Small price to pay

For a couple of weeks, I have driven past a new Mexican restaurant near my house. It's one of only a handful of Mexican restaurants in the greater Bench area and my mate and I were looking forward to trying it. Our first step inside should have been our last. The joint was empty except for two employees, one of whom was sweeping the entryway. Cheap prices and a huge selection of entrees contributed to my inability to trust my better judgement. It was the dinner hour and there was nary a patron in sight and though the employees clearly had the tools and the time, clean the place was not.
But I've walked into restaurants before in which all of the effort is put into creating delicious food and the decor is more of an afterthought. I like that the energy available is expended in that way. So, we decided to push through our initial concerns and order dinner.
I ordered the fajita trio--shrimp, chicken and beef--and my mate picked a five-rolled-taco plate. Both came with beans and rice and his came with a drink. $14 dollars and about four minutes later, we were handed a plastic bag with two heavy to-go boxes. In the car, my eyes started to water from the fishy smell coming from the bag. My mate, tearing up a bit himself, looked at me with the tiniest bit of fear in his eyes. Hungry, I ignored what I knew to be true, and though we passed two or three dumpsters that we could have easily pitched the food into without even leaving the safety of the car, we headed home with our bounty.
My man, already disappointed by his weak, odd-tasting fountain ice tea, pulled his box out of the bag and sat down to eat. I heard a gasp and what might have been a scream. With the same look on his face he gets when he accidentally comes across televised surgery while channel surfing, my mate held his box up for me to see. His "rolled tacos" looked suspiciously like store-bought taquitos and were covered in a runny, mint-green sauce that we guessed was meant to simulate guacamole.
And because the taquitos had to be the rolled tacos and we could identify the rice as rice, by process of elimination, the mushy periwinkle-colored mound in the corner of his box had to be the beans. He took a bite of a taco, and with a hint of a challenge in his voice (patronizing the restaurant had been my idea), suggested I do the same. Rather than take the look of revulsion on his face as a warning, I took a bite. I didn't know something could be dry and spongy at the same time.
Though the tide-pool smell emanating from my box was growing stronger, I ignored the outraged voice in my head screaming, "No, no, no!" and opened it. Opposite a pile of dry, orangey rice, sat a puddle of cheese under which was a small heap of those selfsame purple gray beans. While that would have been enough to put any semi-sane human off his or her feed, I made one more in a string of bad decisions. I forked some chicken, beef and--god help me--shrimp, and took a bite. Immediately traumatized, I don't remember, but I don't think I actually swallowed. Through the force behind projectile vomiting, I think the mouthful landed across the living room. I do remember throwing my box on top of my husband's in the garbage can, begging him to take the trash out of the house, and shoving a cookie, a couple of green olives, a spoonful of some French's mustard and a handful of stale croutons in my mouth to kill the taste. Days later, the house still smelled like a fishing boat and now when I hear the word "shrimp," I throw up in my mouth a little.
Atkins out (of Pepto Bismol).

One song at a time

The amount of music readily available is, at the very least, daunting but I don't think that's an excuse for not exploring new acts and sounds, even if it's only once in awhile and even if it's just one new song.
To be able to converse about music at all, it's important maybe not to choose new bands to add to your regularly-listen-to repertoire, but to at least acknowledge they exist. And to recognize that a lot of them are adding something valuable to the music canon.

While at work, my go-to music choice is 3wk Internet radio. They offer three listening choices: classic rock, '80s and '90s rock, and indie rock. I usually click the indie rock choice. I hear bands I already know and dig, like Built to Spill or Modest Mouse. More importantly, I am introduced to music that's new to me. Most recently, I found Kate Nash whose song "Dickhead" is such a cool groove, the Long Blondes who dropped a trippy, misleading intro into their track "Century," and the Black Keys' crazy, scary, Appalachian "Psychotic Girl."
I still have my regular favorites and I'll still click on 3wk most days, but I hope I never find the end of new music.
Atkins out (but never of stuff to listen to).

In search of my inner bitch

For the last couple of weeks, longtime BW columnist Bill Cope has been discoursing on a newly turned-over leaf. He has decided to try and become a Mr. Nice Guy. He writes that he's at the dawn of the Nice Bill Era . I'm happy for him. I really am. It would stand to reason that nice people have it easier. The problem is, people who are too nice are treated like shit (way too nice and they may try and send you to a class for special people). But nobody likes a mean person. People who are too mean are also, well, treated like shit. Find that fine line between pushover and pushy and the world is your big, stupid oyster. I thought I was walking that line as perfectly as a leopard-print-leotard-wearing Cirque Du Soleil performer on a tightrope. Apparently, though, I've been wandering around in a Mary-Kay-Cadillac-pink fog through a meadow watching unicorns munch on daffodils.
I was told recently, by more than one person, that I'm too nice. I had this impression of myself as kind of a bitch. Apparently, I was the only one with that impression. Well, no more. I'll endeavor to be tough. Crusty. Rotten. Nasty. More like the old Cope. Maybe I'll ask him where to start on my path to peevish. But not right now. I just sneezed and I think some cotton candy came out.
Atkins out (to kick ass and take names).

Oh, and I made that frowny face. Don't like it? Too bad. I don't care. Because that's the kind of person I am. Or at least the kind of person I'm trying to be.

Living in a Material World

Madonna has a new album out. Hard Candy is quintessential Madge which is funny because the only thing about Madonna that's consistent is her inconsistency. At an age when we begin to expect rock stars to retire, the queen of reinvention managed to release a CD more befitting a 20-something's Jay-Z produced hip-hop chart topper (Timbaland and Justin Timberlake both provide cameos on "4 Minutes").
As cool and timeless as they may be, it's tough to watch say, Mick Jagger strut his stuff or see Angus Young in his kneesocks and parochial-school uniform and not make some joke about broken hips. But at 50, Madonna—who, on the album cover, sits slightly dressed and spread-eagle—manages to avoid looking either creepy or sad. Say what you will about Madonna, but whether due to diet, exercise, a happy home life or her recently adopted faith, the woman looks damn good.
I am facing a milestone birthday this year. I think I may turn to the Material Girl for inspiration much like I did two decades ago ... listening to "Lucky Star" wearing spandex shorts, fingerless gloves, an oversized bow in my hair, and 40 or 50 rubber bracelets on my wrists, I felt like I could do just about anything.
Atkins out (and almost at the "Borderline").