Last night we went to one of those Japanese steakhouses where the chef cooks the food right at your place and makes miniature little volcanoes out of onions and oil and throws bits of food for people to catch in their mouths. He asked me, “How do you like your steak?” And I said “Medium” and someone else said “Well done.” And the theatrics were fun, but by the time we got our food it was clear that asking how we liked it was just a formality; the steak was all cooked the same. I figure he just needs the ego boost when someone says “Well done.” So to you, good chef, well done! Well done indeed! Except on the whole cooking the steak to the way we want it thing.
I have been thinking all week about a hike I took with my friend Wendy at Pt. Reyes, where we kept seeing elk with gigantic antlers--and each of them were surrounded by a bunch of female elk. Like a bunch of roaming elk harems. Sensitivity? Sense of humor? Even income? Balderdash. Listen to me: Chicks dig the antlers.
I almost lost my job in January because I was so wrapped up in listening to Franz Ferdinand that I could barely talk, listen, or do any work. I figure I was free of them--because how many sophomore albums are worth a damn? But I just heard the glorious single “Do You Want To” from their upcoming CD You Could Have It So Much Better with Franz Ferdinand. And I’m screwed. No one stitches together narcotic guitar riffs like these guys. I expect to soon be on the street, unemployed and homeless, my right hand outstretched for change while my left hand clutching my sole remaining possession, a Franz Ferdinand-stuffed Ipod.
It’s been 24 hours and I still don’t feel guilty that someone said “Katrina was the worst disaster this country’s ever seen” and I said “If you don’t count Baywatch Nights.”