It was just like Waterloo, except with cheesy snack crackers

Fucking Cheez-Its defeated me. I knew my position was a weak one: I love Cheez-Its and the only way I can keep from eating entire boxes is by buying those little 100-calorie packs. (I don't know why, but something just won't allow me to open up more than one little bag.) This morning, I forgot my little 100-calorie pack. So all I had for lunch was a chicken sandwich, baby carrots, and grapes. See how that's way too healthy? See how I need the Cheez-Its? I voyage to the vending machine to buy make-up Cheez-Its, and they do not sell 100-calorie packs there, people. Oh, no. They have bags of goodies that proudly proclaim things like, "Now bigger and with more cheesy-fat goodness" or "This bag is bigger than your head and you will eat it all, bitch." But I was determined; I would prevail; I would only eat half the bag of cheesy goodness.

Yeah. If you need me, I'll be in the corner, brushing bright orange cracker flakes from my chest.

Bearing witness

Last night, I watched Spike Lee's When the Levees Broke, which, if you hadn't heard, is four hours long. And I hardly noticed. I couldn't look away; it was horrifying, and sad, and touching, and completely unacceptable that this happened in the US. I alternated between utter despair and complete rage. And then I just felt helpless; all I could do was watch this, listen to these people's stories, see these images.

Some of the people were priceless; I think my favorite interview was Phyllis, who invited Barbara Bush to call her and say that shit to her face. Although the guy who told Dick Cheney to go fuck himself was a close second. Watch it, donate, volunteer.

Mi casa es su casa

Last night, we went to dinner at Casa Romero for Jen's 30th birthday bash. (I know! 30! The horror!) I'd never been to Casa Romero, perhaps because it is the heart of Mexico tucked away in a Back Bay Boston alley. Seriously, folks, it's down an alley. It was like platform 9 1/2 down there. Bygones. Or it was all bygones once we tucked into a couple of pitchers of sangria, some chips and guacamole, and some seriously delicious Mexican food. I am the spice wuss, so I had chicken tenderloins sauteed in garlic butter with tomatillos and cilantro. And it was wonderful. The chicken stuffed with cheese and cactus? Also yum. And I could go on, but really, let's talk about the pastel de tres leches, okay? Because that's some fucking good cake, people. I'd eat it every day if I could. And why can't I, I ask you. Why?

On a roll

After I saw two movies back-to-back this weekend, I finally watched a Netflix film (my first since, what, June?). I saw the Matador, which was kind of weird considering I had just watched Greg Kinnear play a kind of inept family man. That said, it was funny, and I almost always like Pierce Brosnan. (Remington Steele, anyone?) I kept expecting there to be more of a twist ending than there was, though, and for that, I blame Hollywood.

To top it all off, last night, I dreamt that I was a taxi driver. Coincidence? I think not.

Sunshine on a cloudy day

Leigh, Jeremy, and I went to see Little Miss Sunshine today. I enjoyed it quite a bit, and whilst Leigh loved the little girl, I think my favorite character was Dwayne. Maybe because, early in the movie, he wrote, "I hate everyone," and I can't tell you how many times I've expressed that sentiment. It was one of those fun, quirky little films, and I only felt once or twice like it was trying too hard to be one of those fun, quirky little films. Steve Carell was amazingly understated, and I love Alan Arkin too much for words. Toni Collette and Greg Kinnear play a married couple again, and they do a decent job of it.

My main quarrel with the movie was the fucking Family Stone moment that felt a little too over the top, but on the whole, one of the better movies I've seen all year. That said, I think this year I've seen fewer movies than since before I hit puberty. Sad.

Solitary pursuits

Today, I had an alone day. I went to lunch alone, just me and my Santa Fe chicken pizza, a Mountain Dew, and the Mill on the Floss. Seated next to me were several women with children, namely a little boy who decided lunchtime was the right time for throwing his toys on the ground. Or at me. You know, whatever. When they would land closer to me than to the owners of the child, I would look up from my book and make a move to pick it up for them, prompting apologies and the like. Now, perhaps it was due to all the cheese, but I was actually pretty mellow about the whole experience, and the apologies were unnecessary. Toward the end of the meal, another toy landed in my vicinity and I went to pick it up, and the woman apologized again as she picked it up, saying, "I'm so sorry to interrupt your peaceful lunch! I'm jealous actually." I just smiled and went back to my book, but the thought stayed with me. Usually women avoid the solitary lunch because what does it say about their lives? (In general, I find men are less paranoid about this.) I've always enjoyed eating alone, as long as I have quality reading material and I don't get one of those annoying waiters who ignores you because he thinks he's not going to get much of a tip (Fabio was excellent today), but I never thought that anyone would be jealous of me. It was kind of a nice thought, actually.

And then I finally saw Pirates of the Caribbean 2. Also alone, but this time the teenage boy who wouldn't shut up somehow evaporated my mellowness. Go figure.

Dot, dot, dot

I'm trying out Blue Dot (as recommened by J.R.) as a kind of replacement for my old sideblog (I miss you!). It's pretty cool so far, and as usual, links are to the right. Don't know how I feel about the bullets, but I also don't know how to get rid of them, so there you have it. They're dots! See my full dottage here.

Lather, rinse, repeat

Okay, so I've been holding out on you. Last week, I got an iPod. A pretty, pretty iPod. I love it to pieces, and now I am obsessed with making new playlists. Also, obsessively adding music to my iTunes because I have 30 GB to fill, people. 30! Bygones. This morning, I created what is possibly my greatest playlist to date: Same Song, Different Day. Oh, it's not merely a collection of covers and originals, people. Oh, no. It also includes songs that are radically different, yet have the same name. Take for instance the powerful one-two punch of Yellow Brick Road by Eminem followed by Yellow Brick Road by Kris Delmhorst. It's killing me! Amie by Damien Rice, followed by Amie by Pure Prairie League. Ghost by the Indigo Girls, followed by Ghost by Howie Day. Genius! Or this three-peat: Gone, Ben Folds; Gone, Sevendust; Gone! the Cure.

Life is sweet, people. Life is sweet.

Questioning, part deux

Q: What are the top questions you think about?
A: What am I doing with my life? What do I want to do with my life? Should I add more songs to my iPod? Am I running enough? Am I running too much? Do I want to have children? Does my butt look big in these pants? Will the Sox ever win another game? Why don't I read more? What is my dream job? Will I ever actually write a novel? What is that weird noise my car keeps making? What do they put in Dew to make it so addictive? What is the truth?

Q & A

Q: How about them Sox?
A: Sweet mother of Christ, aren't they pretty? I know you're all thinking, Wait, didn't they just hoover up a five-game series to the mother-fucking Yankees? Why yes, yes, they did. They stunk up the joint like day-old fish at Haymarket. I mean, this was no ordinary sweep, no minor three-game loss to the Kansas City fucking Royals, no. This was the Yankees. The Evil Empire. The Enemy. And sure, we sucked it. Hard. But it's all a set up, see? We're just lulling them into a false state of complacency, just like in '04. All we need now is to trade Youkilis and Lowell to Baltimore for Kevin Millar, and we're rolling, people! Rolling! Straight to the World Series!

Random play

Sometimes, I am struck with the most random urges. Take Friday, for instance: I had to watch the Gilmore Girls. Had to. I didn't care what it took or how much it might cost, I needed to get my hands on those DVDs. Luckily, Melanie has season two, so I just borrowed hers. Crisis averted. Yesterday, my sister called with a question about the Pirate Movie, a little-known gem from the early '80s that I swear my sisters and I must have watched 812 times. Now, I must watch it. I. Must. Watch. It. Luckily, Netflix has it, so all will be well. As soon as they fucking mail it, already!

Today, I am overcome by the urge to answer questions in a fake interview. I don't know why, I just want to. I'm sick of coming up with shit to write about. Why don't I just answer questions that don't apply to my life? I'm going to hunt down some random Q&A with some random person and just answer it my damn self. (Unless y'all have questions you want answered? No? Didn't think so.)

Sometimes, I just can't be explained, people. Even to myself.

Never trust Tommy Lee Jones, but always trust your instincts

I was playing Scene It? Sports Edition tonight, and I was partnered with Jeremy, lover of all things sports but most particularly football and Syracuse. I wasn't a total liability, but unless the questions focused around pop culture or the Red Sox, I wasn't of much use. Luckily, one of our first questions was about a sports movie. Who played Ty Cobb in the controversial movie biography of his life? I said, "I want to say Tommy Lee Jones, but that doesn't seem right." After much debate with myself and absolutely no help from Jeremy, I went with Barry Pepper. (That was 61*, you idiot!) The answer was, of course, Tommy Lee Jones. Goddammit! I have to learn to trust my instincts, people. Luckily, I had a chance to redeem myself with a racing question in which my first random guess was Mario Andretti. We went with that, and I was right again. And then we went on to win the game. Triumph!

The lesson: Always trust your first instincts. And play sports trivia with Jeremy as your partner.

Colors of the world

Today, I helped Melanie paint her new apartment. I'd like to say it's because I'm just that kind of friend, but really, it's because I like to paint. And since my taste in paint colors runs from white to antique white, I got to live vicariously through her choices (a lovely blue and a sandstone). Whilst purchasing the aforementioned paint, I was drawn to the bright greens and the cool peaches, the dark reds and deep purples. I wanted all these color schemes in my house -- you the know, the theoretical house with the wrap-around porch and the impeccably decorated interior. I wanted these colors, but I knew in the end, I would just go back to the antique white with the bright white trim. Maybe it's because I'm just conservative that way. Maybe I'm just too practical. Maybe I don't trust my own taste. Maybe I'm afraid of too much color, the commitment it implies. Maybe I'm just chicken.

Maybe the paint fumes got to my head and I'm overthinking things.

Retroactively retrospective

Dammit, I forgot again! Somehow I manage to almost forget every year when my web site grows another year older. (I never forget my own birthday, though.) Yesterday, my little HTML project turned 5. Can you believe it? Five fucking years I've been working on this shit, and it really hasn't gotten much better.

Trepidation

Blogger is working on crazy new features. They scare me a little bit. As does my blog's alternate reality. But I love playing around with this stuff. The truth is, I don't know if I'll ever change the blog. It's been like this for so long now, it feels like ... home. Like me.

Yes, I am defined by some HTML and CSS tags. You gotta problem with that?

Scenic Lowell

I loves me some Mike Lowell.

I went to the woods

Live each season as it passes; breathe the air, drink the drink, taste the fruit, and resign yourself to the influences of each.

Something old, something new

Thanks to some sweet hitting (thank you, Doug Mirabelli, and I will totally keep that "if you hit a homerun right here, I will make you chicken parm" promise) and a clutch single from the Man, the Sox walked off with the win today. And, oh yes, I was there to see it in all its glory.

Normally, I don't wear new Sox gear to an actual game, but I felt my fancy new "Shift This" shirt called for it. And since the new red hat wasn't technically new as Dave owned it first, all was okay. And it was. More than okay. Fabulous, actually. Fucking fabulous.

Love, actually

Wombat over at Kiss & Blog has started a little site to combat some of the depressing shit over at Post Secret: Love Revealed. I think it's a great idea, but instead of doing it anonymously over there, I'll laying it out here: This is some of what I love most in the world.

Rite of passage

Every runner falls. Uneven pavement, rock, tree root, minor distraction -- it happens. Last week, Jen took a nasty spill and gouged the fuck out of her knee. I remember thinking at the time, "I haven't fallen while running yet." Well, that is all over, my friends: In the first, oh, minute and a half of my run tonight, I bit it. Big time. Luckily, I wasn't on pavement, or I probably wouldn't be typing this right now, because, for some reason, my shoulder took the brunt of it. I don't know why or how, but apparently, I used my right shoulder to break my fall -- well, some of my elbow and a little of both hands. A tiny bit on my right knee, but nothing to write home about. It fucking sucks. And cleaning it out hurt like a bitch.

However, getting back up and continuing my run did make me feel tough.

All viral and shit

I love it when I get random e-mails from people who think I'm one of "Boston's leading bloggers" (I'm not). Usually, they're asking me to link something on my blog and talk about it, and usually I ignore them unless I find them particularly interesting. That said, I've found the following to be worthy of checking out:

Sweetriot: They make chocolate-covered cacao nibs. Or something like that. They also blog about "rioting" and it cracks me up.

I don't dig American Express, but if you like food and chefs and talking about food and chefs, this seems kind of cool.

I do, however, dig maps in a big way, and this apartment-listing map-making thingy is sweet.

JenGarrett has not been paid for these links. She didn't even accept the offer of free candy from Sweetriot. And that was hard.

Guess who's back?

Ohio was glorious, as usual. I had some near-brushes with cuteness overload between my sister's wee dog and the wee nephew. Luckily, I shook it off with some Reds and Red Sox suckage. That kept me anchored in reality.

It's nearly impossible to describe a week spent with your family, so I won't really try. Good times were had. Pictures were taken. Well, I will mention this: The sun and bugs love me. Chemicals do not deter them, oh no. Did I wear thirty layers of insect repellant and have all manner of citronella burning around me? Yes. Did I still get over thirty bites on my feet alone? Yup. (And, no, I'm not exaggerating. I just counted.) I also wore the SPF 48 and still got a sunburn. I guess I'm just lucky that way.

It's just like the Holy Grail

Finding my Cincinnati Reds Arroyo shirt is becoming something of a neverending quest. Before the game on Tuesday, my dad took me to the Tri-County Mall outside of Cincinnati -- closer to the team, more of a chance to find team memorabilia, right? Right. There was something called the Cincy store! No problem. Well, it was no problem if I wanted a Dunn shirt. Or a Griffey. Or even a fucking Freel, but no Arroyo. We came tantalizingly close at Finish Line, when Dave spotted a Bronson baseball-style tee. I was very excited. I may have squealed. Until I discovered that the smallest size they had was a men's large, which was kind of a long dress on me. Fuck! We moved on to the Northgate Mall. Also no going. Then we had to stop our quest for some sustenance at Zip's. Zip's burgers? Really f-ing good. I highly recommend the next time you're in Cincinnati.

Then it was game time, baby. I found another Arroyo shirt being sold by some guy a block from the stadium. $20. Perfect. Except that the only one he had in my size had shmutz on it. I'm not spending $20 on a shmutzy shirt, dammit. Surely there will be a shirt in the souvenir store at the stadium. Surely. Fuck! Either Arroyo is far too popular for his own good, or Cincinnati is no baseball town. (I did find more than enough Bengal t-shirts to set me up for life.) I guess it's up to the internet now for my Bronson love. Or I'll just have to wait for him to get traded back to the Sox.

How many times can they go to the well?

Thanks to ESPN, I got to watch last night's Sox game in all its ulcer-inducing glory. Sure, it ended with the almost predictable Big Papi walk-off three-run homer (which made it no less glorious!), but before that, it included the utterly predictable and debilitating Tito leaving Boomer in one batter too long. Fuck man, just because I'm in Ohio doesn't mean I'm not following the Sox like my pathetic life depended on it.

Tonight, I see the Reds. The skinny bastard takes the mound at 7, and I'll be there in all my glory.