I started writing a very lengthy piece exploring a certain aspect of my personality: I reserve the right to walk out on anything.
I deleted all the text and started fresh, and went on for another substantial volume, then deleted most of that.
It occurs to me that I have been suffering writer's block for about two years. Also, I don't like the way I write anymore. Those facts are probably associated somehow.
Still, words are the weapon of choice. I like writing. And I fancy myself a writer.
I suppose writing is something I walked out on for a bit.
How fortunate that it does not press me with a deluge of questions 'pon my return. How thankful I am that among those questions that aren't being asked is "Are you back for good."
Showing posts with label failure. Show all posts
Showing posts with label failure. Show all posts
Sunday, May 2, 2010
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Spam A Little
Dear Amanda Palmer,
Congratulations on your solo success. I very much enjoyed your work when you teamed with Brian Viglione as The Dresden Dolls, and I am equally if not more excited about your emergence as a solo artist. I have been to shows. I've drawn on some strange mimes. I've bought shirts. I've put money in the hat. I've put money in the boot. I've put money directly in the hands of the Australian bunch you toured with recently, standing in the chilly air just outside of Paradise Rock Club. We've even met.
I say these things to evidence and establish my appreciation, and I think that's been done.
That all said, please push your book elsewhere. Why on Earth you think I would shell out thirty-five bucks plus tax on a book containing one hundred twenty-eight photographs of you -- "dead" -- is completely vexing. It strikes me that we may have wandered away from artful positing of universal truths and diverse collaboration for the sake of true creativity. It strikes me as the overly self-indulgent pet project of a goth chick with too much time on her hands and too many artsy friends who think she's just amazing.
As much as I enjoy the vast majority of what you churn out, I have my limits. I simply have no wish to consume photographs of you pretending to be dead in a shopping cart, pretending to be dead in an outfit you like, pretending to be dead on your bathroom floor, pretending to be dead in some shallow water, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.
What I'm trying to say is, I don't give a shit about your coffee table picture book and it's disenfranchising.
Try to keep in mind that I rant because I care.
Sincerely,
That guy who drew you a picture of an onion wearing Jack Skellington's coat one night on a little piece of paper during a performance of The Onion Cellar, and traded it to you for a flower -- a far fairer exchange than thirty or forty bucks for hundreds of photos of you playing opossum, in my humble opinion.
Congratulations on your solo success. I very much enjoyed your work when you teamed with Brian Viglione as The Dresden Dolls, and I am equally if not more excited about your emergence as a solo artist. I have been to shows. I've drawn on some strange mimes. I've bought shirts. I've put money in the hat. I've put money in the boot. I've put money directly in the hands of the Australian bunch you toured with recently, standing in the chilly air just outside of Paradise Rock Club. We've even met.
I say these things to evidence and establish my appreciation, and I think that's been done.
That all said, please push your book elsewhere. Why on Earth you think I would shell out thirty-five bucks plus tax on a book containing one hundred twenty-eight photographs of you -- "dead" -- is completely vexing. It strikes me that we may have wandered away from artful positing of universal truths and diverse collaboration for the sake of true creativity. It strikes me as the overly self-indulgent pet project of a goth chick with too much time on her hands and too many artsy friends who think she's just amazing.
As much as I enjoy the vast majority of what you churn out, I have my limits. I simply have no wish to consume photographs of you pretending to be dead in a shopping cart, pretending to be dead in an outfit you like, pretending to be dead on your bathroom floor, pretending to be dead in some shallow water, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.
What I'm trying to say is, I don't give a shit about your coffee table picture book and it's disenfranchising.
Try to keep in mind that I rant because I care.
Sincerely,
That guy who drew you a picture of an onion wearing Jack Skellington's coat one night on a little piece of paper during a performance of The Onion Cellar, and traded it to you for a flower -- a far fairer exchange than thirty or forty bucks for hundreds of photos of you playing opossum, in my humble opinion.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
In The Kingdom Of Gourmandia: Part IV
Tuesday heralded the "second half" of my Restaurant Week adventure. That is, the selection of restaurants to which I'd already been that seemed to require another -- cheaper -- visit.
The first of those was The Palm Boston, part of The Palm restaurant chain. I was first introduced to The Palm for my twentieth birthday by my aunt and uncle, and I was thoroughly impressed. I returned with "the boys" for New Year's Eve that year, where, again, my 16 oz. filet mignon was everything I hoped it would be.
I hadn't been since, enduring lengthy periods of time during which I could barely afford ramen noodles, let alone New York sirloin cuts. And The Palm hadn't previously opted to participate in Restaurant Week, positing itself with such previous untouchables as L'Espalier and Top of the Hub, immune to discounting their dinner services for new business and limiting the offer strictly to lunch. This year, however, as was the case with even the most uppity of establishments, they elected to participate fully. Having noted this development, and still holding very favorable memories of previous visits, I could not pass it up.
And so, on Tuesday, Erika and I made our way to The Palm Boston, situated in the Westin Hotel in the Back Bay area of town. Rather lost on what to drink -- torn between cocktails or wine -- we went with what seemed like a compromise. The girly-sounding "strawberry sparkling mojitos" we ordered were, it turned out, a compromise of unexpected context. I found the drink absurdly strong, even unnecessarily so. Mind you, this is coming from someone who will view the "rocks" portions of "vodka rocks" as a mixer if the vodka is smooth enough. The drink was just awful, a steely sort of rum with strawberry seeds and some very ill-looking mint sludged at the bottom. Unpleasant.
The appetizer choices were thin; lobster bisque, salad, or a different salad. Since I don't believe in eating salad when the salad in question is not a sexual euphemism, I went with the bisque. There was a distinct flavor of lobster in what I was served. This is more than I could say for the lobster bisque I was once served at the Daily Grill where, upon inquiring why my lobster bisque had been made without any hint of lobster, the server raised his hands in surrender and asserted his vegetarian status as though he was some how thereby Switzerland in the war on what amounts to false advertising, not my yet-to-be-commissioned liaison to the kitchen. But the actual flavor of lobster is the only thing The Palm's bisque had over the Daily Grill's; though I am certain any representative of The Palm would purport their food to be of higher quality than the products of the Campbell's Soup Company, I am here to report that on practically infinite occasions I have cracked open a can of Campbell's chicken noodle soup to encounter visible amounts -- if modest -- of chicken, and noodles, no less, but in a thorough search through The Palm's lobster bisque, I was completely unable to locate a even a suggestive shred of langoustine or prawn masquerading as their more prestigious cousin throughout the bowl.
Restrauant Week or not, Old Bay and sea salt do not a lobster bisque make, and to preface the dish on the menu with the words "our famous" seems almost humorous if one simply measures it by the relatively easy standard of containing some fucking lobster.
For the entree, I was torn. There was something called a "veal martini," with sun-dried tomatoes and such. And a salmon dish with lobster mashed potatoes, which I did not order. The meaning of "lobster mashed potatoes" is called into question, post-bisque-debacle. Perhaps the potatoes are mashed in the kitchen by the lamenting claws of a doomed lobster in his final moments of anguish. But the steak dish seemed too perfect. New York sirloin, butter-poached lump lobster meat, and wild mushroom risotto.
At the server's recommendation, I ordered the steak.
Having defeated my mojito, I wanted something different, specifically something unlike the cocktail I'd just had. When I asked for their cocktail menu, I was provided with a small list, along with the assertion that "the bar is very extensive." So I said "All right, let's put the bar to the test," and before I could begin to make my request, the server cut me off with a scoff, as though it was pathetic to suggest I would request anything they didn't have in stock. His confidence was encouraging, but upon listing my first ingredient of choice, he cringed. "I'd like pear vodka shaken with..."
"Oooh, um, pear vodka? Yeah, um, sometimes we have it. Let me check with the bar really quickly..."
Alas, no pear vodka. How now, brown cow. So I went with a listed cocktail entitled "Tease Like A Tart." It tasted of key lime pie soaked in rubbing alcohol, and was a substantial improvement over its predecessor in the beverage department. Perhaps I should've gone with wine?
The entree was not quite what I expected. The steak was rare, as ordered, and visible lobster meat made its first formal appearance of the night, but the wild mushroom risotto was served as an arancini, which was unheralded in its description on the menu and unwelcome. I was hoping for a slow-cooked, creamy risotto and instead was greeted with a fried arancini ball which I sampled but rejected.
For dessert, I went with the trio of sorbets, and this turned out to be the only meal with which I was fully pleased or even pleasantly surprised. Three generous scoops, one each of passion fruit, raspberry, and mango sorbet, presented by themselves. The sorbets needed nothing else; they were very good.
But, all in all, had this been my only experience with The Palm, I'd have wondered how they established themselves as a name at the steak and lobster table. However, knowing what they are capable of from prior visits, I maintain that there is potential for a very good meal there, but whether my Restaurant Week visit was universal half-assing on account of the discounted event -- unadvisable, considering the other recent mailing list promotions I've received from the chain imply that the recession is hitting them solidly in the books -- or if this was simply an isolated blip on their track record, I can say that, given much more positive experiences at every other restaurant I've visited thus far for Restaurant Week, my enthusiasm for a return visit is considerably diminished.
Would not do again anytime soon.
The first of those was The Palm Boston, part of The Palm restaurant chain. I was first introduced to The Palm for my twentieth birthday by my aunt and uncle, and I was thoroughly impressed. I returned with "the boys" for New Year's Eve that year, where, again, my 16 oz. filet mignon was everything I hoped it would be.
I hadn't been since, enduring lengthy periods of time during which I could barely afford ramen noodles, let alone New York sirloin cuts. And The Palm hadn't previously opted to participate in Restaurant Week, positing itself with such previous untouchables as L'Espalier and Top of the Hub, immune to discounting their dinner services for new business and limiting the offer strictly to lunch. This year, however, as was the case with even the most uppity of establishments, they elected to participate fully. Having noted this development, and still holding very favorable memories of previous visits, I could not pass it up.
And so, on Tuesday, Erika and I made our way to The Palm Boston, situated in the Westin Hotel in the Back Bay area of town. Rather lost on what to drink -- torn between cocktails or wine -- we went with what seemed like a compromise. The girly-sounding "strawberry sparkling mojitos" we ordered were, it turned out, a compromise of unexpected context. I found the drink absurdly strong, even unnecessarily so. Mind you, this is coming from someone who will view the "rocks" portions of "vodka rocks" as a mixer if the vodka is smooth enough. The drink was just awful, a steely sort of rum with strawberry seeds and some very ill-looking mint sludged at the bottom. Unpleasant.
The appetizer choices were thin; lobster bisque, salad, or a different salad. Since I don't believe in eating salad when the salad in question is not a sexual euphemism, I went with the bisque. There was a distinct flavor of lobster in what I was served. This is more than I could say for the lobster bisque I was once served at the Daily Grill where, upon inquiring why my lobster bisque had been made without any hint of lobster, the server raised his hands in surrender and asserted his vegetarian status as though he was some how thereby Switzerland in the war on what amounts to false advertising, not my yet-to-be-commissioned liaison to the kitchen. But the actual flavor of lobster is the only thing The Palm's bisque had over the Daily Grill's; though I am certain any representative of The Palm would purport their food to be of higher quality than the products of the Campbell's Soup Company, I am here to report that on practically infinite occasions I have cracked open a can of Campbell's chicken noodle soup to encounter visible amounts -- if modest -- of chicken, and noodles, no less, but in a thorough search through The Palm's lobster bisque, I was completely unable to locate a even a suggestive shred of langoustine or prawn masquerading as their more prestigious cousin throughout the bowl.
Restrauant Week or not, Old Bay and sea salt do not a lobster bisque make, and to preface the dish on the menu with the words "our famous" seems almost humorous if one simply measures it by the relatively easy standard of containing some fucking lobster.
For the entree, I was torn. There was something called a "veal martini," with sun-dried tomatoes and such. And a salmon dish with lobster mashed potatoes, which I did not order. The meaning of "lobster mashed potatoes" is called into question, post-bisque-debacle. Perhaps the potatoes are mashed in the kitchen by the lamenting claws of a doomed lobster in his final moments of anguish. But the steak dish seemed too perfect. New York sirloin, butter-poached lump lobster meat, and wild mushroom risotto.
At the server's recommendation, I ordered the steak.
Having defeated my mojito, I wanted something different, specifically something unlike the cocktail I'd just had. When I asked for their cocktail menu, I was provided with a small list, along with the assertion that "the bar is very extensive." So I said "All right, let's put the bar to the test," and before I could begin to make my request, the server cut me off with a scoff, as though it was pathetic to suggest I would request anything they didn't have in stock. His confidence was encouraging, but upon listing my first ingredient of choice, he cringed. "I'd like pear vodka shaken with..."
"Oooh, um, pear vodka? Yeah, um, sometimes we have it. Let me check with the bar really quickly..."
Alas, no pear vodka. How now, brown cow. So I went with a listed cocktail entitled "Tease Like A Tart." It tasted of key lime pie soaked in rubbing alcohol, and was a substantial improvement over its predecessor in the beverage department. Perhaps I should've gone with wine?
The entree was not quite what I expected. The steak was rare, as ordered, and visible lobster meat made its first formal appearance of the night, but the wild mushroom risotto was served as an arancini, which was unheralded in its description on the menu and unwelcome. I was hoping for a slow-cooked, creamy risotto and instead was greeted with a fried arancini ball which I sampled but rejected.
For dessert, I went with the trio of sorbets, and this turned out to be the only meal with which I was fully pleased or even pleasantly surprised. Three generous scoops, one each of passion fruit, raspberry, and mango sorbet, presented by themselves. The sorbets needed nothing else; they were very good.
But, all in all, had this been my only experience with The Palm, I'd have wondered how they established themselves as a name at the steak and lobster table. However, knowing what they are capable of from prior visits, I maintain that there is potential for a very good meal there, but whether my Restaurant Week visit was universal half-assing on account of the discounted event -- unadvisable, considering the other recent mailing list promotions I've received from the chain imply that the recession is hitting them solidly in the books -- or if this was simply an isolated blip on their track record, I can say that, given much more positive experiences at every other restaurant I've visited thus far for Restaurant Week, my enthusiasm for a return visit is considerably diminished.
Would not do again anytime soon.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
Other-Wise
I'm probably slaughtering the quote, but I believe it was Ben Franklin who said that "some people are weather-wise, but most folks are otherwise."
Because I am completely unabashed about embracing my inner dork, yesterday I attended a get-together of members from a message board about the fucking weather.
It was about twenty straight guys, mostly thirty or older, and me. It's essentially a bizarre fraternity with no pledge process by which to filter the absolute train wrecks, so, needless to say, it's a very, very motley crew. Regardless of my status anomalies as the lone early-twenties man-fucker of the bunch, I didn't end up paying for any of my drinks.
They flirted openly with the waitress, who, ironically enough, was interested in me.
On more than one occasion, the bartender asked us to move to another section of the bar as we -- a bunch of weather enthusiasts and meteorologists rattling off conjecture -- had become too rowdy in the immediate vicinity of the quieter dinner-hour crowd.
This is actually not that surprising, though; the annual conferences are famous for debauchery and excessive partying. The last time I attended, yours truly was kicked out of the hotel pool in my underwear in Philadelphia at four in the morning, feigning immigrant ignorance with a horrid drunken attempt at a Russian accent that wasn't exactly fooling the police.
At some point during the evening, a small gaggle of mid-forties gays wandered into the bar, one of whom, apparently, decided to bark deliberately up the wrong tree for laughs, ambling over and asking questions about the weather as though actually interested in the responses offered by my comrades.
I spent the rest of the evening serving as a sexuality Wikipedia for the rabble,
Oh well.
We couldn't have picked a better night to banter about weather, seeing as there's a massive storm on the way this evening. I'm anticipating that my office will be closed tomorrow, leaving me "free" to get blitzed and indulge my other nerdy vice, Star Wars Battlefront II.
Because I am completely unabashed about embracing my inner dork, yesterday I attended a get-together of members from a message board about the fucking weather.
It was about twenty straight guys, mostly thirty or older, and me. It's essentially a bizarre fraternity with no pledge process by which to filter the absolute train wrecks, so, needless to say, it's a very, very motley crew. Regardless of my status anomalies as the lone early-twenties man-fucker of the bunch, I didn't end up paying for any of my drinks.
They flirted openly with the waitress, who, ironically enough, was interested in me.
On more than one occasion, the bartender asked us to move to another section of the bar as we -- a bunch of weather enthusiasts and meteorologists rattling off conjecture -- had become too rowdy in the immediate vicinity of the quieter dinner-hour crowd.
This is actually not that surprising, though; the annual conferences are famous for debauchery and excessive partying. The last time I attended, yours truly was kicked out of the hotel pool in my underwear in Philadelphia at four in the morning, feigning immigrant ignorance with a horrid drunken attempt at a Russian accent that wasn't exactly fooling the police.
At some point during the evening, a small gaggle of mid-forties gays wandered into the bar, one of whom, apparently, decided to bark deliberately up the wrong tree for laughs, ambling over and asking questions about the weather as though actually interested in the responses offered by my comrades.
I spent the rest of the evening serving as a sexuality Wikipedia for the rabble,
Oh well.
We couldn't have picked a better night to banter about weather, seeing as there's a massive storm on the way this evening. I'm anticipating that my office will be closed tomorrow, leaving me "free" to get blitzed and indulge my other nerdy vice, Star Wars Battlefront II.
Monday, February 23, 2009
Some People Got It
I completely on board with Veruca Salt until she says "I want to lock it all up in my pocket; it's my bar of chocolate," because, if you think about it, that's a recipe for disaster.
When I was a little kid, I took child roles in local theater for companies that put on productions in Red Bank, New Jersey. By age eight, I had performed at both The Strand and Count Basie theaters, and landed the title role in "Oliver!" I think it's disastrously hilarious that it's not even the only Dickens novel that was churned into a musical.
On a more personal disastrously hilarious note, "Oliver!" was one of several productions I had the pleasure of putting on with an individual named Jared Gertner. I recently stumbled onto him -- completely at random -- in YouTube videos. It turns out he ended up making it to Broadway with "The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee" in the lead role, and the man can still sing.
I, on the other hand, was only barely ever able to carry a tune to begin with -- landing roles on sheer cuteness and the uncanny ability to memorize the lines for entire plays in a matter of days -- and when the long-awaited man-gifts of puberty finally arrived, the ability to sort-of sing was one of the first things to go.
Regardless, I think I got the better end of the trade.
When I was a little kid, I took child roles in local theater for companies that put on productions in Red Bank, New Jersey. By age eight, I had performed at both The Strand and Count Basie theaters, and landed the title role in "Oliver!" I think it's disastrously hilarious that it's not even the only Dickens novel that was churned into a musical.
On a more personal disastrously hilarious note, "Oliver!" was one of several productions I had the pleasure of putting on with an individual named Jared Gertner. I recently stumbled onto him -- completely at random -- in YouTube videos. It turns out he ended up making it to Broadway with "The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee" in the lead role, and the man can still sing.
I, on the other hand, was only barely ever able to carry a tune to begin with -- landing roles on sheer cuteness and the uncanny ability to memorize the lines for entire plays in a matter of days -- and when the long-awaited man-gifts of puberty finally arrived, the ability to sort-of sing was one of the first things to go.
Regardless, I think I got the better end of the trade.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
The Delicious Future
If you're ever down on your luck, or down on your finances, I highly recommend purchasing a box of these bitches right here. I realize the photo is backwards; for this I apologize. I have zero graphics editing capability, but I'm willing to imagine that you get the fucking idea.Unlike risking it by ordering from your local Chinese takeout or delivery establishment, a box of La Choy guarantees satisfaction. I'm here to tell you that they are efficient. They battle hunger and bad moods at the same time, as the cookie part is, well, a fucking cookie, and the fortunes are overwhelmingly optimistic.
I still trust them, however, because they swirl largely around the original three tenets of fortune-telling from ancient China: wealth, travel, and wealth-fueled travel. Because fortune-telling is a delicate art, it's important to eat the entire box, like I just did, in order to get the clearest picture of your future.
Here's what I learned:
"You income will increase."
This is great news, assuming they meant "Your income will increase." If they really meant it the way they spelled it, well, then I just don't know what to make of it.
"You will lead a rich and successful life."
Boosh! Clarification. Clearly, my financial standings are on the upswing. Let's do this.
"Grant yourself a wish this year, only you can do it."
I'm pretty sure that needed a semicolon, but that's nitpicking. The cookie is right; only I can grant myself a wish. Maybe this is the year I finally visit Europe. Or fuck Grady Sizemore. Thank you for lighting the way, La Choy!
"You will find good luck when you go home."
See what I'm talking about? Does my future rock, or what? Eh? And this one's right, too. I'm already home, and I've got kickass fortune cookies. Also, vodka is here.
"No need to worry! You will always have everything that you need."
I wish I knew how to quit you.
"Be on the lookout for coming events. They cast their shadows beforehand!"
Translation: if I look for what happens in the future, I will be able to know what happens in the future. Side note: if, in the future, mankind discovers time travel, I'm coming back to rape myself at this exact moment. Okay, future-me didn't appear. I hereby predict that we never figure that out. Or that my memory is just awful.
"Soon life will become more interesting."
Considering that "May you live in interesting times" is technically an archaic Chinese curse, I am hereby worried about my relationship with La Choy.
"Opportunity is knocking at your front door."
And we're back. La Choy knows my bedroom preferences; I trust La Choy again. But what is this strange opportunity?!
"A friend will bring you a big surprise soon."
I am glad I am not a woman, especially at this moment, as this could surely have been a reference to the pregnancy-related interruption of one's menstrual cycle. But the most recent dong-check came back positive; I can probably just take this prediction straight-up. But which friend will it be?!
"A gathering of friends brings you lots of luck this evening."
Unless I don't have to be present for this one to pan out, I'd better go hang out with the roommates tonight, because really, who am I to defy the fates?
"Soon you will be sitting on top of the world."
Well, looks like success of all kinds is imminent if not unavoidable.
I feel closer to buying my own island. But in the much more immediate future, clearly there should be some grocery shopping.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
With This Snooze, I Be Wed
I have never been a graceful riser. I am a snooze-button junkie, and always have been. My mother used to wake me up through my high school years, because I literally failed at using an alarm clock effectively.
My subconscious would have full conversations with her in the early morning, bargaining for extended slumber and specific breakfast items. When I actually woke up, I would not remember speaking with her, but I was very glad I had apparently requested oatmeal and tea.
She dreaded my move to college as she was convinced that I would sleep through my alarms -- as in, from two different sources -- and miss all my classes.
Lucky for me, missing all my classes did nothing to prevent me from graduating.
In my time as a "working man," I have made incredible strides; my initial alarm goes off at 6:35 A.M., and I usually manage to physically leave the bed by 7:10 A.M.
Nonetheless, every now and then, ancient demons arise.
This morning, as the series of alarms began, I must've been in very deep sleep, as my dreams simply incorporated the alarm right in. The only thing I recall distinctly is that when I looked at my ringing cell phone -- which has become my alarm clock -- the area I would typically touch to hit "snooze" or "turn off alarm" were absent.
Instead, the only option by which to silence the phone read "Get married."
And, feeling the lingering affection of the pint glass-sized nightcap I poured myself last night, this seemed like a bargain, so I hit it.
My subconscious would have full conversations with her in the early morning, bargaining for extended slumber and specific breakfast items. When I actually woke up, I would not remember speaking with her, but I was very glad I had apparently requested oatmeal and tea.
She dreaded my move to college as she was convinced that I would sleep through my alarms -- as in, from two different sources -- and miss all my classes.
Lucky for me, missing all my classes did nothing to prevent me from graduating.
In my time as a "working man," I have made incredible strides; my initial alarm goes off at 6:35 A.M., and I usually manage to physically leave the bed by 7:10 A.M.
Nonetheless, every now and then, ancient demons arise.
This morning, as the series of alarms began, I must've been in very deep sleep, as my dreams simply incorporated the alarm right in. The only thing I recall distinctly is that when I looked at my ringing cell phone -- which has become my alarm clock -- the area I would typically touch to hit "snooze" or "turn off alarm" were absent.
Instead, the only option by which to silence the phone read "Get married."
And, feeling the lingering affection of the pint glass-sized nightcap I poured myself last night, this seemed like a bargain, so I hit it.
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