Poptarticus

I am seriously lagging on the blog thang. Time seems short - but it’s not. Summer, I guess.

Renee and Eddie built their beach island on the 4th. They got there at 5:00 AM and worked for five hours while a bunch of cops watched. Then, at 10:00 when they were done, the cops came over and told them to level it!

Kind of sucked, after all that work. Thankfully they did not let this ruin their day. They piled all the ice (which was suppose to go in a moat) in a pile and stuck a palm tree into it. This palm tree made it very easy to find them on a very packed beach.

The rest of that day involved a great deal of fantastic wine and delicious food, and I have earned the uneasy reputation of she who likes to lay on the floor and listen to live Wilco really loud.

Yesterday, Margaret invited me to go to the Padres game with her. We started at Cafe Chloe, a little French bistro a few blocks from the park. It was my first time to this popular place and I totally fell in love with it. We ate a prawn brochette that had a garlicky lemon sauce, a little mushroom tart and cheese tart, and finally the charcuterie plate, which was a little dish of pork rillettes. It was all amazing and now I am more ready than ever for France in September. Pork rillettes is a sort of shredded pork thing all mixed up with fat and you spread it on bread… I know that does not sound so great but let me tell you, it was fantastic.

On to the ballpark. I am always a bit blown away by Petco Park. It’s a lovely baseball stadium, with the downtown highrises all around, and yesterday the game did not start until 5:00 so the green on the field and the light in the air was especially beautiful. But, there is something that weirds me out about Petco Park. I think it is the mass consumerism that goes on there, and the high prices of everything. In every possible nook and cranny, there is a place to buy something. Guys walk around selling bags of popcorn for SIX DOLLARS. What is that, a six thousand percent markup? I’m no baseball purist, but heck, is it not about the game? It’s not like tickets are cheap, either.

My friend Mark, who is a baseball freak, would have also been very pissed off by the constant comings and goings of spectators while the ball is in motion. I don’t know shit about baseball (besides the basics) but I do know you go to the bathroom between innings.

Everythings been a bit weird lately, so I’m not surprised I was feeling the way I was there. We came back to OB and went to the Vine for some wine and a cheese plate - and everything seemed, for a time, in it’s right place.

Starting today I am going vegan for one week, just to see if I can do it. I’m allowing myself a little bit of cream in my coffee; that’s it. Maybe it will keep me grounded during a week that already looks ugly; maybe, it will send me spinning out of control.

Top Chef is on again Wednesday. My Spoon package should arrive tomorrow. Something to look forward to in bean and rice land.

It’s 8:45 A.M. and very foggy here in Ocean Beach, yet I just checked the OB webcam and the beach is already packed!

If you are reading today, check it out.

Renee and Eddie from The Vine have this plan to build an island with a palm trees and recliners made out of sand on the beach, and they got down there (well, they were supposed to, anyway) at 5:00 A.M. So, that will be the first stop of the day. I have this plan to stay somewhat out of trouble, but the problem is, everytime I have that plan, it seems to go in the opposite direction. Maybe the better idea is to plan to get totally hammered. Then, the opposite thing might happen.

Hopefully I’ll have some photos of “Rosenbaum Island” tomorrow. Happy 4th, everyone.

Tonight there was a special episode of Top Chef with the winners of Season 1 and Season 2 going at it. It’s not going to be a big surprise to anyone that Harold, Stephen, Tiffani and Dave beat Marcel, Ilan, Sam and Elia. They were judged by the contestants of Season 3, who all seem fairly clueless and also, say “like” too much. (Like Marcel, and, uh, like, uh, me?)

Having said that, Ilan not only choked completely on his dish but also, almost choked on something else.

Dude. That is some crazy shit. Also, like, totally hilarious. Thanks to Ilan for making my night of on-line traffic school somewhat tolerable. Like, I almost spit wine all over my final quiz when I saw that. Seriously.

You know how it is when you are watching the news and there is bad weather somewhere and there are people stranded at the airport and you are like, thank god that isn’t me?

Today it IS me. Stuck in fucking HOUSTON of all places. Everyone knows how much I love it here.

I’ve been working here at few days at the Texas Wine and Grapegrowers conference, and today I was oh, so ready to get home. I was so ready I showed up for my flight five hours early, hoping to stand by on something earlier. And yes, I called; I called yesterday and they said it would be no problem to stand by, through Dallas and on to San Diego. An hour before I left for the airport, I called and they said the flights were now full, but I wanted to get the fuck out of dodge so bad I decided to go to the airport and pray.

So I got to the airport and what did I see? A long string of CANCELLED all the way down the board. I got a really yicky feeling in my stomach. The line was already long. I started asking people how long it would take to drive to Santa Fe, New Mexico. (Too long.)

So there we are all in the Houston airport, all pretty much screwed, with a non-moving line. The thought of staying the night, much less two or three, was making me feel queasy. A woman came around with little squares of paper with a phone number to CALL American while we were in line. So I called, and the wait was twenty-two minutes, but a super cool guy behind me got through before I did (he was on the phone to them way before that lady started passing out the phone numbers) and he let me talk to the agent after he was done.

The agent was like, well, can you fly from Hobby Airport? And I was like, I’ll do whatever you want, just get me out of here. And she told me she had ONE seat on Monday.

“NO.” I told her. “I ABSOLUTELY cannot wait until Monday, I have to get out TOMORROW.” I wasn’t mean, or bitchy, but there must be something resembling angst or desperation in my voice because she put me on hold for a really long time and then came back and told me she got me on a non-stop on Continental, first thing tomorrow.

Here the poor guy who lent me his phone had to wait around for me for like twenty minutes. As I was thanking him profusely, practically offering sex (no not really but you get the idea) he said “we’re all in the same boat” and walked away.

If I would have arrived later, I would have been screwed. Well actually, I probably would be DRIVING home right now. I am telling you, I would not spend another day here. I wouldn’t.

So I am here at the Hilton Garden Inn where the airport van is bringing another ten stranded passengers every fifteen minutes. I can’t believe I am getting out tomorrow.

Well I gotta go, because all these people are walking by looking meaningfully at this computer. Tomorrow, I will write about some of the crazy shit that was going through my head about an hour ago as I sipped from a crappy glass of pinot grigio on a barren strip of land with nothing, and I mean nothing, on it except for a bunch of boring airport hotels on it.

It could be worse, but it could be better. How come I never get stranded in Paris?

Still on the road, and I ask this question like, ten times a day. When confronted with a problem or situation, or a crappy hotel room, I ask myself, what would Anthony Bourdain do?

I read this interview with Rex Pickett, the guy who wrote “Sideways,” where he said he didn’t want to do some TV show qwhere he would be an “Anthony Bourdain type.” Dude, even if someone injected you with cool syrum, I don’t think you stand a chance. Actually if there is one person who could never be anything like Anthony Bourdain, it would be Rex Pickett.

Anyway. I am almost home, sorry about non-posting in the last few weeks but it is troublesome from where I currently reside (nowhere for very long.) In the meantime, here is the Shins new video, from their new record Wincing the Night Away. It is awesome.

Home Saturday! Yippee!

I’m sorry, but I’m just like, totally mortified by this.

I don’t know why I’m so surprised, the signs have been there for years. But still, it’s a bit of a kick in the gut.

Look closely at this picture (which I stole from Lee Anne Wong’s blog.) Note the wine glass full of water in Marcel’s wine glass. Water? Water? Eh… maybe NOT water. Maybe, SMIRNOFF VODKA. Since Smirnoff seemed to be product placement #3 on Wednesday’s Top Chef (after Bailey’s and Parrot Bay whatever Rum) Marcel must have figured he deserved to pour a half fifth straight down his throat.

I guess it COULD be water. When I watched it, I was like what the hell are they all drinking water out of wine glasses for? Then it dawned on me - oh, no wine at this “holiday party.”

One wonders if the copious vodka swallowing had anything to do with Mia’s transformation into crazy black mama who’s gonna kick yous ass. But before we get into that…

This was a good episode of Top Chef with a real humdinger of a finale and for that, I am very grateful. They had a team challenge, and the challenge was a good one - make a spread of cocktail snacks for 200 people at a “holiday” party. Only, it wasn’t a holiday when they filmed - it was friggen August. Still, all through the episode everyone goes on about the HOLIDAYS. And pretends that it REALLY IS CHRISTMAS. Over and over, on and on, to the point where I found myself screaming at the TV “do you think we are FUCKING MORONS? We know it is NOT REALLY CHRISTMAS, PEOPLE.”

At any rate. There are two teams - one that works together (Betty, her hormones seemingly in check; Sam, boring as ever and with his hair getting way too bunnified; good ol’ steady Ilan; and Crazy Little Brother Marcel) and one that pretends to get along but really doesn’t (boring old Cliff who all of a sudden seems like Dr. Evil; Elia who doesn’t realize Dr. Evil is planning some, um, evilness; Mike who should just go ahead and get B for Baffled tattooed on his forehead; and Mia, who could have maybe combated Dr. Evil and saved a sinking ship.)

BSIM kicks ass with lots of food (thirteen dishes!) that looks cool and I guess, tastes pretty good. CEMM makes FOUR dishes and their table is a paltry, sad affair. It is an embarrassment. Poor Mia had been concerned that her rep as a caterer would be hindered if they couldn’t pull it off. And not only did they NOT pull it off, but they couldn’t even do that very well. To see Elia wandering around completely clueless as to how bad they were doing, and Mikey skulking back and forth with an empty tray… well, at least, THROW something at each other to make the lameness more palatable. This IS reality TV, after all.

Meanwhile, Dr. Evil, he of the Mr. Clean bald head and earrings and a squished, nasty looking turtle neck (is your head too heavy, dude?) stands around with his arms crossed watching the carnage. I didn’t even think of it, it took someone else to point it out to me (thanks Kim) but Cliff planned the disaster… to get rid of Elia.

Then Mia stepped in and said, “oh no Dr. Evil, you aren’t going to ruin the chances of this young genius who hopefully some day will have her own restaurant!”

Actually she didn’t say it quite like that. What she really said was stuff like “put your dick away, dude!” and “send my black ass home, I don’t give a shit!” She got all ghetto and shit, it was crazy. Then she went on for a while about homelessness and crack, among other things.

But whateves, regardless of the ghetto-ization of situation, the fact remains that Mia stepped down and let Elia stay, thereby foiling the nastyassness of Cliff, which makes me happy. Also, I am sure I will be using Miaisms far into the future (”I don’t give a black bone” even though I have white bones, and so does she) because they were sparkling nuggets of goodness on a bland palate. Fueled by Smirnoff? Quite possibly.

I have many tortures in mind for icky old Cliff. Tortilla press. Sausage Attachment. Meat Thermometer. But I think the damage has been done, and we can thank Mia for that.

Wha the fa is that thing on her head?

More on Mia later. Misused, ex-homeless, crack-sellin, apron-on-her-head-wearin, Mia.

In the meantime, you all try to keep your big black dick in your pants. Oh, Mia!

Well, I am a little late here, but what a fine episode of Top Chef we had on Wednesday. Finally! I was sort of getting to the point of not caring anymore.

Cooking on the beach over grills, for surfers: now that is a creative challenge. I loved all the “bro” and “bra” and the frolicking in the waves - it reminded me of how lucky I am to live at the beach. Everyone was so happy to be at the beach. Guess we can’t all live here though.

Anyhow it was awesome and there is an incredibly humorous and well-written blog about Top Chef HERE so go check it out. I have spit out my wine on more than one occasion reading Amuse-Biatch and even though I don’t much like spitting out good wine, I still head over there something like eight times a day.

Whatever. In other Top Chef news, Colleen and I went to TGI Friday’s in the Dallas airport last Friday and tried Betty Fraser’s winning dish.

The portobello mushroom grilled cheese sandwich was pretty good. There was not much to it - it wasn’t exactly heaving volume-wise, but it tasted good, all four bites of it. The soup was cloyingly sweet. I know it’s sweet pepper but whatever - it tasted like a hot popsicle. Or something like that. I don’t imagine the dish hanging around the Friday’s menu for eternity or anything. Not when there are jalepeno popper sandwiches to be had.

I am in love with the new Sparklehorse record. I think I can safely say this is the best thing I have bought this year. It’s lush and beautiful and exactly what I need. Check it out.

In this months Food and Wine Magazine there is an article about Top Chef and a little contest between four of the chefs - Sam, Cliff, Betty and Elia.

I pray these aren’t the final four. Betty and Elia? Yick.

If they are the final four, then this season is not just Beyond Lame, it is Uber Beyond Lame, also Pukealicios.

I guess tonight it might be Mike that gets the boot, despite Anthony Bourdain’s homeboy handshake last week. But I oh, so wish it will be Betty or Elia. Next time I go to Lodi (and yes, I DO go to Lodi) I want to stop by Wine and Roses or wherever he is currently working and buy Michael a beer. And I’ll also buy hometown boy Frankie the Bull a beer, if he ever writes to me again (he did write once to tell me that he drinks Miller Lite and that he is not a dork.)

Those guys probably won’t make it. And neither will Marcel, who probably should have won last week. I wonder if Elia’s winning mushroom soup makes green bean casserole even better? Cutting edge. Yeah, right.

Let’s hope it gets better.