The best thing about Zombieland? No more Facebook status updates.
The best thing about Zombieland? That living in the post-apocalyptic world might actually be okay.
Lately I’ve been catching up on awesome movies of 2009, and yesterday I watched Zombieland.
I really liked Zombieland, and for a very specific reason other than that it has a good sense of humor, lots of guns, and Bill Murray. What I like about Zombieland is it’s attitude about surviving the apocalypse (ok, ok, Zombocalypse).
The transcendant moment for me is a scene where the four main characters destroy an abandoned store for fun. This is exactly what I think about when I consider the possibility of surviving some sort of apocalyptic scenario (don’t tell me you’ve never thought about it). I mean, yes, the world has ended and there are abandoned cars and rotting corpses everywhere–but, oh, the freedom! Drive any car you want! Smash up a minivan when you get angry! Shoot off machine guns for the hell of it! Crash at/smash up a famous person’s house!
You might even meet people and form close bonds with them, because this world is nothing like the sooty gray cannibalistic world of The Road.
It’s a different take on the apocalyptic survival story, which usually focuses on loneliness, terror, and the struggle to regain normalcy in a new and totally fucked-up world (see for instance, The Stand, The Road, I Am Legend, 28 Days Later). Zombieland takes an anarchic attitude that’s more like “This sucks, but, holy shit: there’s so much stuff around and nobody to stop us from fucking it all up. Let’s fuck shit up!”
It might be the end of the world as you know it, but it might just be fun.
There is a fly in my apartment. A huge one. Last week there was a ladybug, but it’s appearance coincided with a friend’s visit and it disappeared as soon as he left. Perhaps it was his familiar.
The doors of my fireplace are vibrating. This is disconcerting because I’m always afraid an animal will fall down into my fireplace and die in there, rot, and stink up my apartment. I never use my fireplace and have a huge philodendron in front of it, so I probably wouldn’t see the rotting squirrel corpse in there until it was far too late. That would be a very disgusting and sad thing to have happen.
I am wearing an earflap hat right now, as it’s 32 degrees outside and my computer table is right next to the window–a window with compromised seals that is covered in moisture during the winter.
Last night I made dinner for my friends Mikela, Megan, and Megan’s two adorable daughters Evan and Lulu. At one point, Evan decided to put on a strip show for us:
Mikela brought over a yummy cheese and cauliflower casserole, Megan brought an apple pie, and I made Chicken in Riesling, which was insanely delicious–Megan’s one-year-old, Lulu, couldn’t get enough of it. I followed the recipe exactly and bought a whole chicken and cut it up myself. It was kind of gross, but a million times cheaper than buying pre-cut chicken. I didn’t save the gizzards, back, etc. for stock, which I kind of regret, but it was really messy and I was pressed for time and wanted to get all unsanitary poultry parts and juices out of the way before the little girls showed up. I’d always been kind of grossed-out about cutting up my own bird, because feeling for the joints and breaking them and cutting through them is kind of brutal, as is cutting through the ribcage with kitchen shears. But I like food enough that I want to know how to do this stuff, and anyway it’s only since the latter part of the 20th Century that people have become so distanced from the food they eat. I looked into buying an organic chicken, but they were $9-$10 vs. $1.09 per lb like the generic Albertson’s birds. Oh well. The only addition I made to the recipe was to add lemon zest as well as the recommended lemon juice. Lemon zest is, in my opinion, the most delicious, exquisite-smelling item one can add to a dish. Here is a photo of the chicken in Riesling:
While researching the proper way to cut up a chicken, I realized that I forgot to eat the turkey oysters on Thanksgiving. I’m very sad about that.
I’m currently reading Upstream, by my friend Melissa Lion. I’m loving it, especially because the narrative is so tied to geography. It takes place in Homer, Alaska, and I’m fascinated with northern climates–especially the hours and quality of daylight northern places receive throughout the year. I recently downloaded an iPhone application called Time Map, which has become my favorite application. The image below was obviously taken in the summer, when northern places have constant daylight. Right now it looks exactly the opposite of this:
I’ve found the song I want played at my funeral. It’s a Gogol Bordello song called Madagascar-Roumania (Tu Jesty Fata). It’s actually two songs, the second, Tu Jesty Fata, being a gypsy song in Romanian whose words (per the user “lunarul” on YouTube) translate to something like:
“You’re the girl that doesn’t have, doesn’t have, doesn’t have a soul, doesn’t have, that doesn’t have a soul, doesn’t have…. Come, girl, outside, for all the gipsies to see you, Come girl outside.
Come God, what’s with me(?), can’t find what’s wrong with me, come oh God what’s with me(?)
You’re the good girl, that doesn’t play with me, that doesn’t play with me”
Strange words, beautiful song. I’m not totally keen on these homemade YouTube videos where random users upload a bunch of still (and probably stolen) images of a band to go along with a song, but that’s all there is for Madagascar-Roumania (Tu Jesty Fata). The second part starts around the 3:35 mark, right after my favorite part where Eugene Hutz sings “And sewing machine too.” The woman who sings this part, Andra Ursuta, has a beautiful voice. She’s an artist with a really cool website that can be seen here.
Every year we decorate my office with lights, fake holly, and a fake Christmas tree. Under the fake Christmas tree are fake presents. Last year, my coworker Jon and I noticed some interesting wrapping paper on one of the fake presents. We always know Christmas has arrived when Ghetto Santa makes an appearance.
“So,” Alex said, “Today Oprah announced–” and all of a sudden, there were 10 cars stopped in front of us at the bottom of the freeway on-ramp, and Alex had to slam on the brakes to avoid rear-ending the car in front of us. BAM! A car slammed into the back of us, and both our heads smacked backwards into the iconic Volvo headrests. “Jesus Christ!” I said.
After phone numbers were exchanged with the idiot driver of the Jeep behind us, and all assurances were made that we were both fine and so was Alex’s car, we procured some Ibuprofen and ate dinner. Alex brought up the Oprah thing again later: “She’s ending her show in 2011!” I remembered that’s what he’d been trying to tell me when we got rear-ended. “I don’t think the universe wants Oprah to cancel her show,” I said. Shortly thereafter, our server dropped salad dressing all over Alex’s freshly laundered parka.
Hello blogging world, are you still there? This may end up being a less-edited, more freewritten post than I am used to doing. I find that I get really hung up on the editing and trying to add links and photos and then I never end up saying what I want to say. It seems like every November I get tired of something and have to cut it out of my life. For the last two years it has been coffee. I may yet decide I need a break from coffee this November, since I usually do it around Thanksgiving, and T-day has yet to occur. For right now, however, I am taking a break from a force which has held major sway over my life for the past–well, since inauguration day, 2009: Twitter.
Twitter is great. It’s allowed me to make new friends, find out about job opportunities, and connect with professionals when I need services. Thing is, Twitter is not necessarily good for my super obssess-y brain. I don’t think it’s normal to check a website every thirty seconds, but that’s what I’ve been doing with Twitter. I have over 20,000 entries or “tweets” on Twitter, and that is INSANE. I’ve lost contact with other friends who are not on Twitter, or haven’t been on it as much as I have. This summer, I went out almost every single night because I couldn’t bear the thought that something was going on that I wasn’t a part of. I’ve always had a tendency to memorize other people’s schedules, and Twitter really appeals to that part of me, allowing me to know where my friends are ALL the time. Because I’m so used to seeing what everyone is doing on Twitter, I can’t stand it if one of my friends doesn’t tell me where he or she is or what she is doing. This is not natural. It is not healthy. Conversely, there are people who I really like and enjoy spending time with, but who live their lives so absolutely publicly that it seems they’re publishing every thought they have, (and with over 20,000 tweets, I’m probably guilty of this), and I tire of this overexposure. Then I think I’d like to unfollow this person, but, you know, it might hurt his or her feelings and be awkward when I see them in the future.
I would get this weird, sick feeling in my stomach if I didn’t keep up with everyone all the time. I’d check Twitter compulsively all day at work. I’d check it whilst driving. I had a hard time watching movies or TV or anything because I was too busy checking Twitter. I was watching an episode of Northern Exposure the other day where a character got addicted to TV and she said something to the effect that she didn’t really care what was on, she didn’t even want to watch it, but she got “this icky feeling” if she wasn’t constantly watching and keeping up with what was on all over the world all day and night. This is the same icky feeling I’d get if I wasn’t keeping up. There was this constant worry that everyone was somewhere having fun without me. There was also a constant annoyance at people who talked too much or about things I found boring. Or frustration if I couldn’t pin down an entire conversation and know exactly what people were referring to. And don’t even get me started on DMs. What is going on in secret, behind the scenes in the DM-sphere? What am I being left out of there?
So for now, Twitter and I are on a break. I’m not sure how long it will last, and I will probably pick it up again like an easy old habit in a week or two, but for now we just need some time apart. It may be ironic that I’ll be tweeting this blog post, but blog needs an audience!
A few days ago, a friend sent me a link to an article titled 13 Things Made of Bacon That Shouldn’t Be. The article features things made of real bacon and things made of fake bacon. I like bacon as much as anyone else, but I’ve had it with bacon-themed non-food items such as the bacon bra, bacon hats, and bacon dress. And I especially loathe it when food or sensory items are flavored or scented with bacon, like chapstick, cupcakes, or vodka.
It was funny at first, but really, the bacon craze has become passe and is just gross. Can you imagine greasy, fatty, slimy bacon on your skin? Ladies, would you really wear a bra made of bacon? Guys, would you really eat raw bacon off of a girl? I’m guessing not.
I know realism isn’t the point, the point is to be funny, but i’m tired of seeing the word “bacon” bandied about all over the internet like some sort of buzzword.
Let’s examine a few bacon items and how repulsive they are when you really think about them. Take for instance the bacon lampshade:
I respect the minutes it took someone to create such a masterpiece, and I really do giggle at the thought of what would happen if you actually stuck a lightbulb in there and lit it: Marvel at the the unexpected translucent beauty of cured sowbelly! The heavenly smell! The potential for a grease fire! But honestly, all I see when I look at this is something that may have adorned a corner table in Jeffrey Dahmer’s living room.
The bacon lampshade is obviously a one-time creation not likely to be seen in a retail outlet anytime soon, but what about bacon vodka? I had the chance to try this in a bloody mary made by an expert mixologist. The concoction which would have been delicious if made with plain or pepper-flavored vodka was rendered undrinkable by the bacon vodka because that stuff is GROSS. Truly truly disgusting. It smells like the most MSG-laden fake bacon mixed with the cheapest vodka and, once unstoppered, a bottle of bacon vodka will immediately fill a room with a smell which I’m sure you’re still imagining to be pleasant.
You’re wrong about the pleasantness. I was with somebody who tried a shot of straight bacon vodka, and he was not pleased by the taste at all. He said it tasted like bacon grease mixed with vodka. That’s because this is exactly how bacon vodka gets it’s flavor: rendered bacon grease is mixed with vodka in order to infuse it’s essence into said vodka, then the fat and grease are all strained out. Disgusting: no two ways about it. My friend couldn’t get the taste of bacon fat out of his mouth for hours.
I will forever warn people against the evils of bacon vodka.
Don’t worry, I don’t intend to stop eating bacon or anything. That would be absurd. But I’m not interested in mundane items that have been given bacon makeovers; it’s not innovative, artful, or humorous anymore. Please, for the love of whatever god you pray to (or don’t), find another muse.
I went to a vegetarian potluck on Thursday. I was all set to make these roasted green beans my friend Megan brought to a potluck a few months ago, but when I got to the store the green beans were all very elderly and sad. The asparagus, on the other hand was gorgeous, with slender young stalks, like so:
So I bought asparagus instead and made it using the same recipe; tossing it with olive oil, garlic, salt, pepper, and fresh thyme. Megan’s instructions for roasting the green beans specified roasting at 350 until the beans are crisp-tender. I cooked the asparagus at 350 for about 20 minutes, but I noticed it wasn’t getting done to the point I like my asparagus to be roasted (I like it to be a bit limp, if you must know), so I turned the heat up to 450 and left the pan in for 10 more minutes.
Voila! The asparagus turned out fragrant and delicious. It’s also good cold, which I know because I’m eating the leftovers right now. Next time I might try adding some caramelized onions.
I’ve found the song I want played at my funeral. It’s a Gogol Bordello song called Madagascar-Roumania (Tu Jesty Fata). It’s actually two songs, the second, Tu Jesty Fata, being a gypsy song in Romanian whose words (per the user “lunarul” on YouTube) translate to something like:
