The other day, I went to CoCo Sala in Penn Quarter for my pal Ariel's birthday. Their shtick is that just about everything in the place incorporates chocolate of some kind. Check the menu if you have a chance. It's intense. Not having had dinner, and being a bit peckish, I ordered the bacon mac and cheese, which I assumed would be chocolate-free.
It came served with what looked like a strip of chocolate garnishing it. How presh, I thought. Way to get the chocolate in after all. I removed it, and did a double take. Then my face lit up like a little Chanukah Bush, and I made a sound like "Whoa! WHOA!"
It was a strip of chocolate covered bacon.
Chocolate. Covered. Bacon.
This was momentous. This was unprecedented. This was chocolate covered meat.
It kind of tasted like a funky chocolate pretzel. But more porcine.
I don't know if I need to have it again, but really, after chocolate covered bacon, where do you go? I fear it's all downhill from here.
Unless they come out with Nutella-infused Popeye's. Now there's a market waiting to be tapped.
Sunday, May 18, 2008
Monday, May 5, 2008
Carolyn Meets Moby
My best friend died five years ago this month.
Stay with me. I promise it's not that kind of blog. I did the oh-woe-is-me thing for a couple of years, and I did it really well. It's tiresome. I wouldn't do that to you.
But Carolyn has been on my mind a lot lately with the anniversary coming up. She's always kind of floating around in my brain anyway, but more so as of late. On paper, Carolyn and I should never have been friends. She was a devout Christian who went to Jesus camps and Calvary Church every week, and I'm a bacon cheeseburger Jew at best. She was brilliant, but struggled in school, and I was a card-carrying member of the Advanced Placement Young Transcript Building Machines of America. We were never in the same classes. We were tight through junior high and high school, but didn't become really close until I graduated and moved to New York. Despite the distance, we just really dug each other. We never did anything especially thrilling, but we could make each other laugh for hours, and turn an evening of driving around lower Bucks County into the best night ever. Easily.
Plus, she's responsible for dragging me to my first U2 show against my will, which indirectly led to me getting interested in Africa, which indirectly led me to DC and my chosen career. So thanks, Carolyn. I think.
I recently had to tell a friend from home the rather horrible story of how she died, and I realized it had been a while since I told any Carolyn stories of any kind. And that's too bad, because she made for some awesome stories. For most of her life, she was an incredibly joyful, unihibited person. So, if you don't mind, I'd like to tell you a Carolyn story now.
It was 2000, and I was a junior at New York University and crazy in love with Moby. Yes, he of the bald head, techno music and admittedly annoying politics. Being 19 and ridiculous, I wanted to share what I thought was the transcending experience of seeing Moby live with my best pal. So Carolyn trained up to come with me. Being the good friend that she was, she spent most of the evening busting my chops about my nerdy crush. When I said that I wanted to hang out at the stage door after the show to get an autograph, she busted my chops even harder. She was totally right to do so. But she must have fancied Mr. Moby a bit herself, or been listening really closely when I was gushing about him, because here's pretty much what went down:
Stay with me. I promise it's not that kind of blog. I did the oh-woe-is-me thing for a couple of years, and I did it really well. It's tiresome. I wouldn't do that to you.
But Carolyn has been on my mind a lot lately with the anniversary coming up. She's always kind of floating around in my brain anyway, but more so as of late. On paper, Carolyn and I should never have been friends. She was a devout Christian who went to Jesus camps and Calvary Church every week, and I'm a bacon cheeseburger Jew at best. She was brilliant, but struggled in school, and I was a card-carrying member of the Advanced Placement Young Transcript Building Machines of America. We were never in the same classes. We were tight through junior high and high school, but didn't become really close until I graduated and moved to New York. Despite the distance, we just really dug each other. We never did anything especially thrilling, but we could make each other laugh for hours, and turn an evening of driving around lower Bucks County into the best night ever. Easily.
Plus, she's responsible for dragging me to my first U2 show against my will, which indirectly led to me getting interested in Africa, which indirectly led me to DC and my chosen career. So thanks, Carolyn. I think.
I recently had to tell a friend from home the rather horrible story of how she died, and I realized it had been a while since I told any Carolyn stories of any kind. And that's too bad, because she made for some awesome stories. For most of her life, she was an incredibly joyful, unihibited person. So, if you don't mind, I'd like to tell you a Carolyn story now.
It was 2000, and I was a junior at New York University and crazy in love with Moby. Yes, he of the bald head, techno music and admittedly annoying politics. Being 19 and ridiculous, I wanted to share what I thought was the transcending experience of seeing Moby live with my best pal. So Carolyn trained up to come with me. Being the good friend that she was, she spent most of the evening busting my chops about my nerdy crush. When I said that I wanted to hang out at the stage door after the show to get an autograph, she busted my chops even harder. She was totally right to do so. But she must have fancied Mr. Moby a bit herself, or been listening really closely when I was gushing about him, because here's pretty much what went down:
Sunday, April 27, 2008
What the Eff is That?
Okay, kids! Take a good look at the picture below:
Is it:
A. A male enhancement device
B. A breast pump for members of the IBTC
C. A goddamn $165 inhaler for your goddamn cat who is one of the goddamn one percent of cats with asthma, and requires a goddamn wrestling match twice a day to give her the goddamn thing.
If you said C, you're goddamn right!
If you didn't, you're a goddamn perv. Get your mind out of the gutter and clean up your act. Honestly.
Friday, April 18, 2008
Killing Time in the ER
Yesterday I had lofty plans to attend Dude Fest -- a celebration of the movie The Big Lebowski complete with trivia, a costume contest, a tribute band, and a screening of the movie. I was wicked psyched for weeks about this. It was to be at the Arlington Cinema and Drafthouse, which is a cool little venue in Northern Virginia where you can eat burgers and drink beers while you watch movies. I didn't have time to pull together a costume, but I was still pumped.
Then I got a tearful, panicked call from my dear friend Kyra, who was stranded at the hospital with possible appendicitis and needed someone to be on call to pick her up should she be discharged as her husband was without car. My friendship with Kra goes back to seventh grade home ec (I asked her if she liked Mystery Science Theater while we made sweatshirts; it was the only way I knew to make friends when I was 12. Not much has changed). We have been through puberty, proms, my best friend's funeral, bad relationships, and hasty weddings. Not only was I honor-bound to pick her up if she needed it, it was clear that someone should at least go to the hospital and keep her company. If I have to give up Dude Fest for somebody, it's her.
The poor kid wound up spending nine hours at Georgetown University Hospital, the last half of which I spent with her. Prior to my coming there she had nothing to do but stare at the IV drip, which probably inspired most of the hysteria I heard on the phone. So we amused each other until 12:30 in the freakin' morning, when we discovered that her ailment was not appendicitis, but something much more manageable that could be addressed with painkillers, rest, and presumably, a good day of watching telenovelas and Judge Judy.
One thing that amused the hell out of us was going through my text message outbox devoid of context. I haven't deleted many over the years, so it made for some fun reading. Here's a little sample:
"We have vomit."
"I got an iguana."
"I am by the cake. -- robyn"
"Heads up. Mom found our myspace pages."
"I've got nothing to hide but you might want to warn dawg."
"Is it brazil independence day? There are a lot of characters on the train."
"Bulletin. The rabbit just pissed in my face. That is all."
"Score?"
"Santorum."
"Girls beer/ marks tits/3208 17th"
"I have a cake and shake. It's awesome."
"What is with all the fucking pigeons on the field?"
"Everclear & beer pong = bad news"
"Im at iota watching the guy whose song is on your myspace. xo"
"This game just made me throw up in my mouth a little."
"Dude. I have the maypole dance song in my head."
Like I said, it was rough going in that ER trying to find something to entertain us. I challenge you to come up with something better.
Then I got a tearful, panicked call from my dear friend Kyra, who was stranded at the hospital with possible appendicitis and needed someone to be on call to pick her up should she be discharged as her husband was without car. My friendship with Kra goes back to seventh grade home ec (I asked her if she liked Mystery Science Theater while we made sweatshirts; it was the only way I knew to make friends when I was 12. Not much has changed). We have been through puberty, proms, my best friend's funeral, bad relationships, and hasty weddings. Not only was I honor-bound to pick her up if she needed it, it was clear that someone should at least go to the hospital and keep her company. If I have to give up Dude Fest for somebody, it's her.
The poor kid wound up spending nine hours at Georgetown University Hospital, the last half of which I spent with her. Prior to my coming there she had nothing to do but stare at the IV drip, which probably inspired most of the hysteria I heard on the phone. So we amused each other until 12:30 in the freakin' morning, when we discovered that her ailment was not appendicitis, but something much more manageable that could be addressed with painkillers, rest, and presumably, a good day of watching telenovelas and Judge Judy.
One thing that amused the hell out of us was going through my text message outbox devoid of context. I haven't deleted many over the years, so it made for some fun reading. Here's a little sample:
"We have vomit."
"I got an iguana."
"I am by the cake. -- robyn"
"Heads up. Mom found our myspace pages."
"I've got nothing to hide but you might want to warn dawg."
"Is it brazil independence day? There are a lot of characters on the train."
"Bulletin. The rabbit just pissed in my face. That is all."
"Score?"
"Santorum."
"Girls beer/ marks tits/3208 17th"
"I have a cake and shake. It's awesome."
"What is with all the fucking pigeons on the field?"
"Everclear & beer pong = bad news"
"Im at iota watching the guy whose song is on your myspace. xo"
"This game just made me throw up in my mouth a little."
"Dude. I have the maypole dance song in my head."
Like I said, it was rough going in that ER trying to find something to entertain us. I challenge you to come up with something better.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
The Fightin' Violets
March Madness can be a lonely time for the NYU alumni. New York University is many things, but it is not what you might call an athletic powerhouse. Sure, we have some fairly impressive Division I fencing and volleyball teams, and a pretty good Division III women's basketball, but really nothing that you'd see on ESPN (or ESPN 2, or 3, for that matter).
Part of NYU's problem is that we have a famously bad team name: the Violets. It's hard for an opponent to take you seriously with such a puss name. To rectify this, someone somewhere down the line made the decision that NYU needed a more virile mascot at team games, so they instituted the Bobcat to cheer on the fighting Violets. That seems okay enough, until you realize that the bobcat was chosen in honor of (and I kid you not) the catalog system at Bobst Library -- BobCAT. Not so tough now, are we?
My friend, and fellow Violet, Lindsay and I were discussing this while the rest of our friends are busy losing their collective minds over the NCAA tournament. We decided that if we have to have a wussy nickname, then we might as well just own it. So we came up with some ideas to take back the Violet. Our humble suggestions are as follows:
Part of NYU's problem is that we have a famously bad team name: the Violets. It's hard for an opponent to take you seriously with such a puss name. To rectify this, someone somewhere down the line made the decision that NYU needed a more virile mascot at team games, so they instituted the Bobcat to cheer on the fighting Violets. That seems okay enough, until you realize that the bobcat was chosen in honor of (and I kid you not) the catalog system at Bobst Library -- BobCAT. Not so tough now, are we?
My friend, and fellow Violet, Lindsay and I were discussing this while the rest of our friends are busy losing their collective minds over the NCAA tournament. We decided that if we have to have a wussy nickname, then we might as well just own it. So we came up with some ideas to take back the Violet. Our humble suggestions are as follows:
Pansy pride.
Robyn
Saturday, March 15, 2008
Life, Death, Sex and Sparrows
DC is having some very springlike weather this weekend, with temperatures in the 60s, cherry blossoms budding and alternating sunshine and showers that make everything nice and green. I'm pretty sure there's at least one cold snap left for the season, so I'm not getting too comfortable just yet, but it's nice to know warmer weather is on the way.
One sure sign of spring is the renewed presence of little songbirds, or, to put it more precisely, little songbirds boinking. Those shameless little birdies are everywhere -- twittering about, cavorting in mid-air, displaying on the sidewalk. Horny little devils, those sparrows and such.
Which I mention only because I came across a sad sight in the driveway of OneTwoThreeFour Mass Ave today. Two little house sparrows, a male and female, lay squashed along the curb, where people usually idle their cars for short-term parking. The first thought I had upon seeing them was, "Gross! I almost stepped in that!" The second thought was, "Man, that must have been some hot sparrow sex."
I mean, think about it. Neither one of these little things had the presence of mind to move out of the way of whatever was bearing down on them. Surely, you'd think at least one of them would have been all "Um, Herb, I hate to be a noodge, but can we move it over to the landscaping?" Nope. Such was their wanton abandon that one second they were busy propagating the next batch of sparrows-to-be, and the next they were smooshed under a Prius, or whatever. They probably never knew what hit them.
Which, when you think about it, really isn't a bad way to go. Well played, little sparrows. Well played.
Now if the maintenance people could kindly scrape them off the driveway, because, honestly, I almost stepped in them again coming home tonight, and it's kind of disgusting.
Robyn
One sure sign of spring is the renewed presence of little songbirds, or, to put it more precisely, little songbirds boinking. Those shameless little birdies are everywhere -- twittering about, cavorting in mid-air, displaying on the sidewalk. Horny little devils, those sparrows and such.
Which I mention only because I came across a sad sight in the driveway of OneTwoThreeFour Mass Ave today. Two little house sparrows, a male and female, lay squashed along the curb, where people usually idle their cars for short-term parking. The first thought I had upon seeing them was, "Gross! I almost stepped in that!" The second thought was, "Man, that must have been some hot sparrow sex."
I mean, think about it. Neither one of these little things had the presence of mind to move out of the way of whatever was bearing down on them. Surely, you'd think at least one of them would have been all "Um, Herb, I hate to be a noodge, but can we move it over to the landscaping?" Nope. Such was their wanton abandon that one second they were busy propagating the next batch of sparrows-to-be, and the next they were smooshed under a Prius, or whatever. They probably never knew what hit them.
Which, when you think about it, really isn't a bad way to go. Well played, little sparrows. Well played.
Now if the maintenance people could kindly scrape them off the driveway, because, honestly, I almost stepped in them again coming home tonight, and it's kind of disgusting.
Robyn
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
Life with Bun
It's been eight months since we acquired our little foundling rabbit Bun Scott, rescued from a Connecticut Avenue stoop by officemate extraordinaire Paul. For the most part he's a perfectly charming little bun. He's relatively tiny, very personable, and never seems to have a bad day. He's a very happy little animal. He does however, have one less than savory habit. I'm not bugged so much by the occasional accident on the floor. I have four pets, and I volunteer at an animal shelter, so I'm well acquainted with the odd errant turd or piddle. With Bun, it's more the manner in which these accidents occur. In a phenomenon he seems to reserve only for my benefit, he'll sometimes be hopping along, then suddenly stop, seize up and explode in a little bunny pee-bomb, dousing everything in a three-foot radius. Usually, this includes myself. It has yet to happen with Mark. I had a rabbit for 13 years growing up, and he never exhibited this behavior (though he had a knack for projectile pooing at heights up to eight feet, usually when we were asleep). I realize that mere words might fail to articulate exactly what I'm talking about, so I'll let the Crayolas do the talking:
Robyn
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