Twice, that’s twice now my keyboard decided to stop functioning, and the desire to explore the subtext of this situation is too great. It’s an ancient piece of technology, almost a decade and a half old, so I guess surprise isn’t an option. My keyboard will simply stop, as if to say, “Just let me die, please. You will push my buttons no more.” It’s time to shelve the old.
This is our last conversation of the year, which occasions both celebration and dread. Everything from term papers to e-mails to our conversations evokes the latter in wildly different amounts, but the sentiment’s usually there. I’m not exactly sure why. Perhaps it’s the transition from something blank to something filled, and for whatever reason this is unsettling to me.
But they’re necessary. Oh, are our conversations personally necessary. I’ve tried to temper our evenings with infrequent reminders of what exactly we are–just a blog, a vanity site incapable of saving whales or children–in hopes of guarding against self-importance, that dark genie who promises to make ridiculous websites doubly ridiculous.
It’s vital I tell you, however, our talk is an undiscovered nutrient. I look forward to our discussions and, by extension, you, on most evenings. Let’s go for one more.
What I found at a Brazilian barbecue this weekend, nestled between a piece of bacon-wrapped filet mignon and a mound of pasta slathered in butter sauce, could not be described in mere calories. The expectations for this type of restaurant are simple: there is a threshold, which is basically made of meat. Cross it and you’re golden. But if you partake and discover culinary insight rather than beef brisket, then that is a different dish entirely.
I’m a deludivore, from the order Deludivora, 100 years young pending approval from the scientific community. We’re not talking vegetarian, nor are we talking organic sackcloth and sandals at a People’s Market. Carnivorous? Far from it, because eating off the bone is indeed savage, an uncivilized call to a time when we expressed ourselves with clubs and fire.
The best way to explain things would be by way of conveyor belt. I’m a product of modernity, a child of processed foods weaned on packaged sheen. Show me the McTit and I’m all like, “Hello, and can I introduce myself later?” Now, this doesn’t mean additives–I’ve fairly disabused myself of sugar and its charms, at least before clients started sending Harry and David–and it doesn’t mean goofy names. No Pizza Shooters or Xtreme Chicken Blasters here, never mind a whole Gleetre of raspberry Joymonade. Give me an Angus patty, chicken tenders, or something that went through a factory without fanfare, however, and I’m yours.
Buffets are also categorically disgusting. Given enough plates and enough skill with the communal tongs, you’ll happen upon a disturbing reality. We’re being fattened, maybe by aliens or something, and you can almost hear the tentacles of our invisible overlords wringing. Even so, as long as they process my meats into nugget form, hey.
Warm weather, or the reasonable facsimile I’m conjuring in my head, is almost nagging in the way it compels you to enjoy the outdoors, be active. If you don’t take a walk or offer a blood sacrifice to the mosquitoes, Mother Nature will cast a pall of guilt over you and straightaway knock you out the window, with nary a consideration for the importance of air conditioning.
But fall arrives, then winter, and suddenly being forcibly driven indoors is the thing to do. We hibernate like bears, fat and lazily content, our stomachs insulated with untold digital delights. One of my newfound hobbies, besides furiously testing whether the traction control system in my car really works, is enjoying the media I purchase. Gone are the days when DVD’s and games would sit unspun for long stretches of time. They are spinning now, believe you me, and I wanted to share two highlights.
So, Resident Evil 4. Yes, still. This has got to be the best 50 bucks I’ve spent in recent memory. I gushed about it back in August, finished it, shelved the game, and eventually dusted it off and burned through it three more times. You should know the game rewards repeat playthroughs, however, lest you think me an idiot savant. Some things just never get old–the roar of the shotgun, the feel of the gunplay, the difficulty that adjusts to ensure your adrenal glands do their job.
Since I must wait a good year for the second season of Lost, I decided to grab the first season of Desperate Housewives, which along with Lost has allegedly revitalized television. It’s created by the guy who did Golden Girls, though I’m not sure what that means, because like Lost it’s a hard show to parse. I’ll spare you the synopsis–I imagine I’m late to the table anyway–but the show is tenser than you’d think. Variety calls it “dishy fun.” That’s about as descriptive to me as labeling something “mindblowingly edgy.”
Dishy got me thinking about food, for some reason Dunkin’ Donuts, which subsequently made for a good simile. Lost is like the buttermilk donut in the dozen, dense and satisfying, whereas Desperate Housewives is that damn French cruller–just as sweet, perhaps, but packed with lots and lots of air. I must admit, however, there was a substantive revelation. Teri Hatcher? Unilaterally hot. Eva Longoria who?