Crazy Virgo

Maturing.

I've had it with twenty-somethings freaking out about their birthday. 

"Oh my god. I'm going to be 24! What has happened to my 20s?" 

My co-worker turned 26 today, and you would have thought she was turning 40, the desperation and sorrow she was showcasing. There is not a wrinkle on her face, a gray hair on her head, or a layer of fat on her pubescent body. Yet, every time someone wished her a happy birthday, she heaved a great sigh, and complained about being "soooo old." Instead of gifting her cupcakes and tulips, I should have given her Preparation H and some Depends.

What the hell is so great about being in your twenties, anyway? Sure, you don't gain an ounce eating pizza, burgers, onion rings and washing it all down with many beers. You can still stay out four nights a week, drink a glass of champagne, 3 V&Ts, a bottle of wine and not get hangovers. You can plead youth and ignorance when your car gets towed for too many unpaid parking tickets or you fall asleep in the back of a cab. You can shirk responsibility and say things like, "I had no idea that cute guy was an ex-con. He was so charming, and he was wearing Armani." But, in your twenties you're also incredibly naive, insecure, uncomfortable, and not really all that funny. Twenty-somethings are good to laugh at, not with. They may look perfect in a bikini, but they consider E! a news channel and they'll drink anything served in a plastic cup and puke it up. On your feet. A thirthysomething will at least discreetly locate a trash can in a corner. Twentysomethings are full of drama, venom and Bud Light. Every other day my 26 year-old co-worker has some sort of existensial crisis, is freaked out by everything from plastic to peanut butter, and is positive that Firefighters and EMT's having the authority change traffic lights in an emergency is a conspiracy and just not fair. Being twenty ish is exhausting.I had a lovely time in my twenties, but I was more than happy to kick it to the curb and welcome thirty (see: my 29th Birthday, my 30th birthday).

I was not attractive in my twenties. I was sorting out my personality. My look. My identity. I appeared to have self-confidence, but really I had very little. Possibly because my hair was short, reddish, my nose and my face were having a disagreement on who should be bigger, my chest was non-existent, and I was relying on a sense of humor and sharp wit meant to distract you from the uncomfortableness that was me circa 21-28. Like a fine Bordeaux, I aged rather well. My nose and face caught up with each other. Sort of. I made friends with my hair and better yet, figured out that a $100 haircut looks a whole lot better than a $40 haircut. I'm not bragging here. Far from it. But, if you saw me at 25 versus now, I think you'd agree, you'd rather be friends with the 31 year-old version. 

Why is maturing a bad thing? Arrested Development is only funny as a televisions show, not a lifestyle. Having birthday is not scary. Twenty-six is NOT old. Thirty is NOT old. If you drink wine when it hasn't matured properly, you send it back. If you drink a young scotch, you puke it back up. Youth is not a positive thing. But, check back with me when I'm 65. I might have a different opinion.

An important moment with the Kansas Fan

Hello, readers.  Do your eyes hurt?  Mine do.  Because I've spent the last 29 hours trying to shield them from the blinding light emanating from Bill Self's mouth.  Is he a witch doctor?  Probably.  Because yesterday he asked the nation's #1 recruit to join a team that already has at least 11 guys better than Paul Pierce if he had Danny Manning's arms.  And that young man said "yes."  With the addition of Xavier Henry, the University of Kansas Men's Basketball Club will probably win the National Championship by so many points, that Roy Williams will ask Dean Smith if he can come back and cut down some of the nets to use for his kidnapping trap in his van.

 

You could split this team in half, and let them both play their way into the National Championship Game, but that would be insane.  Because nobody on Earth could deal with a never-ending, perfectly played game.  It'd be like Neo from the Matrix fighting himself in the mirror for 14 overtimes, until God rode down on a chariot made out of Wilt Chamberlain's bones and threw his hands [shaped like Phog Allen] into the air and proclaimed Planet Earth the National Champion for having witnessed a spectacle that could rip a hole into the Universe.

 

So let's not even talk about it.  A better use of our time would be to put the finishing touches on my letter to John Calipari.  I'm almost done.  Suggestions are welcome, but this is serious, so try to be constructive.

 

"Dear John Calipari,

I'm sorry you were born within 50 years of Bill Self.  You are a smelly used car salesman, and no matter how hard you cheat or pretend you are Rick Pitino, every time you wake up in the morning, you hand Bill Self another National Championship.  This is not your fault.  Bill Self is made out of chocolate and Christmas tinsel, and when he calls somebody on the telephone, they think they're in Heaven, except they can't be, because where would God be if he was calling them in Heaven?  Everyone in Kentucky works at a car wash.

 

The Kansas Fan."

{Mayor of Kentucky}

 

In closing, Bill Self is a robot, and he lives with me.

 

Rock Chalk

The Kansas Fan.

Snow in Spring - Friday Playlist

Stuck at home today, working, thanks to Spring Snowstorm 2: Frozen Electric Boogaloo. Apparently if it stays cold enough, Boulder is supposed to get 30 inches of snow....but I'm not putting all my faith in the local meteorologists. Much like Ron Burgundy, they take their celebrity and importance quite seriously and a bit too far. Plus, nobody will ever do weather better than my man in Seattle, Steve Pool.

In any case, inspired by the frozen white fluff covering the green sprouts of grass, here's the Friday playlist.

Snow in Spring

Bad Celebrity!

It is a well-known fact that I love some Gwyneth Paltrow. Usually, I keep quiet about it. I don't deny it, but I also don't throw a parade and have a fan club dedicated to her. I love her style, her acting, her hot husband, her classic beauty. Really, what's not to love about my G if you set aside her righteous celebrityism? 

I've been getting her e-newsletter, GOOP, for a few months now. At first, I poured over every word, taking notes and trying to understand the complicated world of Gwyneth and how to navigate life with better style according to the Gospel of G. I secretly anticipated every Thursday morning when GOOP would show up in my mailbox. So far, Gwyneth has told me how to work out, how to eat, what clothes to expunge from my wardrobe, how to keep my kids away from toxins, and how extremely lucky she is to have a friend like Mario Batali to cook her dinner. At first, I thought it was cool, interesting, fun. Then, the fun turned to multiple eye rolls. Please, Gwynnie, you're not lucky to have a friend like Mario. You've just spent two months with him in Spain taping a food show for public television, and you're a gorgeous celebrity. Then, to laughter and weekly "Oh my god, can you believe what she wrote" discussions with other subscribing friends. Then, to humorously deconstructing the Gwyneth - "How life without [personal trainer to Madonna and Gwyneth] Tracy Anderson is possible, I don't know..."Then came this week's email. 

Gwyneth talks about her "frenemy". 

Who this person is remains a mystery. Good girl Gwyneth would never divuldge a name. However, it appears that Gwyneth, on her constant life path to transendence, was mean once. Her "frenemy" was hell bent on taking her down and Gwyneth didn't like that. From this week's newsletter:

"This person really did what they could to hurt me. I was deeply upset, I was angry, I was all of those 

things you feel when you find out that someone you thought you liked was venomous and dangerous. 

I restrained myself from fighting back. I tried to take the high road. But one day I heard that something 

unfortunate and humiliating had happened to this person. And my reaction was deep relief and…happiness. There went the high road."

Oooooh Gwyneth, you meanie. You horrid person. You secretly, not publicly, took joy in someone else's pain. You weren't nice. You were human! Oh, the horror! I love and hate this all at the same time. Bad celebrity! Bad!

Love that Gwyneth experienced real human emotion.

Hate that Gwyneth felt compelled to tell everyone about it, and continued to discuss how she overcame this icky feeling, thanks to Kabbalah, and how we can do the same thing. Because no one wants to  go through life being mean to other people. She actually had people weigh in on the topic and give advice on how to avoid this situation. 

The Director of the Kabbalah Center said:

"...when we wake up in a bad mood for no apparent reason, Kabbalists explain there is a reason. 

The energy we created by maligning someone’s character yesterday adversely affects us today. 

And if we don’t go through a process of cleansing that energy by apologizing or committing to never 

do it again, it continues to stay with and influence us in negative ways."

A Zen Master said:

"In Zen Buddhism we have the Ten Grave Precepts. These Ten Precepts fall into three categories: 

body, speech and thought. Of these ten, four are concerned with Right Speech, because negative 

speech seems to be one of the major traps that we as human beings fall into, and it is so detrimental 

and affects karma."

I would have loved to have heard that phone conversation:

"Zen Master? Hi. It's Gwyneth. I'm writing my weekly newsletter on being mean. Can you send me some enlightening wisdom on how not to be mean so I can show the general public that I'm actually a really spiritual person that functions on a higher level, and they should keep worshiping, er, I mean, reading my newsletter?"

You know what, I get it and I agree. I totally believe in karma. I try to work toward perpetuating good karma in my life. In a perfect world, no one would talk about each other or harbor negative feelings about each other, or spread false rumors or gossip, or write negatively, etc. But, guess what, IT ISN'T A PERFECT WORLD. 

Dear Gwyneth, want to know why we do all of this "mean" stuff? Here's the scoop, and you don't even have to put me on your staff and pay me for this answer. It's basic freaking human nature. I realize basic human nature is something you're unfamiliar with, but get used to it. The less movies you are making, and the more time you're spending mingling with reality, you might experience a twinge of anger when another mom cuts you off in like at the vegan bakery. It's perfectly normal. 

Phew. Don't I feel better? Unfortunately, I think this blog probably puts me on the short list of Gwyneth's frenemies. Oh, poo.

Let's Burn the Box.

If there is one phrase that drives my to the brink of insanity, makes me want to run head-first into a wall, and scream until I am deaf, it's "Out of the Box." I would like to find the person who coined this term, put them in a box and push them off a very tall building and then see if they can get out of the box. I understand this phrase came at a time - early 1990's - when the Creative Class was on the rise and everyone was aching to be a part of it, so in order to, linear thinkers working in cubicle farms had to  attempt to think differently, ala "out of the box" that they were currently renting space in. Now, it's gone to far. The people still in the box wanting to get out, should probably just stay in that box. The worst part of this very unfortunate corporate term is that A) people still use it and B) the people using it are normally the most conservative thinking people on the planet. 

I just heard someone say "My husband should totally work for your advertising agency. He's such an out of the box thinker." 

Translation: The husband is the only person in his 150 floor glass office building that cracks jokes and has proposed casual Fridays. 

I have numerous clients that ask for "out of the box ideas" on particular assignments we're given. Translation: Please create me something that looks just slightly different from what I see in every magazine on the rack today. Maybe just a different font and color pattern will do. Just slightly. For the love, don't overdo it.

If everyone wants to think out of the box, then who is left inside the box? 

If we all were in this proverbial box doing our thinking, then would we have ever elected our first African-American President? Would we have ever even created cars, public transportation, condoms, the Taco Bell Gordita? 

I think there is no box. No one has ever seen it, worked inside of it, or successfully got out of it.

But, be that as it may, it's dead to me.

In the words of Stephen Colbert, the Box is on notice. And if ever again I hear someone wanting out of it, I'm going to have a massive box burning in the middle of Denver. Then, no one can every be inside the f*cking box. Ever.

A love affair with the pig

I love pig. 

Snout to tail. 

I'm not sure when it started, but for as long as I can remember, there hasn't been a time that I didn't love pork- save for a brief 6 months when I dabbled with vegetarianism, luckily I didn't get addicted.

I'm sure I was fed pureed Gerber Baby Bacon as a wee one. Then, ate pork and beans as a child, camping across the Midwest. My diet has always consistently included steady servings of bacon and eggs, BLTs, ham & cheese sandos, canadian bacon and pineapple pizzas, sausage and mushroom pizza. I was raised on pork ribs. I'm from Kansas City, for the love.  Pretty much all my favorite foods utilize the pig somehow. 

My last meal menu would red something like: Carolina pulled-pork sando, a BLT, a side of biscuits & sausage gravy, a New York slice of pizza with sausage and mushroom, and a spinach salad with pancetta. Maybe a Bacon Soymilkshake. And definitely, a chocolate cupcake with chocolate icing and bacon bits on top. Call it disgusting, but I recently had this at my local cupcakery, Tee & Cakes, and it was sheer heaven. The sweetness of the chocolate and the saltiness of the bacon merge together and melt in the mouth. I can't believe I have lived 31 years without this in my life. But, better to continue the next 30 with it in heavy rotation.

So, you get it then, right? I love, love, love, love, can't live without, PORK. Given that information, you can imagine my elation, when this was set in front of me:

A heaping plate of over a pound of Carolina smoked pulled pork. For me. All for me. It was some of the best pork my mouth had ever had the pleasure of tasting. If you ever find yourself in Detroit- and god knows why you would, it's post-war Berlin up there- get your ass to Slows BBQ. They must have a smoker the size of a Hummer outback, because they're serving up some prime-time swine, deliciously rubbed and smoked to perfection. 

Warning: obscene details of me loving some pork to follow.

I ate and ate and ate. And, ate and ate. Took a deep breathe. Ate and ate and ate. Took a time out. Imagined myself finishing the plate with a lick of the lips and a smile. Then tried to eat more. I couldn't. I stared at the several hocks left on my plate. Smelled the smoky aroma. Shed several tears. And gave up. GAVE UP! I let the pig get the best of me. I couldn't do it. I tried my best and ate until the sides of my stomach were protesting and the button on my pants was holding on for dear life. It was mind over matter and matter actually one. I physically couldn't put one more strand of this dear friend in my mouth. I couldn't set aside my own selfishness to overcome a painfully full stomach and finish it. I left a soldier behind. Many of them.

I want to publicly apologize to all my pork loving compadres out there for letting you down. We single handedly work together to keep the Organic, naturally raised, vegetarian-fed Pork industry going. And I set us back by wasting this perfectly good pork. Me, a confessed pork-a-holic, didn't go overboard for my addiction. I couldn't take one for the team. And, I regret it. 

Or do I? I wanted to make it a happy memory. I was silently afraid that if I overdosed, I wouldn't ever love pulled pork as much as I did at that very moment again. I wanted to always look back and remember this special moment, and now I will. 

The moment me and some pulled pork came so close to transcendence.

I love pig.

Friday Playlist - A Cross the Universe

Nothing, and I mean nothing, gets me going on a Friday like this live Justice CD. 

A Cross the Universe

Turn it up in the headphones.

And now, a moment with The Kansas Fan

And Now, A Minute With The Kansas Fan:

 

Hello, readers.  You, like me, have probably filled the last several days vacillating between 1) an analysis of whether we will beat the Oklahoma football team by more or less than 50 points this fall; and 2) grappling with a growing fear that we can not possibly have enough scholarships available for every single top ranked high school basketball player in America.  What?  You interrupted these activities to watch the Final Four?  Did they go ahead with that?  I didn't think they ever held it if Kansas wasn't playing in it.  Who won?  Nobody knows because it wasn't on TV?  I bet it was UNC.  They're a feel good story of young men returning to school to get their degrees and make one last run to glory without Brandon Rush standing in their way.  I'm kidding of course.  Their coach is a child molester, and nobody in North Carolina has a college degree.

 

Since nothing was on TV yesterday, I spent a little time analyzing the list of young men who want nothing more than to use the last remaining scholarship available for the University of Kansas Men's Basketball Club.  It was a daunting task, because unless Sherron Collins decides to leave early and be taken #1 in the NBA draft, the following people will have to fight over one scholarship:

 

1 - Xavier Henry

2 - Lance Stephenson

3 - Michael Jordan

4 - Xavier head coach, Sean Miller

5 - The Statue of Liberty

6 - Wilt Chamberlain's bones

 

It's bound to be a very exciting race, and most experts suggest Kansas is likely to welcome all of them by simply adding more scholarships.  It seems unlikely the NCAA will care, since The University of Kansas owns the NCAA and has enough money to provide a million scholarships.  Given that, I look forward to watching the 2009-2010 Kansas Basketball Team.  While the games will not be remotely interesting or competitive, there is an 89% chance that any time you see KU on TV next year, you will see this:

It's going to be like watching the circus.  If the circus was a collection of planet Earth's 15 most talented basketball players doing 1,440 degree dunks from a sitting position strapped into chairs with seatbelts on.  I love the circus.

 

Rock Chalk,

The Kansas Fan.

Coldness, cars, casinos, Canada. I'm in Detroit.

I've unleashed my craziness on the world. Detroit is currently enjoying my adorable insanity. I'm here with Gentleman Husband for the Final Four thanks to GH's giglossal beverage client. Being a hoops fans, I jumped on the invitation immediately, thinking that although bleeding money, Detroit seemed like an interesting, urban city I'd always been curious about. Wooohooo!! Motown here I come.

Now, where does one stay when visiting the Motor City? Well, where all the pimps stay - Windsor, Ontario. CANADA.

This is the view from our glamorous room at the Hilton Windsor. Across the river is Detroit, and those three cylindrical glass beauties, not at all phallic, are GM's headquarters. So, why am I staying in Windsor, Canada, when all the action is in Detroit, forcing me to have to cross the border twice a day, through a custom's screening? Well, to quote my new friend, Customs Agent #475, "Why the hell are they having this deal in Detroit? There's not enough hotels. Why isn't it in Auburn Hills? Ridiculous. Go ahead. Welcome to the U.S." 

There are benefits, though. We're just a free shuttle ride away from Caesars, where we've already pent many hours and some dough. We are not staying there, because I'd wake up at 3 a.m. to notice Gentleman Husband gone, and probably at the Black Jack table teaching the dealer a lesson, as he likes to do. Last night, I met some lovely girls at the casino's Sports Book watching the second game of the tournament.

Just lovely women, the Detroit Pistonettes. We talked politics, education, healthcare reform. They really let out their true feelings and we got to know each other really well. As you can see, I fit right in. They, scantily glad in seductive sequined sports bras. Me, invisible. But, I think I've got a real shot with them next season.

Earlier in the day, Gentleman Husband and I took a tour of Detroit's Eastern Market - a working outdoor market selling vegetable, flowers in stalls. And, many meat markets, cheese shops, cafes. It was truly a working market - not a gucci market like San Francisco's market on the Embarcadero (don't get me wrong, love that market, but kind of over-designed...just a smidge). 

I swear, I can find a slab of pork ribs anywhere.

And, I took a walk around Greektown, amassed with Michigan State fans, but charming all the same.

I kind of thought it would be like I'd jumped into the pages of one of my favorite books, Middlesex, but it may have been just a little more touristy than that.

I'm heading back today, to get some souvlaki and saganaki.

I definitely did not want to miss the Pussycat Dolls - the free headline concert of the day - though Keith Sweat's mid-day love making session to a crowd of confused basketball fans was pretty awesome... "I'm gonna pour my body on your body." 

If you are familiar with the Pussycat Dolls, then you know they infamously perform in bras and thong underwear and thrust and shake all over the stage. Now how does this translate to a crowd of mixed ages at a Final Four free concert at 4 p.m.? Hmmmm.....

Answer: it doesn't. Teenagers and college boys trying to hide their excitement. Pervy fathers masking their arousal. Mothers and girlfriends in shock. The moment I saw a 12 year-old girl sing along to "Loosen up my buttons, baby" on the jumbotron, I realized the future of our country was doomed thanks to these vixens bimbettes. Maybe the highlight of the show was when Head Pussy told all the ladies in the audience, "You don't need a man to make you feel good." To which I answered to myself, "right, you just need a good vibrator. Well said." But she continued, "you just need to love yourself and be right with yourself."  Riiiiight. Keep on thrusting and gyrating in those mid-drifts and bousstierres, Pussies.

Today...  Mies van der Rohe, Greektown, Fergie and more BBQ.