It snowed yesterday. Just a little.
I guess there was around an inch of it, but only in the spots where it decided to stick. This wasn’t the kind of snow that would last the night, and sure enough, there’s almost no evidence left of it as I write this.
The weathermen say we’re due for another storm, but weathermen are pathological liars. Fortunately, when I see snow, my impulse is to make the most of it as soon as possible. So that’s what I did. Read More…
The McDonald’s Holiday Pie is BACK.
After hearing the news from my buddy Bill, I immediately ventured out to find them. The first McDonald’s was a bust. The second one was a Level 5 bust, because not only did they have zero Holiday Pies, but the guy manning the register acted like I was out of my freakin’ mind to ask.
“HOLIDAY PIE?! You don’t mean apple?? HOLIDAY PIE? HAS ANYONE IN THIS ENTIRE RESTAURANT HEARD OF A HOLIDAY PIE?!”
It was my own Golden Girls / black prophylactics moment.
But the third McDonald’s came through.
I had no reason to order five pies. “Five” just came out when I was at the drive-through.
I’m not always an anxious person, but I have my triggers. Sadly, they’re all impossibly weird triggers. Ordering food from a drive-through is one of them. Whenever I do, a big pile of mute jelly is suddenly driving my car.
I reasoned that ordering five Holiday Pies was somehow more normal than ordering one. It was the difference between them thinking, “Oh… he’s bringing a bunch of pies to a group of friends,” and, “Oh… he’s a fucking lunatic who waited twenty minutes for one stupid pie.”
I don’t get it. I’ve sold terrible concepts to rooms full of suit-wearing look-downy people, but I can’t order pie from McDonald’s without it turning into a Kathryn Bigelow film. Read More…
Uh oh – it looks like a new CRANBERRY SODA has entertered the arena!
I’m leaving “entered” misspelled because this was already a shitty opener.
There it is. Sprite Cranberry. Joining mainstays like Sierra Mist Cranberry Splash and Cranberry Canada Dry, Sprite Cranberry’s arrival involves a pretty severe overuse of the word “cranberry.” I mean jeez. Read More…
Hot damn, I finally found it. Photographic evidence of that weird thing I did back in junior high.
For several years, I used our family’s Christmas Eve party as an excuse to throw my own. Guests were encouraged away from the dinner table and into my bedroom, for a look at what I called THE CHRISTMAS TIKI HUT.
Basically, I transformed my bedroom (which by that point was a large room downstairs) into party central. A huge table at the back was covered with all sorts of store-bought snacks and drinks, plus goofy appetizers of my own design. (Uh oh.)
I was big into Tiki culture, owing to Archie McPhee and our one local Polynesian restaurant. Remember the bar from Goodfellas? This was my version of it. Christmas lights mixed with ceramic Tiki tumblers. An ambiance best described as “yard sale with food.”
This photo only tells part of the story. My entire bedroom was decorated for the occasion. You know those little Santa hats that they sell for pets? They were all over my action figures. And my God, the entertainment! Christmas movies playing all day long, and by “Christmas movies” I of course mean “Return of the Jedi.”
My family indulged me, not because they wanted to eat cheese that had been sitting out for sixteen hours, but because it was obviously so important to me. For a few years, I cared more about my Tiki Hut than any other Christmas-related thing.
The best part might have been the shopping. Every year, I’d beg someone to take me to Price Club, which was the precursor to Costco. Using money that couldn’t have been mine, I’d load up on jumbo-sized packages of snacks that only a thirteen-year-old psychopath would dream of serving for Christmas.
People nibbled, but most of the spread was still fully intact by the end of the night. Since much of that spread consisted of the same junk food I already lived on, I didn’t mind. During the week between Christmas and New Year’s, I was never anything but alarmingly bloated.
The Christmas Tiki Hut worked like a cocktail hour, or maybe a cocktail half an hour. Everyone would pile in. The adults would pretend to eat and drink. The children would actually eat and drink. Soon enough, they’d be back upstairs for the rest of the party. (I took no offense to how long anyone stayed, as long as everyone showed up.)
When I zoom into the stuff on that table, I’m surprised that they were so agreeable. Many of these foods would’ve been questionable even if they weren’t being served in a kid’s filthy bedroom. On Christmas Eve.
Let’s examine! Read More…