Thursday, September 27, 2007
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Ketel One Citron
Shaken and served in a martini glass topped with and EDIBLE orchid.
I'm waiting on a picture of my brother drinking one.
Chris suggested readers asking questions might help kick start things. Maybe. But his question was what are my thoughts on rye whiskey. And since I still don't have my whiskeys, my ryes, my bourbons and my scotches all that straight I can't give an honest answer.
I can however tell you that my brother Larry fell in love with a drink called the "Femme Fatale" served at the Charles Hotel. It's purple and the serve it with an orchid.
Now after reading that, what's the first question that pops in your mind? Send it in.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
I haven't been so excited about blogging lately because I haven't been excited about much. Depressed? Maybe. Sick of my job? Definitely.
I'm so sick of my regular job that it makes me sick of my second job: bartending. By the time Saturday rolls around, I am so sick of working, so sick of cleaning my house, and so sick of having to be somewhere at sometime that I don't even want to go to Vito.
But here's the difference between my regular job and Vito, Vito is like the gym: once you get there you are so happy you went. Like Alberto, one of my favorite waiters, said to me this weekend, "This place is calming for me. When I come here I just think: Showtime!" He's so right. And when you think of it that way, it feels like the best place to be. Still waiting for that to happen at The Game which is interesting it hasn't happened there since that is the place where I'm basically paid to "perform" It's showtime on the CW and I could give a shit.
Also, the pressure of wanting to make each post here on this blog interactive (you know: pictures, links, etc.) has obviously crushed me. So instead of trying to figure out a picture that goes with this post I'm going to post a picture of our 4th dog, Brady. He's really Uncle Balls' dog but he lives with us now. He has a brain tumor. He makes me happy everyday he's still alive. Because believe me, his days are numbered.
Blogging through depression ain't easy.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
My sister-in-law, Michelle, is also a writer. She teaches at Grub Street which is an adult education writing center. She also ghost writes books for dudes who aren't talented enough to make what they have to say interesting (heart surgeons and doctors who want to introduce new diet phenoms). She also reports for Worth Magazine. Articles so good and in depth they have the power to tear families apart. Literally. On top of all this, she's a mother who sends me some of the funniest observations on motherhood.
Here's a picture of Michelle's kids:
Here's her latest email:
OK. Samantha's new thing is that her socks have to be absolutely
clean or she freaks out. She can be soaked to the armpits in her own
pee, she can have dried spaghetti sauce caked on her sleeves and
chocolate smears around her collar, but if one spec of dirt has
marred her socks, it's a total f*cking disaster. And she can feel the
dirt in her shoes. She knows the socks are dirty before she even
takes her shoes off and she's already whining and complaining. I
can't tell you the number of socks we go through every day. And your
mother is like some kind of sock dealer. She shows up at the house
with new pairs all the time, with sparklies and hot pink flowers. And
I'm like, you're sending me to hell with these. What are you doing?
Samantha is right this minute writhing on the floor with her little
pink polka dot socks, twisting them around and ramping herself up for
more wailing. Why? I don't know why, except that the tantrum started
when the supposedly clean socks came out of the drier with stains
still on them (Mommie didn't use enough stain remover, that's another
level of hell, right?) So I put more stain remover on them and put
them right back in the washer. Resistance is futile. Now she wants to
wear them, but they're still dirty.
And your mother is threatening to buy Samantha a leotard for her little
preschool gymnastics class. You know, with the low cut front and the
little gauzy skirt sewn in. And I'm thinking 1) I'm going to have to
keep it immaculately clean to keep the crazies away, even though
she'll want to wear it while making mud pies, 2) I'm going to have
to wrestle her into it and pry her out of it kicking and screaming
once a week for a 45 minute "gymnastics" class. Please shoot me now.
And I thought boys were hard. Garret doesn't know that he has socks.
He barely knows that he has feet. He'd run around naked if we'd let
him. Suddenly these are good things.
Sorry to rant, but it's just possible that Larry and I have kids who
are far crazier than the two of us put together.
Monday, September 10, 2007
by Stacey Silverman
Sadly, I am one of those TV nerds that loves watching all of the new fall pilots as soon as I can get my hands on them. I get some pathetic, cheap thrill out of saying to people, "You just saw that one, I like watched it months ago…" (you have to say that line like a valley girl, because it sounds so much more obnoxious that way).
By April/ May of this year I assumed I had finished watched everything and had made all of my predictions for the upcoming season regarding what would stay and what would go, to anyone who would listen. I was wrong. While going through a pile of DVD's on my desk last week, I stumbled upon Life, a new hour drama that will be on NBC this fall. Somehow, in my viewing marathon, I had skipped Life, so I sat down to watch it, not expecting much. It was another cop show and it's gotta be off the charts for me to commit my TIVO to a new cop show.
Well, People Who Read Bean's Blog, I am more than happy to say, that Life was one of the more enjoyable 42 minutes of television I have had in quite some time. The premise is thus: a cop spends 12 years in prison after being wrongly convicted of murder. When the verdict is overturned and he is released, he gets a $50 million dollar settlement from the department, but also decides to go back to the force (for reasons that will later become evident). The post prison Charlie Crews is surprisingly one of the most delightful, quirky, and fucking handsome cops to come to TV in a longtime. Not the direction I would have assumed network TV would have taken a character fresh out of 12 years in jail, but I applaud the choice. Damian Lewis, plays Charlie, a Brit that you might remember from Band of Brothers, and he is really the one and only reason to watch the show, because Life is Damian Lewis. The show might not be off the charts- but he is. Besides the great looks, he plays this character as part neurotic part eccentric who eats only fruit, and is obsessed with the Zen Buddhist way of living life "in the moment." Apparently this is what got him through his years in jail, and he is attempting to continue this path on the outside world, to varying degrees of success. I'm not describing it well at all, but trust me, this aspect of the show is thoroughly entertaining. Or maybe anything coming out of his mouth would be entertaining to me. I am an admitted cheeseball, with a growing spiritual side as the years go by, so there is nothing I like better than being made to think about the meaning of life from a sexy cop who I would definitely remove my pants for if he asked.
In the end you have a pretty good combo of character driven drama, a bit of procedural, a drop of humor, and a shitload of hotness.
Men, I realize this post was a little one-sided. You should watch the show too, it's good.
Life, premiers September 26th at 10pm on NBC.
Friday, September 07, 2007
In case you forgot:
28th & Ocean Park
Parking in the Rear. (I said "in the rear." Hee hee.)
Wednesday, September 05, 2007
(This is The Man about to burn. He's the green neon thing in the middle of the fireworks.)
I haven't written about it yet because I can't seem to get my head around it. Every time I try to explain it to someone I feel like I'm either coming up short or talking in cliches.
It was truly one of the craziest, weirdest, most intense experiences I've ever had. In hindsight, it wasn't so bad. In fact, as the days pass, I think I want to go back. But that's not how I felt when I woke up on Saturday and went for a bike ride around The Playa with Maura. (Pictured here)
Our first stop was the Center Camp Cafe where you can buy a cup of coffee. Not that you'd want one because it's a hundred f*cking degrees out. Anyway, coffee and ice are the only things you can buy at Burning Man. Everything else is "gifted." Which means if you want something you need to learn how to ask for it. Not an easy thing for someone like me who hates to ask for stuff. But the whole idea of Burning Man is "radical self-reliance." So relying on yourself to have the guts to ask someone for what you want is part of the weekend. Ugh.
When Maura and I got to Center Camp there was some sort of free expression dance going on in the middle of the enormous, circus-size and circus-smelling tent. From what I could tell the point of this dance was to constantly be touching your partner with a part of your body -- not just your hands. This of course meant a lot of sweaty people were sticking their dirty faces in some one else's stinky armpit while a bunch of dudes with their balls hanging out sat around and watched. This is all Maura needed to see to want to get the fuck out of Dodge with me.
More to come...