...should have been day 2. But it was foolish of me to have thought I could have moved out of my apartment without spending two full, frantic days tying up loose ends. My original plan was to leave first thing Friday morning, but my plan contained a fatal flaw: it required that I be ready to leave Friday morning.
Not even close. I spent all of Friday, and just about all of today, rushing to finish cleaning out my apartment and packing my stuff. Sometime around the middle of today, I reached the "I don't give a shit" line, and started taking care of both tasks simultaneously by throwing items indiscriminately into the dumpster.
This did help to speed things up.
I finally managed to hit the road by 5 in the afternoon, sore from moving and feeling beaten. I managed to drive as far as Tracy before I saw an In-N-Out sign* and caved in. I was tired, I didn't know exactly where I was going, and I had put *just* enough weight onto the front passenger seat that my car thought there was a person on it and let me know by beeping at me in a helpful and excruciatingly annoying manner.
So I pulled into the first motel I saw that appeared to be hospitable, got a double-double, had a few equalizers**, and hit the hot tub. if I was not going to camp as I should have, I was at least going to enjoy it.
So now, it's off to the hot tub so I can make amends with my back after abusing it so much these past few days. Tomorrow morning I start bright and early, fresh and ready for adventures in Yosemite. Where, presumably, the internet is slightly less accessible. It may be a while until my next post.
-dave-
*Although I had been living in California for close to two years, I had never actually gotten a burger at In-N-Out. It feels strangely fitting that on my last day as an official California resident, I managed to taste such a uniquely California burger. I had a double-double with fries and a coke, and loved every last greasy bite (granted, I had built up something of an appetite during the day and probably would have loved any food with sufficient quantities of fat and salt. But I digress). It's nice to see that in an increasingly modernizing world, the inside of an In-N-Out does not look much different from the original burger joint that opened up in 1948.
**equalizer. Short answer: a delicious drink. Longer answer: a delicious drink made my mixing bourbon (preferably Jim Beam) and cranberry juice over ice. The name derives from the contrasting effects of the ingredients: the bourbon, containing alcohol, is bad for you because it can hurt your liver; the cranberry juice is good for you due to its high vitamin C content. The two reagents thus cancel each other out, resulting in no net effect on your body. Probably.
Saturday, May 31, 2008
Thursday, May 29, 2008
I Can Do This
Notes while frantically cleaning/clearing out my apartment:
1. I have now lived in several generic apartment complexes. If there is any positive aspect of said complexes, it is this: the y all have the same bland "off-white" paint color on the walls that perfectly matches the color of whatever off-the-shelf spackle I buy to fill holes from nails and tacks. I do not believe this is by accident.
2. I've spent the past week or so making a point of *only* eating food in my refrigerator/freezer these past few weeks, in order to minimize food waste when I move out this weekend. I have learned one lesson so far: I buy too many frozen peas. This of course reminds me of my favorite clip from The Critic.
3. If you like fish, eat sushi. If you really like sushi, go out on a Tuesday night. Rumor has it that the San Francisco fishmonger sales take place on Monday/Tuesday; therefore, the freshest sushi will always be that night. I was at Sushi Man on Tuesday, and had some of the best hamachi and maguro I've had in a while. (Given my now-unemployed status, I probably won't be splurging on sushi for a while. It was worth it, though).
4. If you like fish, and you buy fish, and then choose to freeze it, try to thaw and cook it within a few months of your purchase. Unless, of course, you really, really like chewing your food.
5. Remember note #2? I've been attempting thing for my booze. It's been working pretty well, although I have been showing up for work a bit later than usual this week. It's allowed me to renew my love for the White Russian (or Caucasian, if you prefer the Dude's nomenclature), although there have been some rough bits. For example: cooking wine. Note to self: "cooking wine" is called that for a reason.
6. The adventure starts on Saturday. It will rock.
-deuce-
1. I have now lived in several generic apartment complexes. If there is any positive aspect of said complexes, it is this: the y all have the same bland "off-white" paint color on the walls that perfectly matches the color of whatever off-the-shelf spackle I buy to fill holes from nails and tacks. I do not believe this is by accident.
2. I've spent the past week or so making a point of *only* eating food in my refrigerator/freezer these past few weeks, in order to minimize food waste when I move out this weekend. I have learned one lesson so far: I buy too many frozen peas. This of course reminds me of my favorite clip from The Critic.
3. If you like fish, eat sushi. If you really like sushi, go out on a Tuesday night. Rumor has it that the San Francisco fishmonger sales take place on Monday/Tuesday; therefore, the freshest sushi will always be that night. I was at Sushi Man on Tuesday, and had some of the best hamachi and maguro I've had in a while. (Given my now-unemployed status, I probably won't be splurging on sushi for a while. It was worth it, though).
4. If you like fish, and you buy fish, and then choose to freeze it, try to thaw and cook it within a few months of your purchase. Unless, of course, you really, really like chewing your food.
5. Remember note #2? I've been attempting thing for my booze. It's been working pretty well, although I have been showing up for work a bit later than usual this week. It's allowed me to renew my love for the White Russian (or Caucasian, if you prefer the Dude's nomenclature), although there have been some rough bits. For example: cooking wine. Note to self: "cooking wine" is called that for a reason.
6. The adventure starts on Saturday. It will rock.
-deuce-
Monday, May 19, 2008
Road Trip 2: Electric Boogaloo
I haven't updated the blog in a while. I've been busy. Work's been speeding up, I've been doing a lot of mountain biking in the surrounding hills, and I've been sticking to a very strict video game regimen when I am at my computer. But I've got big news, and it can't wait:
I'm going back on the road, May 30. Cross-country road trip, with a northern flavor. Oregon, Washington, Idaho, Wyoming, the Dakotas, skirting around the Great Lakes, getting some proper wings in Buffalo, and then through New York to finish up in New England. That means from here on out, this is my road blog. If you were looking to read about my culinary experiments (unlikely) or my neighbors' sexual escapades (slightly less unlikely), you'll just have to wait. I'll be done with my trip in a few months and I'll be back to blogging about the more mundane aspects of my life.
Enjoy!
-NW
I'm going back on the road, May 30. Cross-country road trip, with a northern flavor. Oregon, Washington, Idaho, Wyoming, the Dakotas, skirting around the Great Lakes, getting some proper wings in Buffalo, and then through New York to finish up in New England. That means from here on out, this is my road blog. If you were looking to read about my culinary experiments (unlikely) or my neighbors' sexual escapades (slightly less unlikely), you'll just have to wait. I'll be done with my trip in a few months and I'll be back to blogging about the more mundane aspects of my life.
Enjoy!
-NW
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Success! Success! SUCCESS!
Dave 1, Recipe Book 0.
I had some pears. They sat in my fridge for a while, slowly creeping past the wrong side of ripe. I hate to throw out food without at least making some effort to eat it first, so it was up to me to figure out how to make something of it. I've learned in the past, that baking overripe fruit with sugar and butter is a high percentage play, so I went for broke. But it wasn't enough to stop there -- it needed something else. Something special.
Booze.
I give you: "Butter-Rum Pear Crisp"
Ingredients:*
Some pears. 4 will do. Mine were D'Anjou pears, and they seemed to work out pretty well.
Rum. About half a cup. Feel free to increase this amount. Dark rum is better; really dark rum is best. Goslings or Myers.
Butter. I went for 4 tablespoons; you could very easily go lower. Needless to say, my result was more butter than rum.
A small lemon. Or some lemon juice.
Oats; about 2/3 cup. The kind of oats that come in a can with some quaker guy on it.
Flour; about 1/3 cup.
Sugar; about...uhh...1/3 cup? Like the butter, this could afford to go lower.
Dried cranberries (or raisins, or cherries, or similar. About...uhhh...1/2 cup)
Crumbled pecans. Or walnuts. Umm...let's say 1/2 cup again.
Spices! Vanilla, Nutmeg, Cinnamon. Good stuff.
1 egg, if you feel like it.
Small casserole dish.
Preheat your oven to 375.
Peel and core the pears; slice them up into 1/4"-thick slices. Toss them in a mixing bowl, and toss them with the lemon juice to prevent browning. Dump in the rum, spices, and dried cranberries (use whatever feels right). Stick the bowl in the fridge to let the pears soak up the rum while to get everything else ready.
Mix up the oats, sugar, and flour. Spray some oil on the casserole dish, then sprinkle about 1/4 the flour/oat mixture on the bottom. This will be to soak up any excess liquid from the pear/rum mixture -- add more if you're gone heavy on the rum. Dump the pear mixture on top of this.
Melt the butter up in a cup. Drizzle a bit into the casserole dish. Mix the rest up with the oat/sugar/flour mix; this will make the "crisp." Spread the crumbled pecans onto the pears in the casserole dish, then spread the "crisp" on top of that.
If you feel so inclined, you can whip up that single egg, pat down the top of the crisp, and spread the whipped egg over that -- this will give the crisp a sort of glaze-topping. It seemed like the right thing to do at the time, and it didn't detract from the dish at all.
Stick the dish in the oven; cook for 35-45 minutes, or until it seems right. 30 minutes should be enough to make those pears tender and let the rum work its magic.
Consume. Try not to think about how much butter is in each bite.
*I've never put much emphasis on measuring quantities, as my usual cooking amount is the "until it looks about right." This recipe, being highly improvisational, is even less measurement-intense than my usual offerings. If you want to give this a go, just remember: all of these ingredients will taste delicious together. You can work out the ratios later.
-deuce-
I had some pears. They sat in my fridge for a while, slowly creeping past the wrong side of ripe. I hate to throw out food without at least making some effort to eat it first, so it was up to me to figure out how to make something of it. I've learned in the past, that baking overripe fruit with sugar and butter is a high percentage play, so I went for broke. But it wasn't enough to stop there -- it needed something else. Something special.
Booze.
I give you: "Butter-Rum Pear Crisp"
Ingredients:*
Some pears. 4 will do. Mine were D'Anjou pears, and they seemed to work out pretty well.
Rum. About half a cup. Feel free to increase this amount. Dark rum is better; really dark rum is best. Goslings or Myers.
Butter. I went for 4 tablespoons; you could very easily go lower. Needless to say, my result was more butter than rum.
A small lemon. Or some lemon juice.
Oats; about 2/3 cup. The kind of oats that come in a can with some quaker guy on it.
Flour; about 1/3 cup.
Sugar; about...uhh...1/3 cup? Like the butter, this could afford to go lower.
Dried cranberries (or raisins, or cherries, or similar. About...uhhh...1/2 cup)
Crumbled pecans. Or walnuts. Umm...let's say 1/2 cup again.
Spices! Vanilla, Nutmeg, Cinnamon. Good stuff.
1 egg, if you feel like it.
Small casserole dish.
Preheat your oven to 375.
Peel and core the pears; slice them up into 1/4"-thick slices. Toss them in a mixing bowl, and toss them with the lemon juice to prevent browning. Dump in the rum, spices, and dried cranberries (use whatever feels right). Stick the bowl in the fridge to let the pears soak up the rum while to get everything else ready.
Mix up the oats, sugar, and flour. Spray some oil on the casserole dish, then sprinkle about 1/4 the flour/oat mixture on the bottom. This will be to soak up any excess liquid from the pear/rum mixture -- add more if you're gone heavy on the rum. Dump the pear mixture on top of this.
Melt the butter up in a cup. Drizzle a bit into the casserole dish. Mix the rest up with the oat/sugar/flour mix; this will make the "crisp." Spread the crumbled pecans onto the pears in the casserole dish, then spread the "crisp" on top of that.
If you feel so inclined, you can whip up that single egg, pat down the top of the crisp, and spread the whipped egg over that -- this will give the crisp a sort of glaze-topping. It seemed like the right thing to do at the time, and it didn't detract from the dish at all.
Stick the dish in the oven; cook for 35-45 minutes, or until it seems right. 30 minutes should be enough to make those pears tender and let the rum work its magic.
Consume. Try not to think about how much butter is in each bite.
*I've never put much emphasis on measuring quantities, as my usual cooking amount is the "until it looks about right." This recipe, being highly improvisational, is even less measurement-intense than my usual offerings. If you want to give this a go, just remember: all of these ingredients will taste delicious together. You can work out the ratios later.
-deuce-
Monday, April 14, 2008
Taxes! The fingers thing means the taxes!
Grumblegrumblegrumble.
Today was another landmark in the process of growing up: the first time I had to cut a check to Uncle Sam on tax day. My income had stayed low enough in prior years that when I finished filling out the Byzantine tax forms, the final number resulted in a meager little windfall for myself. It never seemed to be that much, and it was always irksome knowing that the refund money -- money that was rightfully mine -- spent the better part of the year in Federal coffers (where it helped financed things I don't support, like pork barrel projects and warfare) instead of my pocket (where it could finance things I do support, like beer). But it still was money, and by my loose definition of the phrase, it was free money. (Free money, by my count, is any income that I cannot remember having earned. It encompasses wadded-up bills found in my laundry, money friends pay me back for loans I forgot I gave them, and my favorite kind, checks made out to me that have hidden deep in my bag or piles of paper on my desk)
This past year was different. Due in part to a larger income (though this being near San Francisco, my cost-of-living is so high that there's less money making it's way to my savings than before I moved out here) and a bit of interest income, the math somehow worked out so that I still owed money to the gubbermint. Needless to say, I was not pleased. Every two weeks last year, I would receive a check from my employer. There would be a nice, respectable number on the top of the check, followed by a series of somewhat smaller numbers below. The smaller numbers would chip away at Mr. Gross Income sitting up at the top of the page, poking him and needling him and slicing him up until his beaten corpse fell to the bottom of the page, where he became Mr. Pay To The Order Of, now only a meager shadow of his former greatness.
So after a year of this, I was looking forward to a nice, fat refund. The sort of refund that, were I to spend the entire sum on beer, would cause my liver to march out of my body in protest. I thought about how I could put said refund towards my planned road trip fund this summer. I thought about taking my refund check down to the bank, requesting that it be cashed entirely in pennies, and then filling my bathtub with the coins and wallowing in my wealth like Mammon himself.
But instead, my cash goes to that flag-wearing jag-off in a top hat, Uncle Freaking Sam. I would like to think that I would feel less outraged about paying taxes if I knew that the majority of my money was not being used to finance a war I've opposed since its inception, but I doubt it. I'd probably still find something to bitch about even if every penny I paid was perfectly, efficiently funneled to pay for needed schools, hospitals, and infrastructure.
At least I know it's over for another year, and I might as well relax as much as I can. So I'm enjoying a nice , big, White Russian and watching one of my favorite Simpsons episodes, "The PTA Disbands" (source of the title for this post). I'll just have to deal with my frustration, sit back, and accept that if I have to pay more taxes, that very fact means I'm taking home more money than I did before. That, and I'd just waste it on booze anyway.
"Behold, the mythological Esquilax! The horse with the head of a rabbit...and...the body of a rabbit!"
-Friar Wiggum
Today was another landmark in the process of growing up: the first time I had to cut a check to Uncle Sam on tax day. My income had stayed low enough in prior years that when I finished filling out the Byzantine tax forms, the final number resulted in a meager little windfall for myself. It never seemed to be that much, and it was always irksome knowing that the refund money -- money that was rightfully mine -- spent the better part of the year in Federal coffers (where it helped financed things I don't support, like pork barrel projects and warfare) instead of my pocket (where it could finance things I do support, like beer). But it still was money, and by my loose definition of the phrase, it was free money. (Free money, by my count, is any income that I cannot remember having earned. It encompasses wadded-up bills found in my laundry, money friends pay me back for loans I forgot I gave them, and my favorite kind, checks made out to me that have hidden deep in my bag or piles of paper on my desk)
This past year was different. Due in part to a larger income (though this being near San Francisco, my cost-of-living is so high that there's less money making it's way to my savings than before I moved out here) and a bit of interest income, the math somehow worked out so that I still owed money to the gubbermint. Needless to say, I was not pleased. Every two weeks last year, I would receive a check from my employer. There would be a nice, respectable number on the top of the check, followed by a series of somewhat smaller numbers below. The smaller numbers would chip away at Mr. Gross Income sitting up at the top of the page, poking him and needling him and slicing him up until his beaten corpse fell to the bottom of the page, where he became Mr. Pay To The Order Of, now only a meager shadow of his former greatness.
So after a year of this, I was looking forward to a nice, fat refund. The sort of refund that, were I to spend the entire sum on beer, would cause my liver to march out of my body in protest. I thought about how I could put said refund towards my planned road trip fund this summer. I thought about taking my refund check down to the bank, requesting that it be cashed entirely in pennies, and then filling my bathtub with the coins and wallowing in my wealth like Mammon himself.
But instead, my cash goes to that flag-wearing jag-off in a top hat, Uncle Freaking Sam. I would like to think that I would feel less outraged about paying taxes if I knew that the majority of my money was not being used to finance a war I've opposed since its inception, but I doubt it. I'd probably still find something to bitch about even if every penny I paid was perfectly, efficiently funneled to pay for needed schools, hospitals, and infrastructure.
At least I know it's over for another year, and I might as well relax as much as I can. So I'm enjoying a nice , big, White Russian and watching one of my favorite Simpsons episodes, "The PTA Disbands" (source of the title for this post). I'll just have to deal with my frustration, sit back, and accept that if I have to pay more taxes, that very fact means I'm taking home more money than I did before. That, and I'd just waste it on booze anyway.
"Behold, the mythological Esquilax! The horse with the head of a rabbit...and...the body of a rabbit!"
-Friar Wiggum
Sunday, April 13, 2008
So Fresh And So Clean (Clean)
...aaahhh.
I took my PE exam yesterday and Friday, and I'm feeling nice and relaxed now that it's all behind me. I can look forward my weekends now being filled with skiing and hiking and all the fun things that do not involve sitting in a room studying all day. It's going to be good.
I celebrated today with one of my favorite Sunday-afternoon activities, washing my car. I'm the sort of person who is zealously protective of my car, and hates the thought of anyone else touching it -- be they valet, gas-station attendant, or car wash towel-guy. The end result is that every so often, I'll roll down to the self-serve car wash, get lil' Oki all clean with my foaming brush skills, and then spend the next hour or so waxing her to a perfect shine. I'm not someone who normally takes cleanliness so anally -- my approach to vacuuming stretches the definition of "clean" to it's limit -- but when it comes to my car, it has to be perfect. I'll buff in that wax until my arms fall off, and then I'll pace around the car, making sure that it shines from every angle. The goal is a car-shaped hunk of obsidian glass, and when I can achieve that it feels wonderful.
Then I'll drive home to my apartment, where furniture is dusty, carpets are shedding, and sinks are full of dirty dishes. But my car shines.
*A Diversion*
I was perusing the boards at Fark earlier today, and apparently Carboyte UK has committed yet another crime against automotive good taste with their SmartCar limo. I can't develop the same righteous rage against this as I could for their stretch Ferrari, but it did get me thinking: what's the point of having a SmartCar?
Here's how I see it: the SmartCar is very small, which gives it the advantage of being easy to park in congested urban locations. But unless you're Dr. Who, you're not going to manage to have more space inside than the total size of your car, and so the SmartCar can only seat two (somewhat cramped) people with limited luggage space. If you really cared about parking in tiny spaces that much, you could fit the same two people and their small bags on a motorcycle or moped. But a motorcycle isn't all that safe in a collision, whereas the SmartCar is. Well...relatively, at least. Mercedes has crammed in every bit of safety equipment they can, but it's hard to beat basic physics: larger cars have larger crumple zones, and can better dissipate the energy of a collision before it slams your body around inside the car. The SmartCar gets good gas mileage because of it's small size, but in order to give it enough power to get out of its own way, the engine requires premium fuel. It also has to push around the weight of all that safety equipment, so the mileage drops to roughly what you'd get in a Honda Civic. Except that the SmartCar is more expensive. And has poorer performance. And can't fit as much stuff inside. And looks pretty silly.
So in the end, you have a car that was designed to park in small spaces, and then was filled with a whole suite of safety and performance equipment to compensate for it's awkwardly small, boxy shape. So I guess the SmartCar is the car for you if you don't like looking for a parking space, but you want something safer than a motorcycle that won't get you wet if it rains, and you don't want to pay extra for a parking space, but you will pay more for the car and for the gas to get there, and you want good fuel economy, but you'll lug around so much safety equipment that you have no storage space, and most importantly you don't want to have to use public transit FOR ANY REASON WHATSOEVER.
Would it kill people to park their car on the outskirts of a city and use the bus/subway system, and you know, maybe...walk sometimes?
Oh well.
Time for some dinner.
"I can score you some coke and some Grade One grass, but I can't get a gallon of gas"
-The Kinks
I took my PE exam yesterday and Friday, and I'm feeling nice and relaxed now that it's all behind me. I can look forward my weekends now being filled with skiing and hiking and all the fun things that do not involve sitting in a room studying all day. It's going to be good.
I celebrated today with one of my favorite Sunday-afternoon activities, washing my car. I'm the sort of person who is zealously protective of my car, and hates the thought of anyone else touching it -- be they valet, gas-station attendant, or car wash towel-guy. The end result is that every so often, I'll roll down to the self-serve car wash, get lil' Oki all clean with my foaming brush skills, and then spend the next hour or so waxing her to a perfect shine. I'm not someone who normally takes cleanliness so anally -- my approach to vacuuming stretches the definition of "clean" to it's limit -- but when it comes to my car, it has to be perfect. I'll buff in that wax until my arms fall off, and then I'll pace around the car, making sure that it shines from every angle. The goal is a car-shaped hunk of obsidian glass, and when I can achieve that it feels wonderful.
Then I'll drive home to my apartment, where furniture is dusty, carpets are shedding, and sinks are full of dirty dishes. But my car shines.
*A Diversion*
I was perusing the boards at Fark earlier today, and apparently Carboyte UK has committed yet another crime against automotive good taste with their SmartCar limo. I can't develop the same righteous rage against this as I could for their stretch Ferrari, but it did get me thinking: what's the point of having a SmartCar?
Here's how I see it: the SmartCar is very small, which gives it the advantage of being easy to park in congested urban locations. But unless you're Dr. Who, you're not going to manage to have more space inside than the total size of your car, and so the SmartCar can only seat two (somewhat cramped) people with limited luggage space. If you really cared about parking in tiny spaces that much, you could fit the same two people and their small bags on a motorcycle or moped. But a motorcycle isn't all that safe in a collision, whereas the SmartCar is. Well...relatively, at least. Mercedes has crammed in every bit of safety equipment they can, but it's hard to beat basic physics: larger cars have larger crumple zones, and can better dissipate the energy of a collision before it slams your body around inside the car. The SmartCar gets good gas mileage because of it's small size, but in order to give it enough power to get out of its own way, the engine requires premium fuel. It also has to push around the weight of all that safety equipment, so the mileage drops to roughly what you'd get in a Honda Civic. Except that the SmartCar is more expensive. And has poorer performance. And can't fit as much stuff inside. And looks pretty silly.
So in the end, you have a car that was designed to park in small spaces, and then was filled with a whole suite of safety and performance equipment to compensate for it's awkwardly small, boxy shape. So I guess the SmartCar is the car for you if you don't like looking for a parking space, but you want something safer than a motorcycle that won't get you wet if it rains, and you don't want to pay extra for a parking space, but you will pay more for the car and for the gas to get there, and you want good fuel economy, but you'll lug around so much safety equipment that you have no storage space, and most importantly you don't want to have to use public transit FOR ANY REASON WHATSOEVER.
Would it kill people to park their car on the outskirts of a city and use the bus/subway system, and you know, maybe...walk sometimes?
Oh well.
Time for some dinner.
"I can score you some coke and some Grade One grass, but I can't get a gallon of gas"
-The Kinks
Sunday, April 06, 2008
Study Break
Almost there -- the test is Friday/Saturday, and so starting one week from today I will be able to enjoy my weekends once again. I plan to get some serious skiing in.
In the meantime, I'm enjoying a short study break with tonight's Netflix offering, Van Wilder: The Rise of Taj. It follows the proud tradition of college comedy movies, largely by ripping off all of them. And like all great college comedies, it requires absolutely no intellect to watch -- exactly what I need after a full day of engineering problems. Ah, how wonderfully formulaic.
It is not without its moments, though -- one of my favorites:
Snooty British Student: "Let's settle this like my ancestors did!"
Taj: "You want to exploit me economically?"
....and I'm drunk. Tonight's wine recommendation:
"Echelon" Shiraz (California Central Coast, 2003 vintage): This wine meets both the requirements of a good Shiraz: (1) it goes down smooth, and (2) it's cheap. $12.99 at your local BevMo ($6.53 while their 5-cent wine sale is on), this wine starts out by loading a shotgun with blackberries and shooting them directly into your nose. One you get over the initial fruit blast, this wine proves to be very well balanced, almost silky, with enough of a kick (13.7% ABV -- about standard for California wines' ever-increasing proofs these days) to make you forget its shortcomings. I'm 2 glasses in, and I know I have. Unlike most affordable reds out there, it has some years under it's belt -- this wine's been around as long as the US military has been dicking around in Iraq (yes, it's been that long; I just checked. Depressing, isn't it?). And just as the long years of a protracted war inure us to its horrors, this wine won't sting like its younger brethren. In general, the longer a bottle is aged, the more expensive it becomes -- it costs producers extra when they don't sell their product until 5 years after making it -- and I have to say that Echelon is a good value for the money. My only issue is with the capitalized and trademarked "Beyond Merlot" slogan burned onto the back label. Must be how the price got down.
Right; time for some sleep.
"Daddy's not coming anywhere!"
-Dr. Saikat Patel
In the meantime, I'm enjoying a short study break with tonight's Netflix offering, Van Wilder: The Rise of Taj. It follows the proud tradition of college comedy movies, largely by ripping off all of them. And like all great college comedies, it requires absolutely no intellect to watch -- exactly what I need after a full day of engineering problems. Ah, how wonderfully formulaic.
It is not without its moments, though -- one of my favorites:
Snooty British Student: "Let's settle this like my ancestors did!"
Taj: "You want to exploit me economically?"
....and I'm drunk. Tonight's wine recommendation:
"Echelon" Shiraz (California Central Coast, 2003 vintage): This wine meets both the requirements of a good Shiraz: (1) it goes down smooth, and (2) it's cheap. $12.99 at your local BevMo ($6.53 while their 5-cent wine sale is on), this wine starts out by loading a shotgun with blackberries and shooting them directly into your nose. One you get over the initial fruit blast, this wine proves to be very well balanced, almost silky, with enough of a kick (13.7% ABV -- about standard for California wines' ever-increasing proofs these days) to make you forget its shortcomings. I'm 2 glasses in, and I know I have. Unlike most affordable reds out there, it has some years under it's belt -- this wine's been around as long as the US military has been dicking around in Iraq (yes, it's been that long; I just checked. Depressing, isn't it?). And just as the long years of a protracted war inure us to its horrors, this wine won't sting like its younger brethren. In general, the longer a bottle is aged, the more expensive it becomes -- it costs producers extra when they don't sell their product until 5 years after making it -- and I have to say that Echelon is a good value for the money. My only issue is with the capitalized and trademarked "Beyond Merlot" slogan burned onto the back label. Must be how the price got down.
Right; time for some sleep.
"Daddy's not coming anywhere!"
-Dr. Saikat Patel
Friday, March 28, 2008
No Sleep Till Brooklyn
NEIGHBOR SEX UPDATE*
Well, it was a nice 2 hours while it lasted. The sex-tro-nauts next door (I have determined from advanced aural triangulation that they are, in fact, in the apartment below me; I will continue to call them "next-door" anyway because I like the sound better. Poetic license and all that) changed things up a bit last night, and treated me to an entirely new form of loud noise that kept me awake:
A fight!
Oh, and it was a good one, too. There was lots of yelling, and I believe I heard bits about cheating and sex and all that good stuff. Apparently Mrs. Loud-Sex even slapped Mr. Loud-Sex at one point. The score remained tied until Mr. L-S decided to play the classic "well, why don't you leave then?" gambit; this backfired spectacularly when Mrs. L-S did, in fact, storm out the door. This was an intriguing development, and allowed for entirely new loud sounds to keep me awake: slamming doors, heavy footsteps, and the weirdly angry sounding "but I love you!" protests from Mr. L-S. And then it was quiet. Blissfully Serene. I could go to sleep.
2 hours later, I was awakened by the all too-familiar sounds of baby manufacture. Make-Up Sex! Loud stuff, too. Not that there's anything particularly bad about the sound -- it's just that I don't like being lied to. Don't go getting my hopes up just to crush them two hours later, Mr. and Mrs. Sex-Haver. That's just mean.
-deuce
*I suppose I should feel at least some bit of shame for writing detailed descriptions of my neighbors' sexual adventures and then posting them to the internet for all the world to see. Luckily, I am skilled at rationalizing even the most questionable moral decisions, and I say that it is my right -- nay, my duty -- to broadcast to the world the most intimate details of strangers who happen to live near me. I say this because (1) it's no longer a "private" action when everyone in your building can hear you, and (2) I refuse to be a victim in this. They hump, I blog.
Well, it was a nice 2 hours while it lasted. The sex-tro-nauts next door (I have determined from advanced aural triangulation that they are, in fact, in the apartment below me; I will continue to call them "next-door" anyway because I like the sound better. Poetic license and all that) changed things up a bit last night, and treated me to an entirely new form of loud noise that kept me awake:
A fight!
Oh, and it was a good one, too. There was lots of yelling, and I believe I heard bits about cheating and sex and all that good stuff. Apparently Mrs. Loud-Sex even slapped Mr. Loud-Sex at one point. The score remained tied until Mr. L-S decided to play the classic "well, why don't you leave then?" gambit; this backfired spectacularly when Mrs. L-S did, in fact, storm out the door. This was an intriguing development, and allowed for entirely new loud sounds to keep me awake: slamming doors, heavy footsteps, and the weirdly angry sounding "but I love you!" protests from Mr. L-S. And then it was quiet. Blissfully Serene. I could go to sleep.
2 hours later, I was awakened by the all too-familiar sounds of baby manufacture. Make-Up Sex! Loud stuff, too. Not that there's anything particularly bad about the sound -- it's just that I don't like being lied to. Don't go getting my hopes up just to crush them two hours later, Mr. and Mrs. Sex-Haver. That's just mean.
-deuce
*I suppose I should feel at least some bit of shame for writing detailed descriptions of my neighbors' sexual adventures and then posting them to the internet for all the world to see. Luckily, I am skilled at rationalizing even the most questionable moral decisions, and I say that it is my right -- nay, my duty -- to broadcast to the world the most intimate details of strangers who happen to live near me. I say this because (1) it's no longer a "private" action when everyone in your building can hear you, and (2) I refuse to be a victim in this. They hump, I blog.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Like Rabbits, They Are
I live in a large apartment complex. I'm not too proud of this fact, but in my defense I'll be moving out in a couple months.
And none too soon. Those of you who have lived in a similar situation no doubt understand that in such apartment complexes, walls are thin and privacy is a relative term. So far, I've been serenaded by such delightful noises as:
-children screaming
-large objects crashing about
-very loud, very bad music
-loud, vacuous conversations*
-heavy-footed people walking outside my door
-heated arguments**
-sex
The last one is the worst. Especially when it's loud (they are). Especially when I have to get up early the next morning (I usually do). And especially when my special lady friend is far, far away (she is).
In any case, these constant copulators (serial sexopaths?) are, if nothing else, consistent. In recent times, they've been at it almost nightly. And as someone laying in bed -- alone, in the dark, trying to fall asleep -- as this takes place, I've become something of an unwilling Jane Goodall to their sex-having gorillas in the mist.
My findings thus far:
The preferred sex time is between 11pm and 1am -- usually on weeknights.
The man is rather quiet, though he has been known to get in a grunt or a groan now and then.
The woman is an vocal specimen, providing a constant "oh god, oh god, oh god" commentary. Occasionally she'll try the more advanced cadence of "oh, oh god, oh, oh god" to mix things up. I believe that I've also heard a few "harder"'s and "faster"'s lately, leading me to believe that Mr. Sex-Haver has employed a phallus-enhancing device -- maybe even something battery-powered!
The standard activity builds speed and intensity over the course of the act, although even at the most intense level Mr. and Mrs. Sex-Haver do not cause their furniture to bang against the wall. My theory is that a combination of angle of frequency, amplitude, and angle of attack (combined with a high-quality of construction in the sex-bed) have prevented unwanted headboard-wall banging. This is probably a good thing, as the soundtrack is annoying enough already without the addition of an added bass line.
The standard act lasts around 10 minutes. I'd supply a more accurate number, but I'd rather not spend my nights sitting in bed timing my neighbors' lovemaking with a stopwatch.
I suppose that I could keep a timer by my bed for those unfortunate occasions when I am kept awake my neighbors' bang-time. When awakened, I could start the timer; when they finished, I could note the date, time, and duration of activity on a spreadsheet (along with any notes, such as "female requested that sex be 'harder' at 4:56," or "noticeable ball-slapping sound audible at 3:12").
After a month or so of this, I could print out a copy of the spreadsheet and post it on my neighbors' front door. Maybe I could make a chart of activity duration over time, with notations of significant events ("1:15 -- was something wrong?" or "27:56 -- incredible! You should buy your lube in bulk at Sam's Club").
Though maybe that would be rude.
"Love? What is love? I am merely looking for a female swollen with eggs to accept my genetic material"
-Dr. Zoidberg
*my apartment overlooks the complex pool. When it gets warm out (which is quite often in California), I keep my patio door open. This means that I get to overhear conversations among sunbathers by the pool, even when the conversations are horribly banal. *Especially* when they are horribly banal.
**this happened once, and I have to admit it was one of the more disturbing things I'd ever heard. The walls between apartments muffle sounds enough to make individual words indistinguishable, but the flow and emotion of speech still comes through. For this particular incident, I could hear a man and a woman yelling at each other in (most likely) the apartment next to mine. The anger in the voices was unmistakable -- the only time I have ever heard such rage and fury in someone's voice was my brother, the time when I provoked him to the point where he chased me around the back yard with a baseball bat. These people sounded like they were ready to kill each other. What made it worse was that periodically, the yelling would be interrupted by a terrific crashing sound -- as if a full bookcase had been knocked over. I have no way of knowing for sure (I live in the sort of complex where you can easily live a year in an apartment and never meet your neighbor face-to-face), but I fear that I was hearing some sort of domestic violence next door. The fact that something like that could occur so close to my home -- and the fact that I was effectively powerless to stop it -- was supremely unsettling. I don't like living next to strangers.
And none too soon. Those of you who have lived in a similar situation no doubt understand that in such apartment complexes, walls are thin and privacy is a relative term. So far, I've been serenaded by such delightful noises as:
-children screaming
-large objects crashing about
-very loud, very bad music
-loud, vacuous conversations*
-heavy-footed people walking outside my door
-heated arguments**
-sex
The last one is the worst. Especially when it's loud (they are). Especially when I have to get up early the next morning (I usually do). And especially when my special lady friend is far, far away (she is).
In any case, these constant copulators (serial sexopaths?) are, if nothing else, consistent. In recent times, they've been at it almost nightly. And as someone laying in bed -- alone, in the dark, trying to fall asleep -- as this takes place, I've become something of an unwilling Jane Goodall to their sex-having gorillas in the mist.
My findings thus far:
The preferred sex time is between 11pm and 1am -- usually on weeknights.
The man is rather quiet, though he has been known to get in a grunt or a groan now and then.
The woman is an vocal specimen, providing a constant "oh god, oh god, oh god" commentary. Occasionally she'll try the more advanced cadence of "oh, oh god, oh, oh god" to mix things up. I believe that I've also heard a few "harder"'s and "faster"'s lately, leading me to believe that Mr. Sex-Haver has employed a phallus-enhancing device -- maybe even something battery-powered!
The standard activity builds speed and intensity over the course of the act, although even at the most intense level Mr. and Mrs. Sex-Haver do not cause their furniture to bang against the wall. My theory is that a combination of angle of frequency, amplitude, and angle of attack (combined with a high-quality of construction in the sex-bed) have prevented unwanted headboard-wall banging. This is probably a good thing, as the soundtrack is annoying enough already without the addition of an added bass line.
The standard act lasts around 10 minutes. I'd supply a more accurate number, but I'd rather not spend my nights sitting in bed timing my neighbors' lovemaking with a stopwatch.
I suppose that I could keep a timer by my bed for those unfortunate occasions when I am kept awake my neighbors' bang-time. When awakened, I could start the timer; when they finished, I could note the date, time, and duration of activity on a spreadsheet (along with any notes, such as "female requested that sex be 'harder' at 4:56," or "noticeable ball-slapping sound audible at 3:12").
After a month or so of this, I could print out a copy of the spreadsheet and post it on my neighbors' front door. Maybe I could make a chart of activity duration over time, with notations of significant events ("1:15 -- was something wrong?" or "27:56 -- incredible! You should buy your lube in bulk at Sam's Club").
Though maybe that would be rude.
"Love? What is love? I am merely looking for a female swollen with eggs to accept my genetic material"
-Dr. Zoidberg
*my apartment overlooks the complex pool. When it gets warm out (which is quite often in California), I keep my patio door open. This means that I get to overhear conversations among sunbathers by the pool, even when the conversations are horribly banal. *Especially* when they are horribly banal.
**this happened once, and I have to admit it was one of the more disturbing things I'd ever heard. The walls between apartments muffle sounds enough to make individual words indistinguishable, but the flow and emotion of speech still comes through. For this particular incident, I could hear a man and a woman yelling at each other in (most likely) the apartment next to mine. The anger in the voices was unmistakable -- the only time I have ever heard such rage and fury in someone's voice was my brother, the time when I provoked him to the point where he chased me around the back yard with a baseball bat. These people sounded like they were ready to kill each other. What made it worse was that periodically, the yelling would be interrupted by a terrific crashing sound -- as if a full bookcase had been knocked over. I have no way of knowing for sure (I live in the sort of complex where you can easily live a year in an apartment and never meet your neighbor face-to-face), but I fear that I was hearing some sort of domestic violence next door. The fact that something like that could occur so close to my home -- and the fact that I was effectively powerless to stop it -- was supremely unsettling. I don't like living next to strangers.
Blogspot 2: Electric Boogaloo
Success! On a whim just now, I decided to check if my long-defunct former blog vehicle (the much-coveted "Bears In Cars" address) still exists. And...despite over two years of neglect, my little electronic baby lives!
Those of you who follow my ramblings may recall may recall another "webbed log," on the unfortunately-titled "xanga.com," that chronicled my adventures across the country from New Hampshire to California during the summer of 2006.
Well...I'm planning another massive road trip this summer, this time running from west coast to east coast via the northern route. Ol' Bearsincars here has the double advantage of (1) being linked to my google account for easy access and (2) having an address that I can be proud to call my own. So from here on out, this will be the site to visit when you're itching for a dose of Dave. I'll also be working on moving my many posts over here to attempt a sort of archive over the course of the next month or so. We'll see how it goes.
"Back up in your ass with the resurrection"
-Samir Nagheenanajar
Those of you who follow my ramblings may recall may recall another "webbed log," on the unfortunately-titled "xanga.com," that chronicled my adventures across the country from New Hampshire to California during the summer of 2006.
Well...I'm planning another massive road trip this summer, this time running from west coast to east coast via the northern route. Ol' Bearsincars here has the double advantage of (1) being linked to my google account for easy access and (2) having an address that I can be proud to call my own. So from here on out, this will be the site to visit when you're itching for a dose of Dave. I'll also be working on moving my many posts over here to attempt a sort of archive over the course of the next month or so. We'll see how it goes.
"Back up in your ass with the resurrection"
-Samir Nagheenanajar
Sunday, November 13, 2005
Things that I like
Because it is high time that I enumerate those things that I like.
The list of things that i like:
(in no particular order, other than as they come to me)
-fine food
-fine wine
-fine- well, let's save space here and just say that I greatly enjoy those items which can be eaten, drank, smoked, or consumed in general which are of a conspicuous level of quality
-fresh snow
-the way sounds is muffled by snow falling
-being the first to ski a slope
-powder
-building anything out of wood
-beating the cash register to calculate my change
-hiking alone through the woods on a raining day in the fall
-splitting firewood
-drinking coffee in the morning
-waking up with the sun
-weekend days in teh fall
-jumping into a cold pond after the sauna
-football
-being at a sports event when the crowd is filled with excitement and is so loud you can barely hear yourself screaming
-sleeping in on a cold morning buried under piles of blankets
-bonfires, fireplaces -- any open flame
-that smoky smell you get all over your clothes after an evening standing around the fire
-fireworks
-anything that explodes in a loud and violent manner
-playing videogames for the entire day, eating nothing but junk food, drinking nothing but soda and beer, and going to sleep knowing that you accomplished absolutely nothing whatsoever during the entire day
-seeing what I have built
-driving at night on an empty road through a rural area with blues on the radio
-hilariously loud farts
-being proven correct after having a disagreement on a fact with someone without any proof on hand
-when cats sit in your lap and purr really loud
-afternoon naps
that's good for now. It's naptime
The list of things that i like:
(in no particular order, other than as they come to me)
-fine food
-fine wine
-fine- well, let's save space here and just say that I greatly enjoy those items which can be eaten, drank, smoked, or consumed in general which are of a conspicuous level of quality
-fresh snow
-the way sounds is muffled by snow falling
-being the first to ski a slope
-powder
-building anything out of wood
-beating the cash register to calculate my change
-hiking alone through the woods on a raining day in the fall
-splitting firewood
-drinking coffee in the morning
-waking up with the sun
-weekend days in teh fall
-jumping into a cold pond after the sauna
-football
-being at a sports event when the crowd is filled with excitement and is so loud you can barely hear yourself screaming
-sleeping in on a cold morning buried under piles of blankets
-bonfires, fireplaces -- any open flame
-that smoky smell you get all over your clothes after an evening standing around the fire
-fireworks
-anything that explodes in a loud and violent manner
-playing videogames for the entire day, eating nothing but junk food, drinking nothing but soda and beer, and going to sleep knowing that you accomplished absolutely nothing whatsoever during the entire day
-seeing what I have built
-driving at night on an empty road through a rural area with blues on the radio
-hilariously loud farts
-being proven correct after having a disagreement on a fact with someone without any proof on hand
-when cats sit in your lap and purr really loud
-afternoon naps
that's good for now. It's naptime
Read about my meaningless life, peons!
Now we are getting somewhere.
For years, it has been clearly apparent that there has been an element of excitement missing in my life. As you well now know, this excitement comes in the form of posting meaningless, random drivel onto the internet.
Because that is what bears in cars is all about: wasting my valuable time. I'd say that I'm wasting the time of you, my much-maligned reader, except for the facts that (1) if you are the sort who spends any amount of time reading online posts your time is by definition wasted already, and (2) I don't give a shit.
I didn't read the user agreement for blogspot very closely, if at all, so I'm not even sure if this post is going to get the boot for my gratuitous use of swear words. To which I say, fuck it. I am going to bask in my complete inter net anonynity until someone actually reads this. And if you are that special person, here's a little present from me to you: your own personal fuck you.
Wow, this got angry in a hurry. I appear to have some issues to work out.
In any case, now I'm rocking some "content" on my site which will wither here as I ignore it and this spur of the moment decision to get blogging settles to the bottom of my heap of poorly-thought-out failed endeavours.
Let's do this.
For years, it has been clearly apparent that there has been an element of excitement missing in my life. As you well now know, this excitement comes in the form of posting meaningless, random drivel onto the internet.
Because that is what bears in cars is all about: wasting my valuable time. I'd say that I'm wasting the time of you, my much-maligned reader, except for the facts that (1) if you are the sort who spends any amount of time reading online posts your time is by definition wasted already, and (2) I don't give a shit.
I didn't read the user agreement for blogspot very closely, if at all, so I'm not even sure if this post is going to get the boot for my gratuitous use of swear words. To which I say, fuck it. I am going to bask in my complete inter net anonynity until someone actually reads this. And if you are that special person, here's a little present from me to you: your own personal fuck you.
Wow, this got angry in a hurry. I appear to have some issues to work out.
In any case, now I'm rocking some "content" on my site which will wither here as I ignore it and this spur of the moment decision to get blogging settles to the bottom of my heap of poorly-thought-out failed endeavours.
Let's do this.
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