Tuesday, January 5, 2010

It begins the same way every year: a silvery bauble drops on Times Square and then, in what may be the strangest example of correlation or causation or possibly both, resolutions are declared, stoic pronouncements that probably wouldn’t even exist if that stupid ball had stopped short of its target height. Apparently I was on a health kick last January, though I was loathe to call it a resolution, so 2010 will be different. We’re going to make progress. It’s going to be a light resolution this year, then a sticky note that conveniently falls into the crevice between fridge and counter once 2011 rolls around, and then probably just a torrent of swearing in 2012.

Here it is. My pledge. I’m putting myself in the No-Fry Zone for the time being. Now, lest you think this is some horrible manifestation of an Asian accent or something, rest assured I’m talking about the food item, specifically the avoidance of any dining establishment that serves golden, delicious fries. Obviously I could refrain from ordering fries, opting instead for, like, a salad or something, but I hate salads. And fries, tempting as they may be, often hint at a larger menu that likely isn’t designed to improve your vitals.

It’s still a health resolution, of course, but it’s more noncommittal. See? Progress. I wouldn’t go to McDonald’s, for instance, but Pizza Hut would technically be fair game. Chipotle is still legit, naturally. Steak n’ Shake would be forbidden, and yet Cold Stone Creamery would be allowed. Chili’s would be out of the question. Starbucks would be a go. The No-Fry Zone can also be capricious. A Taco Bell connected to a Long John Silver’s is out of the question, but a freestanding location? Unleash the powdered meats.

Call it a half-resolution, then, and we’ll leave it at that. When you’ve dined primarily from gift baskets for consecutive weeks, you see, corrective measures must be taken–measures which, come Thursday, will probably have been violated three ways to Sunday. But that’s Thursday, two whole days from now, and the post will go on. Perhaps we’ll talk about a vow I made last year that’s been gladly broken, or maybe we’ll discuss how 12 minutes can make all the difference in the world. We’re flush with talk in this place.

Tuesday, December 22, 2009

Secondhand Rants will return on Tuesday, January 05.

Thursday, December 17, 2009

Walk into an animal shelter with the scent of chicken on your clothing–not just any chicken, mind you, but chicken marinated in savory chipotle pepper adobo–and you will command an attentive canine audience. That’s what I learned from my last trip to the pound, which happened to be adjacent to my weekly visit to Chipotle, and I’m still trying to understand the implications of smelling delicious to dogs.

There were a lot more jumpers during the visit, for starters, along with a higher frequency of frenzied barking. “They’re in jail,” explained the staffer, and accordingly kennel manners shouldn’t be regarded as an accurate representation of true behavior. I wasn’t so sure, though, because a dog that leaps two or three feet into the air, kennel or no kennel, certainly has the capacity to do likewise in your home. Eau de Burrito may actually be far more than an offshoot of lunch, then, and I plan on cloaking myself in it when I continue my dog hunt this weekend.

And while part of me wishes the same hounds I saw two weeks ago are still there, another part of me hopes for a new batch, perhaps one with the right mutt for me. There are really two main breeds, the staff member told me as he made an imaginary fork with his hands: those who hunt, and those who are domesticated. He then listed the attributes of each, to which I replied that neither sounded interesting. I wanted something in the middle. “A social dog,” he concluded. A social dog. Imagine that.