Death By Cute

Ummmm I sort of can't believe I've waited this long to announce just about the most exciting news since . . . the invention of pizza. That's right, I am a pet owner. Not just any pet, mind you. Some supreme being has seen fit to bestow upon me a tiny tigress beyond all reasonable levels of adorableness. Ladies and gents, meet Pippi Longstocking, Jr. Yes, she is named after my very favorite fictional (or is she?) character. And yes, she rules.

The Pip is fond of sleeping, crawling up my leg, running into walls, eating pasta (seriously don't even think about heating up that leftover penne if you don't want to be attacked by my kitten), Sixties reggae, plastic drinking straws and pooping. In other words, she's a girl after my own heart -- except for the crawling up my leg thingy. Also, she is frequently seen winking, which makes her sort of resembles Thom Yorke.

The Pipstein, aka Bitsy Boo had a little bit of a buttular problem when first she graced us with her presence. This snafu rendered her JUST slightly less than perfect, but LISTEN -- we're working on it together as a family, so chill. I am fully confident that pretty soon she will be totally flawless and therefore officially the most awesome creature to have ever existed in the history of man or beast.

Friends, believe me when I say that I never considered myself a "cat person." (No, not like that.) But these days I find myself behaving like some kooky old cat lady who obsessively thinks, talks about and photographically documents her pet kitten. I mean it! But seriously, can you BLAME ME? Jesus H. -- she's sticking her tongue out at you in the above picture! She's a cheeky little cute sandwich of love! You cannot resist her charms! I dare you to try!

The End.

Glenn For President

I don't know why, but lately I can't stop thinking about Glenn Danzig. The other day I was listening to him in the car and realized that much as I have enjoyed his rad and scary tuneage lo these many years, the man himself remains a mystery. I knew the basics:

1. He is really into Elvis
2. He is really into Marilyn Monroe
3. He is really into skulls
4. He is little
5. He is angry
6. His likeness has inspired a line of action figures

What I did not know is that he is a native New Jersey-an, which proves my theory about New Jersey, namely that people who live there are almost always rad for some reason. Also, I did not know until recently that he had a guest spot on my new favorite show, Aqua Teen Hunger Force. Additionally I did not know that his real name was not Glenn Danzig. There are probably some other things I'm forgetting. The bottom line is that he basically rules and I sort of want to make friends with him. Even though I doubt he is into making friends per se.

As an aside, I was informed by none other than Tiny Gines that contrary to my belief, Glenn's band Samhain (pronounces "Sah-way" fools) was not his first musical venture, but rather a brief and shining pitstop betwixt the Misfits and Danzig. Man, did I feel crunchy when she told me this.

Speaking of Samhain, this song rules.

In lieu of becoming bosom buds with Glenn, I've decided that I will honor him by being him for Halloween. And maybe for St. Patrick's Day too.

Cheese Plus One

I went to the wine store yesterday and as I was leaving, a little post card advertising THE JOY OF CHEESE caught my eye. Turns out, it's this dude who hosts 10 course cheese tastings, complete with vino and chocolate and . . . . Oh sorry I just passed out. Where was I? Oh yeah. HEAVEN.

This dude, whose name is Martin Johnson, also hosts "Roving Cheese Parties," so I guess that means you can get him to come to your house for a private shindig. I bet this guy gets LAID. After all, the falling-in-love chemical that supposedly makes chocolate such the aphrodisiac? Cheese has ten times as much. F'reals. Roofies, pah. Gimme a nice Camembert or some string cheese and I'm yours, dudes.

Additionally I read about this rad thing wherein this guy hosts multi-course dinners pairing PERFUMES with foods to enhance the flava of the vittles. That RULES. Seriously. I want in on that. If there are two things I dig in a big way, they are scent and food. Imagine, you could be mowing on some nachos whilst sniffing . . . . hmmmm. Something smoky and spicy and sandy. Why say! What about Serge Lutens Ambre Sultan? Solid!

Put that in your pipe and smoke it, bitches.

Codename: CoffeeBoob

I officially have a problem, and it is called Gimme! Coffee.

Gimme! Coffee is what I would like to consider my local coffee shop. It is located a mere four-ish blocks from my house, serves up the most insanely good, strong coffee and espresso drinks I've encountered, and is never not teeming with hot, tatted-up rocker boys. Why just last week I encountered not one but TWO of my recent crushes ordering themselves up some iced Americano's (the preferred coffee beverage of hot dudes everywhere).

As an aside, I'd like to point out that it's not always ideal to run into your crushes at the coffee joint, because you are usually in one of two extreme states of being. By you I mean me. Either I am comatose and sub-lingual with squinty eyes that resemble those of a newborn baby rodent or I am on my second cuppa, which likely means I'm crazed and sweating and behaving like a junkie in need of her fix.

Which brings me to this problem I mentioned above. I am addicted. ADDICTED. Yes, I am aware that caffeine is a drug. Yes, I'm aware that people become addicted to it. But when I say addicted, what I mean is . . . .

Picture it: Brooklyn, New York on a rainy misty morning in late July. Yours truly is struggling down the street carrying not one but two large cups of soy latte, both with extra shots. Because each "single" shot is a triple ristretto (um, yeah), this means that each cup I hold in my little hand contains what amounts to SIX shots of espresso. I have resorted to buying TWO LARGE COFFEE DRINKS because I NEED TO KEEP UP MY BUZZ. I am preparing to consume TWELVE SHOTS OF MUTHER FUCKING ESPRESSO.

I secretly hope that the counter people think I have, like, a friend or a boyfriend for whom I've been kind enough to brave the crap weather in the name of a cuppa joe. Because no one -- NO ONE -- in her right mind would need to consume that much coffee by herself in immediate succession, let alone insist on procuring it in the midst of a fucking thunderstorm. Certainly no one in her right mind would think it necessary to don rubber boots and trip down the street carrying two large cups of coffee whilst trying to also manage her wind-ravaged umbrella and attempting to make sure her dress doesn't fly up and flash the pizza shop across the street, all the while trying like a maniac to simultaneously sip from one cup, then another (so as to not make one cup feel inferior to the other!). And so on, down the street.

Needless to say folks, I arrived at my apartment a few minutes ago with the front half of me drenched from improper use of umbrella, and I had coffee and soy foam on my nose, chin and boob area. Junkie. I kid you not.

And here I sit, sucking down cup numero uno, already thinking about cup #2. And wondering how much time I could realistically let pass before arousing suspicion or concern amongst the baristas when I go in and order another cuppa. Perhaps I should estimate when the shift changes?

These are the crazed thoughts I'm having right now.

Well at least I'm in good company: Rumor was that Balzac drank like 80 cups of java a day. He even wrote a treatise called "The Pleasures and Pains of Coffee."

Oh, and then he died of caffeine-related health problems! Whoops!

Ode To Cheez

Have you guys devoted any serious time to the weird and wonderful world of faux cheese? No? Well you OUGHT. Not only is it a fascinating feat of scientific progress and textural aesthetics, it is scrumptious. It is one in a long list of highly specific things that make my loins quiver, and that is an accomplishment in and of itself.

Of course, there are all manner of fake cheeses on Mothership Earth, and these cheeses, or cheezes rather, are much like humans in that some are better than others. Some please and delight while others offend the senses and generally make me want to Ralph Nader.

Let's consider the mother of all cheezes: Cheez Whiz. Who invented this incredible culinary masterpiece? Why the Wizard of Cheez of course! That beneficent magician of processed, mucus-like goodness first bequeathed his discovery unto Kraft, which proceeded to unveil the thenceforth indispensable kitchen staple in the red-letter year of 1953.*

Historically speaking, Velveeta was Cheez Whiz's predecessor, created and brought to the cheez-loving public in the year 1927 -- the height of the Great Depression! Ah the socio-economic implications wrought by this food discovery. In two words: Who cares?

My thoroughly uninformed but nonetheless correct opinion is that despite a longer career and undisputed status as the superior accompaniment to chips and Rotel, the V-train is inferrior to Cheez Whiz in the category of "thick, viscous" liquid cheezes.

One must, I suppose, touch on the strange and culturally relevant innovation known as E-Z Cheez. Despite it's name, E-Z Cheez bears little or no relation to the departed West Coast rapper and former member of N.W.A Easy E. But it is doubtless a portrait and product of its time (the Eighties of course) : a fluffy, vapid cheese imposter barely contained in a "futuristic" spray can. I confess that I was caught on more than one occasion swirling the stuff directly onto my tongue the way Sheena E. might have foamed up her coiffure. But I was but a child. I lived and learned.

I will always have a special place in my heart for Merkts Cheddar-Port Wine Cheese Food, which I consider to be part of the old-guard. This is faux cheese for the upwardly mobile. This would not be out of place at a fancy cocktail party, served with Triscuit (or "thrice-baked") crackers. I especially enjoy the mottled alien color in which this Cadillac of cheezes arrives. The borderline offensive pink hue that is supposed to represent the "port" within the screaming orange "cheddar" is particularly enticing. My Grandma Patsy ave shalom used to serve Merkts at social gatherings. She was also a master of Tapioca pudding and Chicken Diane, but that is for another story. The point is, she was a classy lady and she gave Merkts the thumbs up. So who are YOU to judge? Nobody is who.

Nowadays I take my faux cheez where I can get it: Perhaps it comes in the form of a wimpy, milky sauce on my Annies Organic shells. Maybe I get it in powder form (much preferred these days) on my daily quota of Cheezy Poofs (brand name withheld). Occasionally I break down and order chili con queso at whatever sub-stellar Mexican chain restaurant I happen to be dining at, though I passed up the opportunity to do so yesterday during an impromptu trip to On the Border in beautiful Huntington, Long Island for reasons I'm still grappling with. I suspect it had to do with my attempt to be abstemious in light of the knowledge that I would later that evening be indulging in another of my great loves -- to be explored at a later date -- the humble potato.

Friends, the world of fake cheese is wide and I am but one "womynn" (as our militant feminist friends say) with little to no ambition when it comes to thinking deeply about something for longer than 40 minutes. So here is where I'll leave you:

A great philosopher onces said: The cheese stands alone.

Another great philosopher said: If you Cheez-It, they will come.

Think about it. I haven't.

*I have fabricated a portion of this statement.