It is one thing to put pretzels in your ice cream. Anyone can do that. You two, though, fill the pretzels with peanut butter, dip them in fudge and then put them in vanilla malt ice cream with peanut butter and fudge in it.
This is some sort of sick joke, right?
I am going to be 600 pounds before all is said and done. This is ridiculous.
It all started with Karamel Sutra, one of your simpler ice creams. Delicious. Rich. Filling. Expensive. Worth it. Then, I was perusing other flavors and cam across Black & Tan. Ice cream made from stout? Is this heaven? After eating it, I determined that yes…yes this is heaven. Then I tried my wife’s personal favorite, Pistachio Pistachio. Pistachio ice cream with pistachio nuts in it. That is about as uncomplicated a flavor as you offer, and it was still insanely delicious. On a whim (ok, Ill admit it…I tried it because of the name) I picked up some Vermonty Python one day. Coffee liqueur ice cream with cookie crumbles and fudge cows. Christ. Do you guys offer anything that tastes like shit? I would appreciate that…it would make me feel marginally better about myself.
This Chubby Hubby stuff, though, is insane.
Fudge dipped peanut butter filled pretzels.
Why not just add a fucking bag of trail mix.
You guys are fucking insane and ridiculous and I hate you and I love you.
We have a big box of Tyson chicken breasts chilling in the freezer. I am, more or less, bored with chicken breasts, but they are affordable and versatile enough to make them worth the purchase. A few weeks ago, my lovely wife bought a cast-iron grill pan, a purchase that has paid for itself 3 or 4 times over already. It was our first foray into the world of cast-iron cookware, and although the maintenance and cleaning is less user friendly than our non-stick stuff, I must say that cooking on cast-iron is a treat. Everything is done evenly and on time, and since it is a grill pan, I get those awesome charred grill marks, which makes me thinks what I am going to eat is going to taste better than it actually does.
Well, we have a bottle of Lawry’s Mesquite Lime marinade that I decided to use as a base. It was a little sweet for my taste, so I combined it in a Ziploc bag with yellow mustard (Plochman’s of course), coarsely ground black pepper and a few healthy dashes of worcestershire sauce. Threw in the chicken boob and put it in the fridge to chill for about a half hour while I contemplated and began my side dishes.
Since we are poor and do not have the time to devote to cooking that I would like, I purchased 10 boxes of rice and pasta roni the previous night. I decided to go with the rice pilaf style, but before following the box instructions I sauteed 4 cloves of finely minced garlic in the pan with the 2 tbsps of butter called for, just to add a little something extra, since we are talking about rice-a-roni, here. Prior to starting the rice, I also emptied our can of Safeway sweet corn into the saucepan and put it on medium heat, and got the burner (read: stupid electric coil) under my cast-iron going. Once I got the rice to a simmer, I took out the chicken and gave it seven and a half minutes a side on the grill pan, rotating ninety degrees at the halfway mark, of course.
Took the chicken’s temperature after the 15 minutes was up and it was ready to go. Threw each breast into a separate little foil wrap (wifey wanted the teriyaki/pineapple marinade), took everything else off the heat, and then let the ladybird eat first, since the entire time I was cooking she was with the baby who decided she wanted to scream her little head off for about an hour or so.
Once the kiddo calmed down and fell asleep, my food was lukewarm, but still surprisingly good. The chicken came out far more flavorful, tender and moist than I expected (probably because we usually pan-fry or oven-bake them) and it played very well with my $2 worth of side dishes. I washed the whole thing down with a Sam Adams Summer Ale, which I bought out of curiosity. I am not typically a fan of wheat beers, but I had a feeling that the good people at Sam Adams would put forth a more pleasing product than Coors’ Blue Moon, which tastes like hot-dog water to me.
Mesquite grilled chicken with rice (a-roni) pilaf and sweet (canned) corn, accompanied by Sam Adams Summer Ale, one of the few wheat beers I truly enjoy.
All-in-all, it was a tasty and successful dinner and a good use of two chicken breasts.
Our rent is going to go up again. This would be our third lease here, and while we love this apartment and the entire complex, I just do not want to dump over $1k a month into a property that we are not going to own someday. In my simple mind, if we can afford that much for rent, we can afford a little more than that much for mortgage. Whether it be a townhouse or regular house, I really would like to own a place that will be ours to maintain, decorate and sell as we please. We just had a kid and I think it would be beneficial to move while she is still young, so she can grow up in one home and stay in the same school district with her friends as she grows up. That may be an idealistic and even unrealistic hope, but I do not think it unfair to strive for some semblance of stability. I never had to move out of a school district after I started, and I would like to do the same for my daughter if possible.
Furthermore, I look forward to having my own place, for the typical reasons that most men look forward to having their own place. A garage, where I can store my golf clubs, spend free-time agonizing over the construction of H:O scale models for the war game and a place where I can brew my own beer. A basement where I can host card games, movie nights and viewings of major sporting events. A kitchen where I can cook elaborate meals and mix simple cocktails. A backyard with a deck where I can keep the gigantic Weber grill I hope to someday own that I can slow cook pork shoulders on. A fenced yard where I can let the dog I hope to someday own run around in, and a big fuckin hot tub in which I plan to get my respective drink and freak on.
So, in short, we have to try and find someone to give us exorbitant sums of money to purchase a home in a very short time. We currently have 1 income, absolutely no collateral and at least $25,000 in credit card, school and car loan debt.
Sounds like we are up against some long odds, knowing nothing about real estate and finance and not having a ton of money. The only thing I know is that I am willing to work my ass off to get where I want my family to be. My priorities used to be different, and I was content to work hard and blow it all on trips to Cedar Point or the Dells or the Dunes…but now I’ve got a wife and a kid and I want a house and a dog. Hopefully we can make it all happen without me having to get a second job, but if that’s what it takes, it is what I will do.
Here’s to hoping there is a house-warming in the not-so-distant future.
…but I think I can spot a baseless lawsuit when I see one.
Josh Hancock was a pitcher for the St. Louis Cardinals. He died in a car crash on April 29th of this year.
Josh Hancock crashed his rented Ford Explorer into the back of a flatbed pickup that was on the side of the road helping out another vehicle. He was not wearing a seatbelt. He was doing 68 in a 55. He was talking on his cellphone and he had weed in the car with him.
Oh yeah…and he was drunk. Like…almost twice the legal limit drunk.
So, drunk guy (who may be high, too) is talking on the phone while speeding without his seatbelt on, crashes into A PARKED TRUCK and dies.
Now, as “administrator of his son’s estate,” Josh’s father Dean Hancock has decided to sue the restaurant that Hancock was at prior to his final ride, claiming the over-served him. The venue is owned by Cardinals broadcaster Mike Shannon and run by his daughter, who claims that they offered to get a cab for Mr. Hancock, who refused.
It doesn’t end there, though. In addition to suing the restaurant, the elder Hancock has also included in the lawsuit the towing company whose truck was hit, the driver of said tow truck, and (get this) the driver of the car who was stalled on the side of the road that necessitated said tow truck.
Now, don’t get me wrong, I think that a case can be made against the restaurant for over-serving. Hancock reportedly had a history of drinking and if the owners of the establishment knew that and still let him get behind the wheel, then I think there is at least grounds for a lawsuit, despite the fact that I still believe Hancock was in the wrong.
One even might be able to stretch out the negligence factor to the tow truck driver. Perhaps he did not have the proper lights or hazard signals that he is required to have on…I do not know how the law is worded regarding that, but maybe he did not give proper warning to his location on the dark highway, even though I still believe that if you crash into something parked, it is your own damn fault for not recognizing and avoiding it. IPDE. Identify, Predict, Decide, Execute. I learned that freshman year in driver’s ed.
But this poor bastard who was on the side of the road had skidded out to avoid an accident earlier. His car was either stalled or damaged to the point that he required the assistance of a tow truck, and is in no way related to or responsible for the fact that Hancock is dead. Now he is going to have to hire a lawyer and spend a lot of money defending his right to be stalled on the side of the road. It is just unfair, and I hope to God whomever has the power throws out the pending lawsuit against those who are clearly not in the wrong. The willingness for American people to try and sue everyone without discretion is a sad, sad thing.
Curious that the person Hancock was speaking with on the phone at the time of his accident is not named in the lawsuit, eh?
Last Thursday at approximately 3:30 pm, Chris called me and said that he got out of work unexpectedly early because some dumb lady hit his work truck. He wanted to play nine but, alas, I was at work.
And broke.
He said that he did not have to work this Saturday, and that it might be the last weekend he would have Saturday off. He wanted to try and play Saturday, but unfortunately, Saturday was no good for me. Sunday, though, we would both be out at his parent’s house in Streamwood and decided to try it then.
After packing up the wife and kiddo, we hit the road. The skies were foreboding here in Palatine, but everything in the direction we were headed in looked bright and clear. Fantastic. I would have for my first chance to golf in a couple weeks to get rained out.
When we got to Streamwood, the skies were bright and clear. And raining. Puddles everywhere. What the fuck? The rain had all but stopped, but it was pretty wet and I was not sure if Chris was going to want to get out there still.
Luckily, though, after waiting an hour for it to dry up a bit, Chris and I did get out there and teed off at about 4:30. The rain had rendered things a little soggy, but the course drained and played pretty well. The greens were completely manic after the rain, ranging from billiard table fast to shag carpet slow, but the greens at the Torture Chamber are always brutal.
Also brutal was the rate at which I lost golf balls. If I had not found 4 balls that other people lost throughout my round, I would have been screwed. I lost every ball in my bag and three of the four that I found. At one point, I lost two x-out balls, one a bright yellow and one a lady’s ball.
The 11th hole is a 77 yard par 3 with an elevated green that cost me 2 balls and 4 penalty strokes.
If I had not taken any drops, it would have dropped my score by 11 strokes, and I would have finished with a 99.
Yeah.
In addition to the numerous drops I took, my ball managed to find every pine cone, sprinkler cover, cart path, tree branch and landscaping edge that it could. I didn’t get any breaks and I didn’t play well. Luckily, though, I had a lot of fun and I appreciate Chris footing the bill (twilight rate is $17 for all 18 holes!). He even got a cart, which insured we would get to play all 18 before sundown. We finished up in 3 hours flat. More importantly that the time, though, is the fact that we did not have to navigate the rolling terrain on foot, which is just as challenging as the golf itself.
One of the bright spots for me was the fact that I really like the sand wedge and putter I picked out of the dumpster of our apartments last week. I wasn’t dumpster diving or anything, just taking out the poo-poo diapers and there were 4 clubs rubber-banded together sticking out. I grabbed em and it turned out to be two drivers, a SW and Spaulding “cash-in” putter, a la the old Billy Baroo from Caddyshack, which I brought with primarily for laughs but had some success with on the back 9. The sand wedge is some off-name (American Tour, I think), but it is a blade-style wedge, as opposed to me Wilson oversize which does not allow me to get under the ball well enough on fast lies and is too big to cut through the thick stuff. Sure I am losing 10 or 20 yards, but the added control is well worth it.
I still have trouble getting the distance I need with my SW, though. It should be a 100 yard club and I am not comfortable trying to hit it more than 50 or 60. I cannot figure out why, but I just cannot poke it out there far enough with my 52 or 56 degree clubs.
The 14th is a gorgeous 273 yard par 4, with an elevated green well guarded by bunkers. My lousy camera phone does not do this beautiful view justice.
As you can see by the picture of the 14th, this course puts a premium on hitting the ball straight off of the tee, which I did only one time all day. The tree-lined fairways give you a small window to work with. I’ve also realized another little quirk about this course that makes it tricky. Of the nine par fours on this course, only three of them feature a green you can see (or at least aim at) from the tee box. The first, eighth and fourteenth are the only holes you can either see the pin or somewhat accurately judge the location of the green on. I have been playing this course for about 10 years, so I have a pretty safe idea of where to place my shots, but actually placing them is a different deal altogether due to the hills and trees.
This course is always a test, and more often than not, it is a test that I fail.
We have negative money this month, so the only way I will be golfing any time soon is if someone else is paying again.
This has been emailed about and posted all over MySpace:
Subject: FW: Don’t pump gas May 15th 2007
NO GAS…On May 15th 2007
Don’t pump gas on may 15th
In April 1997, there was a “gas out” conducted nationwide in protest of gas prices. Gasoline prices dropped 30 cents a gallon overnight.
On May 15th 2007, all internet users are to not go to a gas station in protest of high gas prices. Gas is now over $3.00 a gallon in most places.
There are 73,000,000+ American members currently on the internet network, and the average car takes about 30 to 50 dollars to fill up.
If all users did not go to the pump on the 15th, it would take $2,292,000,000.00 (that’s almost 3 BILLION) out of the oil companies pockets for just one day, so please do not go to the gas station on May 15th and let’s try to put a dent in the Middle Eastern oil industry for at least one day.
If you agree (which I can’t see why you wouldn’t) resend this to all your contact list. With it saying, “Don’t pump gas on May 15th”
Gas prices (much like EVERYTHING ELSE FOR SALE IN THIS COUNTRY) are based on a little thing called Supply & Demand. Maybe you’ve heard of it? If you haven’t, it basically states that the cost of any good or service will rise and fall in accordance with both the availability of the product (supply) and desires and needs of the consumer (demand). So, in short, If you are partaking in this stupid one-day boycott, it means you either had to gas up over the weekend or will have to later this week.
In either event, the oil companies get your money.
This country burns through oil like it’s going out of style (we are running it out of style, to put it more precisely), and as long as there is high demand for gasoline, the supply of oil it is made from will continue to diminish and, therefore, the prices will continue to rise.
So…if you are fed up with high prices at the pump, do something about. Convert your car to biodiesel. Or just buy a fucking bike. A one-day boycott is inherently oxymoronic. To boycott means to abstain from usage completely, not to avoid until it inconveniences you. Until you can alter long term demand, prices will be high. Deal with it.
These people who do not understand the most basic of economic principles are the same people with the “Freedom Isn’t Free” magnetic ribbons on their gas-guzzling Hummers full of overweight children heading out to see the Larry The Cable Guy movie.
Fucking idiots.
I saved filling up just for today just to fuck up your stupid plans.
It has been almost 4 full years since Metallica released St. Anger, and now that I have finally stopped laughing at the title track, I figured it would be a good time to give the album a full listen. After all, this band was very important to me in my formative years and I was a loyal fan up until they stuck a knife in my back and asked Bob Rock to completely neuter the band in 1991 with the release of their fifth (and by far worst) release, a self titled piece of crap with the thinnest and most moribund production possible – a stunning disappointment coming of the band’s two heaviest (and best) albums, 1988’s …And Justice For All and 1986’s Master of Puppets.
Since the new songs were so terrible and formulaic, the band finally started getting some radio play where “Enter Sandman” became a huge hit, made the album a huge commercial success and lead to 4 or 5 years of world tours before their divergent follow up album, Load, which was widely regarded as a flop. Many fans considered the album to be soft and thought the group had “sold out” as they had all cut off their hair, neverminding the fact that the only album on which they compromised their musical integrity for profit was the previous album. I have not listened to Load in a very long time. I remember liking it. It is definitely not the hard hitting metal that the band had produced early in it’s existence, but it did show that the group had the capability of writing layered, interesting songs, with a very obvious souther-rock influence evident in the song writing. In ‘97, the band released Reload only a year after Load disappointed. Reload was a slightly more aggressive version of Load, as the bulk of material was written and/or recorded during the making of Load and never used on the album. It was clearly not the glorious return to triumphant metal that the many fans had hoped for, but most of them did appreciate the fact they had something to blast out of the rolled down windows of their pickup trucks again without feeling a certain degree of shame. After all, if you got caught cranking up “Until It Sleeps,” you may very well have gotten your ass kicked…so the silly-assed opening track “Fuel” on Reload came as welcome relief to some.
The band went on another long hiatus after Reload, and fan’s would have to wait until 2003 for the band to release some new material. A few quick footnotes about the band’s activities between ‘97 and ‘03:
-In 1999 they released a moronic live album in which the were accompianied by the San Francisco Symphony Orchestra called S&M. Completely retarded.
-Lars Ulrich spent the bulk of 2000 telling fans to go fuck themselves for downloading their music “illegally” on Napster. He eventually managed to get the site shutdown and further alienated fans who had shelled out tons of money for merchandise and concert tickets to keep the band afloat during their long breaks between albums.
-In 2001 Jason Newstead (the last reasonable brain in the group) quit the band. He cited James Hetfield’s insistence that band members stay out of side projects and the fact that, he felt, his bandmates had not accepted him as equal to Cliff Burton, whom Newstead replaced after a bus fell on Burton’s head and killed him dead. Newstead said the band’s decision to hire a psychologist was “Really fucking lame. And weak.”
Well, I do believe that brings us up to speed on the whereabouts and happenings of one of the largest and most successful bands of all time…just in case you weren’t in the loop.
When the title track from St. Anger was released as a single before the album hit stores, there was a single fixation everyone had, and that was the odd choice of snare sound. I was among the many critics who did not quite understand how and why a band with seemingly unlimited resources could sit around in the studio, listen to the song and think, “Yes. I like the loud, shrill pinging sound we have achieved by using a thin layer of aluminum on Lars’ snare instead of a conventional drum skin.”
Bob Rock strikes again.
As I mentioned…Metallica is one of the largest, most successful and, consequently, wealthiest bands ever. One would think that they would aspire to have an album recorded and produced in a manner that would not sound like it were done is some guy’s basement on a Tascam 4-track…but, alas, the album, from start to finish, sounds like ass. I am not sure what the idea behind the production value of this album was. I respect an artist experimenting and trying new things, but how anyone could come to conclusion that this stuff sounded good astounds me. On a positive note, the guitar tones on this album are pretty raw and I rather enjoy them. Unfortunately, the guitars completely dominate the mix and the only time any part of the rhythm section cuts through is when the annoying snare drum kicks in, and even then, that is only in certain parts of certain songs. The way the drum sounds change from track-to-track and even within certain songs is very distracting (and patently stupid). I am reading that Bob Rock played bass on this album, but try as I might, I cannot fucking hear it. I am not sure what Bob’s disdain for low-end is all about, but if you are trying to create a heavy sound you cannot do it with all treble. Even Lars’ kick drum is barely audible.
The funny thing is…the wretched recording/production/mixdown is not even the worst part of this album. That distinction belongs to the lyrics. Now, I am not the type of person who gets all huffy when the lyrics suck. Bad lyrics do not preclude me from liking a band or a song, but I can assure you that when I hear a 40 year old man singing lines that sound like they were taken from the diary of a 15 year old stepchild, it is quite hard for me to take it seriously, and to liken Hetfield’s lyrics on this album bitter adolescent poetry would be a slander against stupid teenagers everywhere.
Don’t believe me? See how far you can get through this without rolling your eyes.
Invisible kid
Never see what he did
Got stuck where he did
Fallen through the grid
Invisible kid
Got a place of his own
Where he’ll never be known
Inward he’s grown
Invisible kid
Locked away in his brain
From the shame and the pain
World down the drain
Invisible kid
Suspicious of your touch
Don’t want no crutch
But it’s all too much
I hide inside
I hurt inside
I hide inside, but I’ll show you
I’m ok, just go away
Into distance let me fade
I’m ok, just go away
I’m ok, but please don’t stray too far
Open your heart
I’m beating right here
Open your mind
I’m being right here, right now
Open your heart
I’m beating right here
Open your mind
I’m being right here, right now
Ooh, what a good boy you are
Out of the way and you’re kept to yourself
Ooh, can’t you see that he’s not here
He doesn’t want the attention you give
Ooh, unplugging from it all
Invisible kid floats alone in his room
Ooh, what a quiet boy you are
He looks so calm floating ‘round and around in himself
So…if you get hung up on lyrics…this album is not for you.
Another major issue I have with St. Anger is that a lot of the songs are patchwork quilts with ill-fitting transitions and lacking proper flow. This is one area of major regression for the band. It is as though they all came to the rehearsals with different riffs and piecemealed them together as best they could to meet a deadline. Some of the tracks work, but the majority of them are written childishly and far-too simplistic. Verse, Chorus, Verse, Chorus, Other Part, Verse Chorus. This is supposed to be Metallica…not a punk band. They did not even bother trying to maintain the illusion that they are good musicians on this album.
Now that I have covered the bulk of the negatives, I feel compelled to spend a little time giving credit where credit is due. I already alluded to the guitar tones on this album, which are not the high-gain, over-processed tones you might expect. Very well rounded with good mid-range, the guitars sound more southern/stoner rock than they do heavy metal, and I love it. The dropped tuning becomes distracting every now and then, prompting me to look at my iPod and make sure that I did not accidentally upload a Slipknot song, which can be a good or bad thing depending on your feelings on Slipknot. There is definitely an undercurrent of heavier, more hardcore riffage on this album, though, with numerous psuedo-breakdown parts that were likely included to appeal to a younger audience. I can take em or leave em. I don’t typically think of Metallica as a “breakdown band,” but they go about it ambiguously enough about it to be acceptable.
Also, there is a distinct lack of guitar solos on this album. Some view that as a bad thing, but considering how terrible Kirk Hammet’s solos have gotten over the years, ll I have to say about it is “thank you.”
Despite the fact that every word Hetfield sings on this album is complete tripe, his vocals have remained distinct and are far more commanding on St. Anger than they were on Load and Reload. Whether or not you are a fan of his raspy style, I do think that credit needs to be given to the rawness of his performance, as it compliments the “edgier” music very well.
Overall, I would say that I was surprised by St. Anger. Not because it is a good album, but because it is not nearly as horrible as I was expecting. It is not something that will find it’s way into my normal rotation of albums, but I will keep it on my hard drive and in my iTunes with the Metallica albums that I do like, a distinction that cannot be claimed by the Black Album. The main drawbacks on this album are definitely the retarded production (esp. of the drums) and lyrics, but if you can work your way past those two obvious flaws, I would say you might actually enjoy this album. After listening to it a couple times through now, I view it as an attempt by the band to reinvent themselves yet again, and while I won’t say that they completely missed, I do think this effort smacks of “trying too hard.” As much as I would like to blame Bob Rock entirely (just because I hate him), the band themselves deserve equal share of the criticism for allowing themselves to put out something sounding so repulsively bad, and I think they came to that conclusion themselves, as they announced Rick Rubin will be producing their next album, due out late this year.
I won’t recommend this album on the basis that it is good music, but I will say that, if you liked this band at any point in their existence, it is worth it to listen to just for the sake of comparison. I also apologize for not citing specific tracks in this review and for not embedding any audio…but after Lars and the whole Napster debacle, I figured it would be best to not tempt fate and post Metallica songs on the internet. I will, however, include this parody song that came out shortly after the first single was released. It was created by Matt Smith of the band Theocracy, and it kills me every time.
I am still trying to tweak the layout of this here blog, specifically the sidebars. The original pictures sidebar I added was far too taxing on load times, so I thumbnailed all the pictures instead of resizing them in the link tags (thank you Pat) so it is a little more lean and hopefully not choking the page loading. If you come across any broken or dead links please just shoot me an email and let me know so I can fix it.
