And here it is, my very firstest blog entry. Been encouraged by several to get a blog going, and I suspect if I do find my groove with it, 'twill be a delightful mixture of cathartic and ridiculous. Which is kinda how life should be.
I have named my blog after The Three Best Things Ever, not necessarily in that order on a daily basis. I hope each entry will have an update on all three fronts!! Here goes Nut N' Honey.....
SEX
On hiatus. Boo hiss.
FOOD
Day 12 of the new job, and while the job itself brings really next to nothing worth talking about, various side effects of it do. I had hoped to land new employment in San Francisco for various reasons – the change of scenery, the opportunity to explore a new area and maybe try some new eateries, and a masochistic desire to become a frequent BARTer. But it was not meant to be, I could practically spit out my apartment window and hit the building I work in now. Which has its ups and downs. The proximity that is…not the spitting. That's really all downs.
There is a Chinese buffet right across the street from this new office. For some, that thought probably inspires delight, and for others instant revulsion. For me? Curiosity. Right off the bat the place is a cliché-ridden mess – the sign outside the place advertises (and I quote): "Chinese – Japanese – Italian Food." The sure sign of quality, marketability and stability – a strikethrough. The parking lot is a touch messy and cramped, and is designed like those mazes you used to see printed on the inside of matchbooks (how much did I just age myself?) – one in, one out, and 97,000 difficult-to-access parking spots! I humbly suggest getting there on footsies. Neon blazes through the front windows, advertising beer brands I've never heard of. You walk in the door and are greeted quite literally by a WALL of little crank machines, the type where you put in a quarter and you get a sticker or a gumball or some other piece of plastic to forget in the back seat of Mom's car.
The first thing I see once I'm seated and make my way to the food at this Chinese/Japanese/Italian eatery? Pizza. I'm confused already – didn't they read the sign??? But just like Lee, I press on.
In the salad bar metaphor for life, the lettuce of this place would be the epic of vats of meatless fried rice and chow mein. They are piled to the rafters and they are clearly presented in quantities to be a base, a canvas. Knowing that chow mein is a far greater art form, I avoid avoid avoid and opt for the fried rice as my canvas. Options for dumpage are now plentiful, and I decide to go for the safe (Beef with Broccoli) and the shakey (Pepper Chicken). The beef is shockingly good – tender, well cooked, the broccoli is steamed perfectly and the brown sauce has a nice sweetness to it! The Pepper Chicken – here's the thing. It's deep fried pieces of chicken tossed in a colorless sauce, mixed with red bell peppers and jalapenos. I'm sure that sounds delightful to you spiceheads, but the snob in me knows jalapenos belong nowhere near this menu. The Chinese have far more inventive ways to infuse a dish with heat than making a run for the border. So boo hiss, I'm not impressed there. In terms of other meat/sauce/veggie traditional Chinese fare, I move on – what's left is generally fish based, resting in coagulating yellowish sauces and appear to be unwise options if I value my gastrointestinal health.
Next, the fun part really – appetizers! If you know me, you know I love pot stickers – like I would kill or die for a great pot sticker. Sadly this joint's Vat O' 'Stickers is down to the dregs, and the little soldiers left behind are wilty and steamed into oblivion. But in the name of science, I must sample. I also grab an egg roll, a cheese wonton, a slice of teriyaki chicken, something called a Chicken Stick, and a couple pieces of California Roll. The Chicken Stick is a revelation – chewy in the really good and satisfying way, marinated and infused with lots of soy gingery flava, and of course the fun of being on a stick. Everything else is yawnworthy.
I sit down to eat and am the only person dining alone in my vicinity. This is apparently a place you come to with 40 of your closest pals, and I stick out like a sore thumb but hope to be perceived merely as a non-snobby professional, maybe I can even pull off The Pretty Girl Dining Alone. One can only hope. As I eat my Italian food, I take in the décor and am greeted by the bestest cliché of them all, and admittedly one that immediately makes my heart melt and confirms that I will be back to dine here again – there are Christmas decorations on the wall. In July. In a couple random places, so it isn't even unashamed laziness in leaving them up all year, or laziness disguised as creative flair. What it looks like is "EEEeeeeeeehhhhh, that's too high to reach, just leave it." It's one stretch of pine-tree-like garland sprinkled with a few lights, floating in the middle of a wall like some galaxy in the otherwise vast darkness. It's hard to even imagine what they were going for with decorations at full blast, I guess I will just have to wait a couple more months to find out.
And just in case you were wondering, I passed on the pizza.
CINEMA
Slim pickins lately! My last venture to the theater was a dooblay, saw The Kids Are All Right (4 stars on the Netflix scale, aka ****) and The Girl Who Played With Fire (****). Kids didn't live up to the hype for me because while entertaining and indeed full of wonderfully realistic moments, it lost me by taking what felt like an easy way out. SPOILER ALERT – SKIP TO NEXT PARAGRAPH!! The two moms in the film are lesbians, and only one (and to me an admittedly weak) attempt is made to suggest that these women have any lingering or existent attraction to men. But the major loop that these characters have to overcome is one of them having an affair with the man who donated his sperm so they could have their two children. The affair isn't justified at all, the audience is expected to swallow a 50-ish year old lesbian falling into bed repeatedly with a man as if we were just watching her switch from Coke to Pepsi. As an emotional anchor moment, it feels cheap and very unearned. It does provide some good laughs, and the revelation of her partner's infidelity gives Annette Bening one of the strongest moments in the whole film. But it doesn’t' save the whole experience, and to me takes the film out of potential greatness and instead dumps into mediocre pedestrian territory.
The Girl Who Played With Fire, the much anticipated continuation of The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo, I had heard from all directions was a superior film. Which not only is incredibly rare for a sequel, it's also simply not true. The first film, while it doesn't necessarily break new ground, it visits familiar ground in a very engaging and deliciously twisted way. Fire has a new director and the difference shows, the camera is no longer making love to the characters. They haven't lost me though, I look forward to the Swedish version of Hornet's Nest with much glee.
Netflix has also been underwhelming lately, and of course that is 100% my fault for filling my queue with bonafide crapola. I sent back 3 movies today that I've had since FEBRUARY for god's sake. Time to shake things up. With no horror in theaters lately I've added a few to my list, so hopefully my bloodthirst will be slaked soon. Dead Snow, the highly recommended and ridiculous Nazi Zombie Movie, woke all that yummy stuff back up.
And that's that. To sum up:
SEX – Yes please!
FOOD – Keep an open mind.
No comments:
Post a Comment