A sincere thank you from my colon

My “congratulations, you got a better job!” potluck is on Friday and I’m a bit on the underwhelmed side. Frankly, I don’t like potlucks for one main reason: everybody’s homemade goods give me diarrhea. I’m serious. I’ll probably puss out and eat a little bit of everything because I want to do the right thing, but the hours following will be a nightmare that only 500 Tums and a trip to urgent care can cure.



Is it the thought that counts? Most of my sickness is probably founded in fear. I get these weird notions of where and how the food was prepared and bad experiences from my childhood immediately surface. Surely, not every homemade potato salad sits in an avocado colored fridge, shrouded in loose generic brand saran, right? Does every tossed salad reek of the same decades-old Cesar dressing? Did I spend too many years in Girl Scouts, preparing apricot sorbet in kitchens that smelled like sour macaroni salad and necrosis? Also, why do people insist on bringing the same stuff to every potluck? I love how coworkers always have a “specialty” food, like “Steve’s Magical Deviled Eggs” or “Barbara’s Intense Chili.”



I don’t have a special item, which isn’t to say that I can’t cook; I’ve just never given it enough thought. A few years ago, I participated unwillingly in a chili cook-off and I lost in the first round with my ultra-vegan spicy nonsense that was really more of a protest dish than an entree. Apparently, it gave a couple folks in Debt Management uncontrollable, panic-inducing heartburn. Well, it was either the food or the fact that they were two morbidly obese people judging a chili cook-off.



Please, coworkers, if you’re reading this, just pick up a bag of chips and a root beer at Vons and skip the heartfelt crock pot full of meatballs. A grateful nation thanks you.

Peter Wolf, I love you

Let it be known that I tried to dress like every member of the J.Geils band...at once.



Then I was inspired to find a clip of Damone from Fast Times at Ridgemont High and all I found was a bunch of clips of that crappy band and an E! Channel special on Matt Damon's unreal abs.

A lazy afternoon spent watching CNBC

The new-ish TV Carnage is so fantastic that I don't want to leave my house ever again. Here's Ken Anger's "Puce Moment" from 1949. I guess it was rescored by some folkie in 1966. Could've fooled me; it sounds like the BJM.



We made an anti-Ken Anger pact a while ago, but I forgave him when Hollywood Babylon became one of my favorite books. Something had to take the place of all of that Robert Bly dongalanche poetry.

And now, a poorly edited tribute to Vincent D'Onofrio made ironically for some girl's editing class. Things like these make me feel warm inside. Maybe that's actually the THC.



More TV Carnage:

new life goal:

getting robin williams hooked on dope again.

I highly doubt Caligula would have blushed

but I have been in the house too long...

Apparently not too cool for Shul

When given the option to either see Mission Impossible 3 or go to shul, I chose shul. It's true, Jews control everything in my life!

I don't know anything about the Whig party

Wasn't Henry Clay a Whig? For those of you who don't know who Henry Clay was, think of him as America's bridesmaid. I think he ran for president a few times. I asked myself this morning, over a cup of Yuban, if I was indeed pretentious and shitty enough to have a photo blog. The answer was yes.