Anne Frank is Spunky

Last night was New Year's Eve, and like most people my age, I stayed in and played games with a few friends. Then I fell asleep around 12:30. Wild times in Brooklyn, indeed.

Actually, though, the night was completely and utterly fantastic. I had a very brief tinge of regret regarding not pursing any wild plans (like the hot tub party I hear went down at Roberta's in Bushwick), but this passed quickly and immediately upon being presented with a platter of Nora's bacon and brown sugar wrapped cheese stuffed jalapeno peppers. Take a moment to read that again...OK. They were otherworldly, ethereal, miraculous. I'm not sure I knew what happiness was until eating 15 or so of these delights. And then Nora produced a crock pot simmering with homemade pulled pork. Glory be!

The real takeaway, however, involved a game called Apples to Apples. I'd never heard of it, and confess to being rather leery at first. It didn't sound like much fun at first glance. Oh, how I was wrong.

It occurs to me much too late that the brilliance and majesty of Apples to Apples may be impossible to actually describe. This could very well be a classic case of you really had to be there. Suffice to say that Apples to Apples affords a phenomenal glance into the human psyche, and given the right players and mindset, provides a glimpse into the human brain that makes a Rorschach test look like an inkblot. So to speak.

Damn, I'm really not explaining this well...let me try this: in Apples to Apples, a card is placed down on the table. This card contains a single word or concept: "Stylish", "Shiny", "Sexy", etc. The players then look at their 7 cards in hand, and select a card which best exemplifies the concept card. For example, you might play "Cindy Crawford" for "Sexy." Then the judge picks the best match. And that's it.

Sounds boring, right? But it is PHENOMENAL. And here's why: because every so often someone will play a card so exceptionally, fantasmagorically brilliant, a card just so indisputably "right" that even if you're in competition (and thus want that card to lose), you've just gotta give props. It's like working on some crappy watercolor of the sunset and then Van Gogh sets up an easel right next to you. Know what I mean?

And so without further ado, my favorite memory of the game: the concept card is "Spunky". Players play their cards. Cards are overturned one by one. Most are commonplace, unimaginative, rather basic interpretations of "spunky" (including my own). And then the last card is turned:

"Anne Frank"

I admit there was half a second when my first reaction was to scoff. "Anne Frank? What the hell is that?" And then it hit me, the unadulterated brilliance of playing "Anne Frank" for "Spunky." It was like an advanced alien life form had entered the game, seeing angles my bourbon-drenched human brain could barely contemplate.

Anne Frank is downright fucking spunky. Holy shit. I honestly can't think of anything spunkier.

Current Song Obsessions

So I spend an inordinate amount of time at the computer, much of it staring into space or at the same 6 websites over and over again (NY Times, ESPN, Phillies, Netflix, Facebook, Hammer 2 Nail). I tend to get caught in these endless loops of limited attention spans. Or something. And so it goes with music, too. I find myself listening to the same handful of songs over and over and over...until finally something breaks the cycle and a new one begins.

Just a quick list of the current song cycle looping endlessly on my computer:

Band of Horses -- The Funeral
Built to Spill -- Car
Michael Nyman -- Jack
Spiritualized -- Ladies and Gentlemen We Are Floating in Space
ELO -- Telephone Line

I suppose this all says something about my mood, but damn if I know what.

There's No Avoiding It: Damn, I'm Old

OK, so I guess I'm blogging again. I don't know how this happened. I have so much I should be writing right now. I guess it's come to the point where blogging feels like a break from writing. Does that make sense? At any rate, it's either this or exercise or some shit.

Alright, this isn't so compelling, but I feel like I need to ease my way back into the blogosphere with a nice simple post. Did I actually just type the word "blogosphere." Why, yes. Yes, I did. See: I'm rusty. But let's hope this is like riding a bike. Not that I'm very good at riding a bike, either. But you know what I mean.

Here goes. Without further ado, Thirty Is The New Sixty breathes again!

I just wanted to write a few notes about the title of the blog itself, and how mortified I am that what was once an "I'm Old" joke (inspired by me turning 30) now makes me wistful for a time when I could joke about turning 30. Holy crap, I'm 35 next month. How did this happen? What now? Do I need to change the blog's name? Will I even be able to type or operate a computer at such an advanced age? Do I bother getting out of bed in the morning? Do I start reading AARP magazine? Should I join my parents in Florida for the winter? Should it bother me that I can barely keep a houseplant alive, much less care for a pet or (gulp) father a child? (Just typing the words "father a child" made me cringe and glance embarrassingly around the cafe to make sure noone is reading over my shoulder. I'm like 16 emotionally.) Should I switch from tennis to golf? Should I find religion? Should I talk more about my knees and back? Should I stop wearing jeans and sneakers every day? Should I buy a briefcase? Should I not buy a Vespa on Craigslist? Do I stop obsessing over the Phillies and be thankful I got to see one World Championship in my lifetime? Should I visit the doctor more than once every few years? Is that weird mole on my shoulder something I should be concerned about? Should I start talking about the 90s like my parents talk about the 60s? Should I floss more? Should I switch to lighter beer? Not drink at all? Do sit ups? Eat spinach? Get to bed at a decent hour?

It's too much to contemplate.

Instead, two recent observations that made me feel old, one mortifying, the other amusing (at least to me):

1. Mortifying: I was watching the movie 17 Again with some friends recently. Not a bad little movie, actually. That Zac Effron's really got something. ANYWAY, at one point in the movie, 17-year-old Zac is discussing how in ten years from now he'll be old and it'll be too late, and so he should follow his dreams right now, being young and vibrant and relevant. And I realize: holy shit, Zac's vision of old, 27, is EIGHT YEARS YOUNGER THAN I AM NOW.

2. Amusing: So I'm at the shrink, and he's going on about how I should press the issue on certain things, and not just go with the flow, etc. So I say, "Yeah, I don't wanna rock the boat." He goes, "But aren't you just prolonging the inevitable?" To which I wittily reply, "What is life, if not prolonging the inevitable?" The shrink snorted into his herbal tea at that, and we both had a good chuckle. But seriously, this is the thinking of an old person.

I Might Blog Again

Does anyone care?

I Devour LA, Part 12

Today was the day I had to return the rental car, kind of sticking me in one locale for the day. I took Abbey to lunch for accompanying me on my errand. We went to Home again, where I got to gawk at Adrian Grenier and tuck into this delightful curry chicken salad sandwich. Yum.


I then spent the day swooning in the heat like Blanche du Bois until it was finally time for happy hour at El Conquistador! This is my favorite happy hour in all of LA. You order yourself a lovely margarita like this one:


Not only is the margarita delicious (and strong!), but it comes with a delightful basket of chips and salsa. Here, Bill takes a bite:


But that is only the beginning, for at El Conquistador, your happy hour margarita also comes with a full platter of Mexican treats! Seriously, this is free. Unbelievable.


My crappy camera phone is not doing justice to this huge plate of melted cheese-based items. Yeah yeah.

Then I settled in for a terrible Phillies performance. This homemade bowl of popcorn was unfortunately the highlight of the second game of the World Series.

I Devour LA, Part 11

[Frustrated note: I have no idea why so many of these shots are out of focus. I'm using the flash, I've got my settings down, I'm doing that thing where you half press the button and the camera focuses...it's very, very frustrating. And it's practically impossible to tell they are out of focus until I upload. On the little camera screen, they appear to look fine. Argh. Sorry.]

Today began w/ yet another trip to Cafe Tropical for mango shake and pastry. It was good, but not quite up to Tropical's usual standards. Or maybe my lack of sleep is beginning to affect my taste buds. Anyhow, no photo, as it looked the same as those previous.

We'd planned on a return to Home for lunch, but it was an absolute scorcher outside. Switched things up at the last minute and hit a cool retro diner type place called Fred 62. I was dead set on eating something healthy. But then I opened the menu and this chorizzo laden breakfast burrito appeared before my eyes like the burning bush.


It's such a tragedy that this isn't in focus. Oh man that burrito was like a work of art. You don't know what it's like living someplace where the food is awful (unless you're Amy). I practically wept into my plate while eating this. I think I now understand religion.

And then I was stuffed beyond description. But of course we headed over to Von's and stocked up on food and tequila for the World Series. Man, it was totally surreal to be rooting for the Phillies in the World Series. And even more surreal when Bill whipped up a Philadelphia-worthy Philly cheesesteak.


Wow. This thing was outrageously good. Better than Pat's. Totally on part with Tony Luke's. The real deal, cooked before my very eyes!

GO PHILS!!!!!

I Devour LA, Part 10

I still wasn't back on my game yet today. Spent the morning and early afternoon at Adam's, hanging out with Mr. President (dog) and enjoying a little Josh time. Didn't get anything to eat, or even coffee.

Around midday I drove back to west Hollywood, or whatever Pat's neighborhood is called. I met up with Miriam for lunch, and she took me to a little place called The Chicken Lady. Of course, this being LA, the Chicken Lady was described as "doing the catering on Two and a Half Men." Good enough for me!

We walked over to the restaurant, and I still wasn't really feeling hungry, or like I had much of an appetite. And I didn't know what to expect from the Chicken Lady. The place itself was pretty nondescript (besides headshots on the wall of every original 90210 cast member). We took a little table by the window, where I proceeded to be absolutely stunned by the quality of our lunch. Only the best for Charlie Sheen, apparently.

I stupidly forgot my camera, so Miriam snapped this with her phone:


This doesn't even begin to do justice to how amazing that plate of food was. Seriously, this was one of the most delicious things I've ever put in my mouth. That there is a Chicken Caesar sandwich with a side of mac n' cheese. The sandwich bore no relation to the Caesar salad...and as you may note, the entire thing was covered in melted cheese. It was so soft, so gooey, like crawling back into a melted cheese filled womb. It was a pure sensory experience. I can't even describe it. I've never experienced anything quite like it. Also, this may have been the best mac n' cheese I've ever eaten. For real.

As if that weren't enough, the Chicken Lady gave us each a complimentary slice of outrageously delicious chocolate cake (not pictured). The cake was made out of gnash or some similarly decadent ingredient. It was ice cold, and velvety, and just delicious. I told the Chicken Lady our lunch was so good I needed to move to LA immediately.

Unfortunately, I kind of crashed soon after. I'm getting really, really tired. Starting work at 7 each morning, coupled w/ crappy nights' sleep on various couches is taking a bit of a toll. Too bad, cause I hate feeling so drained.

At night, I drove over to Peggy's to check out her new house, which is unbelievably amazing. Good job, Peg!

She cooked up some stir fry for dinner, then we caught up, rapped about LA, writing, movies, etc. Too bad I was too braindead exhausted to do much other than nod at her like the village idiot. Thankfully, Peggy held up her end of the conversation.

And her dinner tasted a lot better than my crappy photo would suggest.