Masri Sweets

My favorite bakery is a place I've never seen in a town I haven't visited for almost 10 years. But Masri Sweets of Dearborn, Mich., has become such a part of the gift-giving tradition in my family that if it ever closed I would feel as if I had lost my ring finger.

One of my dad's dear friends, an Egyptian man who is married to a Palestinian woman, started sending us the deluxe boxes of Masri Sweets many years ago. Masri Sweets is a Palestinian bakery that bears the name of its founder, Muhi-Eldeen Masri, who started selling breakfast pastries on the streets of Nablus in 1902. His son and daughter-in-law own the bakery in Michigan now.

Inside a green-and-orange box of Masri Sweets is stuff that's foreign to people who aren't fortunate enough to live in a town with a large Middle Eastern population — birds nests, made out of folded pastry and stuffed with nuts, so that it looks like a budding flower; dense ballorieh, the flat, layered squares of pistachios and bits of dough, like a very decadent frosted shredded wheat; the unfortunately named "fingers," my favorite, logs of puff pastry stuffed with cashews; heavy, sticky baklava made with either pistachios or walnuts and pastry that crunches and flakes as you bite into it; chewy burma, tiny, stringy bits of dough wrapped around a filling of pistachios; mini roses, the poofy layers of pastry that disintegrate in your mouth as soon as they hit it; and besma, an earthy mix of dough and nuts.

All that for $16.20. For reals. Even my family — the people who see an "AYCE" sign as a challenge — have never been able to finish off an entire tray.

I've never tried the rest of Masri Sweets' delicacies, like the date-filled mammoul cookies or the cheese-filled shaibeat pastry, because I'm always so sated by my regular old gift box. You can order online at masrisweets.com and they'll ship just about anywhere.

I Heart Tionna Smalls

For being the most sensible, honest advice columnist on the Internets. And for introducing the term "catbag."

Imagined monologues: Bobby Hauck

Holy shit, I am such an asshole. Seriously. Like, I have to be one of the biggest dipshits in the entire state of Montana. I have singled-handedly ruined the good vibes surrounding the sport of Grizzly football. Ok, wait, that's not entirely true. I did recruit the kid who was charged with murder earlier this year, Jimmy Wilson. He should probably take like 10 percent of the blame. He is the guy, after all, who allegedly did the murdering. That's hardly on me. But in his defense, in all my preseason meetings, I never once recalling telling the team: NO MURDER. So in the end, I guess I'm the guy who screwed up there. My bad, folks. I've already written a note to self for next year with the words NO MURDER underlined like four times. Of course, now, on the eve of the Bobcat-Griz game, a bunch of my players allegedly robbed and pistol-whipped a guy in his home. What's that? They tasered him too? Crap. That's not good. I supposed I could do what I usually do: Stonewall the media, call this an internal team matter, give the middle finger to anyone who questions the way I rule my fiefdom. That might work. After all, I'm Bobby 'Effin Hauck! But that's probably only going to hold them off for a few days. I really hope UCLA doesn't read about this. I really want that job. WWND: What Would Neuheisel Do? I wish he would pick up his cell phone. Jerk is probably strumming his guitar, looking at the caller ID and ignoring me. Typical. I need a drink. Better head to The Press Box. Don't tell Dennison where I am, ok?

Drinking on the porch

I've lived in a house with a porch for five years now. My first was a rental, and the porch shared with my landlady, which really put a damper on what I've come to realize is the single reason for the invention of the porch: drinking. Specifically, it's the ideal location for getting hammered with your closest friends during three of the four seasons. It's a good place to drink responsibly, too, say a beer or so with the husband after a day of work. But the porch's true architectural contribution is as a shelter from the elements during a drinking binge. I sunburn easily, and that's always gotten in the way of a good summer's drunk. No longer! Now that I own my home, I'm free to enjoy the porch without judgment from a landlady. Free to crack a bottle of wine and drink most (OK, all) of it while reading a book. Free to host a bbq that starts at 6, ends at midnight, and features a tub of cheap beer being emptied and then refilled by a stream of guests. My porch is so magical, it's the site of the only honest adult conversation I've had with my mother. Then we went into the living room and stopped talking -- frankly, that came as a bit of a relief -- but for 90 boozy minutes on the porch, I got to know her a little bitter. Better! Oopsy!

Cat + firefighter = OMG

And all the women of Boise swoon .

Wouldn't Kick Her Out of Bed: Sarah Chalke

Late to the party on this one, although I did have a minor crush on her when she took over the roll of Becky Connor on Rosanne (after Alicia Goranson quit the show). But as anyone who watches Scrubs can attest, Sarah Chalke is an absolute babe as Dr. Elliott Reid. She really does comedy well too; as well as any female actress on TV right now. Neurotic, silly, sexy and funny. (Keep those fingers crossed that Scrubs gets to finish out its 7th and final season despite the writer's strike.) There are a ton of awesome clips of her out there, but this one sums up her comedic talents and sex appeal fairly well. Tastier than Julie's homemade butter.

Butter

I started making my own butter around the same time that I started getting milk delivery, which, by the way, may be the greatest thing in the history of time. Every Wednesday I open up the cooler that sits next to my front door and pull out three half-gallons of milk and one pint of cream. The milk is consumed by my husband over the course of the next four days (did you ever see "The Grudge II"? No? If you did then you remember the milk scene. It's like that). The cream goes straight into my Kitchen Aid mixer.

Making butter is super simple and you can trick all of your friends into thinking you're some sort of back-to-the-land Swiss Miss. It also makes for a more memorable hostess gift than a crappy bottle of wine from the Albertson's.

What you need:

Kitchen Aid or other stand mixer
1 pint cream
Plastic wrap

Pour the cream into the mixing bowl and fasten the whisk attachment. Wrap the mixer around the bowl in plastic wrap — you want it covered so that when you turn on the mixer the cream doesn't go splashing all over your kitchen counter. Turn the mixer on medium. The cream will whip up (you may have to push it down a few times), then turn the consistency of frozen Cool Whip. Keep going until the cream turns more yellow and separates into pebbles. Around this time the buttermilk, which will have separated from the butter solids, will start splashing up against the plastic wrap. Turn the mixer off and take out the bowl.

Strain the buttermilk from the butter and use it for pancakes. This isn't cultured buttermilk, it's the real deal — thin and kind of watery, but subtle and great for coffee. Now scoop up the butter solids and knead them, squeezing out all of the extra liquid. This is my favorite part. It's a kind of creepy (we don't usually handle big chunks of fat), kind of soothing (you get to handle big chunks of fat!) tactile sensation.

Add the liquid that came out of the butter to the buttermilk you already collected. Now you can salt the butter to taste or leave it alone. Wrap it up and stick it in the fridge. This should have given you about 1 cup of butter and made you feel like a home ec champ.

Wouldn't kick him out of bed: Eric Bana

Even in "Chopper."

Even after "Troy."

Even though he's going to be in "Star Trek."

Favorite covers: Jim James, "Everybody's Talkin' "

Two of my great loves, Harry Nilsson and My Morning Jacket, meet.

Teen Wolf and Morgan Freeman

Enough sad stuff.

The Hornby essay made me remember my two favorite McSweeney's essays of all time.

1. Defending Teen Wolf: One Coach's Guide

2. Short Imagined Monologues: Morgan Freeman buys a Pop-A-Shot.

Enjoy.

Nobody does sad like Ryan Adams

My friend Steve and I were having a conversation the other day about the greatest break-up songs of all time, and while we both agreed that "Divorce Song," by Liz Phair, "Gone For Good" by The Shins, "Since U Been Gone" by Kelly Clarkson, "I Just Don't Think I'll Ever Get Over You" by Colin Hay, "Hit The Road Jack" by Ray Charles, and of course, "Always On My Mind" by Willie Nelson were serious contenders, after several beers, it was decided that Ryan Adams "Come Pick Me Up" just might take the first place ribbon. (It didn't hurt that Steve is gay and has something of a crush on Mr. Adams.) I haven't done the breaking up thing in quite awhile, but I was once in a miserable relationship with a leggy, neurotic blond who, frankly, didn't have the guts to end things between us even though she couldn't stand the site of me and I was still hopelessly in love with her. I found myself, at the time, wishing she would do something horrible so that I could hate her, like steal my records or screw all my friends, but instead she just never returned my calls. Our relationship died a painful, miserable, agonizing death that I now suspect was the emotional equivalent of waterboarding.

The point is, I'm not sure anyone captures heartbreak and loneliness better than Adams does. I'm partial to his Whiskeytown days (mainly because Caitlin Cary's violin fucking rules), and though I love "Jacksonville Skyline," "Bar Lights", "Excuse Me While I Break My Own Heart (Tonight)" and countless others, I think that "Houses On The Hill" might be the most beautiful sad song ever written, solely based on the poetry of the chorus.

There were stars in the sky;
There were houses on the hill
and there were bottles of pills
that were easy to buy;
To keep her warm
from the oncoming storm.

Ryan is all sober now and cutting songs where Sheryl Crow signs backup, and with coke, heroin, some bad relationships, and an unfulfilled childhood now in his rearview, his art isn't quite fed by the same pathos. Does one have to suffer for great art? I don't know the answer. Nick Hornby argues that it certainly helps, here, in this McSweeney's essay about one of Adams best songs as a solo artist, "Oh My Sweet Carolina," which makes me miss Montana every time I hear it.

I ain't never been to Vegas but I gambled up my life
Building newsprint boats I race to sewer mains
Was trying to find me something but I wasn't sure just what
Funny how they say that some things never change

Oh my sweet Carolina
What compels me to go
Oh my sweet disposition
May you one day carry me home


Got a favorite sad song you'd like to share?

RIP, The Last Great Man of American Letters

Norman Mailer died this morning of kidney failure at the age of 84, and there is no doubt that the world is sadder place with his passing. Mailer came from a time when writers and novelists bellowed from the rooftops and demanded to be taken seriously, when they lived large, messy lives and wrote larger, sometimes messier, novels. Mailer never quite reached the heights he believed himself capable of, but it was not for lack of trying. He was brilliant and angry, both in his fiction and his journalism, and believed he was the literary heir to Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, Faulkner and Joyce. That he fell well short seems to matter little. In one of Mailer's many obituaries published this morning, A.O. Scott may have summed him up perfectly.

"But if it is easy to ridicule Mailer," Scott wrote, "for failing to realize such an extravagant ambition, it is nonetheless possible to admire him for having had the guts to conceive it and the temerity to confess it. If no other postwar American writer has produced as dazzling and spectacular a series of failures as Normal Mailer, it is because none has dared so much."

These days, our literary controversies consist of silly spats between Oprah and Johnathan Franzen or J.K. Rowling's after-the-fact, oh-by-the-way declaration that Dumbledore rode his broom sidesaddle for a reason. But Mailer probably scoffed at such nonsense. This was, after all, a man who once bit off a piece of actor Rip Torn's ear when Torn came after Mailer and split his head open with a hammer. (Mailer was directing a movie; Torn was the lead actor). This was a man who stabbed his wife (the second of six) with a penknife in a drunken disagreement at a party. He feuded with Bellow, Buckley, Vidal, Capote, Miller, Styron and any other literary giant who crossed his path, and people were riveted. He was arrogant enough to run for mayor of New York city (with columnist Jimmy Breslin as his running mate). In Mailer's time, writers were not only celebrities, but agents, at least in their own minds, of social change.

As flawed as he was as a novelist, he was nearly the equal of Tom Wolfe and Gay Talese as a journalist. His dispatch for Esquire from the 1960 Democratic National Convention, titled "Superman Comes To the Supermarket" remains one of the most angry, honest and eloquent screeds ever published about politics and the changing landscape of American culture. It is, without question, one of the defining pieces of literary journalism in the 20th century. His paragraph describing the hollow, empty, yet addictive city of Los Angeles (below) may never be topped.

"It is not that Los Angeles is altogether hideous, it is even by degrees pleasant, but for an Easterner there is never any salt in the wind; it is like Mexican cooking without chile, or Chinese egg rolls missing their mustard; as one travels through the endless repetitions of that city which is the capital of suburbia with its milky pinks, its washed-out oranges, its tainted lime-yellows of pastel on one pretty little architectural monstrosity after another, the colors not intense enough, the styles never pure, and never sufficiently impure to collide on the eye, one conceives the people who live here—they have come out to express themselves, Los Angeles is the home of self-expression, but the artists are middle-class and middling-minded; no passions will calcify here for years in the gloom to be revealed a decade later as the tessellations of hard and fertile work, no, it is all open, promiscuous, borrowed, half bought, a city without iron, eschewing wood, a kingdom of stucco, the playground for mass men—one has the feeling it was built by television sets giving orders to men.
And in this land of the pretty-pretty, the virility is in the barbarisms, the vulgarities, it is in the huge billboards, the screamers of the neon lighting, the shouting farm-utensil colors of the gas stations and monster drugstores, it is in the swing of the sports cars, hot rods, convertibles, Los Angeles is a city to drive in, the boulevards are wide, the traffic is nervous and fast, the radio stations play bouncing, blooping, rippling tunes, one digs the pop in a pop tune, no one of character would make love by it but the sound is good for swinging a car, electronic guitars and Hawaiian harps."

Raise a glass of whiskey today for a true American badass, and break out your copy of "The Executioner's Song," or one of his boxing pieces about Muhammad Ali.

Mailer, a literary pugilist to the end, wasn't the greatest writer who ever lived. He wasn't even close. But he was an absolute original.

I Just Figured Out How to Embed

The Best Fucking Reality Show on TV

I do not watch American Idol. Despite Jenny Garth's presence, I cannot stomach Dancing With The Stars. I find The Amazing Race to be an unfair exploitation of midgets and attractive newlyweds with low self-esteem. Even if the Hollywood Writers' Guild strike were to last until the birth of Parker's second child, I still would not watch Jeff Probst blow out a contestant's torch for fear that Richard Hatch was watching somewhere, aroused. I've even abandoned The Real World, the St. Pepper's of faux-reality shows, after that bizzaro season in Philly where one of the curly-haired frat guys brandished a knife during a drunken argument.

But let me be clear: Project Runway -- which pits 15 fashion designers against one another each week in a series of challenges and begins its fourth season on Bravo next week -- is the fucking truth.

I say this as a straight, married, football-loving, beer-drinking, serious-literature-reading red-blooded American male who doesn't care about clothes any more than he cares about designing them. But I cannot wait for this seasons PR debut. I would rather watch people on PR sew evening gowns on 97-pound models than watch pretty much any NBA basketball game.

It's the best damn reality show on television, and it's so far ahead of the pack, everyone else is squabbling and cat-fighting and back-stabbing in a drunken contest for fifth place. It's the only show on TV where talent and substance trump squawking and stupidity 98 times out of 100. And it features Tim Gunn, the most venerable and stylish gay man in showbiz. To borrow a line from Jack Nicholson's character in As Good As It Gets: Tim, you make me want to be a better man. I would weave a prom dress out of corn husks for you (as Austin tried to do in Season 1). I would make it work. And if I failed miserably, and was scolded and mocked by Nina Garcia and Michael Kors and you told me I had to pack up my things, clean up my workspace, and leave Parsons the New School for Design without my much-coveted photo shoot in Elle Magazine or my 2007 Saturn Roadster, I wouldn't be mad. I could never be mad at you. I would just pray I could be invited back like Daniel Franco was after he lost the first challenge in Season 1, even if he did return and make awkward and creepy remarks toward Hedi and all the female designers in Season 2.

Project Runway is the truth because creativity -- and your ability to execute it -- rule. There are no attention-grabbing lesbian romps with a fellow roommate for more screen time; no secret alliances; no audience plants to weep whenever Sanjaya's voice breaks during "Ain't No Mountain High Enough." Either you can make a cocktail dress out of aluminum foil and a bicycle seat, or you can't. You can be a hilarious a-hole like Santino, a compulsive liar like Wendy, a ruthless but honest ex-heroin addict punk like Jeffery, a flake like Jay, a cheater like Keith, a hottie like Alison, a no-talent clown and excuse maker like Angela, but ultimately you're going to have to sew your skanky, tired ass off for eight hours and maybe glue some pasties onto your model three minutes before the runway show. You try your best, and then you throw yourself at the mercy of Heidi, Michael, Nina, and possibly a guest judge like Sasha Cohen or Nicky Hilton and pray that your figure skating outfit sucks a little less than the designer to your left. It's as ruthless as an NFL training camp, but with better music, more smoking and properly tailored outfits.

Watch it for Klum's German aloofness, her bastardization of the English language, and her Hall of Fame rack. Watch it because Kors can say more catty, but truthful, things about a dress by raising his eyebrow than Simon Cowell can about a ballad with a 10-minute monologue. Watch because Nina Garcia is a devilishly sexy Colombian ice queen whose incredulity at awful designs is wonderfully uncomfortable theater. Watch simply to see Tim Gunn, the most fabulous and dignified gay uncle I never got to have, encourage the designers to follow their hearts and believe they can put together a pleated skirt made of burlap and sequins they found of the floor of a New Jersey recycling depot, even though time is running out.

Because as long as a few minutes remain, there is a chance, always a chance, to make it work.

The horror

I saw this picture of Christina Ricci yesterday and thought, I could have that hair! How convenient, I have an appointment tomorrow!

And despite the subtle hints my hairstylist was giving me, I went for it. It seemed great in the chair. But now that I'm home I'm realizing it's more like this.



Fuck.

Zingerman's

Zingerman's is a fancy food company based in Michigan that will make you look like a badass, if pretentious, gift giver come Christmas. I'm all
for the traditional Hickory Farms box o' nitrates (like my friend Mike
says, "If it don't give you heartburn, it ain't worth it"), but save
that for your Nana in Phoenix. Send Zingerman's to your foodie friends
in Portland so they can start introducing little Matilda and Mordechai
to the wonders of Quebecois goat butter.

I like the gift themed baskets, like the Weekender — two kinds of
brownies, a loaf of crusty bread, a jar of mustard, honey and preserves,
coffeecake and cheese.

But for the truly fun stuff you have to veer away from the gift
packages and into the really specialty foods. I've already picked out
Parker's present. Don't tell her, but it begins with "duck" and ends
with "fat."

www.zingermans.com

Wouldn't kick him out of bed: Patrick Wilson

Pregnant tits

I've made something of a career out of being the flat-chested sidekick of a number of better endowed friends -- D cup Sarah; Julie of fuckingrad fame, who's deluded herself into believing that men are really staring at her stunning posture; Laura, who has such magnificent breasts that my fashion-challenged husband can actually remember what her shirts look like. (That blue one that makes her tits look great. That striped one that makes her tits look great. And on.)
As for myself, I've always possessed your standard issue B cups. Nothing flashy. They're set a little too far apart on my rib cage to ever hope for cleavage. You know how Joan Rivers' plastic surgery has caused her eyes to migrate to a point about half an inch away from her ears? Well, those are what my tits look like, a little too cozy with my armpits to be sexy. In clothes, they get the job done, so long as I'm wearing a V neck sweater.
But then I got pregnant, the usual way, by getting drunk. Mostly, being pregnant sucks. And then your boobs grow. I visited a lingerie department and had the opinion confirmed by a trained bra fitter (I told my husband she was hot; she was really about 225 and had bad breath). My 34Bs were now 36 Cs. This was about 3 months ago. Admittedly, I've grown larger everywhere else during that time, too. But this weekend, I'm headed back to the lingerie department, where I have every hope of nestling my girls into a D cup. A D cup! I've heard that when my milk comes in I could get as big as a DD.
I'd have gotten pregnant in high school if I'd known this would happen.

Hot Whiskey

For when it's windy or rainy or too cold for mimosas.

2 ounces whiskey
1 slice lemon
hot water

Put the whiskey in a coffee mug or glass mug with a handle. Add lemon. Pour hot water on top.

Daptone Records

I'm kind of in love with the music put out by Daptone Records, especially Sharon Jones and the Dap-Kings. Maybe it's because you never hear anything cool on the radio anymore, aside from anything by Justin Timberlake and that "Umbrella" song, but it just seems like a good for music made with actual instruments.

Sharon Jones is a belter, and the Dap-kings are the house band for Daptone Records. Which is rad, because it makes me think of the Funk Brothers (if you don't know what I'm talking about, then you really really need to watch "Standing in the Shadows of Motown") or the golden days of Stax. They also were the backing band for Amy Winehouse's album "Back to Black." They don't use any digital equipment, which is downright crazy, and the record label is stacked with soul revival bands like the Budos Band and the Mighty Imperials. Anyway, totally awesome.

And some of those Dap-kings are hot.

The songs of Marlene Dietrich

There are some people whose music you listen to who don't really have what one might call a good voice, but you have their records anyway because they write excellent songs (Tom Waits) or they're icons (Willie Nelson) or because there's no way that you could ever be a card-carrying American if you didn't (Madonna).

And then there's Marlene Dietrich. I got one of her albums because I thought it would be a nice campy addition to a cocktail party. I mean, in the pantheon of camp saints she's right up there with Joan Crawford and Ethel Merman. One of my friends says that in every song she sounds like she's saying, "I'm sooo tiiiiirrreed." But in German, which has the added bonus of making her sound like she's pissy at the same time. It's hard to argue with the camp factor when you hear her German version of "Surrey with the Fringe on Top." Which may be one of my prized possessions, by the way.

But last year I saw a documentary on her and, no shit, I bawled through the whole thing. What a fucking life. She stars in one of the most influential films of all time, "The Blue Angel," she comes to the United States, she's labeled box office poision, she makes a comeback, she renounces Nazism and becomes an American citizen. And then the U.S. goes to war.

She's separated from her mother and doesn't talk to her or find out her fate until after the war. She has to split up with her boyfriend for the duration of the war. She risks her life by speaking out against Hitler. She heads to the front lines and finds happiness entertaining GIs. The war ends and she feels she's lost her purpose; she's reunited with her boyfriend, but they've changed too much to go on; she longs for the camaraderie of the soldiers; she basically loses her movie career and heads to the last resort for all stars, Vegas; she feels that she's losing her looks and locks herself away so that her fans don't see her.

And you can hear all of that in her music. I have no idea what she's saying in half of the songs, but fuck all is it sad. Here are my favorites:

1) "Falling in Love Again"
2) "Lili Marlene"
3) "I Never Slept a Wink Last Night"

Frenzic

I'm writing this so that I can avoid playing Frenzic. I am so addicted — I'm trying to get ready for this big party at my house next week, and instead of doing laundry and washing dishes and vacuuming and the other four dozen things I need to get done I have spent most of the morning playing this game.

Frenzic is kind of like Tetris in that it's a puzzle game, but the pieces look a lot like those Trivial Pursuit game pie pieces. You have to fit the pieces — which come at you very rapidly (hence the name of the game) — into one of six circles. It is a pain in the ass. A "friend" gave this to me, and then I blew through my free demo time, and now, for the low price of $14, I have signed away all of my free time to this game.

I love it, but it may be killing me. I'm not sure. And yes, I interrupted writing this to play another game. http://frenzic.com.