A frosty Thanksgiving

Ice
Originally uploaded by typingelbow.

I had a crazy-busy Thanksgiving this year.... I spent Thursday morning drinking Bloody Mary's with Brandi and Megann while we watched the Macy's parade from an office window high above Times Square. Then, I called the whole family and talked about how I wished I could be with them to eat all the olives.

By 3 p.m., I had hopped a train to eat turkey with my adopted family in New Jersey. We watched the Wizard of Oz and stuffed ourselves.

On Friday, I got back on the train, this time with Pumba in tow, and Megann, Brandi and I made our way to Westchester. There, we met Julie, who drove us all the way up New York's backside and across Lake Champlain into Vermont. (Did you know that Vermont is shaped like a "V"? I didn't.) We took over the house for the weekend and tried not to think about how the place must surely be haunted. It's on top of a hill, surrounded by icy water and fast winds. We all told ghost stories after the first night of sleeping there. The place was amazing, though, and I wasn't ready to leave. Thanks for taking us on a mini-vacation, Julie!!

Wanna see the weekend for yourself? Go here.

Gimme a beat!

My rock-n-roll friend Brandi and I don't fight about much. We love hanging out together, even just to run errands or talk shit about the world, and I miss her when we let each other go for too long. We look like opposites---our differences start with my blonde hair and her brunette---but we've got a lot in common inside.

Our musical tastes overlap with Death Cab, Pinback, Badly Drawn Boy and other emo-bands like that. Brandito introduced me to all of those groups, and I admit that I was skeptical when I first heard the name Death Cab for Cutie. (I mean, come on!) But with Brandi's persistance, I finally gave them a real chance to rock, and I've never been the same since. Now that I have an iPod, I'm crazy about new music, and I LOVE discovering bands on my own.

So over the years, Boo-head (the woman of many nicknames) has offered me a lot of insight into new tunes. There's really only one thing that occasionally makes me want to string her up by her own guitar strings: she has no tolerance for great singing if it's not packaged with amazing musicians. Pop stars Joss Stone and Justin Timberlake and all country icons like the Dixie Chicks have all put out some excellent music, perfect for singing in the shower or humming at work, but Brandi WILL NOT give them any love because they are a) too produced, b) not REAL musicians---they only sing, or c) pussy-whipped pop-tart shiite.

Brandi and I have had this fight hundreds of times. It's the only thing we really argue about. I can date loser asshole men and she doesn't have as much to say about it as when I ask her to put "Breakaway" by Kelly Clarkson on at a party.

So what do we do about this problem? Why, we start a music review blog, of course! Brandi and I, and about eight other contributors, are going to be going head to head reviewing new music at Sound Hound Review. The music begins this week, where we will use 150 words to wrestle each other into admitting that our favorite songs rule and the obviously sucky songs, well, suck.

Come check it out and give props to the reviewer who sees your light. ((My contributor name is Earworm.))

Rock on!

Forsake thy name

It doesn't matter how many times I watch it, I just keep waiting for Juliet to reach out and touch Romeo's hand when she first comes out of her death sleep. I sit on the edge of the couch, listening to Leo talk about how Claire is so beautiful that death cannot touch her and thinking that this time, things will be different. Romeo will get the letter and show up to Juliet's funeral with flowers in hand, ready to start a new life with his gorgeous bride.

I've watched Baz Luhrmann's Romeo and Juliet dozens of times, and I still hope that the ending will change. I still believe that the lovers they spy through the aquarium can be together.

Beer Can Chicken

Beer Can Chicken
Originally uploaded by typingelbow.

I don't know how it happened, but it seems I grew up in the South without ever eating Beer Can Chicken. Apparently, I'm the only one who managed to miss this fabulous dish. If you are as lucky as I was yesterday, you'll have someone in your kitchen willing to cook one of these for you. Otherwise, run to the store and buy a whole chicken, a stick of butter and a can of light beer. Turn your oven to 450 degrees, and drink half the beer. Get to know the chicken biblically. If there's anything inside the chicken you bought, take it out and shove the beer can up the chicken's bottom. (He won't mind, much.) The chicken should look like it's sitting upright in the pan. Slather him with butter (maybe under the skin? I was sneaking hor'devours instead of taking notes at this point.) Then cook him for a while. 45 minutes, maybe??

The beer steams the chicken from the inside, and the resulting dish is moist and delish!! You can use a Sprite if you want, too.

Cheers!

Perky Hilton

This has been a fun week so far. First, I got to eat in two fabulous restaurants: Saul in Brooklyn and La Goulou on the Upper East Side. I ate food I can't pronounce both times and consumed two Michelin stars altogether. ((Now that Michelin has started nudging its opinions into New York, I can't even tell you what Zagat says about those restaurants. It's just so much easier to say, "It got two stars" instead of "This cramped but stylish bistro is hip with the size 2 fashionistas, but watch out for grumpy servers and raisins in the rice."

Secondly, through the course of my job--which I will never discuss here thanks to Dooce and Krucoff--I got to wear a 40-karat diamond ring yesterday. The salesman, in jest, slipped the rock on my ring finger ((of course it fit over my suddenly elegant knuckle perfectly)) and I barely felt the weight of the Chup-Chup sized jewel. Why, I suddenly started declaring statements in mah best suuthern accent, and ah just could not take mah eyes off that purty thing. I was wa-aving at people in the showroom, just flipping my hand back and forth to catch the light so it could twinkle. I felt like a Hilton sister. Perky Hilton, the chunky heiress who dates Alabama shipping magnates instead of the Greek variety. Who knew I'd be so easily transformed into a princess. One gigantic, shiny rock will do it.

Halloween

The end of the night...
Originally uploaded by typingelbow.

Here's my Halloween test.

Popping my own cherry

Don't tell my "friend" Tom at MySpace, but I'm about to jump ship and bring my click clacking to Blogger.

See you soon!