Famous person and regular person

With eight number one hits under his belt, the best shag haircut in the business and an armoire chock-full of fans’ panties, collected over his 30 plus years touring the world, I cordially invite Daryl Hall, the better half of rock and roll duo Hall & Oates to dinner. While I suggest an intimate bistro in the city, Daryl insists on dinner under the stars on the veranda of his palatial estate. While his butler pours two snifters of Courvoisier, Daryl starts the fire himself using only flint and steel, as his rugged masculinity is matched only by the Bounty Paper Towel Guy or maybe Bear Grylls.

Brushing a rogue hair from his brow, he politely asks about my hobbies and my line of work. But nay, I will have none of that. He has far too many tales to share, like how he sacrificed so many years of his life to perfect the dance moves in “The Jingle Bell Rock” music video. Ever so humble, Daryl deftly steers the conversation to his prized 1913 hobo nickel, avid numismatic that he is. I will not, I cannot squander these precious few moments on inane banter.

We are interrupted by the arrival of dinner. Between bites of his pork tenderloin, prepared medium rare (for Daryl Hall fears nothing, not even tapeworm) he speaks of his inspirations, his proud moments, favorite memories of the road and plans for the future. Is Daryl Hall talking or are angels singing? Essentially there is no difference.

And just like that our evening has come to a close. I fear I will never see him again but in my dreams, and maybe on his internet series ‘Live from Daryl’s House’.

Fancy eatin’ you here

It won’t be the first time someone has said this: Anthony Bourdain done fucked everything up. This guy swoops in with his beaver teeth and his Just for Men: Touch of Gray hairdo and boom, everyone is a food snob. And they write about it. Food snob, foodie, foodophile, pretentious prick, whatever you want to call them. And I’m over here wondering where all the Long John Silvers went.

You know where they went? The way of the buffalo, my friends. And it happened almost immediately after Regular Joe Douchebag demanded an amuse bouche between courses of microgreens and endangered jackalope braised with the tears of baby anteaters. Dude.

What the hell is an amuse bouche anyway? It sounds like two craptastic 90s hit-making machines had a baby. And it tasted like shit. If I wanted to cleanse my palate between courses, I’d take a shot of Rumpleminz.

All of a sudden it is trashy and distasteful to enjoy Red Lobster from time to time. Red Lobster?! So now I have to hole up in an underground bunker with my Cheddar Bay Biscuits and my Admiral’s Feast? Sparring with feelings of shame and compunction instead of reveling in the glory that is a plate full of battered and deep fried chum? I reject this new world, Bourdainites! You can take your Belle & Sebastian record and plate of imported cheeses straight to Jos. A. Bank.

And what’s with all the food foam these days? Avocado foam, salmon foam, pee foam. Well, I just made up pee foam but the other ones are legit. Foam to me does not sound appetizing. Nobody has ever said, ‘mmmm…foam’. The only thing I want to use foam for is to create a slick surface for my razor to shear the hair off my legs every few months.

In other news, if I learned today that there is conclusive, incontrovertible evidence that Portillo’s uses nothing but shoes and raccoons to manufacture their hot dogs, it still would not stop me from eating the shit out of those things. And maybe, just maybe, this alone will qualify me as a sophisticated and adventurous diner, a food snob if you will. Well call me Padma Mother Fuckin’ Lakshmi!

I’m really not this hateful. I believe everyone should eat what they love and not be ashamed. Just make sure you Instagram the shit out of that food so everyone knows just how refined your palate is. Keep it classy, folks. Dick Portillo, 2016!

Nice to meet you

Hello and welcome to my world. Boy is it sticky and uncomfortable in here. I thought I’d take this opportunity to introduce myself and tell you a little bit about what this blog is about. And what it is not about.

Me. I’m an aspiring writer. Which means I’m great at taking naps. I don’t write in public nearly enough, which I guess would make me not so serious about becoming a writer. But once my daughter is crate trained, I’ll be heading up to Starbucks much more frequently, shitty laptop in tow.

More about me. I’m scared of a lot of things. Spiders, in-laws, failure, undercooked chicken, Those Funny Little People. My life is a long list of woulda-coulda-shouldas. I also like to eat noodles – noodles of every kind. Just give me noodles! And I’ll eat them. That’s me in a nutshell.

What this blog is not. It’s not a food blog or a mommy blog. It’s not about fitness or sports. It’s not about stamp collecting, gardening, religion, politics or entertainment. I will not be scaling the Matterhorn or spelunking into the Cave of Wonders and then telling you all about it and how awesome I am.

I reckon this blog can be defined only as a potpourri of crap. A crappouri, if you will. If there’s anything that I’ve learned from reality television, it is that mouthbreathers like me with no discernible talent and nothing to offer belong in the limelight. Basking in it and twirling their skirts and sharing their insignificant feelings and opinions. No you do not have to work hard to be successful and celebrated. And that’s why I spend a considerable amount of my income on lottery tickets and Spanx.

Thanks for reading! Tell a friend! If you have no friends, then go make one and tell them about this blog. They will think you are quirky and mysterious and sexy and invite you to their next swingers’ party. You’re welcome.