Recently, I’ve learned to open up. To talk. And gain insight about myself. Truthfully, honestly, openly.
Friends, I need to talk to someone. I’m lonely. I need someone to share my passions, my outlook on life...my appetite.
I’ve had my finger on the trigger for the last couple years. I’ve been waiting for the right time, the right place, the right moment to buy the vacuum cleaner of my dreams - a Dyson.
Let there be no mistake that this is the best vacuum that money can buy. I’ve been doing my research on this brand for years, and I think it’s fair to say that there is no better vacuum cleaner on the market in terms of either overall commercial ratings or consumer ratings. The problem is that it takes A LOT of money to procure one of these motherfuckers. I mean, a new entry level model is $300+. The fuck? Does this thing cook dinner? Shit, it better be able to suck a damn blackhead out of my ear for $300. From down the street. Trust me, I know some people that can...
I found a Dyson DC07 Low Reach Vacuum online for $300, and I leapt at it. I figured that if it sucked (poorly), I’d sell it on eBay.
I got this mama today. The FedEx man left it on my doorstep, likely thinking that the woman of the house would be so excited to get home. After fumbling around with the parts, I took a step back and looked at my newly assembled vacuum cleaner. It is ugly as all hell. I mean, sweet Jesus, this thing looks like Barney the singing dinosaur got stuck in a Capsela. (Ya’ll remember Capsela, right?) It took me a second to consult the instruction manual as to where in the hell the power button was. But then I turned it on...
I’m not going to tell you anymore about me and my new friend. I’m through talking, and exploring, and making connections. If you don’t see or hear from me in a little while, know that my friend and I have gone to a “happy place” together, where we will share intimate conversation and naughty fun in the dark corners of life. If you do run across me, be sure to introduce yourself to my new companion. We’ll be spending a lot of time together in the future. Oh, and ignore the new hickeys. You wouldn’t understand.
If you've ever consumed too much alcohol, you know that you assume the risk of passing out and being unconsciously tormented by your friends. Look what happened to my co-worker:
Every now and again, food and/or drink will exact revenge upon you. I’m talking about stains. Yeah. Fucking stains.
Laundry is definitely not my forte. In the interests of full disclosure, I should admit that I can barely operate my own washer and dryer. I’ve managed to ruin towels, pants, shorts, denim, socks, and even my suede thong during bitter struggles with my twenty year old Maytag washing machine. I’ve turned towels red, white shirts a mottled blue, and I might have even managed to enlarge a pre-shrunken sweater. As for the dryer, I was encouraged to “Keep it Chinese. Tumble Dry Low.” Tumboh Drai Lo. Tuboh Drai Lo. Tumboh Drai Lo. Somehow, I still only get mixed results.
But clean clothes are about as overrated as a lapdance, damnit. I can wear the same shirt day after day, and the same pair of jeans ten times in two weeks. The trick is simple, really: scatter them around your bathroom floor until you forget what day you wore them, sniff from three feet away (the usual distance required for American conceptions of “personal space”), then nonchalantly slip them on. A few weeks ago, my trusty sales clerk at Nordstrom’s (long story) suggested that I purchase a small box containing five individually-wrapped disposable silk tie wipes. Having just fit me for a suit, he might have deduced that I eat too much, and eating too much means an increased risk of food-related “accidents.” He politely advised me to keep one of the little packets in my “billfold.” So, I grudgingly paid an extra $10 for five of what looked like post-fanger food handi-wipes. Yes, gotta rid yourself of the s-s-s-stank fanger.
I’m wearing a suit today, and I need to wear it again tomorrow (I’m on the road, okay?). Taking a break for lunch, I ordered a side salad with my grilled chicken wrap (disgusting, by the way). The salad was a small mesclun assortment dressed in a raspberry vinaigrette.
Now, rather than lean towards my fork as my mama taught me, I thought that balance and luck would ensure that the oil-drenched leaves would safely arrive at my mouth. This turned out to be a bad idea. A large piece of arugula dropped onto my suit pants, just inches from my zipper. I would have screamed, “FUCKING SHIT!” at the top of my lungs if it weren’t for the infant child seated immediately to my right. Instead, I sat there, stunned, looking side to side frantically as if I were a crackhead watching the finals of the French Open.
I blotted the dressing up with a napkin as well as I could. Then I called upon friends to ask what I should do. One suggested I try shampoo. Like I keep a bottle of Head and Shoulders in my back pocket!
And then, all of the sudden, I remembered the silk tie stain removers. I yanked my wallet out of my pocket and ripped it open. Man, that little thing was weird. It felt like an oil slick, and it smelled like some EXTREMELY toxic shit. But I was in such a panic it could have been a spent nuclear fuel rod infected with Avian Bird Flu that operates as a stain remover and I would have used it.
I smashed it into my crotch, and the moisture on the towelette instantly covered an area at least 500% larger than the stain. I looked like I had just pissed myself in a seated position. And then, it vanished. It just evaporated...and took the salad dressing with it.
I witnessed some David Blaine shit today. And by the way, the brand is “Silk & Clean.” Forget the rubbers. I’m keeping a pack of Silk & Clean in my “billfold” from this day on.
I’ve never been a big chocolate fan. Unless it’s a cold triangle of Toblerone or a nugget from the chocolatier at the Peninsula Hotel, I generally prefer hard candy. Chocolate flavors, I truly enjoy, like chocolate ice cream, chocolate milk, chocolate cake, and even the occasional chocolate stout. But “chocolate” in the form of a whole candy bar, a coin, a messy kiss, or body paint has never appealed to me in the way that I think it does for others. By the way, I was kidding about the chocolate body paint thing. At least in large quantities i.e., No fat chicks, please. Yes, chocolate for the sake of chocolate is a bit much even for an overindulgent lad like Duru Paloma.
Several years ago, a friend introduced me to a rather obscure brand of German chocolate called Ritter Sport that she had discovered while on vacation in Spain. I remember thinking at the time that marketing chocolate with the “Sport” term was so weird...so Eurotrash. Kind of like colored “sport” socks and “sport” backpacks. And “sport” body odor.
Anyway, when my friend offered to share this peculiar chocolate bar with me, I was immediately taken by its unusual packaging. There was no foil wrapping, no mountain landscape in the back, no kitschy cartoons. Instead, it screamed efficiency and clean design from Deutschland. The chocolate itself was hefty, but it melted easily in my mouth, and then the weight vanished. The WeiBe Voll-Nuss (white chocolate with hazel nuts) variety was unbelievably good. Not too sweet, not too heavy, not too sticky. Furthermore, though my friend was happily munching on TWO squares, she managed to enunciate her affections for that variety without offending me with a smacky, stringy, chocolate-mouth. I thought this a nice bonus for someone like myself who, in the presence of fine foods, tends to leave the chore of dining etiquette to his dog. That was years ago.
As I am currently in a graduate school setting that is dramatically overwhelmed by women, I often have some difficulty finding a satisfying lunch. The “cafe” I frequent has a few choices in yogurt and bagels, some bad Mediterranean wraps, and of course, coffee and other bottled drinks. Most noticeable, however, is the principled inventory of TAMPONS and CHOCOLATE (I understand the true meaning of supply and demand now). As it turns out, there is a large basket with an impressive assortment of Ritter Sport chocolate varieties, including the white chocolate with hazelnuts type. After purchasing a package for “lunch” the other day, I was hooked.
The package is resealable (provided you open it according to the illustration), and there are sixteen fat little squares comprising one large square. Four times four...yeah. Sixteen. The squares are hefty little blocks, and they’re durable. That is, they don’t seem like you’ll get home to a sport backpack that shit itself.
After a quick internet search, I’ve found that these chocolates have made it into the U.S. mainstream. You can get them at all sorts of stores that stock trendy gifts and foodstuffs. I actually bought a couple of the different varieties to try, but my dog ate both packs and came down with a serious case of diarrhea. What a dumbass.
Try these out. If they rock your world as they did mine, you can add yourself to the list of early adopters in the U.S. If they give you diarrhea, you’re a dog that shouldn’t have been in the front seat to begin with.
My place of gainful employment recently added a new honey-liqueur to its wonderfully poisonous menu: Barenjager. Barenjager is German for "Bear Hunter." At 70 proof, the Bear Hunter gives HONEY the opportunity to shine in a market saturated with apple, peach, banana, and coconut flavors, all of which are painfully lackluster now that consumers are catching on to the fact that the alcohol-peddling industry had managed to confuse drinkers by passing off mixed drinks as "martinis." Admit it, you've ordered a $12 apple martini before and thought it was a great drink. Bartending is like cooking. You imagine sweet and savory flavors, and tweak other old recipes. Vanilla flavors (Stoli Vanilla) go well with nutty flavors (Amaretto, Hazelnut, Bailey's); Coconut flavors (Malibu) pair easily with pineapple and mango and banana flavors; HONEY can complement an incredible range of conventional drink mixes. A Sex on the Beach (vodka, peach, cranberry, orange) laced with honey is tasty. A white russian with a touch of honey is superb. One of my nipples, smothered in honey is no doubt, heavenly. People have been tiptoeing around this Barenjager stuff, and I can see sales starting to move. Already, the staff is obsessed with it, and although our personal experimentations with this liqueur generally manifest themselves as rate hypotheses (shots/hour) and not flavor hypotheses, we are beginning to see potential. Try to get your hands on this stuff, if for no other reason than to pour it over your pancakes in the morning, or to stir into a cup of chamomile tea. The bottle comes wrapped in sisal rope, and the cap is shaped like a beehive.
