Liloia.com Archives: August 2003
August 31, 2003
August 30, 2003
You don't say...
Bombing at Iraqi Shrine Appears Carefully Planned
As opposed to a sudden impulse bombing?
TERRORIST: Yeah, I'll take a pack of Camels, two Slim Jims and... uh, oh what the heck, throw in that car bomb second to the right.
Taco Bell wrappers should be printed with a warning
"We at Taco Bell respect your decision to purchase our Mexican food. We understand the draw of guacamole, seasoned beef and that mysterious Baja sauce -- hey, we sell millions of these items every day, we understand. But we also implore you to consider the consequences of your choice today. Please remember the last time you ate here -- when, the next morning, you spent half the day praying to your particular deity to stop the pain. When you spoke to your family through the closed door of the restroom for an entire Saturday. When you swore you wouldn't be back here.
"But here you are again and we'd just like to thank you for your choice. There are not many fast food restaurants that can boast a clientele that returns giddily despite empirical proof that their foodstuffs cause intestinal distress. Or maybe there are."
August 28, 2003
Who gets it?
You're a server and you get back to your table (one man and one woman sitting there) with a diet coke and a regular coke, but you can't remember who ordered what, who do you give the diet coke to?
August 27, 2003
John Q: Doctors are evil and universal healthcare will help everyone live forever
Wasn't that the message of this movie — the one that was whacked repeatedly
into my cranium for 116 minutes?
John Q is a noble effort, but none-too-subtle about it's motives. The movie tries to hook us on an emotional level, but goes way into fanatic territory with its commitment to universal healthcare. It's as if we're supposed to be the booing crowd outside of the fictitious hospital — cheering on the terrorist and booing the police and medical personnel. Give me a pamphlet instead of this predictable film next time.
Dave found it hilarious to tease me once again about my inability to distinguish Robert Patrick from Ray Liotta. I don't know which one was in this movie, but he really didn't make that much of an impression, so the point is moot.
I had a premonition as James Woods rattled off some doctorspeak about pulmonary edemas and myocardial infarctions
to a pair of worried parents, that we were being set up for the old "Talk to me in English, doc!" scenario. And I was right. It's old already. If you're writing a screenplay, do me a favor and leave that scene out. It shows us nothing about the characters or situation except that doctors have jargon just like every other profession in the universe. Big deal.
And let's all guess where this conversation is headed:
NURSE: You see this blood pressure number here? If it goes below 70, that's bad.
PARENT: 70? Did you say 70?
NURSE: Yes, 70.
PARENT: What does going below 70 mean?
NURSE: If he goes below 70, it means he's in heart failure.
(dramatic pause)
And if the bus goes below 55 mph, it will blow up!
And if the asteroid goes past zero-barrier, the Earth is doomed!
And the countdown gets to zero, Nakatomi Plaza is toast!
Cheap, cheap, cheap movie trick. Give us something to count, a number to fixate on and we'll be appeased, right? Well sometimes that works and sometimes it sticks out like a femur with a compound fracture. Dave wasn't bothered by the
blood pressure "countdown", but every time I saw that systolic pressure tick down a notch it screamed at me "Don't go below 55!" It was inappropriately action-movieish in the tenderhearted part of this film.
The end of the movie is no less cliched and disappointing. The preaching-level escalated with a montage of demonstrators and news clips that touted the panacea of universal health care. We learn that John Q has been brandishing an unloaded gun during the entire kidnapping, which is the Hollywood way of saying that he's tough, but good at heart. And it used to be that a proper hero would be cleared of all charges and even given back command of the Enterprise after his misadventure. *ahem* James Kearns (the writer) walks a sort of middle ground of John being cleared of every charge except kidnapping. He pays for some crimes, but not others. I would have liked to see him convicted on all charges. He's saved his son only to be separated from him for decades. There's bittersweet for ya.
But... the award for most lifelike and believeable performance you could blink and miss goes to the plain-speaking male nurse who was a lone example of kind, competent hospital staff. I don't know who the actor was because I'm not sure what the
character was called, but he glowed with quiet confidence and managed to portray sympathy without saccharine. He made me put down my magazine and take notice — I was disappointed when the film jumped back to the chaos in the ER.
August 25, 2003
Why is it so hard to see live music?
I just wanted to see my longtime favorite singer, Tori Amos, with my new favorite singer, Ben Folds. Learning they were playing a concert together was like finding out that the less filling beer really does taste great. I was thrilled.
Of course, tickets were sold out before I got a chance to buy them. Until a friend sent this tip along: Go to eBay, bid on an auction from a user called getAccess (a program sponsored by giant media conglomerate Clear Channel) and get tickets quickly and cheaply.
I'm a fairly savvy eBay shopper and I can usually spot raw deals before hitting the Place Bid button, but perhaps I was blinded by the soaring strains of "Little Earthquakes". I missed this one.
I read the fine print... and it seemed fine. I wasn't acutally bidding on tickets, I was bidding on membership to the getAccess VIP program with no additional obligations and the tickets were a complimentary gift. ("When you bid on one of our auctions, you are bidding on a membership to getAccess for the time period set forth in the auction page. the tickets listed in the auction are free with a membership.") But really, when you're going to a show, does it matter whether it's the cake or the icing? I just wanted to watch Tori hang halfway off her piano bench.
I bought the tickets, printed my confirmation, and made arrangements for the logistics. A few days later, I received this sobering message:
We regret to inform you that due to a listing error, this event should not have been an auction item at the time you bid on the auction.
Like a good little eBayer, I left negative (but fair) feeback. And since then I've received messages from two other people who have also experienced less than stellar results with getAccess. Let's just say they are a little less willing than me to consider this a simple error. The words "scam" and "fraud" were tossed into the conversation quite casually; however, another friend who ordered via getAccess ended up with a stack of valid tickets for the same show — I don't think this was intentional fraud, but rather a very unfortunate mistake.
I'm also annoyed that Clear Channel was on the ball enough to charge my card the day I bought the tickets, but a week after receiving notification about the error, they still haven't refunded my money. I want my two dollars!
Plaque flying at the speed of sound
Something disturbing: If you click on the picture, Amazon invites you to purchase a used toothbrush for $99. Uh, thanks.
August 18, 2003
The Restaurant's Blogs
For Natalie... because she likes this sort of thing.
I watched The Restaurant again last night and it was good, but then I poked around online and found something even better. The absolute best part of reality televsion is the growing crop of post-episode explanatory blog posts from participants eager to tell us just how much damage to reality an editor can do. The more asinine the participant looks on televsion, the more lengthy their explanations of their own actions tend to be.
Take, for example, Gideon Horowitz. By his own frequent admission, Gideon trolls the Web assimilating viewer reactions to each episode of The Restaurant. After he has determined the post-episode Gideon-zeitgeist, he then posts a public retort in his blog. If there's any non-Restaurant banter going on in his posts, it's impossible to hear above the plaintive cries of, "I really did break my elbow!" that pervade the site. What Gideon seems to miss is that most intelligent viewers didn't doubt that he broke his elbow -- we just thought he acted like a great big weenie about it. That's the trouble with hiring actors and comedians as waitstaff -- every minor event takes on the production value of a Rogers & Hammerstein extravaganza. Waifs in pink tulle sob by Gideon's side as he lies mangled in a pool of Coors Light.
And I have to admit, I was a little irked by this particular gem on Gideon's site:
I could be married and have kids and live a peaceful life, but I choose NYC.
This sentence makes me want to cry for all of its narcisisstic ignorance. I don't know a single married person with kids who would venture to describe their daily existence as a "peaceful life" while not under the influence of strong hallucinogenic drugs.
In SAT terms:
Acting in NYC is to being married with kids as visiting a bee farm is to being attacked by a swarm of killer bees.
(It's on the test, remember it.)
You might get stung either way, but at the bee farm you can walk away. You have a choice. Those kids-- er, killer bees don't back off willingly.
I'm not heading down the path of this mommy-whine: "How dare you dismiss my hard work as a mother as easy" but instead I'm saying, "how naive of you to suppose that you've forsaken some kind of wedded Nirvana in order to travel the hard road". In case you hadn't noticed, it's exceedingly easy to be selfish. It's easy to pursue your dream unencumbered by a vow to one person and parental responsibility to others. Does Gideon have to skip open mic night when there's no babysitter available? Or give up a paying gig because clashes with a spouses work schedule? I give Gideon no cred. I give cred to people who manage to pursue their talents in the face of obstacles. Gideon's only obstacle is his blinding self-importance.
And on we move to Miss Lola Belle, the bartender. Miss Lola is one of the Net Bitches and you know the type I mean. The online chicks who spend inordinate amounts of time and text letting you know exactly how horribly awful they are. They wear cruelty like an entry badge to the Convention of Meaness and Miss Lola's badge apparently only comes in several unreadable neon colors (I plan to teach a class this fall called, "Web Design 101 for Reality Televsionistas").
Lola "smootches and shimmies" her way through a handful of insubstantive posts that flit through your fingers like sand. The site is supposedly a spot to "defend or clarify" her on-screen actions, but exactly what is Lola defending? Why the boss gave her a Vespa? Shouldn't the boss field that one? Between Restaurant-focused blather that merely reiterates what we saw on television, Lola touts her "formidible[sic] five knuckle shuffle" and ability to "punch dumb boys in the face." Charming -- have a convention badge, dear.
But to fully experience the woman that is Lola, you must read and appreicate her Punk Rock Haikus. No, I'm not going to print them here. I don't want my site popping to the top of the Google results when someone searches for "heinously craptastic poetry." Or at least, I want it to float to the top because of my own heinously craptastic poetry, not Lola's.
And before I forget, last night's episode had a high cringe factor due to those stiff-as-a-board unnatural voice-overs, one of which was another (stop-beating-me-over-the-head-and-shoot-me-please) reference to how a line of credit from American Express' Open: The Small Business Network would save the day. Congratulations, AMEX, you've managed to alienate the entire demographic of intelligent and media savvy small business owners. But you will get all of the dense morons who aren't compltely revolted by your blatant product pimping. Here's to capturing the successful 10%!
An afterthought (because Pete doesn't have an actual blog we can poke fun at):
Who would have thought that a joke that begins, "You know one good thing about terrorist bombings..." in New York City would have been booed? Maybe next time Pete can wow the crowd with some SARS humor or a dead baby in a jar. At least poor Pete learned that even mock outrage can be a pretty potent thing.
August 17, 2003
Pink is not a good color.
Tonight we took a family trek up to Medford MA, to bring Trevor the the Krispy Kreme store that has recently joined the ranks of Massachussetts coffe/donut establishments that dot the landscape like mile markers on the highway. Tara and I had taked a trip up there a few weeks ago one afternoon while Trevor was spending some time with a friend and it was awesome. So we thought it would be great to share the experience with Trev.
We were right...mostly. He had a lot of fun looking at the donuts as they traveled along the conveyor belts and ultimately came out at the end warm and sweet. He marveled at the possibility that one of the employees gave him a sample donut, for free! "She has the best job in the store!" he said as we walked to the car. It being a special trip we picked up some coffee for ourselves and let him drink a strawberry milk in the backseat as we drove home along 93.
Right around the time that we were passing the Fleet Center and heading into Boston, he began complaining about an upset stomach. It was easy to figure out what the cause of it was as we could plainly see that 8 ounces of his 16 ounce cold milk was gone in less than 5 minutes. Unfortunately he was unconsolable, and started to get himself worked up about the milk making him feel bad. We told him that if he waited a few minutes everything would be ok, and that he would start to feel better. (The only reason we were certain that this would be the case is that Trevor has a tendency to drink his beverages quickly and milk has done this to him in the past.) This had no effect and he continued to cry and get upset.
I think you know what is coming next.
I don't care how many kids you have or how old they are, there is one thing that you never, ever get used to. Vomit. Anyone who disagrees with me can build a time machine ,meet us on Saturday, come with us to the donut shop (I'll even buy you a coffee!) and hold my son's sticky hand in the back seat on the way home after he just puked up all of his strawberry milk in the backseat of the car. Did you recoil at the description I just gave? Yes you did. I apologize for having to do that, but some of you were shaking your heads and saying, "Vomit doesn't bother me!", and I had to take you down a notch. I am sorry, yes it was childish, but well worth it.
Trevor was a trooper the whole ride home and didn't complain at all. He is a good kid. Once we arrived home, Tara jumped into action and as the Cruise Director of our family she took him inside and gave him a bath and tucked him into bed. If she is the Cruise Director, then I am the chief of engineering in the dark underbelly of the ship. I stayed outside and found myself wiping, scooping and washing all while I ran down the driveway like a fool every 4 minutes to keep the motion sensitive light on. I can't imagine what the neighbors thought. Febreeze is a good thing. Febreeze is a good thing.
This basically killed any appetite I had for donuts for the evening, but I guess that is a good thing since I am not supposed to be eating them anyhow. I think all things considered, we still had a good time, and it was worth the trip to see him excited about getting to see the donuts being made.
August 13, 2003
Songs for Dustmites
A lesson in mortality
Last night Trevor and I were talking in his room after he had gotten into bed. I noticed that he was holding a giant stuffed bunny rabbit that I didn't recognize, and I asked him where it was from.
"It's from the lady that died in the hotel room"
?!?! Whoa. At first I had visions of his speaking to ghosts in hotels crossing somewhere between Sixth Sense and The Shining. As I thought about it some more and realized what he was talking about.
Recently Tara's Great-Aunt Mary passed away. She was really quite a nice person. While Tara and Trevor were visiting New Jersey on vacation last month, they went with Tara's family to go clean up Aunt Mary's apartment in the Assisted Living facility that she had lived in. Which, by the way looks a lot like a hotel, especially to somoene who is 4.9 years old. Everyone tried to take something that reminded them of Aunt Mary with them to remember her by. Trever who knows her as "The lady that died in the hotel room", grabbed a cute bunny stuffed animal.
Trevor then asked me why she died. That was a tough one, but we carefully talked about how people's bodies change as they get older and what happens to people when they get sick, and sometimes die. I thought perhaps he might have been a little bothered by the conversation because he was sitting there quietly for a few seconds, until he turned to me and said:
"daddy, can I stay up all night long and watch cartoons?"
:) That questions spurred another whole conversation that we'll talk about some other time.
The Brotherhood of Speeding Drivers
I experienced the awesome subversive power of The Brotherhood of Speeding Drivers yesterday. As I was exiting the highway into my town, a minivan in oncoming traffic flashed it's lights once... then twice. Inastinctively hitting my brakes, I crested the hill to see a police cruiser nabbing speeders coming over the ridge and I was struck by the authority-bucking action of the light flasher.
While it's considered socially acceptable to warn oncoming drivers of a speed trap, we wouldn't call a crack house the night before a raid to warn the junkies to stay clear. And we wouldn't yell after a purse-snatcher that there's a cruiser on 33rd street, to take 34th instead. Maybe it's okay to help other speeding drivers get away with their recklessness because we don't consider speeding a crime -- especially in an area where the limit seems to be underposted by ten or 15 miles. We think it's unfair that a guy going home from a long, rough day, who's just following the flow of traffic can be ambushed, lectured, and fined.
So was I going 55 in a 30, singing a duet with the ghost of Kurt Cobain? Maybe. Was I also in one of those locations where the road transitions from a 60 mph highway to a 30 mph town road in the space of 10 feet -- one of those areas where law enforcement loves to hang out and is lovingly referred to as a "speed trap"? Definitely. I don't know what kind of performance you can wring out of your budget car, but my $8.99 Super Value Meal Kia can't stop on a dime without prior written notification in triplicate. I swing off the highway into town and it's almost impossible for me to slow down to the correct MPH in the space provided. I have a choice between being tailgated or rear-ended while exiting the highway or speeding my way into town.
Perhaps tonight we'll try a new way home.
August 10, 2003
Turnaround at The Restaurant
On behalf of Catholics everywhere, I took the liberty of being offended by Monsignor Marchese blessing "may the spirits in this bar flow into Rocco's pocket". Oh yeah, I know that blessing. I heard it in church lots when I was a kid. It's St. Peter's Blessing to Bestow Further Riches Upon He Who Has Three Restaurants used most often on the third Sunday in Ordinary Time. Then I went back to being heathen and let it go. Being offended is only fun in ten-minute increments anyway.
This week, Topher quit and Rocco called him in for a pep talk, minus the pep. If my best server walked out, I'd say more than, "Sorry to see you go." Perhaps something like, "What can I do to make you happy?" or at the very least, "Before you go, what do you recommend I change to make the servers happier?" Rocco seems to have a problem speaking to people on a personal level. His pleas to anguished employees are vague and impersonal:
ROCCO SAYS: "Things would be really tough around here without you."
ROCCO SHOULD SAY: "I need your help."
ROCCO SAYS: "I'm sorry to see you go."
ROCCO SHOULD SAY: "What can I do to make you stay?"
ROCCO SAYS: "Take some time off to think about this."
ROCCO SHOULD SAY: "Stay tonight, we'll make some specific changes and we'll talk again tomorrow."
The servers were miffed that Rocco spent more time schmoozing than helping; but if I were going to the restaurant of a famous chef, I would very much enjoy speaking to him for a few minutes. Circulating through the tables is good for business and the primadonnas will just have to get over that.
That said, Rocco had a change of heart and got back into the kitchen during this episode. It seemed to help tremendously because 1) people are always going to work harder and complain less when their boss is giving his all two feet away and 2) the kitchen staff got a firsthand look at a true professional at work. People rave about Rocco's sexiness, but I think he's at his most attractive when he loses his burgeoning ego and lets the intense focus of cooking take over.
If you're interested in the business aspect of the show, Rocco has a little pseudo-blog in which he offers bland commentary on running a restaurant while surrounded by AMEX ads. Sure, you can submit a comment, adding to the illusion of this being an actual blog, but all comments are vetted and of course only small business-oriented offerings are posted. I don't know about your blog, but mine doesn't ask if you're a small business owner or what credit card you own before letting you submit.
August 9, 2003
Paint N Chat
There's a newish little shop on our main street called Paint N Chat -- a paint-your-own ceramics place. Now there are Plaster Funtime stores all over Massacusetts, but Plaster Funtime is to Paint N Chat as Eminem is to Andrea Bocelli. (That's a question on the SATs, remember that.) They're just not even in the same league.
Plaster Funtime's unpainted statues are made of... go ahead and guess... plaster! Paint N Chat gives you genuine ceramic bisque, which doesn't feel like chalk. It's a cosy place with tables for two or four and shelves lining the walls. Instead of just skulls, cats and puppies, you can create actual usable things. Imagine that. Toothbrush holders, teapots, mugs and serving dishes. They glaze and fire the pieces to make them food-safe.
You choose an item, pick six colors (six doesn't seem like much, but when you get paining, it's more than enough) and paint away. They charge for studio time in addition to the item cost, but the finished product was well worth it. I would rather have an $18 plate than another useless pink plaster skull for $8.
Trevor and I made our pieces Wednesday evening and picked them up today. I have a neat fluted-edge square plate and he has a useless ceramic easter egg. Oh well, we're halfway there.
August 8, 2003
Outsmarting Simon
So when Dave's cousin PJ is playing the Fleet Center in Boston, do you think he'll give us tickets to the show?
His band's album has been officially released by Triple Crown Records.
Silent, Sober and Sound by Outsmarting Simon. Go get it!
August 5, 2003
Forbidden Doughnut.
I had my very first hot-off-the-conveyor Krispy Kreme doughnut last weekend and it left me wondering why anyone would eat a dry, cakey Dunkin Donuts doorstop when these little pieces of airy, yeast-raised heaven are available.
I'm a self-professed pop culture junkie, so when I heard about the phenomenon of the very first Massachusetts Krispy Kreme shop opening, I had to make the trek out to Medford. (We say it Med-fuhd heah.) I coaxed my skeptical husband through 30 minutes of downtown Boston traffic to this little island of Krispiness in the middle of a run-down industrial area.
Being Sunday morning, throngs of after-churchgoers were lining up for the creations. I suggested that, as heathens, next week we should arrive during Mass for quicker service. But the long line was handled quickly and professionally. We barely waited five minutes (all the while drooling over the trademark wall of glaze) before an employee casually handed each of us a steaming donut that had come off the conveyer all of five seconds ago.
There was no asking, "Do you want a doughnut?" Because that's clearly what we had arrived for. No idle, self-congratulatory chit chat, "Hi, we're giving out free doughnuts!" She just silently and firmly placed a hot, napkin-wrapped treat in my hand.
I took my first bite of a steamy fresh Krispy Kreme and it was immediately apparent why there were no words necessary. It was sweet on the outside, slightly crispy underneath the sugar and as light as a cloud on the inside. Amazing.
We bought our dozen, ran out to the car and cracked open the box. We bit into our doughnuts, but the magic had already started to dissipate. The goodness of a Krispy Kreme doughnut is inversely proportinal to how long ago it was made. If you could stand with your mouth open on the other side of the wall of glaze, the angels would sing as you chewed. But six hours later, with ten seconds in the microwave, you can still have a pretty damn good doughnut.