We discussed Electronic Cigarettes over at the Perpetual Post this week. Come on by!
Smoking is bad, smoking is gross, smoking kills. We’ve had those words drummed into us so often that they’ve almost lost all meaning. Anti-smoking campaigns abound—they’re smart, edgy, profound. The statistics they provide are sobering—increased heart disease, cancer, stroke. But getting people to stop smoking has been a long and difficult path—and part of the reason is because it’s become so deeply ingrained in our culture. Smokers take breaks together, share lighters, bum cigarettes. There’s also no denying that smoking, as stinky and unappealing as it is for nonsmokers, looks so damn COOL! If only it were a little more awkward; if only it weren’t associated in movies and on TV with cowboys, rock stars, rebels, and sophisticates. I am vehemently anti-smoking, but even I have to admit that pictures of James Dean with a cigarette dangling from his lips are striking and sexy in part because of the wreath of smoke curled around his face.
People who want to quit smoking have many aides to choose from—nicotine patches, gum, hypnosis, therapy. But none of those actually work as actual surrogate cigarettes—until now. Now we have the newfangled ‘Electronic Cigarette’—a cigarette-like device which allows users to mimic the act of smoking.
But this device’s day has not yet come. It has yet to catch on, even with smokers who are trying desperately to quit. This might be in part because the concept is so ridiculous. How could an electronic device ever replace the heady, organic pleasure found in the glowing embers of actual burning paper and tobacco? Whatever false sensation the electronic cigarette offers, how can it possibly compare to the act of actual smoking?
Well, it can’t. But at least it’s something—maybe even a step in the right direction. New anti-smoking ads tout the benefits of training yourself to learn how to do every day activities without a cigarette in your hand, so the act of holding a cigarette is clearly an integral part of the whole experience. Perhaps this beta version of the electronic cigarette is just an early prototype, but unless it catches on, it will be the only version there is.
So, how to make it catch on? Well, it needs to become cool. This seems like a tall order, but look at pegged jeans, look at soul patches; look at the Snuggie. We regularly embrace all sorts of ridiculous fads and trends if enough of the right people are seen supporting them. So it’s time for rock stars, rappers, porn stars, actors, politicians—very public smokers who lead very public lives—to embrace the electronic cigarette. It needs to become a badge of honor—after all, quitting smoking is hard, and if you’re seen publicly struggling to quit; looking all broody and angsty with your glass of whiskey and your electronic cigarette clenched between your teeth, you’re sure to earn some sympathy points.
The second part is, it has to stop trying to look like an actual cigarette. Electronic cigarette, you are so clearly not actually burning. You are not a real cigarette. Stop trying to be unobtrusive and realistic looking. Let’s add some color to those things and make them bold! Give them psychedelic patterns; make them hot pink, day-glo orange; make them shiny silver and gold. If the electronic cigarette stops trying to be a real cigarette and becomes its own entity, it’ll be a step closer to gaining acceptance and favor. Nobody wants to look like they’re trying to look like a smoker—let them instead look like they’re trying NOT to be a smoker. Electronic cigarette, be proud of what you are. After all, your little electric heart is in the right place.
Howard, Akie and I discussed the EZ Pass System in Thursday’s Perpetual Post. Find the other angry sides of the impassioned debate here.
Those who stand by EZ Pass will defend it to the death, and I appreciate their ardor; but they’re wrong. Just so they know that. I am a fierce opponent of this destructive, elitist system. I won’t stand for any kind of toll booth that won’t accept money. If you’ve ever squinted into the darkness while hurtling toward a toll plaza and searching desperately for that little green arrow above a booth which means that it takes actual currency, well then you feel my pain.
EZ Pass ownership is the worst kind of snobby supper club. Sure, anyone can become a member, but in order for it to be worthwhile you have to have an actual need to pass, in an EZ fashion, through certain tolls in a very specific geographical location in the Northeast.
Now if they wanted to make EZ Pass a nationally accepted method of toll payment; if buying into the EZ Pass system virtually guaranteed that in your travels, you would have an occasion to use it, it would make a lot of sense. After all, it would result in the simplification of an otherwise convoluted and inconvenient toll system—doing for American transport what the Euro did for European commerce. Instead it’s more like Disney Dollars. As a former New Yorker who now lives in North Carolina, I find myself paying tolls in New Jersey and New York when I visit family approximately every six months or so. Is it worthwhile to convert my currency into EZ Pass to ensure a quicker trip during those two times (which are usually during the heavy-traffic holidays anyway)? Not likely. Given the choice between purchasing EZ Pass points (or whatever they’re called) and having Money, I’ll choose Money any day. Because with money, I can buy other things. Virtually anything in the world that money can buy—including, remarkably, passage through a tollbooth in New Jersey.
That leads to my main issue with the whole concept behind EZ Pass. At a certain point in our history, currency became standardized to give us the ability to purchase goods and services in an easily measured way. It worked out well—apparently until now. EZ Pass represents a branching out into a specific type of currency for a specific type of service, which goes against the whole point of having uniform currency to begin with. Why can’t tolls just accept money? And if they’ll accept either money or EZ Pass, then where does it end? Why can’t I pay my toll with an old sweater or a bag of chips? I always have those in my car! Who decides what kind of payment a toll can accept, anyway? It is a slippery slope. There is nothing EZ about it.
I do understand that it’s inconvenient for tolls to take cash only, since in our modern society most people pay for things with plastic and don’t tend to carry much cash around. But instead of creating an alternate form of currency, why not simply make it possible for tolls to accept credit or debit cards? There are already gas stations where you can simply wave your debit card in front of a reader to pay for a Big Gulp. Why not extend the courtesy to toll-paying? What are we waiting for?! The future is now!
Lastly, those who love EZ Pass adore complaining about those who don’t understand how to use it. “Why do they slow down and stop in confusion?” EZ Passers howl indignantly. “Why do they scratch their heads stupidly and back out of toll booths while everyone honks at them?” Why indeed. I’ll tell you why: Because EZ Pass is too complicated for us. It’s the scourge of the common man. EZ Pass, while perfectly EZ for smart people to operate, is beyond the majority of the population. And yes, we’re the ones gumming up the works by switching lanes nine times as we approach a toll plaza and losing our tickets and injuring ourselves on our own side-view mirrors. But that is the point, and that is what you EZtists don’t understand: Each time one of us drops a handful of pennies on the ground while trying to toss them into a toll basket, we are taking a stand against you. We are fighting the good fight to make sure that your fancy technology doesn’t get the best of us and give you the upper hand. Enjoy your EZ Passing while you can, you hoity-toity top-hat-wearing monopoly-man lookalikes driving with a cup of tea in one hand and a diamond-tipped cane between your knees. The revolution is coming. And it’s going to involve a whole lot of waiting in line.
So after working my way up gradually to running 8 miles or so without too much fatigue, I went home for the holidays and ate turkey and rugelah and drank Wassail until I couldn’t feel my face anymore. Granted, it was an excellent week. But now I’m having a hell of a time getting back into the game.
Today on the treadmill I thought I was going to pass out at mile 2. I made it to 8 miles but only after some serious self-bargaining. I hate to bargain. I ran 6 miles at more or less my normal pace, and then did the last 2 at a slightly slower pace. And I feel like face-planting into a bowl of buttered egg-noodles. Just because that might feel nice.
I’m starting to realize that I may have lost some ground here, which Brian confirmed. “Sometimes when you stop exercising for a little while and then get back into it, it’s harder to get back where you were than it was to get there the first time,” he said. I wish I’d realized that while I was double-fisting eggnog and pumpkin tartlets. But I guess sometimes you have to live and learn. At least the living part was delicious.
I am aware that I appear to have jumped on the Julia Child bandwagon here, but yesterday on a spur of the moment decision, I decided to cook boeuf bourguignon following her recipe.
It was a 4-5 hour endeavor. Granted, 2 1/2 hours of that time was spent keeping an eye on a simmering casserole in the oven, and about 1 hour of that time was spent crouched over, reading and re-reading the recipe as though I were deciphering the Dead Sea Scrolls. But still. It was a long project. I probably should have begun it earlier than 5pm, but in my initial shopping trip, I forgot to buy bacon, and I knew that turkey bacon would be an insult to this recipe, so I had to venture back out to the supermarket at the last minute.
The last time I attempted boeuf bourguignon, it was with a dear friend of mine, at the tender age of 12. We had decided that we would prepare it for her grandmother. I don’t remember much from that escapade, although my friend has since reminded me that we skipped about 1/3 of the steps in Julia’s recipe. Now that I’ve done it again, on my own, I can see a bit more of the whole picture, rather than the daunting step-by-step process. Sort of like climbing Mt. Everest– once you’ve done it, you have an overview of the process in its entirety, rather than the dull, plodding one-foot-in-front-of-the-other bits and pieces that you saw on the way up and down. Not that making boeuf bourguignon is like climbing Everest, but it could be.
I can also see the steps that I might gloss over, the next time I attempt it. Boiling the bacon before frying it, for one thing, seems unnecessary (although it made the house smell cheerfully, and oddly, like boiled bacon). Next time I might add some chopped celery, and coat the beef with a little more flour before adding the wine, to further thicken the sauce. (I enjoyed learning that “3 cups of wine” is an oblique way of saying, “1 bottle of wine”.)
Overall, though, I enjoyed the experience. It was fun to undertake a large cooking endeavor on a cold, dreary winter day. And the end result was boeuf-licious.
Akie and I discussed Alan Grayson’s telling Dick Cheney to “STFU” in today’s Perpetual Post.
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Can Dick Cheney morph into liquid form and slither under doors and into our homes at night? Can he suck the souls of his victims out through their mouths, Dementor-style? Is there a reason to be afraid of him that I don’t yet understand? Because where others see a respected political figure who tells it like it is, all I see is an angry, cantankerous old man who used to wield enormous power and now wields enormous bitterness. He’s Walter Matthau’s evil twin; a Ralph Steadman portrait of a malevolent old grouch come to life.
Granted, Dick Cheney IS a little scary. He’s got the piercing death stare down—and he’s perfected the twisted, grimacing smirk of someone who would enjoy watching you march to the gallows. Apparently he’s also writing a book, which is sure to be an even fouler Necronomicon than ‘Going Rogue’. When you open that book, spirits will drift from the pages moaning ‘eeeeevil’. (Unlike the spirits which drift from Palin’s book, which simply wink and say ‘youuu betchaaa’.)
But he shouldn’t be scary! Not anymore! What he SHOULD be is out of the public’s eye. Why, now that he’s no longer directly involved in politics, does Cheney feel the need to pop up in every corner of the news like a bald, sneering whack-a-mole to make dire predictions and offer scathing, hate-filled words of warning to the current administration? There’s enough vindictiveness and negative energy in Washington without our former Vice President telling everyone that our current president is ‘projecting weakness to America’s enemies’. You know what I want to tell someone who goes around badmouthing the current administration, when he and his cronies left the country to them in the worst shape in decades? I want to tell them to Shut the F*** Up.
And someone finally did! Alan Grayson! And he wasn’t vaporized into a million pieces! His entire family was not found dead in their beds the next morning! Hopefully this is only the beginning of Dick Cheney being told to shut the f*** up in myriad ways by multiple people. I’m betting that there are plenty of others who have long wanted to tell him the same thing, but weren’t sure exactly how to. And maybe now they have an idea! So thank you, Alan Grayson, for telling Dick Cheney what he should be told every time he opens his ugly mouth. As Cheney himself once told Senator Leahy on the senate floor, “Go f*** yourself”! No, Cheney—YOU go F*** yourself! See—it feels good! Everybody try it!
Ted, Akie and I took on James Franco’s General Hospital appearance in this week’s Perpetual Post.
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I was all set to take James Franco down a peg or two about his heavy-handed foray into the world of performance art, particularly since it’s coupled with a pet peeve of mine—an article he wrote for the Wall Street Journal discussing the ways in which performance art is ‘enjoying a moment of validation from the art world establishment’. The editorial, which EntertainmentWeekly.com snidely noted “probably got a B+ when it was first handed in as university coursework”, was peppered with references to other performance artists and their work, which he referred to as “trippy stuff.” Now, if I want to learn more about the history of performance art, James Franco and the Wall Street Journal are two of the very last sources I’m going to turn to. In fact, the idea of James Franco writing an editorial in the Wall Street Journal about performance art sounds suspiciously like performance art itself.
Still, I’m not made of stone. I went to Bard College, after all, which abounded with students who did silly, stupid and awesome things in the name of art. They experimented; they took risks, they threw themselves passionately into creative works. Even when they irritated me, which they mostly did, I generally respected their moxie, and in that regard I don’t want to discourage a mainstream Hollywood actor from bringing a little weirdness into the world. It’s quirky, it’s unexpected, it’s fearless. At least he’s not making a cookie cutter romantic comedy about going home to meet his girlfriend’s parents for a weekend only to discover that they’re dinosaur vampires. He’s trying new and different things, and for that, I applaud him.
That said, I do think that Franco’s project was poorly thought out, mainly because its premise is flawed. In his editorial, Franco explains that by starring in a 20 episode arc of General Hospital, “I disrupted the audience’s suspension of disbelief, because no matter how far I got into the character, I was going to be perceived as something that doesn’t belong to the incredibly stylized world of soap operas. Everyone watching would see an actor they recognized, a real person in a made-up world…My hope was for people to ask themselves if soap operas are really that far from entertainment that is considered critically legitimate.”
Now, Franco claims that he wants people to ask themselves if soap operas are more ‘critically legitimate’ than we think. Yet by engaging in this experiment he has already labeled soap operas as less valid than other, more ‘legitimate’ entertainment. By claiming that viewers would be disrupted from their soaps by seeing ‘an actor they recognized’ on their show, or ‘a real person in a made-up world’, Franco sets apart the made up world of General Hospital from the made up world of Spider Man 3. When Tom Cruise—also an internationally recognized celebrity—plays a secret agent in the Mission Impossible movies, he is also asking us to suspend our disbelief while watching a ‘real person in a made up world’. It’s called acting—just like they do in soap operas! Assuming that his presence on a soap may ‘disrupt’ those particular viewers is being pretty patronizing of those viewers.
Not only that, but soap opera viewers are used to having characters get replaced all the time by completely different actors and actresses. They’re used to watching a character die in a sky-diving accident and then reappear three seasons later haunted by an evil twin. Susan Lucci has been on All My Children for going on forty years now—and still looks exactly the same. Talk about disrupting your suspension of belief! Trust me, soap opera fans can roll with the punches.
Still, I know your heart is in the right place, James Franco. You’re into some neat stuff, and you’re enrolled in film school, and you’re thinking, and you’re pushing boundaries, and you have a heartstoppingly beautiful smile and rock-hard abs. I’m willing to go easy on you this time. Just don’t let it happen again—at the very least, the next time you feel like doing a performance piece, how about showing up on my doorstep wearing a leather kilt and holding a plate of butter? Honey, you can break my fourth wall any time.
Publishing at midnight tonight, Jillian, Akie and I wrote about the trials and tribulations of pen ownership and lending in this week’s Perpetual Post. I’ve also written a couple other pieces you can find over there in the last few weeks. Busy busy!
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I do understand that it is important to be prepared, which is why I carry eye drops, lip gloss, Advil and a packet of tissues in my purse at all times. And sometimes a pen. Or not. When it comes to pens, I belong to the school of thought believes that the next pen is always just around the corner. Because you see, stray pens can often be found lying around on desks and counters, just waiting to be temporarily used by people like me. And when that is not the case, it is not that difficult to borrow a pen, even from a stranger—which is not true for most other things. Try asking a stranger on the bus if you can borrow their eye drops and you’ll see what I mean.
Another exciting thing about borrowing a pen from someone is that a small percentage of the time they tell you to just keep it. And that’s exciting! It means that you have another pen that you can take home and leave lying around somewhere.
You pen-lovers know who I am, and you despise me. I’m the person who thoughtlessly wanders away with one of your prized pens. I’m the pen-shunner who never has one of my own and is always asking to borrow yours and after I use it it never writes quite right again. To all those who treasure your pens, keep them safe and are loathe to lend them out to people like me, I am sorry. I didn’t take your fancy pen on purpose (usually). I’m sorry I rewarded your generosity with theft.
A very dear friend of mine insists on carrying at least five pens, two mechanical pencils, one highlighter and a sharpie marker or two with him at all times. Even in his own home, which is already stuffed to the brim with jars of pens on every surface, he keeps his pockets fully stocked with pens and ready to go. On occasion we’ll find ourselves sitting on the couch and watching TV, and I’ll notice that a half dozen or so pens are falling halfway out of his pants pocket, so I’ll take them out for him and put them on the coffee table for safekeeping. This genuinely disturbs him. “Please don’t do that,” he’ll say. “I might forget to put them back in my pocket when I get up, and then I won’t have a pen when I need one.” (Or ten!)
I feel that this terrifying scenario is unlikely to happen to him. I’m fairly sure he keeps several pens strapped to his ankles and one lone sharpie duct-taped to the middle of his back in the case of a dire emergency. For his sake, I almost hope that someday I am proven wrong—for example, that someday a small army of people will gather around him and express their desperate, burning need to scribble, highlight, and otherwise record data on paper, all at the same time! At that point his seemingly overflowing reserves of writing implements will be joyfully distributed among the grateful, pen-less masses while I look on, agog. I know how much he will enjoy it if my comeuppance ever comes in this way. Until that day comes, though, I will mock him mercilessly, even as I borrow his pens. The world is a cruel place.
I did it! 50,000 words in 30 days! And actually, it was more like 18 days, because I really didn’t start writing until the 12th!
Yay! NaNoWriMo!!
I want a t-shirt. Too bad all the sizes are sold out. Make more shirts, NaNoWriMo!
Man, writing is the best. I’m so glad I did this. It’s really made me remember why I love to write in the first place.
Pumpkin Cheesecake? Check. Cranberry-Pecan Upside Down Cake? Check. Slightly inflated self-esteem from my sophisticated Thanksgiving dessert repertoire? Check.
Let’s just hope they travel well. We’ve got a 90 minute drive tomorrow with a big hairy dog.
Happy Thanksgiving everyone!
-Molly
PS: email me if you want either recipe, they both turned out very tasty!
Just in time for Thanksgiving, the Perpetual Post plays host to a truly EPIC discussion of the ultimate battle between Pie and Cake. And we’ve got some strong opinions. Below is my pro-cake argument, but don’t miss the equally compelling arguments for pie, cheesecake, ice cream, and an amazing anti-cupcake rant you have to read to believe. Find it all here!
I bristle when someone says that I don’t appreciate pie just because I haven’t had a good pie. It’s the same feeling I get when I’m being told by a sleazy co-worker to ‘relax’, because that’s why I’m not enjoying the unwanted backrub he’s giving me. Don’t sneeze on my arm and tell me it’s raining. I know what good pie is, and I know what good cake is, and I know that good cake is better than good pie any damn day.
Look, I’m not going to say that I dislike pie. I enjoy pie! Pie is adequately delicious. I appreciate the fact that pie can be eaten when still warm from the oven, whereas cake generally needs to cool before it can be frosted and consumed. A piping hot piece of pie with a scoop of ice cream on the side is delightful, and if you put it in front of me, I will eat it. But if you put a piece of pie and a piece of cake in front of me, I will put the plate of cake on top of the plate of pie to get it ergonomically closer to my mouth while I eat it, and then wander off in search of more cake. Why? Because cake is a treat. You never know when you’re going to have cake, and you never know when your next cake might be around the corner! Cake is a celebration food, while pie is a signal that the meal is almost over, because hey, suddenly you’re eating pie, and don’t you wish it were cake?
I will reluctantly acknowledge that there is perhaps an unfair stigma attached to sub-par cake, as I think it is encountered much more often than lousy pie. This is because too many of us have been subjected to tasteless, uninspired store-bought cakes at gatherings. Office birthday parties, bake sales, baby showers—there are far too many types of events where people no longer take the time to bake a true Cake, and instead pick one up at the Food Lion on their way. With their garish colors, overly-sweet icing and chemical taste, these cakes are not worthy of the name; they should be called something else. Kakes, perhaps, or Fakes. Because store-bought pies are even more terrible than store-bought cakes, the pies you encounter are more likely to be to be homemade—or at least, bakery-made, which means that their quality of ingredients will be higher, and you can taste the love baked into their sufficient crusts.
But oh, should you be lucky enough to stumble across a real, home-baked cake that has been made from scratch, mark my words, you will join me on team cake.
I Heard Tell 