What's Up?

Hey homeys. Or is it homies? Whatever. I'm just over here revelling in my homemade bolognese sauce, which is fully awesome, and not worrying myself about blogging. Other things I am "worrying" about: Thanksgiving dinner.

Today's NYT Dining section threw me for a loop. Now I've gotta cut the whole bird up before I cook it? What do I look like, Sam the butcher bringing Alice the meat? Or else buy a digital thermometer? Where was Bobby Flay with this nonsense back in 2006 when the NYT did their last decent turkey recipe, and I only had to make little foil hats for the turkey's "breasts"?

I'm hosting T-giving this year for my sister and her in-laws, and possibly A Very Special Guest. My sister is extremely pregnant and I am hoping for some madcap shit whereby the brussel sprouts induce labor. Panic and hilarity WILL ensue. Our family actually has a lot of experience with Thanksgiving drama: my stepsister's daughter was born basically in the way that I've just described. And, before I was born, my great grandfather died on Thanksgiving morning and my gram and her mother made dinner regardless for the waiting hordes (6 kids, etc). In case you are wondering where I get my aggressive practicality, legend has it that my grandmother said to her mother, as the funeral director took her father's body out of her house, "what do we do now?" and my great grandmother said, "Well, make dinner. Everyone's got to be hungry."

And speaking of family, my cousin Kate has a new installation in LA that you should check out, if only by visiting this website.

Haven't Got Time for The Pain

Like many Democrats, I have been panicking over the past few days about our election chances, and this panic had an eerie familiarity. I placed it today. It's the pre-2004 Red Sox panic. That's right, Democrats are the new Red Sox. Heading into the 2004 playoffs, the Red Sox hadn't won a World Series in 84 years. They'd come close many times, including 2003. They'd even made it to the World Series in 1986, but were beaten by the Mets. Bucky Frackin' Dent. In the 2004 pennant championship series, the Yankees were up 3 games to 0. No team had ever pulled from that far behind to go on to the World Series, and yet the Red Sox pulled it off, and went on to win the World Series. Their change of luck was confirmed last year when they won the 2007 World Series. Those lovable losers just ain't losers any more.

Democrats are the Red Sox of the 2004 playoffs. We come close to winning, but we never win. Bill Clinton was our 1986 World Series. We made it there and then. . . nothin'. No healthcare reform, the end of welfare. Sure, the economy was good, but there were a lot of complicated reasons for that, and none seems like a victory the Democrats could take credit for. Its like we haven't won a World Series since 1964, and that's a long-ass time ago. But this year, it can still be different. We haven't lost yet, so stop your bitchin', steal second base, and get this series back on track. We are going to win. John McCain Sucks!

And another thing: my grandfather passed away* and my sister and I are traveling to Albany NY this week. This will either put a crimp in my blogging or I will be dispatching regularly from my blackberry about my ventures. We shall see. I just downloaded Spore to my ipod, so the former is more likely. I can already tell that it is extremely addictive, even if the wheel makes it a little hard to play.

* I appreciate your condolences in advance. He was very old (91) and very ill. Both his life and his passing were a blessing to him, I think. Its looking increasingly likely that both Mr. Scob and I will live to be almost 200 years, based on the longetivity and health of our grandparents.

A Taste

Because of Routergate, I will do a teeny bit of blogging from work today. For my co-worker readers, let's all pretend I am taking my lunch break early here. Not that she cares. Anyway, rather than write about Margaret B. Jones (nee Margaret Seltzer) myself, I think I will let Undercover Black Man occupy the field of criticism on this one. I will add this one thought, however: When I heard that her sister turned her in, I thought of Ted and David Kaczinski. I really hope my sister never does any wacko, high profile weird thing that causes me to narc on her. But I don't doubt she has the nerve to call it in on me. Which is a good thing. So, sister, I promise not to fake my memoir, or bomb anyone, or whatever, so you don't need to bring in the Feds, or my publisher, or the New York Times, or Mom, or whoever.

I am suspending my normal "meh" attitude towards Dave Matthews because this is a pretty good song, but more importantly because Zoe choreographed the video and dances in it.

Cool!

And lest you think my sister and I are the dullards of the family, think again. Lorin is the project manager on the retro-fit and re-design of Casa Zimbabwe, a housing collective at Berkeley. Thus her irritation at not being permitted to install nuclear exit signs. I can't find any pictures of the C.Z. architectural changes, but you can see from the outside that they are probably very dramatic, since this is what they are working from.

Perhaps Lorin will share some photos with us so I can sing her praises as well.

Stuff I Didn't Know

Drug cartels have submarines. Which suggests that street level busts ("rip and runs" in the parlance of The Wire) are probably not going to fix the problem of drugs.

Another thing I don't know: What you call the old cable boxes where you slid a thing along the numbers to change to channel. Here's why I was trying to figure that out yesterday.

In a comment to my post about Leona Helmsley, my sister said that she may have thought I was the Queen of Mean, but she could not remember if she said it out loud. Here's why she thought I was so mean:

I'm thinking of the hours I spent watching TV sitting next to it so I could
change the channel for you. Who needed a remote when you had a little sister?

In my own defense, we didn't have a remote. We had the aforementioned box (at least while we lived at my grandparents), and if we got caught watching MTV, or even the video show on Nickelodeon, we would get in trouble. So someone had to sit under the TV ready to change the channel in case my grandfather came in. At the time, it seemed obvious who that "someone" "had to" be.