fucking rad

Drunk History, volume 5

2008-11-07T13:14:00.000-08:00

In honor of the election, the tale of William Henry Harrison.

See more funny videos at Funny or Die

I Have Never Been More Proud of My Country

2008-11-05T13:20:00.000-08:00

A Sad Week for Country Fans

2008-08-17T10:29:00.000-07:00

I gave the man who later became my husband a serious second look after I saw him sporting a vintage blue snap-button shirt, and fell for him after discovering a shared love of classic country. So thanks, Jack A. Weil and Don Helms, for making my life a whole lot better.

Denver Wester wear maker Jack Weil dies at 107

Don Helms, 81, Who Put the Twang in the Hank Williams Songbook, Is Dead

I Couldn't Have Said It Better

2008-07-08T20:17:00.000-07:00

From the mp3 blog Said the Gramophone:

In many respects, My Morning Jacket have improved since their first album, 1999's The Tennessee Fire. The production on that album is muddled and scratchy, whereas their latest recording, this year's Evil Urges, is as perspicuous and loud as a bachelor is an unmarried man. On their first record, missed notes and wobbly tempos litter the songs, though neither fault is anywhere to be found on the band's latest. But as MMJ have honed their skills, progressed unrelentingly toward the realization of their vision - let's call it indie-arena-Southern-rock - casualties have been left in the wake. One such loss is that of tenderness, which can be heard so clearly - despite the dubious production - on this song from the band's debut. Listen, for instance, to the ritardando into the chorus, and then to the delicate step up as Jim James sings the song's title, his voice breaking up amid the ghostly reverberations of his bandmates' vocal backing.

Listen

Wouldn't Kick Him Out of Bed: Jemaine Clement

2008-07-02T18:16:00.000-07:00

I would like Jemaine Clement (he's the one with the glasses) to be my imaginary boyfriend. Actually, when I think about it, he's already my imaginary boyfriend. And it's been incredibly rewarding.

The Wiki Game

2008-07-01T22:43:00.000-07:00

What you need: Two computers outfitted with the interweb.

What you do:

1) Go to Wikipedia.

2) Click "random article."

3) Agree with your opponent that the random article is, indeed, a random article.

4) Open another window.

5) Go to Wikipedia.

6) Click on "random article."

7) Opponent does same (say, for example, your goal is to get to the page "Lord Snowdon." "Lord Snowdon" is Article 1. Opponent 1 tries to get to "Lord Snowdon" from "Theoretical Mathematics" and Opponent 2 tries to get to "Lord Snowdon" from "The Beatles.").

8) Try to get to Article 1 from the links in Article 2.

9) First one to get to Article 1 from Article 2 wins.

10) Repeat ad nauseum.

The Itch

2008-06-28T10:52:00.000-07:00

The most disgusting — and disturbing — story I've ever read.

The Greatest Rock Band Ever Debate

2008-06-19T21:00:00.000-07:00

For several months now, whenever there's a lull in conversation between friends over beers, I ask them their opinions about the greatest rock band of all time.

I don't have the answer, but what interests me is the people who think they do (those people always, always — unequivocally and without hesitation — answer The Who). The rest of us have to think about it.

The criteria for this discussion:

1) It has to be a rock band. Derivatives of rock, such as punk, are accepted. Folk is not.

2) The band has to be an actual band, not just one person.

3) Things to take into consideration: how the band stands the test of time, influence on other bands, etc., etc.

4) You will know a valid contender when you hear it. Rush is always the wrong answer.

5) Your favorite band and the best band of all time may not necessarily be the same.

Almost no one has said the Beatles, which I can't figure out. Are they too pop? No one has said the Replacements. Girls vote for Led Zeppelin. No one has considered the Jimi Hendrix Experience or the Stooges or MC5 or Fleetwood Mac or Big Star or the Ramones or the Sex Pistols. Most people choose bands that were defunct long before they were born (the cockroach-like Rolling Stones are the exception).

If I had to pick ... well, I still can't pick definitively. It'll take a few more beers.

That's How I Got to Memphis

2008-06-03T19:42:00.000-07:00

We are trying to swing an Avett Brothers/My Morning Jacket weekend. It could be the greatest. Weekend. Ever.

Check out a few new songs from the Avetts.

Obama!

2008-06-03T19:37:00.000-07:00

FINALLY.

Picon Punch

2008-05-25T21:29:00.000-07:00

Depending on your drunk, Picon Punch is either the best thing you'll ever have or, in the words of our friend Noble, "ass Coke." It is not for the faint-hearted. It is the raw oyster of drinks, the fastest way to a hangover this side of the Rockies, and it leaves one hell of an aftertaste. It could have only been invented by Basques.

Picons are a rare breed; you will find them in Basque bars in Boise, Nevada, Bakersfield ... and that's about it. Picon is a liqueur made from oranges and some mysterious "flowers." All you really need to know about it is that it is red and tastes a bit like liquid Ricola. Flora Aldazabal at the Basque Center makes the best Picon Punch in Boise, but even she admits that if you want to encounter some serious Picon drinkers you have to venture south to Nevada.

This video is from the Star in Elko, which is where I have had some of the best meals of my life.

Picons used to be made with Amer Picon; depending on whom you talk to, the absence of Amer Picon these days is due to a trade war (you figure that one out) or low profit margins. Picons are now made with the American Torani Picon, but my husband is making his own. It involves steeping orange peels in alcohol for eight months. I don't ask too many questions, but I'll let you know the end result.

The Avett Brothers

2008-04-13T18:23:00.000-07:00

I have been reluctant to write about the Avett Brothers. There's that natural worry that comes when you love something so much and decide to share it with other people — kind of like taking a new boyfriend to meet your friends for the first time. Are they going to notice that sparkle in his eye? Are they going to think his jokes are funny? Are they going to get that he is, in fact, the greatest thing in the world at this very moment? You know what I mean.

I finally got a chance to see them — I had missed their now-famous (but dismally attended; it was the opening night of Bronco football) concert in Boise in August — last week at the Crystal Ballroom in Portland. There are currently four guys playing in the band: Scott and Seth Avett, two brothers from North Carolina who play the banjo and acoustic guitar, respectively; Bob Crawford, the stand-up bass player; and Joe Kwon, their sometime cello player. The Crystal Ballroom was sold out, but Parker and I managed to get really close to the stage. I thought the blonde girl to my right was going to faint, as if she were seeing the Beatles at Shea Stadium.

I've been to many, many concerts, but this was really one of the best. They seemed genuinely surprised to see so many people at their show and thanked the crowd profusely. For two hours, Bob twirled his bass and Seth screamed into the microphone; Scott jumped on the amps and Joe hoisted his cello into the air. They came out for two encores. By the end of the last encore it looked like they needed IVs. It was rad. It's amazing how much sound they can coax out of acoustic instruments and their voices, and it's amazing that they can put so much into songs that they have sung over and over and over again (they took about two months off this year. Their fans left messages on their website encouraging them to rest).

It's hard to describe their music, other than that they are anti-irony and emo without being emo. I started listening to them after several years of hearing overly self-aware math rock, and it was nice — and still is nice — to play music made by people who just love music and telling stories.

Jackie and Larry Sing

2008-03-03T20:17:00.000-08:00

There is nothing — NOTHING! — on YouTube as awesome as Jackie and Larry. These are two karaoke lovers who joined up to make their own channel to cover country classics, though occasionally they veer into "Rocky Horror Picture Show" territory.

They have 28 videos and it's obvious that they have put a lot of work into these — check out the themed backgrounds! I highly suggest their Dolly Parton/Kenny Rogers offerings.

Check it out

'Careless Whisper'

2008-02-28T19:20:00.000-08:00

Lately I've been checking out ridiculous covers on YouTube. I ask you: Is there a better cover song than "Careless Whisper?" You tell me. I have done the hard work of going through every "Careless Whisper" cover on the YouTubes for you. Here is the best one, ready for your enjoyment. (Although what is my favorite cabaret singer doing with Ben Folds? I thought he just had that one abortion song.)

******************
Happy birthday, Parker Jr.

'Footballers' Wives'

2008-02-16T21:27:00.000-08:00

I'm a little late to the "Footballers' Wives" party, unfortunately, but I have been making up for it with an almost slavish devotion. It cheers me to know that the British are even better at making trashy TV than we are. (I say that in awe.)

I was looking for something to replace "The L Word," the super tacky Showtime lesbian drama that I have watched faithfully for a few years but that has added too many characters who aren't the least bit fun to watch. Not so with "Footballers' Wives"! If "The L Word" is a candy bar, "Footballers' Wives" is mainlining insulin.

The show ran from 2002-2006 and follows the WAGs (wives and girlfriends) of Earl's Park, a fictional Premiereship team in London. (I got through the first season without realizing that they were saying "earl's" and not "ells.") The main character is Tanya Turner, the blonde, brittle ice queen who is the wife of the slutty team captain Jason Turner.

I cannot say enough about Tanya Turner. I love her so much. I didn't watch "Dynasty" in the '80s, but if I had I imagine that I would have felt the same for Alexis Carrington Colby. Tanya is so scheming yet transparent that you can't help but root for her. Whether she's snorting coke in a ladies' room stall, hiring a body double to do her community service or quoting Robbie Williams during a eulogy, she does it all with fabulous frosty eye makeup and a cheap golddigger wardrobe straight out of the back pages of the Victoria's Secret catalog.

What I love the most about "Footballers' Wives," aside from the trashtastic Tanya, is that it just abandons any pretense of keeping up storylines. Characters — even central characters — are dumped without a hint of explanation or killed off unceremoniously. And thank God. Can someone please do this to Eva Longoria Parker? Every time I get sick of a character he or she conveniently gets traded to another team or dies of anorexia. And nothing is off limits when it comes to advancing the plot: Hermaphrodites, sex with unconscious people, strap-ons, and pedestrian topics like kidnapping, the mile-high club and bribery have all made appearances.

I'd write more, but I have to find out what happened to the rookie and his new bride after they crash landed a hot-air balloon.

'Daddy's Cup'

2008-02-12T17:25:00.000-08:00

I really wish that I was savvy enough to put an MP3 player on this site, but, alas, I'm not. So you guys are going to have to hang in there with me.

Lately I've been listening to a lot of Drive-By Truckers because they're going to be here in a couple of weeks. (Finally!) I love all of their songs, but this is far and away my favorite. It is better than almost any short story I've ever read. There's a reason why Mike Cooley and Patterson Hood are the best songwriters in the business today.

In case you can't make it out, with apologies for the extra long post.

Before I could walk, I had a wrench in my hand
I was my Mama's little angel and my Daddy's second chance
He went end over end the first year he went pro
Lost part of his eyesight and he couldn't race no more

But he never lost his touch when he got underneath the hood
He knew how to make them run and he knew one day he would
See his name in victory lane and engraved on that cup
Just like all them other crazy fools with racing in their blood

He would put me on his lap when he'd drive and I'd take the wheel
He'd say "What do you think about that son? How does she feel?
You just wait till them little legs get long enough to reach the gas
Once you put her on the floor one time there ain't no turning back"

Every Saturday, he'd take me out to the garage
He'd take an empty bucket and fill it full of engine parts
He's sit me down and pour em out in front of me on the floor
I'd have to tell him what each one was and what each one was for

We'd jump into the car and go down to the race that night
He'd tell me what each driver was doing wrong and what each one did right
He could always pick the winner before they ever took a curve
#3 might have the car but 43 has got the nerve

Before I turned 18 Daddy said "Now pretty soon
You'll be old enough to drive but I'll leave it up to you
I taught you all about it, taught you everything I know
You gotta have a car to do it and you gotta work and buy your own"

The first one I bought was a Mustang #2
Nobody kept'em any longer than they kept a pair of shoes
They started showing up at every used car lot in town
A V-8 on a go-cart, easy terms, no money down

Me and Daddy and my uncle took her home and tore her down
Checked her out real good, cleaned her up and bored her out
Took out all the seats, pulled the carpet off the floor
Knocked out all the glass and welded up the doors

The first time that I raced my qualifying was a shame
I started out way in the back and came back about the same
I pulled her in the pit, couldn't look my Daddy in the eye
He said "If you quit now son, it's gonna haunt you all your life"

It ain't about the money or even being #1
You gotta know when it's all over you did the best you could've done
Knowing that it's in you and you never let it out
Is worse than blowing any engine or any wreck you'll ever have

Since then I've wrecked a bunch of cars and I've broke a bunch of bones
It's anybody's race out there and I've learned to race my own
I'd shove em in the wall and I'd hit em from behind
I'd let them know that I was there, I'd let them know that track was mine

It's been several years now since my Daddy passed away
But his picture's on my dash every time I go to race
I lost more than I won but I ain't gonna give up
Till they put me in the ground or Daddy's name's on that cup

The Hopemonger

2008-02-02T11:46:00.000-08:00

This morning, I listened to Barack Obama speak at a rally. In Boise!

Everything I had heard — and hoped — is true. He really IS that cool: incredibly eloquent, amazingly magnetic, absolutely inspiring and very dynamic. He was funny, he was stylish, he was handsome, he was intelligent, he was on message. He played Stevie Wonder and the Chi-Lites. He was, in a word, cool.

We waited in line for 45 minutes to get a seat, and there were thousands of people who lined up in 25-degree weather with us. The 12,000-seat venue was standing room only, and they had to set up speakers outside so that the overflow crowd could hear. This is unheard of in Idaho. The last time we had a major political figure give a stump speech here was in the 1970s when Frank Church ran against Jimmy Carter in the primary. And he was a native.

I'm going to caucus for Obama on Tuesday. I know it sounds corny, but I am incredibly excited to do this. Everyone always talks about the Kennedys and how they felt about JFK or Bobby. I didn't think that would ever come along in my generation. I thought that maybe we were all too cynical for someone like that, and who could ever have that much charisma? But this may be the guy. If he loses on Tuesday it won't be for lack of trying, but if he loses we will be missing the greatest opportunity to change the status quo in the last 45 years.

'In Treatment'

2008-01-28T19:30:00.000-08:00

After reading the 50 kajillion articles about HBO's new series, "In Treatment," in the New York Times (seriously, do their editors ever talk to each other?) this weekend, I downloaded the whole set on iTunes. For free! Thanks, HBO. But why can't you say "fuck" on iTunes?

Anyway. The series follows a therapist, Paul, as he talks to his patients. There are five half-hour episodes — Monday through Thursday features Paul's patients, and Friday focuses on the doctor's own session with his psychiatrist.

It really is a train wreck of a show. So far there are no redeemable people, no one you would actually want to hang out with. Except for maybe Dr. Paul. There's Laura (Monday), a breathy twentysomething who is in love with Paul; Alex (Tuesday), a Navy pilot (a totally compelling Blair Underwood) who is dealing with his role in the Iraq war; Sophie, a gymnast.

My favorite is Jake and Amy. Amy went through five years of fertility treatments, but now that she's pregnant she wants an abortion. He's a schlubby ass. She's a rich liar in a white suit. She may be having an affair. He may be emotionally abusive. They are horrible, horrible people. I have no idea why I like watching them, other than that it makes me feel better about myself.

The little things are really what make this show. After Laura tells Paul she loves him, you can hear his unseen wife upstairs. She stares at him as he unconsciously twists his wedding ring on his finger. There are almost no opening credits, no big "Sopranos"-style theme song + montage. When I got done watching, I thought, wow. That was really well acted. And: Thank God I'm not a therapist.

Hug Me, Don't Eat Me

2008-01-23T20:22:00.000-08:00

I went down to California last weekend for a pig killing.

For those of you who don't think you read that right: Every year, my family gets together with a few other Basque families to butcher the pigs we'll need for the next year. We make the traditional sausages — chorizo, mortzilla (that's blood sausage) — cure ham and and package up the salomo and pig's feet that will make its way into holiday dishes (or, in my mom's case, losing bets).

I could tell you about how much this means to me because it preserves tradition and is a rapidly dying art, or that there's value in seeing where that ham came from and how the animal suffered for you, but I know that the two readers of this blog aren't interested in that. So!

I hadn't been down to the pig killing — held every January for generations — for five whole years, due to assorted illnesses, bad weather, work schedule ... you know the drill. Since I was last down two very important people have died, a Portuguese family and a Japanese family have joined in, and now about 80 people show up to drink, watch the proceedings and eat like it's Thanksgiving all over again.

The morning starts out with spiked coffee and the husband-and-wife butchers, who dispatch the poor pigs and get them ready for the rest of us. And by the rest of us I mean the dads of the group. I spent most of the morning drinking, talking to my relatives and taking pictures. Eventually I thought that I should, you know, do something, so I went to help my mom separate intestines for sausage casings. That's really not as gross as it sounds. They're already clean and packed in salt in Denmark, bizarrely. Due they have some sort of intestine industry? Back in the day, cleaning the intestines was the job for the girl rookies. Imagine marrying into that.

After a totally awesome lunch (worth another post, really) of lamb everyone made the mortzillak. Blood sausage really isn't as bad as it sounds, but it's pretty great for freaking people out because it's made from the fresh blood and the offal from the pig. It tastes rich, but it isn't heavy or greasy. It tastes ... dark. If the darkest of dark chocolates could be reincarnated, it would show up as blood sausage.

Everyone breaks at dusk and eats the mortzillak, grabbing french bread and glasses of wine off of the bed of a truck pulled up to make a dinner counter. And then we drink some more. Too much, in my case. It took me three days to recover and all of my pictures from about 6 p.m. on are blurry.

The next day started out with the ancient grinder breaking down and an accidental stabbing after one of the men cutting up the hogs let his knife slip. He's fine after some stitches and staples, but the sheriff's office had to call (call!) to ask about the stabbing. "We're just butchering some hogs," the person who answered said. Apparently that's a good enough explanation in Stanislaus County. We weren't sure if we should be comforted or worried by that.

After mixing together the chorizo according to each family's specifications, everything gets packaged up. I wish I could have stayed for the big breakfast the next morning, when everyone tries out the chorizo, but no luck. I was on a plane back to Idaho by 6:30 a.m., nursing my hangover and thinking about next year.

One D at a Time

2008-01-09T19:21:00.000-08:00

I'm kind of addicted to One D at a Time, Tracie "Slut Machine" Eagan's blog. (Slut Machine is her nom de plume, in case you aren't a reader of the completely fantastic and smart Jezebel.)

If I were a 28-year-old chick in with huge tits and a weed problem living in New York and getting over my porn star ex, I would aspire to have a blog 1/10th as awesome as hers. I'd settle for this blog being 1/250th as awesome as hers, to tell the truth. I talk a lot about how America needs to rise up against puritanical thinking and pass out condoms in school and keep abortion legal blah blah blah other good liberal things, but there is no way that I would ever have the balls to talk about the things she does and put my name on them.

A few recent subjects: Hooking up with an acquaintance at her own New Year's Eve party and not being able to finish the sentence because of imminent puking; interrupting Dr. Ruth at lunch and asking her about period sex; watching boys jack off on the Internet while using her Hitachi Magic Wand; putting pictures of her cleavage up in order to attract a date ... You get the picture.

It'll make you feel like an nun.

I'm a Man! I'm 40!

2008-01-06T12:32:00.000-08:00

Our friend Nick recently turned 40, and to celebrate he embarked on a months-long journey to document the best songs of his lifetime — four for every year. No repeats of bands, either. The result is one of the greatest things I've ever seen, not only because it's such a rad idea, but because the collection came with, like, 24 pages of liner notes.

The liner notes elevate the two-disc set from just a fun set of songs to a work of art. Seriously. I don't know why more people don't do this. Probably because you have to have an encyclopedic knowledge of rock music and a memory like an elephant's. Luckily, Nick has both. A sample from the year 1987:

"Welcome to the Jungle (Guns N Roses): Arguably the most influential album of the 1980s and one that didn't have a weak song. I won a trip to see them in Dayton once and it was the infamous show where they played until 3:30 a.m. This disc was a party staple at our eipc Lakeview parties with Dan Michael, the Reckhemmer brothers and Teresa Saile. Wild Turkey was always served. That stuff is nasty. Those were fun days with those guys and Colleen Buggy and her friends. Colleen and I always said we were going to throw a 'Purim' party after we saw that holiday on a calendar. Never happened. Too bad."

The liner notes also list Nick's pick for best restaurants around the country, broken down by categories: cheap, steak, Italian, chicken wings ... And! There's a bonus disc with the honorable mentions and clips of Nick's many, many contest wins on a radio station in Ohio (where he was named the all-time contest winner and had his own commerical) and soundbites from Mike Gundy, who provided the inspiration for the title.

It would be the coolest if Nick would start a blog so that everyone could contribute their own lists, but, understandably, the guy's a little bit worn out.

Oh, Javier

2007-12-23T21:14:00.001-08:00

There really isn't anything left to say about "No Country for Old Men" — which may be the finest Cohen Brothers movie ever (and I have seen them all) — so I won't go into detail. But too few movies lately have made me curl my toes in fear, or have shut up my fellow moviegoers and left them dazed as they walked out of the theater. The last villain to inspire this kind of desperate fear in me was Jason. In 1986. At a sleepover. Thank you, Javier Bardem.

The New York Times' best of 2007 lists came out today, and I was really surprised that it wasn't on all of them. There are very few scenes that I have witnessed that have inspired such fear in me as the one where Josh Brolin and Bardem come face to face for the first time in a rickety old west Texas hotel. I hope that these two actors — along with the irreproachable Tommy Lee Jones — get a few Oscar nods when the season rolls around.

'The Song Remains the Same'

2007-12-08T12:19:00.001-08:00

Last night we went to "The Song Remains the Same," the Led Zeppelin concert movie about their appearance at Madison Square Garden in 1973, at the Egyptian Theatre.

Holy crap! I don't even know how to explain all the awesomeness.

It was put up on the big screen by a local rock station that gave away tickets. We happened on ours because a friend's wife didn't want to go (WTF?), which left us with a group of drunks, local celebrities, small children and innumerable stoned high school students.

In the lobby, this big bearded (superdrunk) guy was telling the story of how he moved to Boise. "Well, you know that song by Lynrd Skynrd? The one that starts out, 'It's eight o'clock in Boise, Idaho'? Yeah, well I heard that and thought Boise sounded like a cool place. So I moved."

The guy who sat in front of us had a seeing-eye dog and a jack and coke in one hand and a beer in the other, which he sloshed all over the seats. Before the movie started, he got all agitated and started yelling, "The dog drank my jack and coke! Fucking drank it!" He offered the dog his beer instead.

After a little girl who looked just like the kid from "Little Miss Sunshine" won the Zeppelin box set during a raffle and ran up the aisle clutching it to her chest as if it were the Hope Diamond, the show started. So did the smoking.

Oh my God, guys, the fantasy sequences are like the most awesome bits of kitsch you have ever seen in your life. Robert Plant as Gawain the Green Knight! Jimmy Page ages 100 years (totally realistically, too) in two minutes! John Paul Jones' bizarre Dutch boy haircut!

I have to say that the John Bonham fantasy sequence made me super sad. Here's the rest of these jackasses making epic-yet-ridiculous little movies about slaying dragons and shit and and his fantasy boils down to hanging out with his kid, racing cars, and drinking at the local pub. Aww!

Anyway, totally worth seeing on the big screen if you can do it for free. But who am I kidding? I would totally pay to see that 26 minute version of "Dazed and Confused" again. And so would the middle-aged lady behind me, who started raving, "Jesus fucking Christ! Fucking A!" every time they showed Robert Plant's package. And that happened a lot, guys. A lot.

Bordello Christmas

2007-12-04T17:29:00.001-08:00

I don't usually decorate much for Christmas because the tree seems like the most important part of the deal, you know? But when you aren't home for Christmas green tree = fire hazard. So for the past few years my festive holiday decor has consisted of a miniature red tinsel tree and a string of sad bubble lights blinking wearily in the front window.
But that's all changing this year. Hello, bordello Christmas! My mom dragged me and my dad to a Michael's the other day. Holy crap! Who knew that Christmas had taken a turn for the tacky? After years of uber-tasteful Martha Stewart Christmas colors inspired by chicken eggs or some shit, it seems that this year's big trend is feathers. UGLY feathers. Gypsy Rose Lee feathers. The dwindling cash in my bank account stopped me from buying a wreath crafted out of feathers and jingle bells (available in both white and pink, of course) and a tree made entirely out of dyed pink feathers. A whole tree! Seriously. If Belle Watling decorated for the little baby Jesus' birthday, it would have looked like this.
Here are some of my favorites from the Internets. I know you're inspired!

Masri Sweets

2007-11-17T10:02:00.000-08:00

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

2007-11-13T18:28:00.000-08:00

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

Imagined monologues: Bobby Hauck

2007-11-13T10:32:00.000-08:00

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

2007-11-12T22:25:00.000-08:00

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

2007-11-12T20:44:00.001-08:00

And all the women of Boise swoon .

Wouldn't Kick Her Out of Bed: Sarah Chalke

2007-11-11T21:28:00.001-08:00

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

2007-11-11T16:04:00.000-08:00

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

2007-11-11T14:40:00.000-08:00

Even in "Chopper."

Even after "Troy."

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

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

2007-11-11T14:32:00.000-08:00

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

Teen Wolf and Morgan Freeman

2007-11-10T22:40:00.001-08:00

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

2007-11-10T21:32:00.000-08:00

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

2007-11-10T13:01:00.000-08:00

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

2007-11-10T08:00:00.000-08:00

The Best Fucking Reality Show on TV

2007-11-09T18:30:00.000-08:00

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

2007-11-09T16:57:00.000-08:00

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

2007-11-09T16:53:00.000-08:00

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

2007-11-08T21:22:00.001-08:00

Pregnant tits

2007-11-08T20:29:00.000-08:00

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

2007-11-08T17:22:00.001-08:00

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

2007-11-07T19:05:00.000-08:00

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

2007-11-06T19:49:00.000-08:00

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

2007-11-04T13:23:00.000-08:00

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.

The French 75

2007-10-29T20:16:00.000-07:00

I had my first French 75 about six years ago, at this little bar and restaurant that advertised it as "gin, champagne, sugar cube, cherry." It seemed very fancy when it arrived in its little flute, the sugar cube at the bottom mixing with the alcohol to send up an in-glass fountain of teeny bubbles. It seemed so elegant that I had another, and then another, and that's about when I discovered that the drink isn't named for the address of a Parisian hotel or the number of nubile young maidens some skeezy French bartender slept with. It's named for a piece of field artillery.

And not just any piece, mind you, but a legendary 75mm killing machine from WWI. It turns out that I owe many fine nights of inebriation to Raoul Lufbery, French-American WWI fighting ace. Champagne wasn't enough of a challenge, apparently, so he made the first French 75 with cognac. Somewhere along the line it was popularized with gin. There's a vodka version, too, called the French 76, but I tend to think that most vodka drinks are second rate. Why have vodka when you can have delicious, delicious gin?

Anyway. I always have some sparkling wine on hand — usually Cristalino, a cava from Spain — because it's just about my favorite thing to drink. And Cristalino, at $7 a bottle, is dry and reliable and cheaper than your average bottle of wine or even six-pack of microbrew beer (which is just about all we have out here in the West these days, anyway). The other ingredients are gin, a sugar cube and lemon juice. Garnishes range from cherries to lemon or orange peels.

The French 75 is like having a fun, flirty lush at your party. It's a great equalizer in that it knocks everyone on their asses within about 10 minutes, leading to much more animated conversation and, at least with my group of friends, partial to full nudity and/or tambourine playing. But be careful. I would avoid certain topics while under the influence of the French 75; politics in mixed company is a bad idea, and religion is a definite no-no. Stick to endearing things, like your first really terrible sexual experience or the worst present your ever received. The French 75, like the artillery for which it is named, is all about mowing down barriers. Save the philosophical discussions for something that takes a long time to drink, like Lagavulin.

The French 75

1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice
1 sugar cube
2 ounces gin
3 ounces champagne
Lemon peel

Place the sugar cube in the bottom of a champagne flute and pour the gin and lemon juice over it. Add the champagne slowly — it can foam up like crazy and send all of the contents over the edge. Garnish with the lemon peel.

Halloween

2007-10-29T11:25:00.001-07:00

Halloween is my favorite holiday, and not just because the slutty costume trend indulges my inherent tendency to show off my boobs. Halloween — and the rest of October, really — is when my favorite show in the whole world, Coast to Coast AM, goes batshit.

Coast to Coast AM is a radio show that may be familiar to you if you happen to be an insomniac or long-haul truck driver. I've been listening to it for about 12 years. It's now hosted by the affable George Noory, but used to be helmed by Art Bell, a gravel-voiced, chain-smoking, disappearing act of a host who now returns to do specials like Ghost to Ghost AM.

Ghost to Ghost is held every night on Halloween (in my area, the nightly show starts with a rerun at 10 p.m. and is followed by the newest show, which stretches into the wee hours). Ghost to Ghost is when the regular show abandons its usual topics — the UFO wars (go America!), chemtrails, crystal therapy, ancient giants, etc. — and focuses on the paranormal. It is AWESOME.

Aside from Art, who sounds kind of spooky anyway (and who used to be married to Ramona, who dabbled in Wicca but died of a horrible asthma attack and then Art got remarried to this nice lady from the Philippines, like, 30 days later and then he moved there and did the broadcast from the tropics but now they're going to have a kid and it is very exciting because the whole family has moved back to Parrumph, Nevada), the callers to the show are the absolute best.

People wait all year to get on Ghost to Ghost. And when they do, they usually get nervous and then Art yells at them for slowing down the show, which is pretty great. But the best thing is that Art really seems to believe all of them. Plagued by a succubus (what man doesn't think he is, really?)? Art is there for you. See red eyes staring at you from your closet? He understands. Think your child's doll is possessed by the spirit of your dead neighbor? Art has advice!

I'll be listening on Halloween, of course, but I'm also looking forward to tonight's show about ancient astronauts and 2012. Don't know what's going to happen when 2012 rolls around? Poor fool! Let me just advise you to stock up on the bottled water. Might as well start that affair or heroin habit now, too. Time's a-wastin'!