SPAM: Using Pigs Like Native Americans Used the Buffalo

SPAM has a special place in my heart (mostly in chunks along the aorta). Not only is it a wonderful song, but it also comes in a can (that's "tin" for you Brits out there), and is full of many nutritious fiber-ey bits, like pig hair and eyelashes and tonsils and things.

The thing I like most about SPAM, however, are the fans. I'm not going to make fun of SPAM fans, as I am a card-carrying member of the Peeps Fan Club AND the Mystic Order of Arachnid Vigilance (MOAV), and frankly, I just haven't got the right.

Besides - SPAM fans are almost up there with LEGO fans. There are SPAM sculpture contests. There are SPAM recipes and there's a SPAM Sno-Globe. But more importantly, there are now SPAM-tastic Sunny Dogs. Chunks of SPAM. On a stick. Dipped in apple-cinnamon pancake batter. Dipped again in maple syrup, applesauce, or honey.

Oh yes.

News!

I could really go for some pie right about now.

Alas, I will have to make do with chocolate ice cream with chocolate cookies on it, covered with chocolate syrup.

In other news, I can't believe that I've actually succumbed to blogging something perilously close to "whatever happens to be in my head at the moment". It seems to me that people aren't really interested in hearing about what other people eat (unless one has some sort of food-related pedigree, like actually being able to cook stuff, or having relations with a chef or something), and that a truly interesting bit of writing should be constructed, rather than simply spewed forth from the gaping maw of ennui.

Does the fact that I just blogged about food AND used the word ennui mean that I've "jumped the shark"? Does it mean that I'm French? Is there a French fish I can hop over? I think that would be kinda fun.

Hobo in the Big City

When you think "Hobo Mecca", what's the first thing that pops into your mind? Besides exciting skin conditions. New York City, right? Ok, and Hoboken, that's a given. What? No, Montreal doesn't have hobos. They have clochards, which I think is French for "men who sleep in orchards".

Nomenclature aside, I had the chance to visit NYC over the weekend. Amazingly enough, I managed to work my hobo charm and secure a place for The Girl and I at a very nice hotel in Midtown Manhattan. For $35 a night. Ah, the power of the Hobo Network.

Our friends Brian and Leah took us to Brooklyn, where we saw an excellent show, had some good pizza and some really, really nasty iced tea:


Brian agrees that my tea tastes like the ass of a lemon

AND I encountered the most awesome (awesomest?) example of grafitti I've ever seen:



Then we enjoyed a hair raising cab ride back to the hotel (after, of course, the obligatory mad dash for the back seat in the hopes that one can avoid sitting in the front seat with the cabbie, who (according to the locals) has no choice but to hate you because you make him move all of his crap), during which we almost died in several exciting and interesting ways.

Greenwich Village was very nice, and I encountered a fascinating sign:




Sadly, I had to put my tuba away, as Danger is only my MIDDLE name. That night saw us at yet another excellent show, wherein I donned actual Real Person clothes (and a tie). Sadly, it turned out that we were probably the best dressed people at the show that night - there were people in baseball caps and football jerseys milling around at intermission. When did people stop dressing nicely to go to Broadway shows?

Regardless, the next morning had me heffing applewood smoked bacon, the pure porky pleasure of which reduced any lingering cultural malaise from the previous night. In simpler terms, bacon is fucking GOOD. As was Central Park:



Lunch at Cafe Lalo, a brief stop at St. Patrick's cathedral and the Museum of Modern Art gift shop, and then it was time to head back to Philadelphia, which turns out to be the home of the Worst Hotel Ever. Folks, if you manage to get a deal on the Interweb for a suite for $79 a night, there's probably a pretty good reason.

The reason in this particular case was not revealed until we had already checked in and paid, at which time the desk attendant said "Oh, by the way, you may want to read this," and handed us a folded piece of paper. Written on the piece of paper, in language couched in words like "regretfully", and "we hate you" was a message to the effect that they were going to shut the water off the next day. Between 9am and 4pm. Yes, ALL DAY. Tense Words were exchanged, at the end of which we were offered what was meant to be an appeasement: a free continental breakfast. AH, so to make up for the fact that we would have NO WATER for the ENTIRE DAY, we would be given the gift of a breakfast that was ALREADY FREE. Classy, Hotel Windsor, classy.

The room was Not Nice in the same way that the guy who breaks kneecaps for your Uncle Guido is Not Nice. Relatively decent looking from a distance, but don't get too close. Seriously, there was a spitwad on the wall. At least, I PRAY that it was a spitwad. But the sheets are clean (we immediately burned the comfortor and doused the flames with Holy Water, just to be safe), so we decided to stay, and just get up early the next morning.

Morning came, we got up early, and The Girl trekked downstairs at 9 for our free complimentary breakfast. And came back with two tiny boxes of Cinnamon Toast Crunch cereal, sans milk. And she had to fight to get THAT. Classy, Hotel Windor, very classy.

Still, all told, it was one of the best trips I've had. Besides...who doesn't love Cinnamon Toast Crunch?

Assorted Doodads and Whatnots

I'm a Cube Dweller. This means that my desk has grown an accumulation of knick-knacks. I'm not entirely sure how they all got there - for all I know, my desk may simply disgorge them in the black of night, coffee cups and staplers and odd lego accretions emerging Athena-like from the woody brow of this icon of corporate culture.

Or maybe I just have a bad memory.

Anyway, the point is that I usually have a few desk calendars floating around. Dilbert, Edward Gorey, etc. I was a bit late in my purchases this year, so I was unable to locate a Dilbert calendar. I decided to pick up the John Deere 2006 Tractor-A-Day calendar instead. You know. Because it's the next best thing.

Why Mimes are Hilarious

First of all, I am not a fan of mimes. My personal opinion is that mimes are bitter clown college rejects who have an irrational hatred of mankind and comedy in general. That said, the idea of mimes is a pretty solid joke. Why is that?

Exhibit A: Appending "a mime" to the end of any list makes it reasonably funny. Observe:

Magellan's Partial Cargo Manifest:

12 tons salt pork
200 gallons rum
100 gallons water
32 kilometers rope
500 square meters of canvas
1000 nails
countless weevils
a mime

see?

Exhibit B: Dressing as a mime is the quickest way to being perceived as "French". I have no idea why this is, but it's true. Stripey shirt? Check. Beret? Check. Little moustache? Check.

Exhibit C: Mimes/French + Sheep = Hilarious:



Exhibit D: Mel Brooks once said "Tragedy is when I cut my finger. Comedy is when you walk into an open sewer and die." The Gasoline Hobo corollary to this law: "The comedy is twice as potent when the individual falling into the manhole is a mime who was attempting to "walk against the wind".

Exhibit E:

Resolutions

Normally I think New Years Resolutions are worth about as much as wankel rotary engines for sea urchins, but this has been an interesting year. I've literally had the worst moment in my life, followed almost exactly five months later with the best moment in my life. All told, I've had an awesome year, and there are some things I've learned.

First of all, I'm not gonna take people for granted. And by "people", I mean anyone. Really, it doesn't take that much time or effort to pick up the phone and call someone. It doesn't take anything away from me to give people some of my time. It's not like I'm doing anything important anyway. Well, except for organizing my collection of Richard Dreyfuss commemorative plates.

I've also learned how to relax a little over the course of the past year. Some of that has come from increased confidence in myself and my relationships, and some of it has been learned. Sometimes I just need to relax and I've taught myself how to do that. Sometimes a banana really IS just a banana. Anna.

This is the year that I actually join a gym. You know those people who go to the big building with the shiny machines and do weird things with their bodies on them? Yeah, that'll be me pretty soon. I'm going to buy myself a nice towel and resign myself to hurting myself in new and exciting ways.

I'm also going to learn how to swing dance. Seriously. I've never danced in my life (well, except for that time with Jimmy Durante and Carmen Miranda and that guy with the fiddle on the roof, but I may possibly have dreamed that), and I figure I'll just jump right in with jumping and jiving and throwing ladies around.

Scotland is on the map this year as well. The Girl and I will make the trek across the Atlantic and spend some time on a cold, windy island with my dad, his wife, and Alfie the dog. I'm not kidding about the wind, by the way. Apparently my dad has a shed that's moved several feet in the last few days. They're SERIOUS about their weather over there.

Finally, I'm just going to keep being me. I'm going to make sure the people I care about know that I care about them. And I'm going to work on getting the Bee Gees back together.

Nothing like a little challenge to start things off right, eh?

Hello Kitty Juicer Update

I mentioned in my previous post that there were no instructions included with the Hello Kitty Juicer, didn't I? This is an important point in my defense. See, the HKJ (as I affectionately refer to it) has a removable (and very pink) bowl (with convenient locking action). A simple twist and a turn will allow the user to remove the bowl and pour deliciously fresh juice into waiting receptacles. I knew this, and had removed the bowl during a previous attempt to Get The Thing Working, but did NOT notice a little cardboard ring around the juice shaft (yes, I just said "juice shaft"). It was helpfully held together with a piece of tape adorned with the words (in bright red) "REMOVE BEFORE USING". Several moments later, I was juicing the juice out of several oranges who wished they'd never been grown.