Goin' Phrasey

A long time ago I typed a pun into my phone, and saved it there. I hoped the idea would incubate into something hilarious, but it's been years now and the yield is nothing.

I find it curious that Google showed ZERO results for the phrase, so I am at least pleased to claim it as my original idea for perpetuity:

"Write what ewe know."

Baa baa people confuse me with goats and shear my wool for textiles. One of us was a clone. Mutton.

See? There's nowhere to go with this. But it's mine!

Tom, Chef

Man, I did all that work looking for a good Gmail account when info@fbi.gov was available?







I downloaded the attachment and replied to their message. I signed my full name with my social security number so they'd be sure it was really me.


* * *

Win Butler and Tom Colicchio were both hanging out in my dream last night. I spent all my time talking to an amused Tom about some "Top Chef" suggestions.

First, I brought up my longstanding theory on "The Real World": the show would benefit from an unexciting setting. Instead of placing the young human nightmares in 24-hour parties like New Orleans or New York, MTV should set the show in places like Iowa or Utah. This would force the kids to make their own fun, with disastrous and hilarious consequences.

This theory doesn't work as well for "Top Chef", since it airs very little content outside of the kitchen. Still, maybe my dream self's idea could work for the show. It could be refreshing to see the contestants shopping somewhere other than Whole Foods -- running around the Des Moines HyVee's tiny organic section searching for microgreens and artisanal cheese.

My second, better idea for Tom was an elimination challenge: instead of catering a wedding reception, serve food at a funeral. (Preferably a funeral in a small German Catholic town. Noticing a pattern, I once asked an old monsignor if he'd ever been to a funeral where they did not serve ham and green beans. "Never in my life," he replied.) Tell me you wouldn't watch this episode! Think of the possibilities!

How would the chefs respond?

"I'm taking a big risk with this devil's food cake, but when she wasn't crying, the widow seemed like she had a great sense of humor and a sweet tooth."

Would the grieving attendees give more honest feedback than usual?

"This beef is tougher than my old man was on me. *sigh* Rest in peace, Dad."

Judge's table would be the best ever!

"Your celery foam was wholly inappropriate for the occasion."

"In situations like these, heirloom tomatoes take on even more importance. I'm sorry, but your dish did not respect that."

"This being an Irish wake, I understand your choice to serve corned beef and cabbage. Unfortunately, it just didn't work. And frankly, your loaded baked potato was insulting."

Big Slam

I'm back from vacation, but I don't have a lot to say. I guess I'll continue the promotion I began late Saturday night / early Sunday morning, as we sat at Barbara's round table and finished our conversation about good, non-food smells. It's like this: I wish to champion the phrase, "Slam a cock!"

I first learned of the phrase when Rob Corrdry was interviewed by The Onion about his iPod:

Pavement, "Stereo"
Oh wow, I'm awesome. Brighten The Corners—I would argue, the best Pavement record. The Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain people can slam a cock, because this is the best. I miss Pavement. I went and saw Stephen Malkmus live a couple years ago. Terrible. He's a jam band now. There was this guy in the front row who wouldn't stop asking Malkmus, "What's up with the Jicks?" He kept saying, "Steve, what's up with the Jicks?" And my friend Jason started yelling, "Esteban, que pasa los Jicks?" Needless to say, he did not answer us. Not a good show, though I got very drunk.

I think "Slam a cock!" has a lot of potential.

"Go slam a cock!"

"Why don't you slam a cock?"

"Hey! Buddy! Slam a cock!"

We're all looking for a new vulgar expression; I'd appreciate it if everyone gave this one the old college try.

Give Up

I assume that our biology would encourage us to accomplish things, as it is in humankind's best interest to get stuff done.

And it does feel good to see something through to completion - it feels good to finish writing a paper, it feels good to finish cleaning the house.

But why does it feel equally good to quit?

Commune, Feel The Noise

It could work. There's no reason it couldn't. Lots of people don't have jobs.

Housewives (remember back before the Teri Hatcher resurgence when we had to call them "homemakers"?) don't have jobs. That is, they usually don't bring in much income. They do things around the house and they care for a child or two.

This could work, because I don't even have a kid. Or two. I just have me. And my peers - they only have themselves, too.

There's a lot of math involved. Sometimes, I miss math. Assigned equations to solve, little puzzles.

Letterman once interviewed someone - the (moviestar?) was once responsible for sacking groceries, as was Letterman. Letterman enjoyed the work. "Every bag is like a puzzle," he said. His guest was less enthusiastic.

So, math. Let's say there is a house full of five of us. Families of five are all over the place - the difference here is that we're all adults. But let's say the house exists, it's roomy, and we are in it. There is a mortgage. We all have enough space. Five of us. Professionals.

Five professionals, living together, utilities shared, mortgage shared.

If all five professionals were employed, the house would have significant income. I make about $40 K right now. Math says the five of us would pull in about $200K.

Here's the trick - if only four of us were employed, the house would still make $160 K, and one lucky individual could sit around in his/her boxers all day.

We'd work in shifts. You work for a year, maybe two, pay your dues, then you take a year off, you play with the house money like a teenager with an allowance. Maybe after that year (when you travel, you spend time with your dog, etc.) expires, you go back to the same job. Or maybe you spent your year off learning a new trade, and you decide that you want to take a job in that line of work. No sweat. Just get back to making some scratch so your housemate can relax.

There are some problems. By now you've noticed that this reeks of socialism/communism, and you might want to point out that such isms have a spectacular rate of failure/tragedy. Fair enough. You might also point out that that "allowance" for an adult would be much higher than for a child. Health insurance and the like. And who gets to take a year off now? Who has to wait a few more years?

These are hard questions to answer. Harder than working every day for the next 40 years? Probably not. Let me know when you want to move in together.