canada if they don't like the outcome of an election, but why would you want to live in Canada? Spain has a lovely climate, a great food culture, and topless beaches. Canada's national dish is "poutine," which is french fries baked in gravy, and it's so cold there that any exposed nipples immediately harden into pebbles and fall off of the breast, leaving only a small spot of blood.

Brew Company Update

I spent about fifty hours pro bono making beer labels for Ray to look at. I expensed a bunch of those $3-$9 boutique beers, some domestics like Bud and Coors, and a few antique labels off eBay. I like to do a bit of research, let the ideas settle into my subconscious, and then stay up all night a few times when it's silent in the house, just letting the mouse go wherever it wants. I had some really nice vintage woodcut techniques going on, and even created a new typeface that evokes Copperplate but isn't obviously based on it. You could have seen any of my comps on any shelf in any liquor store.

I dropped them off in Ray's mail slot, since he wasn't around, and figured I'd hear from him later that night or, at the latest, the next day. I even skipped a few trips down to The Smoke with Beef (The Tenmen were the house band for a week) just because I figured he'd call and want me to come over so he could talk about getting the artwork into production. A week passed, no dice. I didn't contact him because I don't like to force people to say things about the work if they're still thinking about it. The ball was in his court.

After another week I started to worry that he hadn't gotten the package of comps, so I stopped by and knocked on his door. It swung open, so I wandered in. I heard him talking with Petey in the kitchen, so I headed that way, but then something in the living room caught my eye: huge stacks of cases of beer. Excited that he might have used my labels and just forgotten to tell me, or wanted to surprise me, I went and popped one of the boxes open.

I couldn't have been more shocked if I'd found my own disembodied head staring back at me. There they were, twenty-four gleaming brown bottles of beer, with...with the ugliest, most amateurish labels imaginable. The thing was, he and Petey had spared no expense: there was intricate die-cutting, foil embossing, even a hologram. I'll try to describe it.

In the center was a 3D hologram of a log cabin, about the size of an egg, and when you turned the bottle a little Abraham Lincoln came out and waved. On either side of the hologram were these low-res GIFs of eagles and barley that Ray had obviously gotten off the Internet and enlarged, and around these were gratuitous gold foil circles. There were typos in the copy about "authentic micro-brewwed flavor" and "rich, sophisitcated aromas." The thing that really killed me, though, was the typography of the title. Or rather, the lack of it. You know how sometimes a computer will replace a missing font with a version of Courier? That had happened to them here, so instead of whatever it was supposed to say, the text had overflowed the printable area and just said "HONEST AB."

I was so pissed off that I walked into the kitchen and glared at Ray. He acted like nothing was up and went, "Hey, Téodor! Long time no see! How you like our new bottles?"

I bit my lip, took the high road, and asked him if he'd gotten my label samples. He looked at me quizzically for a second and then said "Oh! Those other beer labels you scanned for me? Thanks, yeah! They gave us all kinds of ideas! How you like our new bottles?"

I didn't know whether to be flattered or to hit him on the head with a pan. Apparently my labels were so authentic looking that he'd assumed I had just given them to him for reference. I eyed a hefty skillet that was hanging from the ceiling rack, but felt the temper ebb. After a bit of explanation, he realized that they had all been for him, and he laughed and slapped his forehead while cutting me a check for two grand. I figure my stuff will get used after they sell out of this first batch, but the way things go with Ray, he'll probably win some sort of conceptual design award with those horrendous hackjobs and keep them in production.

Brew Company

Just got back from Ray's. He's really got something on his hands with these incredible new concept beers he and that Oregon Petey guy have been brewing. That Belgian fig/nutmeg lambic, Meyer lemon weissbier, crisp fennel/mint ale, roasted plum/brown sugar stout, chokecherry caramel barleymead, even this incredibly subtle toasted sesame single-wort that goes amazingly well with sushi....

He showed me this horrible logo he and Petey had sketched up. First off, the name they chose for their brewery is awful: "Rayle." Like "Ray" and "Ale." That was misstep number one. Secondly, it's set in the Copperplate font. Weinhard's wore that one out about fifty World's Fairs ago. Thirdly, well...who cares. It has no legs and it's not gonna fly. I'm going to set up some billables and creatively consult for them until they have a first-class ticket to slap on their packaging. This is good stuff and it shouldn't look like first-generation hackery. Given their druthers, these guys'd probably suggest a tie-dyed label concept and approve some second cousin's shaky line drawings of a jester riding a penny-farthing.

Jesus Philippe

Philippe managed to brush his teeth with someone's tube of K+Y jelly and needed me to get a new one before they found out. The other day he was about to wipe a rubber all over his sandwich. I need to find out where he's getting this stuff before he shows up with his head stuck in a Christy Canyon Vibrating Life Size Butt.

Clams

Last night Chris was making a homemade pizza with chopped clams and tons of garlic. When canned, chopped clams are cooked, they have a nice mild flavor that mixes well with a lot of things. I'm surprised we don't see things like clam salad sandwiches (like tuna salad) or clam rolls (a la lobster rolls) etc. I guess it's because so many people have horrible seafood experiences when they're kids, they get turned off to most forms of seafood for life. It's kind of a shame that we feed kids fish sticks and rancid cafeteria salmon when they're young and forming their first impressions of the stuff. I didn't like seafood until I was an adult and I could drop a few extra dollars at a nice restaurant that actually had fresh fish and knew how to cook it.

For dinner tonight I think I'm going to make a clam hash, with steamed new potatoes, scallions, garlic, chopped clams, fontina, and parsley. That'll be good with buttered toast and a poached egg.

Thanks for the warning

It was maybe five AM last Friday and I saw Chris madly packing his bags. "Going on vacation," he yelled, running all around the house for camera batteries and suntan lotion. "You're off for a week."

It would have been nice to know this ahead of time. You'd think he could tell us this stuff, since presumably he hadn't just discovered at five AM that he was about to hop on a plane to Hawaii. I could have taken some of my golf winnings and gone to Manhattan. I could have gone to see a GBV show in whatever cloakroom they got booked in Des Moines this week. As it was, I just dorked around with my music equipment and did some cooking.

Oh, I did spend an afternoon record shopping over in the Berkeley underground. I picked up some old 45s that are probably one of a kind by this point: Rubber Rodeo, Miracle Legion, Wire's "Outdoor Miner," Multicoloured Shades, that old Ministry "Every Day is Halloween" single, even a Lime Spiders EP. I like that about Berkeley: you can find virtually any album that ever existed in the musty, creaky aisles of Amoeba, Rasputin's, etc.

What I don't like about Berkeley:

1. People who have made the decision to get tattoos on their faces

2. People who have had body art practitioners put small beads in a row under the skin of their forehead

3. People who have had their teeth sharpened to look like vampire teeth

4. People who ask you for spare change and say "fuck you, yuppie scum!" when you don't have any

5. Like San Francisco and Santa Cruz, it is OK to poop anywhere you want. I saw one guy pooping through the bench grates at the bus stop. He had really crazy eyes and a red corduroy sport coat. I didn't complain for fear of public censure by hairy-pitted vegan midwives interrupted from doing amniotic shooters and placenta poppers in People's Park.

Okay, so: no thanks to Chris, screw "liberal" communities, and I am going to listen to some old albums in my room. I'll probably walk down to Jack in the Box later.

Back on the links, finally.

I finally lured Ray away from his new brewery obsession for a couple hours, on the condition that we bring all his new beers and talk about them while we golfed. I have to admit, he's managed to come up with some really quality brews. Not just simple ales, but a full range of ports and lambics and pilsners. He's got this Belgian fig lambic with nutmeg that absolutely drives me crazy it's so well balanced. You see the Raspberry and Strawberry ale now and then, but fig and nutmeg? It reminds me of that Pete's Wicked Christmas ale, but it's got about ten floors more depth of character. I think it's mostly this brewmaster Petey he flew down from Oregon, but Ray probably had a hand somewhere in the brainstorming process. I could see this new line of gourmet beers getting really popular, like how food faddists are all hopped up on infused oils and other exotic permutations of the basics.

I won $2700 in nine holes (he was anxious to get back to his worts and yeasts). It wasn't too much fun since his mind wasn't really on the game and he kicked about half his putts in, but I guess $2700 is $2700.

Peanut Sauce

We had these frozen Trader Joe's potstickers in the fridge, so I got those going at lunchtime today. While they were frying I thought "what the hell" and made a peanut sauce. The first one I made was way too salty, but in the second one I balanced the soy sauce with more honey. Here's what I used:

(all measurements are really loose)

1 tbsp peanut butter
1 tbsp honey
1/2 tsp sriracha hot chili sauce
1 tbsp soy sauce
1/2 tsp sesame oil

I microwaved that for a few seconds to get the honey and peanut butter soft, then mixed it all together. It makes a tasty, thick little sauce. Maybe this weekend I'll explore some Asian cooking, pick up some ginger and shrimp and herbs and stuff. I'm going to see if Ming Tsai has a website.

No word on Ray's new brewery yet. This means one of two things: either he forgot about it, or he's about to unveil a state-of-the-art two-story glass-walled brewing facility where his tennis court used to be.

Mr. Beer

So my dad popped into the picture again, this time sending me a plastic beer-making kit called Mr. Beer. No card or anything, as usual, just his return address on the packing list. Looks like he's living in Omaha now. Anyhow, I read the instructions and set the thing up and made some beer. You make ale when you're a beginner, nothing too complicated. It was alright, but it tasted kind of like the plastic tub it fermented in. Maybe I should have washed it first.

Naturally Ray took one look at the kit and decided that we needed to open a full-scale microbrewery. I am 100% certain that he will want to use Copperplate Gothic for our logo. He's over at his place right now "drawing up plans," by which I mean trying to draw eagles holding hops and barley in their claws. At any rate, it will result in more beer around the place, which is generally a good thing. Maybe we'll make some money.

Oh great

Last time I blogged I bragged about how stoned I was and how much I enjoyed eating food. Fantastic. I'm not going to delete that post, I'm going to leave it there to serve as a simmering and stinging reminder not to do it again.

Let's see...have I done anything redeeming since then...I left the front lawn sprinklers on for five hours and about fifty thousand frogs showed up. It's been a good week so far, yeah. The best I have to say for myself is that I didn't shoot any families.

oh damn so good

Alright I take back everything I ever said about Chris being a mild- to bad jerk. He just made us the fattest late night snack. Hash browns, sausages, beans, eggs, toast, it was fucking gluttony. Awesome. It completely helped that me and Beef got ripped in my room earlier. I ended up calling Beef's passed-out ass on my cell phone from the dinner table (he was laying in the middle of my carpet). He stumbled in and just put his face in the feeding pail. I don't even think he opened his eyes, he just sucked his way around the plate and took in sausages and beans and all the rest.

WHOOOOOOOOOO so good

Email downer

You ever have one of those mornings where you wake up, find twenty emails in your inbox, and then one by one you start deleting the spams, and when you're done deleting the spams you realize that no one wrote to you? By the time I had deleted the last spam this morning, I was sort of depressed, so I went on eBay and bought a Titleist visor. I think I need to get out more, I can't wait for the Olympics to be over so that Ray will hit the links again. Bitch and moan, bitch and moan...at least it's Friday and I can go for drinks and dancing at Ray's. I wonder what theme he'll have cooked up this time. Earlier in the week he wanted to do this Donald Trump theme, which I guess meant that he would fly away in a helicopter while the party went bankrupt, but hopefully he'll have changed his mind.

Quiet

Things are kind of quiet during the Olympics. Everybody just holes up at Ray's and watches the simulcasts. Lunch each day is determined by who took the most memorable gold the night before, so today it was Greek food in honor of Greek sprinter Fani Halkia, who took gold in the Women's 400m hurdles. When Paul Hamm won the gold in the gymnastics all-around, he ordered a big baked ham with Paul's face carved into the side of it like Mt. Rushmore. It looked like a horrible burn victim, so I went home and had a bowl of chili. Who did he hire to do that? He has the strangest resources.

Paul the club "Pro"

Ray isn't playing any golf while the Olympics are on, so I've been hitting the course by myself. Particularly the practice trap, since as I said I'm bad out of sand. This should give me a leg up on Ray since he has like this secret sand wedge designed by the government to use against golfing terrorists or something. That course pro he's always talking about came by and made a little assessment of my form—boy, what a schmuck. It's like he's so used to giving pointless lessons to rich people who aren't listening that he just mumbles things about "opening your stance" and "right elbow like a perfect L" and all that other golf magazine crap. After a few more lame pointers he could see that I knew his trick and offered me a smoke. We shot the breeze for a bit, he handed me some pro shop gear coupon and left. He called me Ted. That always annoys me.

Am I Blind?

How do I not see these things?

I met Shannon at Grass last night, that new nightclub with the sod floor and eleven-dollar drinks. She looked good, and she already had a cocktail, so I got an Amstel from the bar and we sat in a quietish corner to talk. She's training for a marathon, she likes that convertible Jaguar, she's looking for a bigger place, she's not much for cooking, etc. She looked great, in some new jeans and a black turtleneck sweater with fresh running shoes. I had on a Livestrong jersey and olive cargo shorts with flipflops, playing it upscale casual. Not that it mattered. All she could talk about was her law career plans and different countries she had visited that I had not visited, like France.

About two and a half Amstels in (I remember looking at the meniscus on #3 and thinking HELP) a few of her friends showed up, probably on cue. It wasn't any of her friends from Ray's, it was a bunch of Jennifer Aniston clones and even a couple guys in blue work shirts and loosened ties. It slowly dawned on me that I had no business there, particularly when the guys shook my hand with those no-contact eyes that say "I already forgot you." I went to the can, drained my beer, tipped the attendant a buck, and ducked through a thick bar crowd on my way out. My last glance was of her completely immersed in her Banana Republic set, giggling and looking healthy.

I shuffled pretty despondently over to Ray's, pitying myself for being the object of a rich girl's slumming. I was pretty sour, so I just hung out in the kitchen and had some Cookie Crisp. Later I went into the living room and tried to read a coffee table book about limousines, but just got depressed and went home.