While perusing the aisles of WFs on my lunch break the other day, a package of gnocchi caught my eye. At $5.99 for a two serving pack (approximately 6 small dumplings or 1/3 a bowl per person), I figured it must be good idea to buy this. I decided I’d make a simple buttery tomato sauce with shallot, garlic, and crushed chili flake, and a pre-dinner crostini with fig paste, local ricotta, sea salt and olive oil. I also picked up some marinated olives for, ahem, my martini.

Anyway, the star:

Oh hai, you little pieces of shit

The gnocchi were downright inedible, prolly because they were made from today’s secret ingredient:

when you google search “paste,” you only get photos of iPhones not bein’ able to cntrl V

So disgusting. We ended up using leftover crostini bread to mop up the sauce, and just tossed the $5.99 glue-turds in the garbage.

Note to self (because I know YOU would NEVER buy pre-made gnocchi at WFs): GO BIG OR GO SPEND YOUR $5.99 ON A FALAFEL.

You may be wondering where I’ve been lately, but you’d be wrong.

In honor of digital detox 1.5 Mo.’s, I have been spending quality time:
1. Drinking whiskey in a movie theater
2. Ordering Dominos Pizzas
3. Deciding whether Guy Fieri might actually be funny, based on one joke from Diners, Drive-ins and Dives
4. Buying a Wii Fit and then using it for five days, and then stopping because now it’s all, “where you been Eeez?” FOR SHAME
And Most Importantly: 5. Helping the community by volunteerizing

why hello, crazy eyes

I plan on cooking something tonight that doesn’t include pasta bread bowls or a pizza delivery tracker, so I’ll let you know how that goes.

This Swine Flu is a big deal I guess.

Allow me to take a screenshot of Google News but replace “swine flu” with funny things.

BTW - our hearts go out to the victims.

The Steeez Team and a few friends went out on opening night to see Beyonce’s new thriller Obsessed.

(From L to R: Keeez, Brett, Amy, Katie, Hello Nurse, Colin.  Not Pictured:  Eeez)

I don’t remember it because this ended up in my bucket of Diet Coke:

I took a bunch of cameraphone pics of the screen so I made a recap of Obsessed.  It basically goes like this (I think):

We give it 4 outta 5 stolen babies:

William Hogarth’s “Gin Lane” – an idyllic past free of all those nasty toxins.

Last night I attended the birthday party of a dear friend. After eating our delicious meal, we sat around sipping champagne and talking. Naturally, the conversation turned to that old, gold confabulatory standby: colonic health. One of the young ladies present was recounting her recent “detox cleanse” and recommended it to them all. Most present nodded sagely, acknowledging that this plan of action was indeed a wise one. Well, whenever I see advice (especially medical advice being given by people without medical training,) and everyone in the room accepting it without question, I get a bit worried. So I spoke up, doubting the efficacy of detoxification schemes. The response came back from all corners: modern living fills our bodies with some kind of “toxins.” Asked what these toxins exactly are and you won’t exactly get a straight answer, but they seem to have some vague connection to pollution, pesticides, and preservatives without getting too scientific about it (because there were no actual scientists in the room.)

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Happy 4/20.

I made you this YOU-Tubes vid, brah.  Just me at home, chillaxing (hard).  Pineapple expressing with my bros Karold and Humar (more like “Fumar” - GET IT?!!)  HAhahahaHA1!!11.  Me an Zacks Braffs and Shia LaBoof just stole a iBook from BestBuy and made this video in MovieMaker.  It’s stoopid I know, but whatevz.  FOURTWENTY!!!!!

Peace out, homies.  Holla at you later.  N E 1 haz xtra tix 2 burningman?!!?  Craigslist me.

-Keeeeeeeeez

P.P.P.S. This is my new tag:

Maybe you’ve seen it in the left-most stall at the Borders Books.  Eagle-Eyes beWARE!!  I hid this month’s issh of PLAYBOY behind the toilet - DON’T BOGART~~!!

Eeez and me spent some time in the Providence Amtrak Station last weekend.  We hang out there and just, y’know, suck in the culture, lunch at the Cheesecake Factory, and talk to intriguing locals.  We had the distinct pleasure to do a video interview with Providence’s most esteemed local rambler, this pigeon:

He came with Eeez and me to Penn Station and he drank us under the table in dining car Miller Lights.

Also while we were in my hometown (MA) we got to stay in my childhood bedroom, which my Mom promptly converted into an adulty “hang-zone” rather than preserve the memory of my adolescence by keeping my shitty punk rock posters on the wall and the stains on the carpet (you go, girl.) My Mom did, however, store an old person robot chair in the “hang-zone” and it is awesome. Behold:

Cool! BTW - While in my hometown we went to electronics superstore Best Buy and bought a CD!!! When is that last time you bought a CD?!?! We chose T.I.’s “Paper Trail” and it’s pretty good. The CD booklet has wicked cute pics of T.I. in it too!!!

Oh yeah, and:

Orpheus and Eurydice by George Frederick Watts (1817-1904)

The Cocktail Recipe is at the end of my story:

When I walk home alone late at night, I tend to look all around. Even during the day I look all around. It has very little to do with my location or the people around me and everything to do with a deep-seated neurotic fear of instant violence stemming from two experiences (one global and one personal,) which happened several years ago. Ever since these things happen, I can’t help it: I look around constantly because I don’t feel safe unless I know exactly what is happening in my surroundings. I’m also incredibly observant. To a terrifying degree.

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DAYDREAMS:

“Young Hank”
Manhattan Bound Q Train
Hoodie: Jimmy Jazz’s
Parka: Jazzy Jim’s
Daydreams: The crowd shields their eyes from an intense industrial glow from the stage.  Oversize fans in the corners of the warehouse whir, bending shadows, and weed-smoke billows from the crowd.  Everyone is dressed like angels.

Young Hank walks in slow-motion to the edge of the stage appearing as a muscular silhouette to the crowd.  His arms shoot up as the beat drops and the angels in the crowd begin to bounce.

Their halos melt over their faces and harden.  Each one of them screaming in ecstasy as the bangin’ bangin’ beats steam their blood, mixing with the weed-smoke.  Young Hank inhales and smiles.  Shaquille O’Neal spins onto the stage in a brown Tasmanian Devil tornado.  He has Method Man in his backpack.  Method Man hops out and takes Raven-Symoné and a MacBook Air and a cracked version of ProTools and delivers the noise.  Beautiful Orlando-purple noise.

After a furious freestyle session (touching on such topics as pimping, long-division technique, Nair, sluts, farm-to-table restaurants, and President Obama’s invisible puppy) Method Man sails into the stars in a rocketship, and Shaquille O’Neal and Young Hank pants Russell Simmons** and melt into the floor.

The angels slurp the mess that Shaq and Hank created and pack themselves into a ‘96 Escalade and ghost-ride the whip through the white part of town.

[END]

NIGHTMARES:

“Cal ‘Venom’ Hagelstein”
34th Street Station

Jacket: Army Navy + Hand Painted Detail
Jeans: Arizona Jean Co.
Duffle: Promotional Nutri-Grain Bars Duffle Bag S/S ‘02
Nightmares: The cops are surrounding the basement of Cal’s parents’ house.  He can see their shiny shoes through the eight-inch-tall windows.  Don’t you dare look at me with your little pig-eyes, he whispers through his teeth, his palms leaking sweat - staining the leather grip of the antique Civil War-era saber in his hands.

Seven Abe Lincolns are doing shirtless pushups on the carpet.  They are circling him and whistling that Peter, Bjorn, and John song in time to their mechanical exercise.  Cal just ignores them.

The cops surrounding the house begin to shout.  Shout.  Let it all out.  These are the things I can do without.  Come on.  I’m talking to you.  Come on.

Cal, forced to defend himself, his dignity, and his seven pet Abe Lincolns, runs to the computer room and waits patiently as the modem spits and gurgles.  Hello.  He’s got mail.

The instructions are vague, but Cal is a warrior.  An American Nightmare.

They read:

1. Swallow your pride
2. Choke on the rinds (but the lack thereof may leave you empty inside)
3. Swallow your doubt
4. Turn it inside out
5. Find nothing but faith in nothing
6. Put your tender heart in a blender
7. Watch it spin around (until well blended or beautifully oblivioned)
8. Rendezvous

The instructions close:

Through with you,
Dr. Martin,
(Your Freshman-year Creative Writing/Poetry Professor)

Cal begin to cry as the cops climb out of the printer/scanner/copier/fax machine combo and arrest him.  The seven Abe’s don’t even lift their heads to whistle goodbye.

[END]

** upon researching how to spell Russell Simmons’ name I discovered that he has the same birthday as me.  Russell:  Joint party at my place in the fall?  Txt me.

Poor Alfie Patten. He’s the British tabloid sensation, who became a baby-faced baby daddy at the ripe age of 13 after having unprotected sex his girlfriend, Chantelle Steadman. Controversy erupted when two other classmates stepped forward claiming to be the baby’s father. But Chantelle was like, ‘Hell no! Alfie took my virginity and there’s nobody else!’ And then Alfie took a DNA test just to prove those assholes wrong, but then it turned out he wasn’t the father after all. And he was disappointed.

When I was Alfie’s age, I always performed safe sex, alone in my closet. But apparently, masturbation isn’t what it used to be. Now kids skip right to raising families. Babies having babies, yo.

Meanwhile, masturbation is treated like a gateway drug. Not too long ago, we had a Surgeon General who got shit-canned for saying jerking off was a good alternative to risky sexual activity. Conservatives went completely nuts, like she was telling kids to go sniff glue instead of smoke crack.

Jonas Brothers’ purity rings. The Pope condemning condoms. The federal government funding abstinence only education. Can we have some sanity here? Where are the Christians that embrace God’s one true original birth control — anal sex?

But then again, have you seen some of the alternatives that scientists have been coming up with lately? Such as, say, an implanted switch that can turn your balls on and off like a tv remote. That’s right, an on/off switch for your nuts that can be activated and deactivated remotely by a doctor. According to its founder Derek Abbott,

“It will be like turning a TV on and off with a remote control, except that the remote will probably be locked away in your local doctor’s office to safeguard against accidental pregnancy or potential misuse of the device.”

‘Probably’ locked away? ‘Potential misuse’? Dr. Frankenstein, do you not see the problem here? I don’t think I could ever copulate knowing that somewhere somehow someone might have a remote control to my balls. Or that it might have accidently gotten mixed in with the remotes for my doctor’s TV, Wii and garage door. No, if there’s going to be a remote to my balls, I’m going to be wearing it around my neck like one of those LifeCall pendants.

I also ran across this New York Times article about yet another study claiming that circumcision reduces the incidence of certain STDs. In this case, removing part of your penis lowers your risk of herpes by 25% and HPV by 35%. Now, let me just say as a proud member of the circumcision club that while I’m all for lower incidences of STDs, it seems like cutting off a part of your penis, instead of wearing a condom, is a touch on the drastic side. I mean, if you really wanted to reduce your exposure to STDs by 100%, you could have your entire penis removed. And to illustrate my point, I’ve created a graph:

This is definitive proof that the relationship between STD incidence (y axis) and the amount of penis you have removed (x axis) is inversely proportional. I expect to see an article in the Times trumpeting these findings.