The joy of semi-coherent rants
So as my alone-on-Easter present to myself I've been doing some exploration into monetary self indulgence. Nothing too crazy, mostly movies and junk food. I resisted the allure of this uber-fancy latin cuisine place peddling 23$ and up lunch entrees and single servings of ceviche for nothing less then 12$. (and ok, part of that was that they were closed today. But I prefer to think of it as a triumph of self control.)
In actuality the fact that I haven't gone for a fancy meal is probably because of the current state of my stomach. I haven't been eating much the last few days. I've fallen into this particular state of appetite where when I do get hungry half the time I end up ignoring it because the thought of food (with a few unpredictable exceptions) is so unappealing. This is not a particularly good sign. I blame the kettle corn. See, the elderly gentleman I've taken to chatting with over lunch at work tends to share his kettle corn with me. I'm well aware that this is not a great move on my part, but the stuff is so good...also, it acts as a sort of social bribe, ingratiating myself with the friendly one. He seems to really want to share, and no one else will take it. So I cavelierly decided that a handful at a time couldn't do too much harm. But apparently five times a week it adds up. This does not come as a great surprise. I should be switching into ultra-virtuous eating mode now, but given that one of the few things that appeals food wise is chocolate...meh. I'm turning into my father.
Anyhoo, speaking of the strategically questionable, on my way back I stopped as this stupidly fancy grocery store near Navy Pier. The place has valet parking for god's sake. At a grocery store. They also have an array of truly strange chocolates (at 2.50 a pop). Now my own little cross to bear involves a combination of sugar sensitivity and an irresistible fascination with strange and exotic desserts. Seriously, a long standing dream of mine is to get someone I am eating with to order an avacado milkshake just so I can taste it. In keeping with the theme of self indulgence, I got two bonbons: a milk chocolate flavored with olive oil and basil, and a dark chocolate flavored with ginger and wasabi. I took only nibbles of them, working off the pipe dream that if I only have a little at a time I won't pay for it later. They're both really good, believe it or not.
I think the difficulty of living in the big city is it triggers my materialistic fantasies. Not like a lust for big screen tv's and heated toilet seats, but for serious luxury, gourmet food, giant bath tubs, a limosine to the theater and fancy clothes. Mostly the food. Seriously, if I was obscenely wealthy, my bribe of choice would be for folks to comission the mad geniuses who come up with these crazy chocolates to make them sugarless. The five star grocery store also had cappaccino truffles shaped like little coffee cups with molded white chocolate foam. I lust after this stuff like it was a heartthrob in a half-removed tux. My idea of heaven would be one of each type of chocolate they sell, to sample at leisure.
My own life style has recently involved less luxury and more copious boredom. A new kind of paperwork with a different scanning procedure counts as excitement. And nothing sucks like finding out the book on tape du jour is a stinker, leaving with the choice of gritting my teeth through it or no distraction at all. Y'know, there's a certain kind of really bad book that everyone seems to like. I just don't get it. I'm not saying I don't have my one favorite flavor of trash, but when the characterization hits a certain level of two-dimensional predictability, and the internal logic stretches just a little too thin, I just can't get into it. Like this one book, a murder mystery I picked up my first round at the library. The first warning sign was when the third person limited narrator, operating as the female leads thought process casually mentions that both she and her boyfriend are so attractive that they are subject to constant advances from the opposite sex, and thus are usually above petty jealousy. Right. I feel more associated with these people already. God knows it's a constant pain in my ass the way the guys are constantly flinging themselves to lie down in my delectable wake. I mean, really, don't you just hate that? It's not that their attractive. It's just that as a human reaction that seems so...I don't know, false. It's exactly what a person who's barely thought about it would assume an attractive, sympathetic person would think. Real people are more messy and unpredictable. A real person in this situation might enjoy the attention, or resent it, or stop noticing it, or some combination. Anyways, I tried to hold out, and then it turned out the main source of tension in the relationship was that back when he was an FBI agent he was forced into a witness protection program that consisted of faking his death including to his loved ones, which evidently "ruined her life". Narg. And yet I bet you a quarter this bullshit made some form of best seller list. What is the appeal here that I seem to be missing?
It makes me think of Dan Brown. Now, to be fair, I've never read his work. I just saw the movie of Da Vinci code. Which was crap, by the way. I don't mean this as an invective against people who liked it, just an expression of puzzlement. And before anyone asks, it's nothing to do with religion. I'm an agnostic with a fondness for what-if style speculative fiction. I liked the movie Dogma. My problem with Da Vinci Code is that as a work of fiction it's weak. The characters are cliched and poorly developed. The logic is shaky, and the plot is contrived. The female lead is supposedly some sort of puzzle genius, trained since childhood, but her role is strictly second fiddle, standing around being impressed while all puzzles involved are solved by the male lead. The only thing she brings to the table are basic escape skills. The male lead's super clever escape plan when they are captured is to take the single bullet he has acquired and tuck it in the way of the back door of the van they've been kidnapped in, so that, before executing both of them, the kiddnapper cold cocks himself by trying to slam the door and having it bounce. How many times in a million would that actually work? What if he decided to shoot them first and then close the door? What if mr. kidnapper happened not to be a careless dumbass, and actually looked to see what was blocking it? Why does everyone love this? I just don't get it.
In actuality the fact that I haven't gone for a fancy meal is probably because of the current state of my stomach. I haven't been eating much the last few days. I've fallen into this particular state of appetite where when I do get hungry half the time I end up ignoring it because the thought of food (with a few unpredictable exceptions) is so unappealing. This is not a particularly good sign. I blame the kettle corn. See, the elderly gentleman I've taken to chatting with over lunch at work tends to share his kettle corn with me. I'm well aware that this is not a great move on my part, but the stuff is so good...also, it acts as a sort of social bribe, ingratiating myself with the friendly one. He seems to really want to share, and no one else will take it. So I cavelierly decided that a handful at a time couldn't do too much harm. But apparently five times a week it adds up. This does not come as a great surprise. I should be switching into ultra-virtuous eating mode now, but given that one of the few things that appeals food wise is chocolate...meh. I'm turning into my father.
Anyhoo, speaking of the strategically questionable, on my way back I stopped as this stupidly fancy grocery store near Navy Pier. The place has valet parking for god's sake. At a grocery store. They also have an array of truly strange chocolates (at 2.50 a pop). Now my own little cross to bear involves a combination of sugar sensitivity and an irresistible fascination with strange and exotic desserts. Seriously, a long standing dream of mine is to get someone I am eating with to order an avacado milkshake just so I can taste it. In keeping with the theme of self indulgence, I got two bonbons: a milk chocolate flavored with olive oil and basil, and a dark chocolate flavored with ginger and wasabi. I took only nibbles of them, working off the pipe dream that if I only have a little at a time I won't pay for it later. They're both really good, believe it or not.
I think the difficulty of living in the big city is it triggers my materialistic fantasies. Not like a lust for big screen tv's and heated toilet seats, but for serious luxury, gourmet food, giant bath tubs, a limosine to the theater and fancy clothes. Mostly the food. Seriously, if I was obscenely wealthy, my bribe of choice would be for folks to comission the mad geniuses who come up with these crazy chocolates to make them sugarless. The five star grocery store also had cappaccino truffles shaped like little coffee cups with molded white chocolate foam. I lust after this stuff like it was a heartthrob in a half-removed tux. My idea of heaven would be one of each type of chocolate they sell, to sample at leisure.
My own life style has recently involved less luxury and more copious boredom. A new kind of paperwork with a different scanning procedure counts as excitement. And nothing sucks like finding out the book on tape du jour is a stinker, leaving with the choice of gritting my teeth through it or no distraction at all. Y'know, there's a certain kind of really bad book that everyone seems to like. I just don't get it. I'm not saying I don't have my one favorite flavor of trash, but when the characterization hits a certain level of two-dimensional predictability, and the internal logic stretches just a little too thin, I just can't get into it. Like this one book, a murder mystery I picked up my first round at the library. The first warning sign was when the third person limited narrator, operating as the female leads thought process casually mentions that both she and her boyfriend are so attractive that they are subject to constant advances from the opposite sex, and thus are usually above petty jealousy. Right. I feel more associated with these people already. God knows it's a constant pain in my ass the way the guys are constantly flinging themselves to lie down in my delectable wake. I mean, really, don't you just hate that? It's not that their attractive. It's just that as a human reaction that seems so...I don't know, false. It's exactly what a person who's barely thought about it would assume an attractive, sympathetic person would think. Real people are more messy and unpredictable. A real person in this situation might enjoy the attention, or resent it, or stop noticing it, or some combination. Anyways, I tried to hold out, and then it turned out the main source of tension in the relationship was that back when he was an FBI agent he was forced into a witness protection program that consisted of faking his death including to his loved ones, which evidently "ruined her life". Narg. And yet I bet you a quarter this bullshit made some form of best seller list. What is the appeal here that I seem to be missing?
It makes me think of Dan Brown. Now, to be fair, I've never read his work. I just saw the movie of Da Vinci code. Which was crap, by the way. I don't mean this as an invective against people who liked it, just an expression of puzzlement. And before anyone asks, it's nothing to do with religion. I'm an agnostic with a fondness for what-if style speculative fiction. I liked the movie Dogma. My problem with Da Vinci Code is that as a work of fiction it's weak. The characters are cliched and poorly developed. The logic is shaky, and the plot is contrived. The female lead is supposedly some sort of puzzle genius, trained since childhood, but her role is strictly second fiddle, standing around being impressed while all puzzles involved are solved by the male lead. The only thing she brings to the table are basic escape skills. The male lead's super clever escape plan when they are captured is to take the single bullet he has acquired and tuck it in the way of the back door of the van they've been kidnapped in, so that, before executing both of them, the kiddnapper cold cocks himself by trying to slam the door and having it bounce. How many times in a million would that actually work? What if he decided to shoot them first and then close the door? What if mr. kidnapper happened not to be a careless dumbass, and actually looked to see what was blocking it? Why does everyone love this? I just don't get it.