Of course I was watching the footage from Galveston when Ike hit over the weekend. I spent a good chunk of my childhood in a small town between Houston and Galveston, and I have really fond memories of that area. And since I've moved back to Texas, I've been down to Galveston a few times. Amazingly, it's one of the few places in my life that has changed very little. In fact, the same shell shop that we went to back in the 70s, with the same day-glo colored puka necklaces for sale and giant clams attached to the front is still there. So any time a hurricane hits, I sit and watch and wonder if this is the time Galveston gets swept out to sea.
I didn't sleep well on Friday night, because at the same time Ike's eye was approaching the gulf coast, the outer edges were starting into the Dallas area. And big fronts always mess with my head. So every hour or so, I'd wake up and wander down stairs to see what was on CNN. I'd kind of stare at the dark outlines behind Gary Tuchman and see if I could recognize anything. And one of my best party tricks is my impression of a CNN correspondent standing in a hurricane. So I'm going to be adding the bit I saw of a little tiny girl reporter standing out in the open holding onto a bush so that she didn't get blown away. Those reporters have to be a really special sort of different to want to stand in 60 mile an hour winds on camera.
But the image that caught me the most probably wouldn't have struck anybody who'd never lived in a coastal region. Early Saturday morning, they showed a picture from downtown Houston where the sewer manhole cover had popped off, because the bayou had backed up, and was spewing water in a fountain into the street. Not just water, black bayou water. And if you've ever smelled that stench of stagnation and decay, it stays in your nose forever. All I had to do was see that picture and it turned into smell-a-vision for me. As sharp and strong as if I was 9 and catching crawdads.
From all the reports, it looks like Houston took a pretty bad hit. And Galveston even worse. I keep looking at the footage, hoping that things I recognize are still there. Which reminds me, I need to go make a donation to the Salvation Army. They're feeding a lot of people and can use the help. And hurricane season still has a ways to go.
* Addendum - and speaking of a way to go: I think it may be time for all storm reporters everywhere to hit the old thesaurus. English is a varied and robust language. Can we find a different word than "power"? "Power of the storm", "powerful winds", "power of nature". Power is a good word. Power is a great word. But there are all sorts of other words that you can use. Let's give power a rest. And while we're at it. Uhm. What is the obsession with "hunker down"? Y'all really like that phrase. Really. Telling a field reporter once or twice to hunker down is sort of folksy. 20 or 30 times and it just starts to sound, mmmm, odd. I'm just saying.
Monday, September 15, 2008
Friday, September 12, 2008
A Sorbo is a terrible thing to waste
Okay, so last night I'm watching the last half of a Lifetime movie I had recorded. And it was an egregiously Lifetime movie. Bolier plate woman in jeop from evil ex, handsome man to the rescue, cute kid on the side, bad dialogue, stock characters, and a threatening bobcat thrown in for good measure (and for the record, I don't know anyone who actually lives in bobcat territory who lives in terror of an attack; sure they have a healthy respect for a wild animal, but nobody actually scurries around in wide-eyed terror). So why watch this piece of teeerash? Simple. Kevin Sorbo.
I gots a little thing for Kevin Sorbo. He's so not my type. But he's just so dang cute. He's handsome, he's fit, he's charming, he's Hercules. And he always makes me giggle girlishly when he shows up. And frankly, I don't think he shows up enough. Can someone not find a project for this man? [Though he did show up in a classic guest spot on the best show of the year (The Middleman - watch it, people!) I think it shows a sad lack of imagination that Hollywood can't come up with a use for the world's most under-used natural resource - Kevin Sorbo. (Blogger's note - I'm shaking my fist to emphasize this point.)
Though I guess he's still got Hercules money and probably only has to work when he wants to. Though why he'd choose this Lifetime weepy of the week to squander his inimitable talent, I can't figure. Maybe he needs to build a new deck on his house. Or he was just sitting around in his boxers, bored out of his mind (allow me to take a moment to visualize that . . . .), and decided to just take the first thing that came along. Anyway, I felt bad for him. Not only was this the bottom of the barrel sort of Lifetime dreck, it was written by Linda Lael Miller. And while Ms. Miller can write the bejeesus out of a sex scene in a book (some naughty stuff), she can't write dialogue to save a whale. It's almost George Lucas-dialogue bad. Ouch. I found myself wincing, some of those clunkers were so bad. Ah, Kevin Sorbo. You poor thing.
Hollywood, don't let this happen again. Sorbo. Use him. (Fist shaking!)
I gots a little thing for Kevin Sorbo. He's so not my type. But he's just so dang cute. He's handsome, he's fit, he's charming, he's Hercules. And he always makes me giggle girlishly when he shows up. And frankly, I don't think he shows up enough. Can someone not find a project for this man? [Though he did show up in a classic guest spot on the best show of the year (The Middleman - watch it, people!) I think it shows a sad lack of imagination that Hollywood can't come up with a use for the world's most under-used natural resource - Kevin Sorbo. (Blogger's note - I'm shaking my fist to emphasize this point.)
Though I guess he's still got Hercules money and probably only has to work when he wants to. Though why he'd choose this Lifetime weepy of the week to squander his inimitable talent, I can't figure. Maybe he needs to build a new deck on his house. Or he was just sitting around in his boxers, bored out of his mind (allow me to take a moment to visualize that . . . .), and decided to just take the first thing that came along. Anyway, I felt bad for him. Not only was this the bottom of the barrel sort of Lifetime dreck, it was written by Linda Lael Miller. And while Ms. Miller can write the bejeesus out of a sex scene in a book (some naughty stuff), she can't write dialogue to save a whale. It's almost George Lucas-dialogue bad. Ouch. I found myself wincing, some of those clunkers were so bad. Ah, Kevin Sorbo. You poor thing.
Hollywood, don't let this happen again. Sorbo. Use him. (Fist shaking!)
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Tip Top Design
Oh! Oh! Oh! EXCITEMENT!!
Okay, I decided to watch Top Design's new season tonight. Actually, I was too lazy to look for anything else to watch. But this season seems to be more or less what the last season was. Cat fights and throw pillows. If it weren't for the excellent Todd Oldham (I'm sitting on a Todd couch by the way - adore him) I wouldn't even have bothered. Jonathan Adler still looks like he smells something funny. Maybe it's his sweaters.
Anyway. The real point is that next week. The guest clients are past Project Runway designers. I spotted Chris March, Santino, Sweet Pea and Andre! Ahhhhhh! It's like a fantasy land for me! Oh, my god. They are going to make those bitches work!! DVR is on record.
Print me up a shirt!
http://sports.yahoo.com/nfl/blog/shutdown_corner/post/It-ll-cost-mucho-dinero-for-Chad-Ochocinco-to-sw?urn=nfl,106605
Ya know I don't pay attention to the football. So, I'm late to this story. But, well. It finally caught my attention. It seems this gentleman, who is some kind of football person (I don't know if he's a full-end or a tight-quarter, or what have you) has changed his last name from Johnson (admittedly not a terribly inspiring name) to Ocho Cinco (which has a lot of flair).
The reason I noticed (and I wouldn't want to be the one to bring this to Sr. Ocho Cinco's attention - those football types are usually bigguns), is that I think maybe it's wrong. I had to go look this up, because my Sesame Street Spanish is a little rusty, but I believe that the number on his football jumper is actually referred to as "eighty-five" which would be Ochenta y Cinco, rather than eight five, which is what he's using. Whoopsie.
Not that I'd in anyway want to discourage people from coming up with a flashy nickname. I'm thinking of doing the same as Ocho Cinco. Do you suppose I could get a legal name change to Julie Nalgas Dulce?
Ya know I don't pay attention to the football. So, I'm late to this story. But, well. It finally caught my attention. It seems this gentleman, who is some kind of football person (I don't know if he's a full-end or a tight-quarter, or what have you) has changed his last name from Johnson (admittedly not a terribly inspiring name) to Ocho Cinco (which has a lot of flair).
The reason I noticed (and I wouldn't want to be the one to bring this to Sr. Ocho Cinco's attention - those football types are usually bigguns), is that I think maybe it's wrong. I had to go look this up, because my Sesame Street Spanish is a little rusty, but I believe that the number on his football jumper is actually referred to as "eighty-five" which would be Ochenta y Cinco, rather than eight five, which is what he's using. Whoopsie.
Not that I'd in anyway want to discourage people from coming up with a flashy nickname. I'm thinking of doing the same as Ocho Cinco. Do you suppose I could get a legal name change to Julie Nalgas Dulce?
No Soup for You!
You know. I think one of the reasons I don't like cooking is that I'm so lazy. Okay, yeah. Duh, you say. But it is actually more complicated than that. Not only am I bone idle, but I have an almost unerring instinct for picking out recipes that call for faaaaarrr more effort than I'd ever willingly put in. In my food world there are two kinds of recipes: 1) pull tab, microwave, stir; and 2) full-on foodapalooza. No middle ground.
You know how some women can go into a store looking for a purse, and they have some kind of radar that makes them grab the most expensive purse on the rack? Over and over again. Me, I can thumb through a cookbook, and every recipe that sounds remotely appealing will have 42 steps, 94 ingredients and include either braising, basting, simmering for long periods of time or some sort of ninja knife skills that I do not possess.
Or they'll just be plain old grunt work. One of my favorite things in the world is gazpacho. But I don't order it in a restaurant, because they always do the traditional style with bread crumbs mixed in. Bread crumbs in cold tomato soup? Nuh-uh. Me no like. I like my bread in tasty-toastey bits on the side, so that they can be dropped in a few at a time and not get soggy. So, if I want gazpacho, I either have to make it myself, a long and arduous process, or beg my mother to make it, also a long and arduous process.
And it's not that it's overly complicated. Any doofus can make it. It's just that you have to chop a phenomenal amount of veggies to make enough for guests. And damn it, if I'm going to make gazpacho, I want an audience. A freaking appreciative audience. Plus, you don't just chop the tomatoes. You have to do a concasse. Which, quite frankly, is a bitch. If I ever went to culinary school, concasse day would be the day I'd say "hellz no" and walk out. Anyway, you core, peel, seed (reserving the tomato goo), then chop, with your hands all messy, then put the tomato goo through a strainer to get the last of the tomatoey goodness. But wait! That's not all! It's chop, chop, chop your way through green peppers, onions, jalepeno, cucumber and garlic. Yee-ikes. Very labor intensive. But, admittedly, soooo worth it.
But most of the time, when it comes to a choice between the 4-hour cooking marathon, and ripping open a bag of chocolate donettes? Yeah, you know which one I pick.
You know how some women can go into a store looking for a purse, and they have some kind of radar that makes them grab the most expensive purse on the rack? Over and over again. Me, I can thumb through a cookbook, and every recipe that sounds remotely appealing will have 42 steps, 94 ingredients and include either braising, basting, simmering for long periods of time or some sort of ninja knife skills that I do not possess.
Or they'll just be plain old grunt work. One of my favorite things in the world is gazpacho. But I don't order it in a restaurant, because they always do the traditional style with bread crumbs mixed in. Bread crumbs in cold tomato soup? Nuh-uh. Me no like. I like my bread in tasty-toastey bits on the side, so that they can be dropped in a few at a time and not get soggy. So, if I want gazpacho, I either have to make it myself, a long and arduous process, or beg my mother to make it, also a long and arduous process.
And it's not that it's overly complicated. Any doofus can make it. It's just that you have to chop a phenomenal amount of veggies to make enough for guests. And damn it, if I'm going to make gazpacho, I want an audience. A freaking appreciative audience. Plus, you don't just chop the tomatoes. You have to do a concasse. Which, quite frankly, is a bitch. If I ever went to culinary school, concasse day would be the day I'd say "hellz no" and walk out. Anyway, you core, peel, seed (reserving the tomato goo), then chop, with your hands all messy, then put the tomato goo through a strainer to get the last of the tomatoey goodness. But wait! That's not all! It's chop, chop, chop your way through green peppers, onions, jalepeno, cucumber and garlic. Yee-ikes. Very labor intensive. But, admittedly, soooo worth it.
But most of the time, when it comes to a choice between the 4-hour cooking marathon, and ripping open a bag of chocolate donettes? Yeah, you know which one I pick.
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