Tuesday, September 29, 2009 :::
My curriculum for alcoholic enrichment turned to beer recently, specifically how to chug down the foul grog while appearing to enjoy it, and I have findings for you, dear reader, deep insights borne from a need to imbibe, rather than a desire to do so. Lesson One of my education delved into the world of cocktails, and I've emerged with a basic vocabulary: mojitos are the reliable standby, with Vodka Red Bulls on backup for barkeeps who refuse to stock their wares with frickin' mint leaves.
Certainly I could expand my portfolio further, but I think I'm in a good place. Sangria? Gross. Jack and Coke? Hold the Jack. Bloody Mary? But I don't even know her. No, I'm content with the Mo-Vo setup, and I must now turn to more bitter beverages. There are times, I believe, when ordering a mojito makes me seem like a little bitch. This is what I'm trying to remedy. You may interject at this point about sticking to my guns and disregarding what other people think, but we're talking about alcohol here. Social lubricants, as it were. And when we're talking about society, people--and what people think--are at the very heart of the matter.
Beer has always struck me as a soda gone bad, though this doesn't change its status as the everyman's drink. Whereas a mojito is comparatively high-maintenance, like a cat, beer is like a dog you never have to feed or take on walks. Mainly because it poos on the carpet, then eats the poo, but that's neither here nor there. I've found that by spinning the beer-as-rotted-soda thought into a full-fledged narrative, I'm able to trick myself into consuming bottles of the vile brew. Tonight, for instance, a whole Bud Light went down the hatch when I told myself the earth's supply of Sprite had magically fermented. This packaged swill was the only thing left in the whole wide world. And for 12 grim ounces, this was exactly what came to pass.
Posted by Ben at 11:32 PM
Thursday, September 24, 2009 :::
The depths to which my culinary abilities are capable of sinking have been well documented, to be sure, but tonight I submit to the jury that redemption is possible, even now. My newfound resolve stems more from boredom than anything else, because pasta can only satisfy for so long until you wish to transcend it. Here's my plan of escape, starting with some stipulations.
I will only use the kitchen equipment I currently possess: oven, stovetop, pot, pan, and a tomato knife. The prospect of purchasing a blender, toaster, measuring spoons, baking trays, mixing bowls, and all that other shit isn't remotely appealing. The initial focus will be solely on sandwiches, and I assure you it will be a narrow reading on the subject. That means no wraps and unequivocally no panini, but more on this later. We're talking good old-fashioned bread, hot or cold. So it is written, so shall it be done, and if the Earl is somehow reading this, know that whether you actually invented the sandwich matters not. You're about to get served.
Certainly taste will be a key criterion. Texture, though, will be equally important. It's the feel of the sandwich--its heft, how its ingredients are layered, the full sensorial experience. And it's got to be honest as well. Allow me to illustrate. I saw someone walk out of the supermarket the other day, carton of soy milk in hand, and I marveled over why I never asked myself one simple question: How exactly do you milk a soybean? Precisely. You can't. It's unnatural. Suspect. Panini, much along the same lines, just seem untrustworthy. They're slight. Unctuous. In the wide world of food, I imagine they sport handlebar mustaches, wear frilly button-down shirts, and need to be punched in their faces.
Taste and texture won't be enough, however. I'll need sage guidance, and to this end I'm looking to Martha Stewart and her trove of recipes. It's the persona. You just know she could simultaneously design a fantastic meal and architect your grisly demise in some darkened alleyway before the crème's even been brûlèe'd, all the while wearing that inscrutable demeanor. The stint in prison merely seals the deal. I bet she knows how to make a shiv! Like, a really nice-looking one. It's that rare quadrant where homemade edged weaponry intersects with macramé, and the world may be better for it.
Posted by Ben at 11:41 PM
Tuesday, September 22, 2009 :::
In what appears to be a living reenactment of M.C. Escher's greatest works, I've been wracking my noggin recently for the ultimate brain teaser to deploy on job applicants. It's a need that sprung out of an interview last week, when I endorsed a candidate in lavish, glowing terms, only to garner looks from both the Chief and Boss G normally reserved for adults who dribble all over themselves in a jungle gym connected to a McDonald's. At, like, a Walmart.
Perhaps you've experienced this species of question firsthand: how many quarters would you need to stack to reach the height of the Empire State Building? How much did the Titanic weigh? How do you make funeral arrangements for a dozen mimes? All three are ridiculous, really, but let them simmer for a bit as you formulate your solutions. Okay! Time's up. The answers, respectively:
"I don't know, but if I had that many quarters, I wouldn't be sitting in this goddamn interview."
"Doesn't make a shit of a difference because--guess what?--it sunk."
"They've already locked themselves in invisible boxes. Just drape a tarp over them."
You may have gathered, at this point, how much I loathe these types of questions. They're insipid. Not because the topics themselves are boring, by any means, but because they seem irrelevant, possibly even a little irreverent, given the context. How many pins could you fit, say, into the head of an angel? Who knows? Who cares? Enough pins to attempt an answer compelling enough to earn a paycheck.
Understand, though, the inherent value of these questions--the ability to suss out how a candidate thinks--is what was revelatory lately. Whereas previously even the mere mention of such inquiries would've met a raised brow from me, along with an upturned nose, elevated pinky, and a hired chauffeur with his very own jar of Grey Poupon, I now realize why they exist.
There's got to be another way to coax out a candidate's thought process, however, and this brings us back to the task at hand: constructing a question both devious and classy. The contingencies will have to be considered, of course. What if I raised the mime issue and got the very answer we discussed earlier, word for word? I suppose I'd ask a follow-up question.
"Let's pretend your interviewer had a blog you weren't supposed to read or, even worse, quote in public. How would you make the situation less awkward?"
The best possible answer would be sitting in utter silence for the remaining 45 minutes.
Posted by Ben at 11:52 PM
Thursday, September 17, 2009 :::
Were we to extend the nautical metaphor from the other night, draw it out even further past its prime, we'd probably talk about how pirates might fix a leaking ship. All hands would be on deck, peg legs clunking to an urgent tempo, pails sloshing every which way, the wail of wenches filling the air as crew and captain alike bail out a sinking vessel.
But when it comes to a leaking air conditioning system, left in the wake of the Pirate, the course of action changes. I wasn't about to use the Internet again to find a service provider, obviously, for fear that another grizzled old coot would show up in my foyer, this time with all his vital organs failing on the spot. In fact, the more likely scenario would have included an actual corpse being delivered to my doorstep, wrench clutched in one hand, canister of Freon in the other, supported by naught but the grace of rigor mortis.
I opted to call my HVAC guy instead--let us call him the I-Doctor--who appeared on the scene with a Geiger counter-like leak detector and all manners of tubes and gauges. By the time we crossed the hour mark, dozens of detector beeps had emitted from both attic and yard, where metal pieces from a dismantled unit were strewn all over the lawn. The verdict? Outside unit was fine, and there was nothing strange in the attic, and the low-tech leak test--applying upwards of 300 psi to the system and watching for any telltale drops--had passed.
The Freon, however, was truly gone. Disappeared. He outlined my options: he could cut the line, check if there was a leak in the wall, or possibly-- Or possibly someone's been taking Freon hits on my dime. He held forth on how another job with vanishing Freon culminated in the cops apprehending one such junkie, and even as he began to inquire about the neighbors, my thoughts turned to the Pirate, whom I pictured crouched in my backyard, sniffing refrigerants with his one working nostril. For fuck's sake, I mean.
"They get high off that shit," the I-Doctor concluded, bringing me out of my reverie.
"That's probably why you seem so mellow, right?" I remarked.
He appreciated this. I think? At least enough to reassemble the shards of metal on the grass and, since it's fall already, simply refill the Freon and call it a day. Cutting the line could wait.
This stuff fascinates me. I'd like to learn how the system works, repair it all myself, and why couldn't I do so? I mean, if I can build a computer, it can't be that much harder, right? If you can dodge a wrench, then you can dodge a dodgeball, a wise man once said, and that logic is airtight. I see it now: a lucrative side business, embossed business cards, my frigid reach extended to every borough, and all who hear my brand name--The VAC-Daddy--shall tremble from too much cooling.
Posted by Ben at 11:54 PM
Tuesday, September 15, 2009 :::
With a fully functional HVAC system at my disposal, I regale you from a place of comfort tonight, ambient temperature calibrated to a soothing 76 degrees Fahrenheit, mental faculties completely free of humidity, and every button on my keyboard at your service, primed to clack away as we convene for our Tuesday ritual. Back in July, when lukewarm air suddenly began to issue forth from all the vents, I turned to the Internet for help. My trusty contact was on vacation that week, unfortunately, and in his place appeared an ancient, stringy fellow with missing front teeth.
I offer you these details not because teeth are required for HVAC expertise, but because I wish to honor the narrative tradition. The Pirate, let us call him, recounted a litany of misfortune as he unloaded his truck. He proudly displayed a fresh scar from a car accident, then reminisced about his kidneys, and finally, in a stirring epilogue, spoke of how he suffered a heart attack recently and didn't even know it. It was wretched. There was empathy, if only because I could appreciate a string of unfortunate events. He replenished the Freon, the air conditioning sprung back to life, and I gladly wrote him a check, hoping some of the dollars would go toward his good health.
And then, a month-and-a-half later, the Freon was gone. This stuff is supposed to last, mind you, and I subconsciously cast the first stone at the Pirate. Again, teeth and heart? Not prerequisites. I wasn't in the market for a dentist or a cardiologist, after all, and yet I couldn't help but wonder whether a serviceperson who--
A) Possessed a full set of choppers and
B) Wasn't at death's door
--might've done a better job.
I chose to wonder no more, so I picked up-- Well, you'll have to wait until Thursday for the rest. Make sure to bring all your teeth when you return, and we shall talk of many things: substance abuse. Bone-crushing pressure. The Greater Theorem of Wrench-Dodgeball Avoidability. There may even be light profanity. I plan to deliver on this last point, bare minimum, because it appears tonight's discussion has been woefully deficient in this department, without so much as an aitch-ee-double-hockey-sticks. Shameful, really.
Posted by Ben at 11:37 PM
Thursday, September 10, 2009 :::
There I was, on a brightly lit tennis court a few evenings ago, huffing and puffing and trying to will my leaden legs into motion, when it dawned on me that no help was coming. I had brought this state of affairs upon myself, believing in recent months that infrequent rounds of golf and a good attitude were all I needed to approximate exercise. Boy, was I wrong. Within three minutes of warming up, I was completely winded, drenched, head pounding, a living, cautionary tale for why you should purchase a membership at the Y. Imagine a walrus, if you will, being forcibly taken out of cold storage--cold, yes, even for a walrus.
What hasn't been cold is my townhouse in the past week, since my HVAC has been on the fritz again. With a couple repairs under my belt now, I'm that much closer to becoming a certified serviceman, and sure enough my diagnosis--Freon leak--was confirmed earlier tonight. Are central air systems usually this shoddy? I've begun to suspect the builders, ironically named Superior Construction, may have unearthed a rich quarry of shit when they were prospecting for raw materials. Think a Bluth-quality home from Arrested Development, only made of poop.
I don't think a coherent flow is achievable at this point, so! Urban Dictionary. I've heard it mentioned aloud twice in just two weeks, and such a frequency warms what's left of my heart. Some recent favorites, if you'll indulge me: "manther," "hiking in Appalachia," "douchebaguette," and "afterclap." These are the words I learned in class today. This is the frontier of our language, where English is made and consumed as it pulses to its own secret music. And to hear of others partaking in it? It gives me hope.
Posted by Ben at 11:48 PM
Thursday, September 03, 2009 :::
Secondhand Rants will return on Thursday, September 10.
Posted by Ben at 12:01 AM
Tuesday, September 01, 2009 :::
What was fascinating about Bible study for my kind, I discovered at my first meeting, was the sheer breadth of cultural familiarities on offer, a wide stock of Asian reference points designed to put me at ease. There were Filipinos, as promised, but more than that the shared vocabulary and even the iconography felt tailored, glove-like. It wasn't just "Jesus Christ," for instance--it was "Jesus Christ-san," and His painted depictions weren't of the usual white dude with brown hair and facial growth. Think Y.E. Yang, instead, with flowing black tresses. It's also highly likely I'm just fuckin' with you, of course, because I slept clean through Sunday morning, and we should turn to the real topic at hand.
The most significant thing I did this weekend was go outside, under full cover of what is normally referred to as "sunshine," for a four-mile walk. There was fresh air as well, upon which I somehow did not asphyxiate. I've been trying to live healthier--eat less, move more, sleep better--and although the fries I consumed during lunch today did little to further this great undertaking, the general trend has been promising. The cooler weather has a lot to do with it, I believe, because it's just that much easier to go outdoors when it's not, like, a hundred-fifty degrees.
The four miles I tread did not occur on a hamster wheel, as you may have suspected, but rather unfolded on the local greenway, which is basically a wooden path that cuts through nature. It was fascinating to follow the walkway as it wended under and alongside streets I frequently drive, transforming them into wholly unfamiliar avenues, quiet all around, the raw smell of plants and earth catering to the senses. When my constitutional was over, I walked out of a nearby Trader Joe's with a bag full of organic foods, tired but rejuvenated, a momentary paragon of healthy living. And having said all this, what I would've much rather done was rub a double bacon cheeseburger all over my face.
Posted by Ben at 11:57 PM
