Monday, March 30, 2009

There's Bull, Then There's Bullshit

I think as Americans we should all be thoroughly embarrassed that the country of Spain has launched the world's first serious investigation into war crimes perpetrated by high ranking members of the Bush administration.
They've so far limited the investigation to Bush underlings like former Attorney General Alberto Gonzales, Justice Department Lawyer and Author of torture memos John Yoo; former General Counsel for the Department of Defense William J. Haynes II; Jay S. Bybee, Yoo's former boss at the Justice Department's Office of Legal Counsel; and David S. Addington, who was the chief of staff and legal adviser to Dick Cheney.
Legal experts say the inquiries have been limited to second tier Bush administration members, because to name Cheney, Bush and Rumsfeld in the inquiries would likely be met with resistance from the Obama administration, unless the Bush lawyers first were found guilty.
As much as I like President Obama, I think he's neglecting his duty to the American people by standing idly by as a foreign country takes the lead in investigation of torture and war crimes that people like Dick Cheney not only have admitted, but publicly bragged about.
Meanwhile, news reports say Cheney told Israeli officials that then President-elect Obama was pro-Palestinian, thereby spitting on American politicians' tradition of not trashing other American politicians away from American shores.
Is Cheney actually still so powerful that he can trash the President, boast publicly of his torture policies, and as VP was likely to have had his own secret assassination squads trained to go after foreign leaders he disliked?
Sure, Bush was the president and probably knew of Cheney, Rumsfeld and his Justice Department's torture policies, war crimes and the outing of CIA agent Valerie Plame, but I think it's pretty clear that Bush served Cheney, and Cheney called all the shots.
As such, I am praying Spain's investigations result in arrest warrants and extradition requests for Bush's legal goons, which may ultimately lead to the arrest and prosecution of Cheney, Bush and Rumsfeld.
President Obama should ignore the possible political implications of investigating and prosecuting these criminals from the Bush administration, and see that justice is served for the good of the Justice System and all Americans.
The world is watching.
Spain should not have to do the heavy lifting in investigating these obvious, atrocious crimes.
As Americans, we all should be embarrassed and ashamed.
Just When You Think All Politicians Are Idiots...

This is definitely worth your six minutes.
Hat tip to my lover-in-law Therese. xox

Saturday, March 28, 2009


I got stuck as my family's representative at my cousin Special Eddie's 50th birthday party this evening.
We call him Special Eddie because the poor guy is profoundly retarded, with a very small head. Because of his tiny skull, he really wasn't expected to live past 11 or so, but now he's 50. I'm very happy he defied the doctors' predictions.
He's a sweet, happy guy but he drools, which has always been off-putting to me. Call me persnickety, but I hate anyone drooling on me.
I haven't seen him in 30 years or more, so I'm hoping he's gotten a handle on the drooling thing. But just to be safe, I'm avoiding wearing suede shoes tonight.
I had to go shopping for his birthday present, and I'm not at all sure what to get a guy with an IQ around 50. I didn't want to insult him with a coloring book or a Tonka truck, but I'm pretty sure a Barnes & Nobel's gift card or a bottle of champagne wouldn't cut it, so I bought him a Texas T-shirt & baseball cap and a bunch of Easter candy.
He lives in a Kansas group home, so I think the shirt and cap will be okay when he flies back to Kansas. I checked and the baseball cap is adjustable.
I hope I don't catch Hell for calling him Special Eddie or talking about the drool, but before any commenters decide to harpoon me for my irreverence, just remember I'm going to the damn party, with a bag of gifts I think he may like.
Besides, I never claimed to be a social worker or a QMRP. Get over it.
I do hope there's plenty of liquor at this party. I'm not a party bear as it is, but this one's gonna be a real test of my social skills.

Well, shut my mouth, I had a very nice time.
Eddie, it turns out, is a Superman fan and nearly everyone was wearing a Superman T-shirt. The theme stretched out to the cake, the decorations, the pinata and everything else one can imagine.
Eddie even got as a gift a life-sized Superman costume, complete with muscles and the works, which he promptly put on.
But best of all, he is still very sweet and he made the rounds a few times passing out party favors, thanking us for our gifts, etc.
And he hardly drools anymore.
So yes, it was all very touching and he has progressed a lot over the last 30 years.
Now I feel like sort of an asshole for dreading it so much.
What I'm Adding to My iPod Today

I'm feeling nostalgic, thanks to my buddy Earthbound Misfit who posted "Hair" by the Cowsills on her Blog "Earthbound Misfit," listed to the right.
I started thinking about songs of that era, and how as a junior lesbian I had no idea the women whose music I loved so much at the time were either gay or bisexual.

Here's the mother of all fabulous rock singers, Janis Joplin, who brought down the house every time she belted out this song. I saw her perform live in the 70's, and my boyfriend Tony actually ran up on stage and danced with her while she sang this song. I was too stoned and shy to join him, but man, was I impressed with his moxie. Joplin and Tony have both since died, so I send this one out to him.

Forget her mega-hit "It's My Party," Leslie Gore wrote this anthem to my attempts at straight dating back in my teens and 20's. I was really hot for Leslie Gore back then, and I blame her from my continued attraction to Jewish women, especially from New York. Of the four women listed here, she's the only one still alive. Like me, she's a Taurus. We live forever.
In a semi-interesting sidenote, I had this song on a CD collection of girl songs playing in my car back when I was seeing a woman I called Eclair. She took a curious interest in the song, requesting I play it again and again. We broke up shortly thereafter. Own her? Please, I didn't even want to rent her!

A true lesbian Diva, Dusty Springfield inspired me to love denim shirts when I saw her wearing one on one of her album covers back when I was about 14. I own at least seven of the damn things to this day.
Her gritty, soulful voice and her high femme visage made me crazy with confused, early hormonal lust.
And this video is such a great example of 60's era girl singers.

Laura Nyro was one of my very first musical obsessions. Her sensitive lyrics, her innate introversion and her amazing voice always made me happy I had ears, not to mention feelings. Best known for allowing the crappy 5th Dimension to record songs she wrote like, "Stone Soul Picnic" and "Wedding Bell Blues," had she not been so shy about performing, she could have been a mega-star. Her best album IMO was, "It's Gonna Take a Miracle," where she teamed up with a very young Patti Labelle and her band Labelle as backup singers. Listen carefully and you can hear Patti do a little solo midway through the song.
Once again, I was drawn to a swarthy NY babe, and when Laura Nyro died not too long ago, I was sad for a long, long time.

Friday, March 27, 2009

You're Gonna Love My Nuts
Shamwow/Slapchop Creep Busted

Vince Shlomi, spokes-creep for Shamwow and Slapchop has been busted for punching out a hooker who bit his tongue and wouldn't let it go.
She was probably biting his tongue to shut him the hell up so she could service his dumb ass and hit the road.
Shlomi, who's name sounds a lot like Shlomo, paid the woman $930 in twenties for a round of straight sex, with no frills.
Now, forgive me if I am out of the hooker and john loop, but for $930 doesn't one get all sorts of gross hooker extras?
If I was shelling out just shy of a grand for sex, she'd have to look like Heidi Klum and be able to lick the paint off a wall.
Just sayin'.

Thursday, March 26, 2009

Tell Me Again Why I Shouldn't Become a Tibetan Lama

I think the reason Tibetan Lamas are considered so cool is because they sit alone on mountains and contemplate their navels.
Sure, it may not be that exciting, but at least they don't have to deal with people who ask too many questions, dodge too many answers, make plans and break them, set appointments and end up being late for them, call and wake you up, forget to call because they fell asleep, say yes when they mean no, now when they mean later, and other related annoyances.
Lately I've felt like I was walking fast in the wrong direction, in high heels on a moving sidewalk that's covered with tiny ball bearings.
While I realize I have no control over others and their WTF notions & actions, there's one person I can control: me.
So, today I am stepping off the moving sidewalk, kicking off the high heels and sitting down. By myself. In a quiet room.
I have e-mail. I have voice mail on my landline and cell.
Leave a message, I'll get back to you.
Maybe tomorrow.
Maybe not.

Monday, March 23, 2009

Time to Go, Timmy

Click to enlarge image

This guy's like getting O.J. Simpson out of jail so he can head up a committee on domestic violence.
Geithner's too tied-in with the greedy bastards who started all this mess.
I'm sure he's a very nice guy, but so's my neighbor Jesse and he's not qualified to head up the treasury, either.
Am-scray, Timmy. It's not us, it's you.

Saturday, March 21, 2009

Bravo TV's "Make Me a Supermodel"

So sue me, I love Bravo's entire line up of reality TV programming.
Well, not the entire line up.
I really hate the show, "Make Me a Supermodel."
Oh, I watch it, but it's kind of like peeling an old sunburn or watching a dog crap on my lawn- I don't like it, but I have a warped sense of curiosity that compels me to stop clicking whenever I run across it on an idle Saturday afternoon.
Is it me, or are fashion models the creepiest assclowns next to Republican politicians?
Can you imagine making a living by putting on borrowed clothing and posing for pictures? Can you imagine having to watch every calorie you consume and every pore on your face to protect your vanity job?
On this show, they seem to attract the most vapid, conceited, ridiculous personalities ever. Example: On seeing the sumptuous model residence the producers provide for the cast, one of the dumbbell guy contestants said, "I really think this place is good put-together."
And the challenges are even more ridiculous. In the one I've pictured above, contestants were covered in chocolate or other candied glop to look like sickly sweet confections.
They were told to bring their candied characters to life. What the fuck?
No wonder so many models live on black coffee, an occasional Tic Tac and heroin.
It's not like they have to think or anything.
The women are silly and bitchy and the men are either big, dumb straight jocks or total fagelahs.
Here are their standard remarks to the camera:
"I am a blank canvas."
"I am androgynous and I can be masculine or feminine."
"I'm gonna rock this competition!"
"I don't think Grant/Salome are real enough, like I am."
"Being on the catwalk is a dream come true for me."
"Okay, thank you very much for the opportunity."
Interchange them and you have the whole damn season's quotes.
Unless your name is Heidi Klum or you're in a Victoria's Secret ad, please don't bore me with your modeling shtick.
Oh, I'll watch, but it'll be with utter disdain.

Friday, March 20, 2009

How Cool is This Woman?

Michelle Obama at the soup kitchen. Michelle Obama on the swing set with her girls. Michelle Obama dancing with Ellen. Michelle Obama reading to little kids.
Michelle Obama daring to wear half-beaten turquoise boots with gray pants and the same yellow mohair sweater she wore over her inauguration ensemble.
Now she's been digging up soil for a veggie garden at the White House.
I don't think she's faking it.
I think she's really into all the cool stuff she does.
Can you see Laura Bush putting down her pack of Newports long enough to dig a veggie garden? Can you see that saggy old battle ax Barbara Bush bent over and tilling dirt?
Can you see Nancy Reagan risking a chip in her nails to dirty her hands in soil?
Can you see Hillary, or Rosalynn, or even Betty Ford doing it?
No, you cannot.
I think a woman who gardens is flat out sexy.
I wish I was a better gardener, but I lose interest by the first hot day of the season.
I have had girlfriends who gardened, and I loved them for it.
Their little crops would reach fruition and I'd love to see them, freshly plucked and covered in dirt, waiting to be washed off and eaten. And the veggies were nice, too(insert rim shot).
And one day, not too long from now, Michelle Obama will be handing over whatever grew in her garden to the White House chef, who'll incorporate them into a nice little meal.
She's even planning a beehive. Fresh honey at the White House? Are you kidding?
Naysayers and pessimists will balk when White House photographers shoot pictures of the lettuces, peppers or snap beans, but I want to see what she grew.
I'm sick of pessimism and intolerant of people who are rooting for the Obamas to fail. I'm sick of people questioning their motives, from the economy to the garden.
I like these people.
I like their kids.
I like the husband appearing on Jay Leno last night. He acts as if he has nothing to hide. Isn't that refreshing?
After eight years of that blithering idiot Bush and his cornpone, crazy-eyed wife Laura hiding out in their Pennsylvania Avenue cocoon, dodging media questions and only appearing in public under control-freak conditions, I'm happy to see a First Family that seems like an actual family.
And after seeing Will Farrell's hilarious HBO special, "You're Welcome," I'm go glad that asshole Bush is finally gone, never to return.
That special reminded me of how I'd lurch for the mute button of the clicker the moment I'd see Bush on the screen. Now when I see Obama on TV, I drop everything to hear what he has to say. It's a wonderful feeling.
We are damn lucky to have a smart, well-adjusted president and a cool first lady.
And I'm glad they have Wednesday night cocktail parties, too.
They work hard and they play hard. They sparkle with youthful energy.
It must be all those vegetables they eat.
Either that, or the serenity that comes with clear consciences and common decency.

Thursday, March 19, 2009

Simon and Alex

Still not convinced you should be watching "The Real Housewives of NYC"?
Check out Simon, the queenie husband of Alex.
He's got an Australian accent and he loves to speak French to his sons Francois and Johan. He loves fashion and shopping and he never shies away from wearing color--like pink, for instance.
He and Alex love to vacation at St. Barth's, where he wears a Speedo thong with his massive man package sticking out.
And get this, he and his wife met on Craig's list, in the one-night-stand section.
And their house is in Brooklyn, not NYC, and it's a dump.
Yet they wear couture fashion and go to all the schnitzy society parties.
Ramona, with the big crazy eyes, hates them. She calls them posers.

Wednesday, March 18, 2009

My Guilty Pleasure: The Real Housewives of NYC

I think I may be a gay man trapped in a dyke's body.
How else can I explain my utter fascination with Bravo TV's "The Real Housewives of NYC"? I try not to miss an episode, and I joyfully watch it every time they rerun it, which is several times per week.
Check these broads out:
From left to right, we have Alex, the poorest, yet snobbiest NYC housewife who's married to a what could be the homeliest gay man on Earth. They have two little boys, pretentiously named Francois and Johan, who behave like maniacs on too much sugar and pots of caffeine. They are co-writing a book on child rearing, which would be like me writing a book on giving really great fellatio.
Then there's Jill Zarin, a Long Island Jewish Princess who's accent is slightly stronger than Jerry Seinfeld's TV parents. She's always sticking her foot in her month and mothering everyone, even her own mother. And she's never just Jill, she's always JillZarin.
Then there's Bethanny, a single chef with an accent equal to JillZarin. She's hilarious, neurotic and mischievous. Of the six of them, she's the least obnoxious.
Next comes Ramona, the opinionated, dumb, crazy bitch with those classic, crazy lady eyes. She gives plenty of unsolicited advice and makes impossibly rude statements, then asks why people get upset with her.
Next is Countess LouAnn, who got her title from marrying a dumpy older jerk who treats everyone like shit. The Countess is writing a book on etiquette, yet she's as likely to say rude things and quick to take offense as the rest of these bitches.
Not pictured is the new housewife Kelly, a former model/equestrian who hangs out at the Hamptons with her too-too fabulous friends. She was recently arrested (off camera) for punching her younger male companion in the head. You can just tell she's a real-life bitch.
Anyway, I just love to watch these horrible, hilarious women who lunch.
Even if you're a straight man, you just have to watch it at least once.
Seriously, I'm not steering you wrong here, I promise.
If you're already a fan, please dish with me in the comments. Pretty please!

Tuesday, March 17, 2009

Happy St. Patrick's Day

How cool are these Obamas with the green-dyed White House fountain and the 3% Irish shtick?
Tonight the O'Bamas are hosting a St. Paddy's Day bash, and you just know U2 may show up, just to be with the cool people. Or maybe the Chieftains will perform.
At any rate, I just love how the Prez and Michelle take time to party every week. That takes some extraordinary energy, considering the mountain of shit Bush and Dick left behind for him to handle.

And not to change the subject, but AIG still expects to get another multi-billion dollar handout. I think Obama should just say no more dough to those pricks. This recent 'contractual bonus' bullshit is ridiculous. We taxpayers own AIG, and we oughtta sell it to Bernie Madoff's wife and walk away.

Monday, March 16, 2009

Two Troubling Things

Dick Cheney needs to stay out of the limelight and shut the fuck up, once and for all. Nobody cares what he thinks of Obama, or what he thinks in general. The RNC said it all when they failed to even mention his goddamn name at their convention last year.
Take a hint, Dick. You're played out.
And like Dick, AIG needs to be shut down, their assets liquidated and returned to the taxpayers, their board of directors thrown into prison, and their fancy NYC building needs to be sold to NYC for $100,000 and turned into low rent housing for the homeless, artists, musicians, models and queers.
If Obama could simply arrest Dick and throw him into a Turkish prison's solitary confinement unit, and evict AIG and hand the keys over to people who need housing, what a wonderful start this would be.
Did I mention that Dick should shut the fuck up?
I did? Oh, good.
And if Dick hired me as his PR flack, the advice I'd give him would be to have that final, fatal heart attack. Now THAT would be the only brilliant career move he could make at this point, well, if you exclude suicide.

Sunday, March 15, 2009

The Texas Hill Country: Crawling with Mini Horse Farms

Egads, thank God my regular digital camera is too big to lug around.
On a whim this morning, I decided to hit the road and travel to my brother's lake house outside of Marble Fall, TX.
The drive is nice, with lots of hills, winding roads and new wildflowers starting to dot the meridian. But the best part is, there are at least three fairly large mini-horse farms along the way.
If I had a nifty little camera, I know I would have caused an accident trying to shoot pics of those fat little horsey bastards, eating their lunch close to the highway. They feed them close to the highway to drum up business.
I am 5'8" and a typical mini horse comes up to the top of my inseam.
They are often a little grouchy and too cute to smack after they try to nip your hand as you hold out a little apple or carrot.
But a herd of them from a distance is just about as cute as it gets. They think they are regular steeds, and they bicker with each other and gallop and rear up like they own the joint.
Even cuter are mini donkeys, because their fur sticks straight up and they look like 1980's punk rockers. They're a lot friendlier, too. Mini horse ranchers always throw in a few mini donkeys to teach the horses a little equine etiquette.
One night, I might get real drunk on tequila shots and drive to one of those ranches and kidnap me a tiny horse. I'll put him in my backyard and feed him tiny bales of hay and spring water.
And I'll put a dog leash on him, put a little straw hat on him and walk him around the neighborhood, with my new little camera in my pocket so I can take pics of him posing with the neighbor kids for $1 each.

Saturday, March 14, 2009

The Secret Diary of KarenZipdrive

I'm usually a Steady Freddie.
I know who I am and what I want and how to get it.
I have both feet on terra firma and my head is never anywhere near the clouds.
Then I got into the Interactive Media business.
In my last job, I was Vice President of Public Affairs for a new company that was supposed to be providing kiosks containing information that helped kids get into college.
I was well paid and my office was in a 5-star professional building with all the amenities. I wore fancy suits, make-up and earrings to work every day. I even carried a briefcase, with actual work in it.
The idea was magnificent and well received by educators everywhere.
The only fly in the ointment was, the CEO, COO and VP of Finance all were incompetent, greedy, sniveling liars who basically pissed away, absconded with or otherwise squandered almost a million dollars in investor funds.
The entire professional staff quit three weeks after they stopped paying us.
I haven't drawn a paycheck since January 15.
A normal person would just pick them self up, dust them self off, file for unemployment, then find a new job elsewhere.
But I never claimed to be normal.
Now I find myself working as a Managing Partner/Co-founder of a new Interactive Media business.
Sounds good, huh?
Trouble is, I don't know nuthin' 'bout birthin' no new companies.
My partners do, but I don't.
So, Steady Freddie is now Dready Betty.
The Universe has gifted me with Achilles' tendinitis in both ankles as a symbol that I'm afraid to move forward.
I know what needs to be done, but I needed to write this to get it out of my head so I can face the music, bite the bullet, get off the stick, get the lead out, rev up my engine, get a move on, and hit the ground running.
Much better.
Gotta go now, I have work to do.
Wish me a safe and painless labor. This fuckin' baby is gonna be huge.

Friday, March 13, 2009

It's Over. Move on, Nothing to See.

Neocon poster girl Ann Coulter's newest book sales have earned a fraction of the money she made on earlier books, written during the hay day of neocon idiocy.
Coulter, the self-proclaimed "popular" media figure has only sold 100,500 copies of her new book, compared to her 2003 sales high of 396,600 books. In publishing terms, that's an enormous flop.
Even John McCain's Republican daughter Meghan McCain has come out against the vitriolic Reptile of the Right.
She said, in a recent post on The Daily Beast, "I straight up don’t understand this woman or her popularity. I find her offensive, radical, insulting and confusing all at the same time..."
Looks like people across the board are fed up with her snide remarks and negativity during such a perilous time in America's history.
Coulter has wished aloud that President Obama had picked a fight with her rather than Rush Limbaugh, not because she can better articulate a snotty response, but because she's that desperate for attention.
Recently, she even had the gall to suggest that Keith Olbermann's degree from Cornell University was not equal to hers because they chose different majors.
Seriously, the woman is desperate for any kind of publicity.
What's next, killing kittens or assaulting elderly people?
After 8 years of that idiot Bush and evil Dick Cheney, let's face it, we're sick of these full-of-shit neocons. They were wrong about everything and their credibility is zilch.
The last thing they need is this shrewish scarecrow whoring for them.
Ann, why don't you just shut the fuck up and give all of us a break?

Thursday, March 12, 2009

The Top Secrit Dairy of Levi Johnston

March 12

Fuckin' A, I'm finaly free of those fuckin' Palin bitches!!!!
Words got out that me and Bristol have broke up and I am fuckin' free of dipers and baby shit and puke and all that shit.
That bitch Sarah and that pussy whip Todd rilly tryed to leen on me to marry Bristol but I kept sayin' wate till I get my jorneymans papers to be a electrisian so I could take care of them better. HA HA HA!!!
My boys an me rilly celebated after word got out.
Bucky brougt a case of old milwalkie and Moose brougt a ounce of some primo Matanuska Tundra Fuck and I stole some of my moms oxys she forgot she hid. Man we was all fucked up!!!!
The Palins had the nerve to ask me to give back the suits and shit they bought me for the convension, but I said yeh sure, like Sarah gave back all that fuckin clothes and shit they bought her. HA HA HA HA!
There is a little bad news tho. Willow called and said shes late on her period and I am sweatin my balls off about the shit. She fuckin BETTER NOT BE LATE.
I might oughta look into gettin a vastectomy at the rate I am goin' but I wont cuz I may want to meat a nice girl and settle down & shit oneday- and have a family with kids & all.
Them Palin bitches is all horny. Even the old lady ansered the door oneday wearing onley a towell & she was acting all surprized n' shit that I was at the fuckin' door.
She knew I was comin' over but she acted all surprized & shit. Sure she wuz.
I gotta go. Willow is texting my ass off, wantin' to meet me behind the old burnt out church again. She better fuckin' not be PG.
Change the he's for she's and move things around a little
and yeah well, you know what I'm talkin' about. Oh, Hell yeah.

True Love Never Runs Smooth

In what might be the most expected outcome in history, Bristol Palin and Levi Johnston have split up, leaving Palin a full-fledged unwed mother.
I guess Sarah Palin's failed bid to become the next VeePee kind of made the prospect of marrying the daughter not so attractive anymore.
I mean, after Bristol dropping two kids in one year, where's the mystery for Levi?
As for Bristol, once she saw the big cities and bright lights of the lower 48, could she ever find happiness with an unemployed dude who lists his hobbies as gettin' drunk and shootin' shit?
Sarah Palin's people are saying, "No comment, because this is not a State matter."
Oh yeah?
It became a state matter when we had to endure Palin trotting out her kids like stage props. It became a State matter when Palin expected the radical right to embrace her knocked-up kid because she "chose not to abort."
I guess for some, choosing not to abort trumps being sexually active as a 16-year-old, and not having the sense to use condoms or the pill.
I still say, if Sarah Palin spent more time parenting and less time trying to propel her dumb ass into national politics, she may have been able to either caution her daughter about avoiding pregnancy, or making sure she had no opportunities to breed with a white trash, mullethead like Levi Johnston.
However you slice it, Alaska is stuck with a white trash Governor who shows the same primal, parental instincts as a Labrador Retriever.

Tuesday, March 10, 2009

Uchi Part III: The Grand Finale

Our entrees arrived shortly after the bream sushi flavors started to dissipate.
We ordered two servings of Kampachi Ume, which consisted of delicately seared slices of mild Pacific amberjack, a tart, citrus ume ponzu, cashews, baby bamboo and Japanese cucumber, all done up in a shiso, which is light grapeseed oil infused with basil-like shiso leaves.
It occurred to me that Chef had already given us a free preview of this dish, so it was a treat to get to savor it all over again. This time I was able to take the time to discern the various components.
The next entree was Seared Nantucket Bay scallops, served with Japanese fingerling potatoes, golden raisins, a Japanese tangerine-like citrus called yuzu and slivers of green garlic. The scallops were sweet, juicy and firm, about the circumference of a nickel.

My sisters and one of their partners had never tried scallops before, so we got to watch them savor their first bite with sensuous disregard for anyone who might be watching.

After we devoured all three plates, we decided on dessert. Well, actually we decided to order three out of the four desserts that were offered. With it we also ordered coffee.

On came the waiter, carrying a tray with five miniature French press coffee pots. With it he served heavy cream and raw turbinado sugar.
Then with an inaudible trumpet blare came the desserts.
Holy Mother of All Things Holy; we gasped in amazement.
The first plate held a jizake creme caramel in a ginger consommé with a brown butter sorbet next to it. My middle sister actually drank what was left of the ginger consommé.
The second plate contained a gorgeous coffee panna cotta shaped like a giant egg. Inside was a mango "yoke," and the whole thing rested on a bed of coffee/cocoa "soil." Next to that was a smooth, white chocolate sorbet.
The third plate was my favorite, a peanut butter semi fredo with apple miso sorbet and ringo crisps. I really wanted to order three extra servings to-go, so I could eat it in privacy until I fainted, but I was afraid my older sisters would lecture me about being excessive.

As we left, I darted over to the door of the kitchen and waited until I saw Chef Tyson pop his head out. I ran up to him, passed him a business card and aimed for his cheek, but missed and kissed him instead on his little pink ear.
He's such a happy culinary genius. And apparently he's happy at home, too.
Here he is with his wife Rebekkah. No wonder his food tastes so damned good.

Monday, March 09, 2009

Uchi Bedazzled Part II

So the thing is, the five of us were so drooly and emboldened by Chef Tyson Cole's tiny teaser of an amuse bouche, nobody was about to pull out a camera phone and waste time taking pics. Plates are served family style, and we resembled five greedy ducks at the park, crowding the person throwing the bread crumbs.
Snooze you lose with this crowd.
We ordered appetizers, but before they came, a new waiter appeared with another gratis offering from the chef.

This time it was a plate holding thin wafers of pacific amberjack sashimi in a citrusy glaze, with slim-cut Yukon Gold potato medallions and dotted with tiny herb leaves we could not identify. My sisters don't really go for raw fish, but one look at the visual masterpiece caused them to dive for their share, chopsticks first.
I bit into my slice of fish and the flavor combined with the scent of the bittersweet citrus and the bite of the herbs made a sensation in my sinus passage that felt like a tiny nasal orgasm. I inhaled and I'm pretty sure my eyes rolled back in my head.
I opened my eyes and all heads were slightly tilted back in amazement.
What could we possibly have done to get Chef's attention like this?
I'd been there three or four times before and I'd never seen the maestro, much less had him deliver special dishes to our table.
At any rate, we had pretty much cleaned the plate, and if they served bread we would have used it to sop up the last gleaming droplets of the sauce. Suffice it to say, we left nothing a chopstick could pick up.
So on came the appetizers.

Plate number one was a tempura fried brie with green tea salt, fresh apple slivers and crispy sweet potato wafers. We lurched forward and the plate was shiny clean within 40 seconds.
Plate number two, I ordered.
It was twice-cooked kurobuta pork belly, served in a rich, dark, slightly sweet sauce. Pork belly might sound icky, but what it is boils down to this: picture the best part of bacon, without the fat, only in steak form. So it's chewy, tender, savory and flavorful.
My companions and I went wild, tearing it into chunks with our bare chopsticks. This time we used the accompanying apple wafers like tiny dustpans to scoop up the remaining sauce. My middle sister carelessly left a speck of pork on her plate, which I snatched with my chopsticks faster than a seagull on a sand crab.
Once we had consumed those two plates, we started to get restless awaiting the seasonal vegetable tempura with ten-tsutu broth. I'd had it before and it's just North of mind-blowing.
Then before we knew it, our regular waiter approached the table holding a little covered clay hotpot. He lifted the lid, and as the heavenly bouquet filled the air, he said, "Chef wanted you to try this."

Our jaws dropped as he described the melange of rice, grilled wagu beef and flecks of exotic vegetables in a broth made from what tasted like the joyful tears of 1,000 angels.
Five ceramic spoons flew in and out of that bowl with reckless disregard for mouth germs or cooties or communal spit. I would have eaten that stew out of one of Amy Winehouse's ballet shoes if need be.
I grasped the waiter's arm and asked him what we'd possibly done to deserve this, and he smiled and said, "Chef could tell you were foodies."*
Once we finished licking that sizzling hot pot clean, the tempura arrived. We really didn't care what we were eating, but by then we were able to slow down long enough to hazard guesses at what each seasonal veggie was. We tasted turnips cut like French fries, sweet potato, Yukon Golds, sweet yellow pepper, Vidalia onion and a few green things that were delicious.
By then it was time to order the entrees, and we planned on dessert, so we just ordered three entrees to split. We whiled away the time drinking Pinot Noir and voting on which bite so far had captivated us most.
Then it happened.
A man appeared to my right and I looked up and there he was, Tyson Cole himself, bearing a tray of gleaming white bream, sliced razor thin atop a thin substrate of lemon basil, atop fluffy white sushi rice, cut on a radical bias.
I grabbed his sleeve, and like a toddler seeing Santa for the first time, I gasped, "It's you!"
He chuckled and started telling us how most people douse sushi in soy and/or wasabi and tended to kill the delicate flavors. He said, "I just like to eat it like this..." and he grabbed the end piece and popped it in his mouth, walking off before we could applaud.
We copied his every move.
I will never again douse my sushi with anything. The bream was velvety and buttery, and the subtle bite of the basil brightened the taste with the perfect top note. The mouth feel and aftertaste was as clean and refreshing as a sip of cool glacier water on a sunny, hot beach.
By then, we were wide-eyed and wondering how life could possibly get any better.

Big Sis told a pal of hers about Chef Tyson treating us so well, and the friend is an Uchi regular. Turns out they seated us at the chef's table, where he puts the people he thinks will enjoy his special attention the most. It also turns out he went up against Japanese Chef Masaharu Morimoto on The Food Network's "Iron Chef," and he lost, but not by much.
Clearly, that show is rigged.

(to be continued)

Sunday, March 08, 2009



Chef Tyson Cole

As some of you may know, I really adore great food.
I like to cook it, read about it, shop for it, and most of all, I love to visit great restaurants.
I have a few all-time favorites...KPaul's Louisiana Kitchen in New Orleans, the late, great Perino's in Beverly Hills, Barnacle Billy's in Ogunquit, Maine, The Charthouse in Redondo Beach, Gibby's in Montreal, Yank Sing in San Francisco, etc.
But nothing on Earth compares to the Japanese fusion/sushi/molecular gastronomy of Chef Tyson Cole of Uchi in Austin.
Every sauce droplet explodes with flavor, and the shishimi is so fresh, it's like it's still damp with sea water. While one often cannot tell exactly what they're eating, it's always delicious, new and exhilarating to eat.
When I opened this month's issue of Bon Appetit, they ran a feature on the Ten Best Sushi Restaurants in America, and I was pleased to see Uchi listed as one of them.
How nice to know that a few days later I'd be eating there with my sisters and their partners.
On Saturday, we arrived at the crack of 5 p.m. in order to avoid the two hour wait for those silly enough to arrive 15 minutes later.
As we drank chilled, unfiltered sweet sake at the bar, my sister's partner T. and I wandered to the sushi bar to behold the fish of the day- several manicured blocks of gorgeous ruby red tuna, flounder, amberjack, halibut and fish we'd never heard of.

The perfect micro greens were displayed in glass blocks, surrounded by wooden boxes of sea salt, pepper and other spices. A bowl of grape-sized cherry tomatoes sat next to a row of jars filled with tiny capers, seeds and flavorful little threads.

As we drooled over the comestibles, we spoke to the sous chefs as they sharpened their knives and readied themselves for the night.
Then a clean, shiny young man who looked about 20 appeared in a starchy white chef's jacket and smiled at us. My mouth dropped open with awe. He was Tyson Cole, the executive chef and owner of Uchi. He shook our hands and welcomed us.
He appreciated our appreciation, and I fawned over him with the kind of adoration saved for chefs like Julia Child, Eric Repirt, Paul Prudhomme and Wolfgang Puck.
I told him I'd had sashimi right off the boat in the harbor of Tokyo at 6 a.m., and his tasted better.
I told him I'd eat roadkill if he prepared it.
He lapped up my adoration, I guess because he could tell I meant every word of it.
Soon the five of us were seated, gazing at the menu with drooling anticipation.
Then a waiter appeared with an amuse bouche we hadn't ordered.
"An offering from the chef," he said.
We looked down into tiny plates containing one glimmering, bite-sized cube of Mercurochrome colored gel, nestled among several minuscule squares of peeled green apple and daikon radish.
I popped the cube into my mouth, let it melt and tasted a million flavors: light tomato aspic, fish sauce, garlic, apple juice, who knew what-all the little cube contained. It was amazingly unidentifiable, but delicious. Then the little melange of apple and radish finished off the flavor profile, causing all of us to look up in awe.
And that was just the beginning.

(to be continued)

Thursday, March 05, 2009

Please, Somebody Shoot This Fat, Arrogant Bastard.

Hoo, Boy.
Now OxyContin breath Rush Limpball, the de fatso head of the Repignican party, has challenged President Obama to fly down to Palm Beach and join the jowly son of a bitch in his little radio booth for a debate.
Meanwhile, any Repignican who crosses him is immediately forced to publicly apologize to his highness.
You have to love Michael Steele having to grovel at his feet after he deigned to call him "an entertainer."
Is there no end to his arrogance and conceit?
He's a fucking radio guy with an audience of America's most ignorant, honky white males. That's all he's ever been.
Yet the Repignicans are so desperate to get back into power, they are kowtowing to this fat, sexist bastard.
When Rush Limpballs is your best hope for success, you are, simply put, screwed.

Meanwhile, Obama stays above it all while his hilarious henchmen Rahm Emmanuel, Paul Begala and James Carville are making total asses of the Dittoheads and the Repignican party.

Get a load of this mishmash:


Monday, March 02, 2009

Puzzle Fun!

Click to Mix and Solve

Can you connect the pieces to find the fat, doped up bastard?
Hear Me Now and Believe Me Later

Not to brag or anything, but I've been blogging since 2001 and my archives clearly display a prescience I'm rather proud of.
With that in mind, I'm predicting that House Minority leader John Boehner has some mammoth skeletons in his closet we may well find out about in due time.
On what do I base these suspicions?

1. Nobody from Ohio is that tanned in the middle of winter. Vanity in a male is a recipe for sexual shenanigans.
2. His wedding band is too wide. See MacBeth, "the lady doth protest too much..."
3. For a Republican, he's not that bad looking.
4. He's too arrogant to note that his party is totally devoid of credibility.
5. He displays obvious signs that he has an overblown sense of entitlement.

Therefore, I deduce that he's either fucking every chick he can find, or he's a pedophile who's into teen boys or little girls.

Seriously, we gotta watch this guy.
Something is just not Kosher with this straight-laced pretty boy with the sneaky eyes.

Okay, okay, maybe he's not a sex fiend or a perve. Maybe he's just skimming money or taking huge bribes.

But something about this cat stinks, and time will tell us what that odor is. Trust me on this, Mama Zipdrive knows.
She Just "Forgot All About It."

Laura Bush merrily told reporters that she "just forgot all about" Obama's unofficial State of the Union address.
That's right, she and her disinterested bum of a husband had better things to do than watch the President's first formal address to Congress.
So, I guess unless it involves them personally, neither Bush could give a rat's ass about the state of the nation.
How predictable was that?

Meanwhile, the new president and his wife have returned the White House to its former luster.
Their Wednesday night cocktail parties are all the rage, with musicians like Earth, Wind and Fire and Stevie Wonder on hand to get everyone out of their seats.
Can you imagine the White House rocking with Stevie Wonder's "Superstitious"? What bliss.