My body is losing weight. I'm not saying my body couldn't have stood to lose weight, or even that it can't stand to lose more. And I certainly haven't reached Lady's rate of dwindlage - bitch doesn't even have an ass anymore, fuck. By the way, I pledged to get Lady laid before the 12th. Thing is, picky bitch has her heart set on someone in another country whose phone number I don't have. Help. She likes Joaquin Phoenix too. Does anyone know how I can get her Joaquin Phoenix?
Anyways, I'm losing weight. I wore a Vietnamese chick's shirt to work yesterday, and there's no way my epic Cawasprian boobs should be fitting into anything a Vietnamese chick's boobs fit into. I'm a little concerned because weight loss and shrinking boobs are just not my idiom. It's possible that eating slightly more sensibly than usual is making me lose weight but I doubt it. I feel alright, besides increasingly infrequent coughing fits that sound and feel like my brain is coming out, the occasional stabbing sensation in my encaphawhatever, and last Saturday's dud drugs, but still somewhat concerned. Fack, I can't believe how long it takes to get an ultrasound in this dump of a national health care system.
Another thing with my body is that it's having pimples. Right now I have four. I know that may sound monumentally unimportant, but my skin has always been clear, even through my filthiest years, so four pimples is a personal best for me. I'm 27. Why do I have four pimples now, a good ten years after puberty struck set, I've cut fried foods from my regular diet and I've mastered the rudiments of personal hygiene?
Anyways. Less confusing are my bikes, now out of the shop. The mountain bike got out first. I bought it years ago when I moved to the Alps and it's been sitting in a bag since I moved here from France because I've been using my city bike. Living in a city as I do, instead of the Alps. God, that bike brings back some lovely memories - racing to Suffering Artist's house for light Camels and illicit passion, riding the handlebars to the highschool dance to buy hash while Valedictorian touched me inappropriately, and damnit, the Alps . . . I used to live, work, and fuck in the fucking foothills of the fucking Alps and this beautiful fucking mountain bike lived there with me.
That was a magical time, a kind of time every young lady needs to have in her life so whenever things get too grim, she can say "fuck this shit. I used to live in the Alps, bitch!" and then fix them. It sets a certain standard for magic. For needing a little fascination with life. It doesn't help fix the restlessness so common in people who grew up in places like where Lady and I grew up. But if I have, indeed, found someone to be restless with me, then . . . well . . . how do you thank God for something like that?
Thank you, God.
Anyways, my point is, the mountain bike is back on the road, and it makes me do naughty things because it's faaaaast and handles as beautifully as a bachelor's wanking hand. My city bike is also back on the road. Although it's a CCM, it's a great bike. I got it here in Toronto when some crappy man driver hit me while looking for a street number. I was fine, but the frame of the bike I was on was fucked. It was a cheapie, but also a present from my Daddy and covered in fantastic stickers, so I was pretty pissed. Yet mollified when the errant driver bought me the CCM. When I got it, it was the finest bike I'd ever ridden, and it's still fucking fine. It's so shocked up it feels like floating through a sea of marshmallows, light as the breeze but fast enough.
sabato, aprile 01, 2006
venerdì, marzo 31, 2006
Morning sunshine
Still sailing painfully on the dragon but as I breakfast on a honey and weed butter sandwich on spelt I’ve got remarkably few things to bitch about – quick list and then I’ll move on to happy stuff:
1. Starbucks has a drink called Chantico that is faintly reminiscent of those thick Italian hot chocolates strong men’d sell their mothers for. They’re discontinuing it. Therefore, I now wish the franchise to sink into the sea. Thank you.
2. When stage directions call for a funeral pyre, red lights and dramatic poses will NOT DO. It makes the performers look like stale cafeteria fare and stops me from suspending my disbelief, which is a pain in my ass since funeral pyres are usually called for at the emotional climax of the spectacle.
That having been said, Norma last night was lovely. Looooovely. I’m going to be walking around all day doing the ‘ahhhh ahh ahhhh ah ahhhh ahh ahhhh ah ahhh ah ah ahhhh’ from “Casta Diva” until someone slaps me. So good! Because you know, I got to the opera with Miss V in one of those states where as soon as nothing is unavoidably engaging you, you start thinking naughty things in graphic detail about what you’re going to do to someone you really like. But when June Anderson went into “Casta Diva” – Bellini was smart to put that so close to the beginning because I didn’t dare take my ears off of what was happening for the rest of the show - all the smut got pushed into my unconscious where it belongs. It was so pure, and so her, too, so that singer . . . “Casta Diva” was a signature song for Maria Callas. Her rich, marble–mouth voice was perfect for it. June Anderson has a different voice –sharper – but wonderful with this song in a different way. It didn’t sound effortless when she sung it, but it didn’t need to. The effort added something. Hard to say what I mean.
Generally I like Norma a lot because it’s a very chick opera. The tenor isn’t on stage much, which I’m fine with, because, you know, tenors. Whatever. My dad can sing “Nessun dorma” to my satisfaction while he makes the pasta sauce and watches soccer, fuck. But when you get a mezzo as fine as Marianna Kulikova playing second to someone like June Anderson in an opera that’s so heavy on the ladies and features some of the nicest duets between them – not to mention a plot wherein the relationship between them is key – damn. Because they could both act, too.
Even the set was almost sufficient this time, which is something for the COC. They did a good job making it look vaguely Druidy and forbidding. But please – no more fucking heat-lamp funeral pyres, okay? That’s bullshit right there.
1. Starbucks has a drink called Chantico that is faintly reminiscent of those thick Italian hot chocolates strong men’d sell their mothers for. They’re discontinuing it. Therefore, I now wish the franchise to sink into the sea. Thank you.
2. When stage directions call for a funeral pyre, red lights and dramatic poses will NOT DO. It makes the performers look like stale cafeteria fare and stops me from suspending my disbelief, which is a pain in my ass since funeral pyres are usually called for at the emotional climax of the spectacle.
That having been said, Norma last night was lovely. Looooovely. I’m going to be walking around all day doing the ‘ahhhh ahh ahhhh ah ahhhh ahh ahhhh ah ahhh ah ah ahhhh’ from “Casta Diva” until someone slaps me. So good! Because you know, I got to the opera with Miss V in one of those states where as soon as nothing is unavoidably engaging you, you start thinking naughty things in graphic detail about what you’re going to do to someone you really like. But when June Anderson went into “Casta Diva” – Bellini was smart to put that so close to the beginning because I didn’t dare take my ears off of what was happening for the rest of the show - all the smut got pushed into my unconscious where it belongs. It was so pure, and so her, too, so that singer . . . “Casta Diva” was a signature song for Maria Callas. Her rich, marble–mouth voice was perfect for it. June Anderson has a different voice –sharper – but wonderful with this song in a different way. It didn’t sound effortless when she sung it, but it didn’t need to. The effort added something. Hard to say what I mean.
Generally I like Norma a lot because it’s a very chick opera. The tenor isn’t on stage much, which I’m fine with, because, you know, tenors. Whatever. My dad can sing “Nessun dorma” to my satisfaction while he makes the pasta sauce and watches soccer, fuck. But when you get a mezzo as fine as Marianna Kulikova playing second to someone like June Anderson in an opera that’s so heavy on the ladies and features some of the nicest duets between them – not to mention a plot wherein the relationship between them is key – damn. Because they could both act, too.
Even the set was almost sufficient this time, which is something for the COC. They did a good job making it look vaguely Druidy and forbidding. But please – no more fucking heat-lamp funeral pyres, okay? That’s bullshit right there.
giovedì, marzo 30, 2006
You make me happy when skies are grey
Yay! Charles Taylor has been arrested and sent to Sierra Leone!
The Red Dragon is on wing and it fucking hurts. I'm thinking of taking the anti-spasmodics the Italian doctor gave me for the encephawhatever that was spasming after my defense. Because cramps are like spasms, right? 'Spasm' has got to be one of the funniest-sounding words ever. Besides 'orgasm'. That's a hilarious word. Speaking of which, up until yesterday my only real opinion about the seal hunt here, which I've mentioned more than once before, is that Brigitte Bardot fakes a shitty orgasm. I try not to have an opinion about the seal hunt because I don't know enough about the situation to run a mental cost/benefit analysis regarding the cost of something infant being clubbed to death on an ice floe versus the benefit to a badly economically depressed region of clubbing infant things to death. Also, I know any opinion I allow myself to have would be unduly influenced by those awful harp seals in March of the Penguins*.
But yesterday, I found out Morissey is refusing to tour Canada until the hunt is called off, which is just fucking awesome. I have no reason to dislike the man as violently as I do, except that his voice makes me want to kill. He sings some pretty songs and the Smiths played some pretty instruments, but the voice itself – god, it's like watching someone chew on aluminum foil, I JUST WANT IT TO STOP, STOP GODDAMNIT, STOP. One of the most nightmarish things I can imagine is waking up to Morissey in my bedroom singing 'You Are My Sunshine'. I'd rather have Joe Pesci. I'd rather have fucking - fucking - Tom Sizemore singing me that shit, and the man is creepy.
Not much other news today. Reebok has issued a limited edition shoe as part of the Reebobber line that features the crown logo of Jean-Michel Basquiat. So now I fucking hate Reebok. I think the thing that finally drives me out of this job will be that reading five newspapers a day gives me too many things to fucking hate. When my mum was here, she got me a book about Ghengis Khan. Hopefully I'll like him.
*Bob Saget, most famous as a nice man on Full House and America's Funniest Home Videos and the filthiest men alive in the Aristocrats, is making a R-rated mockumentary on March of the Penguins.
The Red Dragon is on wing and it fucking hurts. I'm thinking of taking the anti-spasmodics the Italian doctor gave me for the encephawhatever that was spasming after my defense. Because cramps are like spasms, right? 'Spasm' has got to be one of the funniest-sounding words ever. Besides 'orgasm'. That's a hilarious word. Speaking of which, up until yesterday my only real opinion about the seal hunt here, which I've mentioned more than once before, is that Brigitte Bardot fakes a shitty orgasm. I try not to have an opinion about the seal hunt because I don't know enough about the situation to run a mental cost/benefit analysis regarding the cost of something infant being clubbed to death on an ice floe versus the benefit to a badly economically depressed region of clubbing infant things to death. Also, I know any opinion I allow myself to have would be unduly influenced by those awful harp seals in March of the Penguins*.
But yesterday, I found out Morissey is refusing to tour Canada until the hunt is called off, which is just fucking awesome. I have no reason to dislike the man as violently as I do, except that his voice makes me want to kill. He sings some pretty songs and the Smiths played some pretty instruments, but the voice itself – god, it's like watching someone chew on aluminum foil, I JUST WANT IT TO STOP, STOP GODDAMNIT, STOP. One of the most nightmarish things I can imagine is waking up to Morissey in my bedroom singing 'You Are My Sunshine'. I'd rather have Joe Pesci. I'd rather have fucking - fucking - Tom Sizemore singing me that shit, and the man is creepy.
Not much other news today. Reebok has issued a limited edition shoe as part of the Reebobber line that features the crown logo of Jean-Michel Basquiat. So now I fucking hate Reebok. I think the thing that finally drives me out of this job will be that reading five newspapers a day gives me too many things to fucking hate. When my mum was here, she got me a book about Ghengis Khan. Hopefully I'll like him.
*Bob Saget, most famous as a nice man on Full House and America's Funniest Home Videos and the filthiest men alive in the Aristocrats, is making a R-rated mockumentary on March of the Penguins.
mercoledì, marzo 29, 2006
People are retards
Soooo . . . I suppose I should start this entry by saying I sent yesterday's videos of Silvio Berlusconi eating snot and dry-humping some sort of civil servant to my cousin in Catania, and he thought they were fake. Whether that means he just can't believe the evidence of his eyes or thinks that someone staged those extravaganzas for the senses, I haven't yet clarified. So there you are.
Anyways, yesterday at work I learnt a new word. Sort of. "Emo". It was in this article about the new Superman movie. I guess living in moon man countries for a few years and then going on an opera binge broken only by the pretty music Lady, J*Fish, FEB, my brothers, Calisaurus’s beau, Carmen, Mr. N, KEXP Radio, and sundry sexual partners have thrown my way wasn’t the best way to keep my fingers on the throbbing pulse of the pop music classification industry. But I was really relieved to find this category, and really really relieved that Wikipedia had an entry on it to bring me up to speed, because I was confused about how to classify some of my favorite emotional songs by emotional musicians who would ‘become spontaneously and literally emotional during performances’. So here is a list of my favorite emo-type songs:
1. "My Best Friend’s Girl", from the Cars. Oh god. When Ric Ocasek really gets into it towards the end, I just want to cry along with him. She used to be - yours? And now she's dating your best friend? Fucking whore.
2. "Je t’aime moi non plus" – the Jane Birkin version, obviously, not the Brigitte Bardot version. Brigitte Bardot sounds like she’s faking the emo.
3. "It’s a Shame", from the Spinners. Oof, when they break it down, I feel ashamed. Have I been messing around with my man? I hadn't thought so - but it’s got ta be a shame!
4. "She", by Charles Aznavour. I don’t know if she’s the beauty or the beast, the famine or the feast. But damnit, he sounds so sad. I hope he figures it out.
5. "My Favourite Things", from Julie Andrews. I also always try to simply remember my favourite things when I'd prefer to stop feeling so bad.
Honestly, "emo". I swear a dominant society hasn't been this fucking stupid since the Romans were on the decline.
Anyways, since I got sick I've been trying to correct my naughtier eating habits and it's been mostly working, probably because I haven't cut out things that are actually good, like cheese or pickles. I have cut out refined sugar in my normal diet - no idea if it makes a difference or not, I think I only did it as an excuse to eat more honey. Anyways, I got sick of honey, got some blackstrap molasses, and found this article while I was trying to figure out how to store it once opened. Man, caker motherfuckers blamed everything on the Italian anarchists in those days.
Which makes one feel sort of hopeful for the future, doesn't it? I mean, today people from the Middle East are getting the shitty end of the lollipop. Maybe in forty years they'll just be standard tax-evading citizens who a few brilliant film and television directors can establish a lucrative industry on by exploiting violent or hilarious domestic stereotypes so wittily that the targetted community itself enjoys and supports it. I wonder how you say Sopranos in Arabic. Word of advice: when that day comes, don't let outside people into the industry . . . I'm still struggling to get over what Norman Jewison did to my people in Moonstruck. My fault for watching the fucker, I suppose.
Anyways, yesterday at work I learnt a new word. Sort of. "Emo". It was in this article about the new Superman movie. I guess living in moon man countries for a few years and then going on an opera binge broken only by the pretty music Lady, J*Fish, FEB, my brothers, Calisaurus’s beau, Carmen, Mr. N, KEXP Radio, and sundry sexual partners have thrown my way wasn’t the best way to keep my fingers on the throbbing pulse of the pop music classification industry. But I was really relieved to find this category, and really really relieved that Wikipedia had an entry on it to bring me up to speed, because I was confused about how to classify some of my favorite emotional songs by emotional musicians who would ‘become spontaneously and literally emotional during performances’. So here is a list of my favorite emo-type songs:
1. "My Best Friend’s Girl", from the Cars. Oh god. When Ric Ocasek really gets into it towards the end, I just want to cry along with him. She used to be - yours? And now she's dating your best friend? Fucking whore.
2. "Je t’aime moi non plus" – the Jane Birkin version, obviously, not the Brigitte Bardot version. Brigitte Bardot sounds like she’s faking the emo.
3. "It’s a Shame", from the Spinners. Oof, when they break it down, I feel ashamed. Have I been messing around with my man? I hadn't thought so - but it’s got ta be a shame!
4. "She", by Charles Aznavour. I don’t know if she’s the beauty or the beast, the famine or the feast. But damnit, he sounds so sad. I hope he figures it out.
5. "My Favourite Things", from Julie Andrews. I also always try to simply remember my favourite things when I'd prefer to stop feeling so bad.
Honestly, "emo". I swear a dominant society hasn't been this fucking stupid since the Romans were on the decline.
Anyways, since I got sick I've been trying to correct my naughtier eating habits and it's been mostly working, probably because I haven't cut out things that are actually good, like cheese or pickles. I have cut out refined sugar in my normal diet - no idea if it makes a difference or not, I think I only did it as an excuse to eat more honey. Anyways, I got sick of honey, got some blackstrap molasses, and found this article while I was trying to figure out how to store it once opened. Man, caker motherfuckers blamed everything on the Italian anarchists in those days.
Which makes one feel sort of hopeful for the future, doesn't it? I mean, today people from the Middle East are getting the shitty end of the lollipop. Maybe in forty years they'll just be standard tax-evading citizens who a few brilliant film and television directors can establish a lucrative industry on by exploiting violent or hilarious domestic stereotypes so wittily that the targetted community itself enjoys and supports it. I wonder how you say Sopranos in Arabic. Word of advice: when that day comes, don't let outside people into the industry . . . I'm still struggling to get over what Norman Jewison did to my people in Moonstruck. My fault for watching the fucker, I suppose.
martedì, marzo 28, 2006
You know you drive me wild
Fratelli d'Italia, l'Italia s'è desta, dell'elmo di Scipio, s'è cinta la testa. Dove'è la Vittoria?
Uhm, I think Silvio Berlusconi found it up his fucking nose. Forza Italia! My nation, the the beautiful and fertile meadow that bred half of my genetic material (the better half, according to some Anglophobes) is considering making him Prime Minister once more . . . FEB, who if he's serious is coming here soon, said he got me a deck of cards in Bologna produced by Berlusconi as a campaigning tool. As soon as he said that, of course my mind leapt to the possibilities of seeing Silvio's sweet physique gracing the face cards in various sultry poses, in greater and greater degrees of undress. My panties feel funny just thinking about it. Because, you know, whenever I watch romances, pornography, or men nailing me, I always try to imagine Silvio Berlusconi in the lead role.
Merciful god, I'm making myself nauseous. Yet strangely aroused . . .
Speaking of men I have a hard love on for, remember when I was getting all pissy about Morgan Spurlock in January? Turns out I should have got pissier. Please, enjoy the letter of explanation in which he defends himself by saying a foundation member has a McDick's franchise, as if he was viciously sticking it to the man or something. And yet the fucking bourgeois shithead was so fucking irresponsible about labour issues, which just makes me want to slap him stupid considering McDick's employees are waaaaaaaay more victimized by the franchise than some pasty-ass dillweed with a vegan chef girlfriend. Oh fuck, that little shit pisses me off.
Finally, in non-hot man news, I've been given a raise. It's a shitty raise, but it's a raise, and the director agreed to schedule an extra-contract pay review in September as well as to jack up my RSP contributions. All of which means . . . not much. I'm still waiting for Silvio to come and take me away from all this. Or at least mime humping me on the hood of a car; that'd probably be enough to get me off if I could just smell him. Oh man! Why am I teasing myself with these sweet, impossible dreams?
Uhm, I think Silvio Berlusconi found it up his fucking nose. Forza Italia! My nation, the the beautiful and fertile meadow that bred half of my genetic material (the better half, according to some Anglophobes) is considering making him Prime Minister once more . . . FEB, who if he's serious is coming here soon, said he got me a deck of cards in Bologna produced by Berlusconi as a campaigning tool. As soon as he said that, of course my mind leapt to the possibilities of seeing Silvio's sweet physique gracing the face cards in various sultry poses, in greater and greater degrees of undress. My panties feel funny just thinking about it. Because, you know, whenever I watch romances, pornography, or men nailing me, I always try to imagine Silvio Berlusconi in the lead role.
Merciful god, I'm making myself nauseous. Yet strangely aroused . . .
Speaking of men I have a hard love on for, remember when I was getting all pissy about Morgan Spurlock in January? Turns out I should have got pissier. Please, enjoy the letter of explanation in which he defends himself by saying a foundation member has a McDick's franchise, as if he was viciously sticking it to the man or something. And yet the fucking bourgeois shithead was so fucking irresponsible about labour issues, which just makes me want to slap him stupid considering McDick's employees are waaaaaaaay more victimized by the franchise than some pasty-ass dillweed with a vegan chef girlfriend. Oh fuck, that little shit pisses me off.
Finally, in non-hot man news, I've been given a raise. It's a shitty raise, but it's a raise, and the director agreed to schedule an extra-contract pay review in September as well as to jack up my RSP contributions. All of which means . . . not much. I'm still waiting for Silvio to come and take me away from all this. Or at least mime humping me on the hood of a car; that'd probably be enough to get me off if I could just smell him. Oh man! Why am I teasing myself with these sweet, impossible dreams?
lunedì, marzo 27, 2006
Bureaucracy
I watched the rest of The Office yesterday, ate honey cheese turnovers from the Indian bakers up the street, and took care of some correspondence. Very little business. Very little. Although my bikes are well on their way to dominating the streets of Toronto once more. Fucking Office. Now I'll have to watch the whole American series, and take care of even less business. I should have watched it the first time someone fell over convulsing and yelling at me for my pop-culture negligence when I told them I hadn't seen it yet. For the record, one more time, I don't have television, the economic dynamics of the North American broadcast industry make me unhappy, and up until Saturday one of the fucking consequences of that was not having seen the fucking Office, ok?
Anyways, the principal problem with this sort of thing is once in awhile people start jizzing all over a show I absolutely MUST rent on DVD, and I say yes I must indeed rent that show, and then I forget all about it until the next person comes along and jizzes all over the same show. And I never actually see the show until someone, instead of just pulling a Genesis 38, actually has a DVD and can show me a couple of episodes, like Luke Duke with the Office or Calisaurus's beau with Deadwood, by which time there is no way the reality is going to match the build-up. Although Deadwood was actually a pleasant suprise I'd never even heard of before the beau sprung it on us.
Do I sound cranky? I am, a touch. It's not as though I don't want to hear anything about anyone's opinions on television shows unless they have a DVD handy and are prepared to show it to me then and there. But I'd heard so much about the Office for so long that there was no way it was going to live up to my hopes and dreams when I finally rented it. It was funny though. I would have liked the second series to be less focussed on the manager, because all the other characters were funny too, and when you watch it straight through high as a Tibetan kite you start to resent all his airtime when you could be watching Gareth doing something funnier. And the love story was really sweet. These poor little proles trapped in a set of expectations, wanting so bad to bust out! Also it was good to watch it after driving through Slough with Rodelinda and her young man on my way back to Paris earlier this month and realizing it was an actual place. Not that there aren't a million places like that all over France and Canada and even Italy now. Slough just has the best name for it, I guess.
In other office-y news, I have a pay review today. Not sure what to expect. I just started the new job, then went on vacation, haven't come close to finishing training, and don't benefit the company with my Frenchiness anymore. But - it's a new job and I just got a master's degree so I'll feel justified in getting pissy if I don't get more money. On verra.
Anyways, the principal problem with this sort of thing is once in awhile people start jizzing all over a show I absolutely MUST rent on DVD, and I say yes I must indeed rent that show, and then I forget all about it until the next person comes along and jizzes all over the same show. And I never actually see the show until someone, instead of just pulling a Genesis 38, actually has a DVD and can show me a couple of episodes, like Luke Duke with the Office or Calisaurus's beau with Deadwood, by which time there is no way the reality is going to match the build-up. Although Deadwood was actually a pleasant suprise I'd never even heard of before the beau sprung it on us.
Do I sound cranky? I am, a touch. It's not as though I don't want to hear anything about anyone's opinions on television shows unless they have a DVD handy and are prepared to show it to me then and there. But I'd heard so much about the Office for so long that there was no way it was going to live up to my hopes and dreams when I finally rented it. It was funny though. I would have liked the second series to be less focussed on the manager, because all the other characters were funny too, and when you watch it straight through high as a Tibetan kite you start to resent all his airtime when you could be watching Gareth doing something funnier. And the love story was really sweet. These poor little proles trapped in a set of expectations, wanting so bad to bust out! Also it was good to watch it after driving through Slough with Rodelinda and her young man on my way back to Paris earlier this month and realizing it was an actual place. Not that there aren't a million places like that all over France and Canada and even Italy now. Slough just has the best name for it, I guess.
In other office-y news, I have a pay review today. Not sure what to expect. I just started the new job, then went on vacation, haven't come close to finishing training, and don't benefit the company with my Frenchiness anymore. But - it's a new job and I just got a master's degree so I'll feel justified in getting pissy if I don't get more money. On verra.
domenica, marzo 26, 2006
Business
So fed up with everything everywhere that I suppose it's time to make things happen, when really all I want to do is smoke reefer, watch more episodes of The Office (I saw my first yesterday at the gré of my shocked brother, who's one of many shocked I hadn't seen it before. What can I say but 'Two lesbians. Sisters. I'm just watching.'), and eat delicious things. Physically speaking I feel like a pillow someone's been drooling on, mentally - well - I haven't seen any more dancing robins, but it wouldn't surprise me. And my apartment is some sort of biohazard.
I'm going to clear my calendar, quarantine myself, and take care of some business; but before I do, some notes for my readers. The asiago cheese my father very kindly bought me against his better judgement was indeed deserving of being in contrariance with his better judgement. Tre Stelle's Canadian asiago doesn't deserve the prices charged for it; it doesn't even deserve the name of asiago, which at its best should be a delicate yet piquant harder cheese experience, like the Soulwax mash-up Smells like Teen Booty. This crap is bland. Asiago should be many things, but bland isn't one of them. Steer away from that shit and pay an extra five bucks to get an import.
Second note: grappa is a fine, fine drink. And a grappa drunk is a fine, fine drunk. Coming from an ethnic group that risked blindness and death on a yearly basis to produce and imbibe this stuff, I may be biased, but I'll tell you this: every time I get shitfaced with grappa, it's a happy time and the next day there are no ill effects except epic crankiness, which with a personality like mine is well-disguised. Some older people also complain of heartburn. Mmm. I wish I had some more grappa RIGHT NOW.
I'm going to clear my calendar, quarantine myself, and take care of some business; but before I do, some notes for my readers. The asiago cheese my father very kindly bought me against his better judgement was indeed deserving of being in contrariance with his better judgement. Tre Stelle's Canadian asiago doesn't deserve the prices charged for it; it doesn't even deserve the name of asiago, which at its best should be a delicate yet piquant harder cheese experience, like the Soulwax mash-up Smells like Teen Booty. This crap is bland. Asiago should be many things, but bland isn't one of them. Steer away from that shit and pay an extra five bucks to get an import.
Second note: grappa is a fine, fine drink. And a grappa drunk is a fine, fine drunk. Coming from an ethnic group that risked blindness and death on a yearly basis to produce and imbibe this stuff, I may be biased, but I'll tell you this: every time I get shitfaced with grappa, it's a happy time and the next day there are no ill effects except epic crankiness, which with a personality like mine is well-disguised. Some older people also complain of heartburn. Mmm. I wish I had some more grappa RIGHT NOW.
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