Saturday, September 29, 2012


One more (see previous blog).  Food blogs.  These fucking things seem to dominate the blog world. People love to talk about food, photograph food, tell you where to go to get the best Azbekifuckoffistan kebob and baba ganoush.  Who the fuck cares?  Well, apparently a lot of fat fucking food addict Americans and hipsters drawn to obscure, brick wall, exposed pipe basement eateries filled with people wearing bowling shoes and Trilby hats who have never bowled or been to England (i.e. where the Trilby was invented, and, for that matter, where the likes of Paul Weller and The Jam made wearing bowling shoes cool).  Point is, it's food.  Get over it you pretentious assholes.  There's lots of good food out there, and it doesn't have to be obscure or hard to find to be good.  Hell, if I'm hungry enough, a PB&J sandwich with a cold glass of milk is almost enough to make me spontaneously orgasm.  No brick wall and exposed pipes needed ("exposed pipes"...there has GOT to be a dick joke there SOMEWHERE).  Anyways, if I never see another photo of some fucking alien looking Asian dish like this:


with somebody explaining "Duck pancreas with almonds and sea urchin eggs!  Sooooooo goooood!!!", I'm sure I'll still be able to live a happy and fulfilling life.

Thursday, September 27, 2012

Random Bitch Session

RANDOM Photobucket BITCH Photobucket SESSION Photobucket (sometimes pictures add a little spice to the diatribe to follow)

 Quick rants:

-if you're at the gym, and you look like you're hiding a children's wading pool under your belt, good for you. I'm all for self improvement. However, if you're hoarding the leg press machine all to yourself for forty-five minutes, your efforts are misplaced. Also, you're a selfish fuckwad. The 50 pounds extra of gelatinous goo you're carrying is not really being addressed by your pumping the quads. You may want to think cardio...and let somebody else use the machine. It's not a plate of nachos. You can share.

 -unfortunately, I live in the conservative capitol of the cosmos. And the gym mentioned above is all FauxFox News, all the time. So, being subjected to this Goebbels like propaganda somewhat against my will, I have a question: when in the fuck is Rush Limbaugh going to do us a favor and have that massive myocardial infarction we're all waiting for? The guy is seriously angry/stressed/hypertensive, fat and a drug addict. I mean, it's the holy trinity of imminent heart explosion. And yet, there he is, like a rolly-polly Fascist Santa Claus yammering away about...I dunno...I really wasn't listening. Something about Obama sodomizing a goat while reading the Koran to jihadists and threatening to make Medicare solvent? Anyways, the way he was sweating and spitting, I thought to myself, "Oh, fuck yes, this guy is going to full on aneurism (or heart attack...whatever. I'm good either way) right here on tv and I'm going to get to see it. Holy I getting a boner? I think I am! Come on Rush...let's see that aorta burst you goose stepping fuck!!!!" Needless to say, he didn't, so the boner never really materialized. can dream.

 -I'm sick of reading blogs about people and their artsy craftsy shit. I'm glad you made a hat pin out of some cellophane and bottle tops..but...yawn. 'Ya know? Entertain me. Be provocative. Nobody's on the internet for Martha Stewart. We want Two Girls One Cup (confession: I've never seen it and really have no desire to...just seemed like an obvious reference to make my point), Fail videos, porn, Fry memes, sports scores, and helpful hints on local eateries and watering holes (I realize "eatery" and "watering hole" also sound like porn, but I wasn't trying to be funny...just came out that way. Ha! I said "came". It's like I'm the Nipsy Russell (look him up) of the keyboard). So, um, yeah...if you're going to blog...don't suck.

-hipsters. Yeah. I've had it with them. I've been accused of harboring a bit of hipster within, and I suppose anybody who plays musical instruments and writes/records music is probably guilty of this to a point. But...come on. Enough with the beards. I've never seen so many (apparently) aspiring Forest Service Personnel...or Fleetwood Mac holdovers from the 70's.  Also, your choice of music, the bands nobody has ever heard of and I suspect, deep down, even you hipster guys/gals don't even actually REMOTELY ENJOY. Just because they incorporate a glockenspiel, banjo, and Sousaphone into the song doesn't make it makes it (usually) stupid and/or silly. Quit trying so hard. Cheap beer tastes like shit, vintage clothing generally has a hint of B.O. perma bonded to it you can never really get rid of, and WHAT THE FUCK IS WITH WEARING A WOOL BEANIE IN 95 DEGREE WEATHER YOU RETARD??? I could go on, but you all know what I'm talking about...and if you are one...knock it off and find your true self through some form of expression other than expressing your individuality by dressing like, and listening to the same music, as EVERYBODY within your peer/social circle. Expand your horizons. Trust me, it's OK to admit Session Lager (kinda my fave) tastes better than PBR (note: I have drank many a PBR in my day, but not because it was "cool" and "ironic", but because it was CHEAP and I was POOR. If this is your situation, then by all means, enjoy). When you can admit your obsession to strictly adhering to all things your peers and the local hipster neighborhood you live in have pre-determined as cool has, in fact, turned you into a narrow minded, myopic, douche bag...then the healing can truly begin.

 -Willtard Willard Shit Mitt Robme Romney...this guy strikes me as a serious sociopath. If they find some sort of weird sex/torture dungeon underneath his garage full of Cadillacs (perhaps this is why he's remodeling his La Jolla home?) I will not be surprised. That, and I secretly suspect despite his magic underwear-planet-inheriting-misogynistic Mormon belief system, the guy probably enjoys about 15 cups of coffee a day. I mean, this guy is wound so tight, is so manic, he practically vibrates.  I think he could weld a breach in a ships hull with the crazy beams firing out of his eyes. The fact that close to 50% of this country may wind up voting for him is not only sad frightening, but a pretty good indication that the end of the Pax Americana is near.

-I had more...but I ran out of steam as I realized I really could go for some cookies right about now, and lost my train of thought ( ADD?  Perhaps...). So...cheers and all that.

Sunday, September 16, 2012

Let them eat lobster! And melon balls!

OK, I know it may seem like I'm going off on a grocery store themed jag here (see last post), but, yes, I have another bitch about my local Save Mart. Here was my daughter's birthday party today (15th), and she wanted me to make a lemon glazed pound/bundt cake that I've made before and she loves (from scratch...yes, I can get around a kitchen decently). So off to the grocery store I go to get a few items and I realize I do not have a zester. No problem...I'll just go over to the kitchen utensil aisle and grab one (needed some lemon fresh zest for the recipe). Soooooo....let's see.....ahhhhhh....hmmmmm...peelers...strainers...knives....garlic press......bottle openers...pastry cutters...whisks...cork screws...ladles...graters....aaaaaaaaand no zesters. Not one. Zero. NADA. Know what else they DID HAVE? Melon ballers and...fucking lobster crackers. LOBSTER CRACKERS. Really? "What? You want to grate a little fresh citrus peel into a dish from a 0.35 cent lemon? What are you? An aristocrat??? A fucking Rockefeller????? A goddamn zester??????? Get the fuck out of my store you bourgeoise pig!!!!!! Now go home and eat your $45.00 a pound lobster like the rest of us proletariat peons! Don't you know there's a recession for the love of Christ? Zester he says....too proud to eat lobster apparently. Citrus....pheh. Everybody knows little balls scooped from a Honeydew is where the blue collar working Joe butters his bread. Lobster and melon's what made this country great!!!! You can take your citrus peeled snobbery back to your cave you Al Queda fuck!!!!" Funny thing is, I'm not even sure the grocery store that had the lobster cracker even had lobster FOR SALE.

OK...what I'm trying to illustrate here is the absurdity that a utensil made for eating lobster, a prohibitively expensive dish, is somehow more common, and easier to obtain, than a simple citrus zester. Furthermore, how many dishes ask for lobster as an ingredient as opposed to some zested citrus? I'm sure it has to be an amazingly high similar to the proportion of Republicans at a Lilith Fair festival (too obscure?). And a melon baller? I've never, in my 43 years, EVER had the need for one. Ever. Actually, I'm not even sure what a ball of melon would be required FOR (and, as an aside, doesn't "melon baller" sound like a play-ah? I picture a casaba with a gold chain, sipping Cristal, and macking ((does anybody even use that term anymore?)) the cantaloupes). A melon ball also sounds like a medical condition. "Sorry sir, but the tests reveal you have a melon ball." "Yeah...when it turned green I figured something was up. Plus, when I thumped it, it sounded it wasn't the highest of quality."

OK, so I'm watching Saturday Night Live and laughed at a sketch with puppets, and lost my train of thought. Um.....nope. It's gone. So, I'll end with this: had Teppanyaki tonight for daughters birthday dinner out, and somebody spilled some sort of sauce all over my shirt. That sucked. Food was really good though...

Thursday, September 13, 2012

Same old sh*t, but a new (old) song, and Bradley Cooper sucks like an iPhone

Once again, I was in line at the grocery store, the "express line" to be precise. It was the middle of the afternoon, I was on a day off, and I figured I'd take advantage of buying a few groceries while everybody else was at work. There was a grand total of two registers open, and each line had three customers in them ahead of me. How long could this checkout process/purchase take, right? I should be out of there lickity-split...but NO. Of course not. You see, I have as much luck with a grocery store checkout line as Lindsay Lohan does at not continually falling into a mountain of cocaine. In other words, my experiences, like Lindsay, are usually a train wreck (only difference is, unlike Lindsay, I generally don't give folks a crotch shot whenever I get out of my car to enter a place of business*...but I digress). As soon as I choose the express line to conduct my purchase, the cashier immediately calls for "the manager" (never a good sign) because somebody is apparently trying to purchase their foodstuffs with beaver pelts (not Lindsay's) and flint arrowheads. Fearing Sacajawea's (look it up) purchase may take a minute or two longer than I'd like, I stare longingly at the other line that seems to be moving. I make a beeline (do bees fly straight? Not in my experience...seems to be a misnomer here. Unless, of course, "beeline" means to approach in a rather crooked manner, and I have misunderstood its meaning. If this is indeed the case, let it be said I, in fact, DID NOT make a beeline, but made a geometrically perfect, laser beam straight line for the quicker moving cashier aisle). Naturally, as soon as I get there, the cashier asks for the manager because apparently the person in front of me cannot figure out why the credit card machine will not accept their Costco/movie rental/school ID whatever the fuck card it is it's certainly not a credit/debit card card, and is making a fuss. If this person tried to use a third party check (look it up) covered in cocaine (for some reason I'm going to milk the word "cocaine" for all its comedy potential because "meth" is soooo passe) residue from Juan Escobar (look him up) it would raise less flags. Anyways, by this time the express line was empty and I wandered back over and made my purchase. Yeah, I know, this story has an anti-climatic ending, but truth isn't always stranger than fiction, and I got a wicked cold spot on my chest from balancing my gallon of milk against it as my hands held a few other loose items (again, not Lindsay). Hey, it was really cold, ok? You have no idea of the suffering...or maybe you do. Whatever (quit trying to one up me here...Jesus...get your own blog for crying out loud you attention hog! By the way, I wasn't talking about the spiritual figure...although I hear he was fond of an attentive crowd).

-Apparently there's a new iPhone out. Yawn. Bigger screen. Supposedly 4G speeds. So, um, and? A quicker download and streaming of porn with a larger image? Yeah...that's worth $600. All want to know is this: will it make a fucking phone call that doesn't include 50% of the conversation including the words "Can you mear me now??? Arrrrgh!!!!!" (Is arrrgh a word? Discuss amongst yourselves. Also, doesn't the word "amongst" sound like an ethnicity? "You know, I don't know much about those Amongst peoples, but damn, they make a helluva noodle dish.") Anyways, iPhone hoopla is the tech industry equivalent of the next Bradley Cooper movie. A lot of folks are going to pay for it, claim they enjoy it, but secretly be disappointed with the product.

-Remixed an old song of mine. Sometimes you write and record something but it doesn't quite feel finished...or it missed the mark...felt like it came in under expectations (what I like to call the "Bradley Cooper effect"). Anyways, remastered it, added some keyboards, and VOILA! It's now representative of what was in my head (don't ask...). asked? The inspiration for this song was I wanted to write something that would sound appropriate for the closing end credits of a dark and somber superhero movie...something Batman-esque. You know, the hero walks alone as his destiny is unveiled, etc (I guess the movie would have to be part one of a while the destiny may be unveiled, the dark, isolated journey has only begun). OK, I realize I have just outed myself as a colossal nerd. "Hello, my name is John..and I like nerdy shit like English comedy, art films, think Breaking Bad is one of the greatest TV shows ever, and have a fondness for Stephen King and Christopher Moore novels. I am powerless in the face of my addiction."

Anyways, here it is. "Inside the Lizard Brain"

*Remember a few years back when every brain dead starlet would get her bare vajayjay photographed as she exited a car in a short skirt? It turned into some sort of weird bimbo arms (vag?) race where one trollop (look it up) would try to outdo the other for shock value? I was kinda hoping things would reach their inevitable end, no, not Mutual Assured Destruction (look it up), but with Britney Spears/Paris Hilton/Lindsay Lohan getting a full gynecological exam on the sidewalk outside of a West LA club as the paparazzi's flash-bulbs blinded the doctor administering the pap smear.