Parakeet Rat

If you had a parakeet that liked to talk, would you keep it in your bedroom?  Probably not.  But that's exactly what my aunt and uncle did.  They used to have a parakeet that would say, "that's preposterous, birds don't talk."  It said some other stuff I don't remember, but you get the point--it's skills of mimicry were outstanding.  This would make most couples (I hope) think of keeping their bird in another room, lest it embarrassingly rat them out as they show off their birds skills.  Apparently this was of no concern to them, which was also ratting them out in a way that is more sad than embarrassing.  I suppose that I shouldn't jump to conclusions, and would probably be better off never thinking about it again.  But it's kind of funny, so I can't help myself!

Cut Men and Waitresses

I was at the fight tonight (Emelianenko vs Arlovski), and was once again noticing one of the things that weirds me out.  The fight was great.  If you didn't see it you should learn about it from some place other than my blog.  I can get past the sweaty man-on-man action without a problem.  What gets me is that when the fighters retreat to their corners their cut men reach in and pull out the mouth guard -- barehanded!  Does this seem gross to anyone else?  I've seen it a lot.  It won't ever seem normal.  

I haven't worn a mouth guard in years, but have had someone recently handle my saliva tainted refuse.  I was eating at a pretty nice restaurant with some friends a few weeks back, and our first appetizer was some Spanish olives.  There was a plate full of olives, and as everyone was discarding their olive pits to the edge of the table to keep them from mingling with uneaten olives.  After the olives are gone, a waitress is walking by--not our waitress--and just grabs all the olive pits up in her bare hand and keeps walking!  I ask you again--does this seem gross to anyone else?  Now before you go making assumptions, this waitress was really good looking.  I would maybe expect such a swipe from some dirty waitress at some greasy spoon, but I was completely caught off guard.  I've seen such behaviour from mothers with their children, but this girl did not appear to be anyone's mother.  It's bad enough when they take your plates and their thumbs go into some food left on the edge of the plate.  Far worse when the food has clearly been in ones mouth.  

That's all I've got for tonight.

American Idol Done Right

I was at my local Globo Gym tonight, and while I'm on the treadmill, what do I see on the flat screen but American Idol.  Closed Captioned.  Right.  Of course there was a little sign saying to tune into 107.9 for audio, but everybody's headphones were plugged into iPods, which do not have FM tuners.  Zunes suck, and nobody has an old school Walkman anymore, so I found this amusing.  Fortunately, the next screen had the World's Strongest Man Competition, and there was enough grunting all around me that it could have very well been the appropriate audio...

Giugni's

In the heart of the Napa Valley there is a dark and dirty little deli that is easy to overlook. Surrounded by world class restaurants and wineries it might slip past the visiting epicure, but those in the know are blessed. I kind of understand, as in high school I remember all varieties of freaks making my sandwiches--people I would never let prepare my food had I not known in advance how excellent it would taste. There are plenty of chain sandwich shops, with their expensive advertising and so-called "sandwich artists," but these sandwiches are mundane and prosaic. How quickly does one tire of sandwiches off of the menu board? Three cheese choices? spongy bread?

In one of the culinary centers of America, you will find a sandwich taken to a different level. You want bread? Thirteen choices. You want meat? Twenty-seven choices. You want cheese? Twenty one choices. You want mustard? Three choices. You want a sub with under six grams of fat? You go to hell. Jared Fogel would not have lost the weight on the Giugni's diet.

Even though for almost 12 years I have lived 500 miles away from Giugni's Deli, the girls making my sandwich know I'm a local by the way I order it. How, I won't share with you, but even new face will say, "Ah, a local boy." When I am home to visit my parents, who for some reason do not share my passion, I am careful to plan my arrival time before five, so I can enjoy a sandwich before eating more family oriented meals. When I was home for Christmas, I ordered my sandwich, sat down at a window table, and just held it for a couple minutes. I wanted to let as many senses as possible partake in the experience. I went back the next day with friends. On my way back out of town, I stopped by to purchase four bottles of Giugni Juice -- red wine vinegar, soya oil, herbs, salt, pepper and garlic. It's legendary. The girl at the register immediately took an understanding tone, acknowledging that I must be going out of town, that she knew that I would be settling for inferior sandwiches for quite some time.

I try to avoid sandwiches for a while after being home. If I eat one to soon I get frustrated and either angry or sad. Within a couple of days of returning to Riverside, I ended up at a Panera Bread. Many regard this as a decent, even excellent sandwich place. I couldn't even finish. I grew silent. My friends asked what was wrong. I said nothing was wrong, but I had just eaten at Giugni's earlier. One knew what I meant, and gave an empathetic sigh. The others just looked at me like I was crazy.

If you haven't had the pleasure, you probably think I'm crazy. I have given friends visiting the Napa Valley lists of wonderful places to eat. Many include the destination restaurants, the ones they might read about in magazines, or see on the Food Network. I am only mildly surprised when they come back raving about their favorite -- Giugni's. I know I haven't had every sandwich in the world, but I will call Giugni's the best deli sandwich this side of heaven. Many will agree with me. Some might vainly try to convince me that some other sandwich is better, but until you try mine, I will not listen.

Giugni's Deli

1227 Main Street

St. Helena, CA

94574

(707) 963-3421

Another Mystery

Maybe I'm coming at this from obvious bachelor sensibilities (or lack thereof), but can somebody please explain to me why so many half bathrooms have a full set of towels?  It happens all the time.  I step into a half bath and find two hand towels, and two full size towels.  Am I to believe that there are full size towels just in case somebody gets really carried away with a sponge bath?  It almost seems like excessive wetness is being encouraged!  It's pretty much accepted as sufficient to wash your hands after you use the restroom.  I've got pretty good sized hands, and have never gotten them so wet that a standard hand towel wouldn't cut the mustard.  As long as we're over-supplying the half bath, why not put in a couple of washcloths as well?  

I live in a house with such a mysteriously stocked half bath.  There's more towel rack in the half bath than in the full bath!  This decorating was not my own doing, as I am just one renter in a house of three.  I cannot say that when I am decorating my own place it's half baths will have only hand towels, but I will likely be no more able to explain my reasoning than those whom I have asked.  I swear to you I have seen faces turn into question marks as these decorators ponder this question for the first time.  It's nearly 11:30, and now I will probably be up all night thinking about this.  Please shed some light on this mystery.

Watch Your Head

Lately I've been thinking about how I never think about hitting my head while getting into a car.  Thousands of times I've just plopped into the seat, my head playing a high stakes game of limbo, where the bar would not fall harmlessly, but inflict great pain.  I don't remember the last time I did hit my head, but I probably have.  John McCain apparently did it in June of 2008.  What's amazing is that it doesn't happen far more often.  Sometimes I think I can almost feel the door frame just beyond my hair, yet no matter what type of vehicle I enter, appropriate avoidance adjustments are automatically made on the fly.  It's really pretty amazing.  

National Egg Nog Day

A lot of talk is given to the true meaning of Christmas
And I wouldn't blame a single person if they were to miss this
A day like Rodney Dangerfield doesn't get respect
I'd like to share with all of you my seasonal regret

While everyone is talking 'bout the birth of Baby Jesus
Or fighting crowds for Christmas gifts to be given between us
I want to call attention to a day that most ignore
Today is National Egg Nog Day December 24

I've you're looking to unwind
With an alternative to wine
Have some egg nog

If you need some Christmas cheer
Don't go reaching for a beer
Have some egg nog

If you want to feel dandy
You can spike your nog with brandy
Have some egg nog

If you need something to chase
Away that fruitcake taste
Have some egg nog

If you want to gain a pound
Just have another round
Have more egg nog

If your friends sneer and say eww
Then there'll be more nog for you
Have more egg nog

I know many won't agree
So there'll be more nog for me
I love egg nog

Check This

If memory serves me correctly, my last blog regarding the grocery store was in reference to the shirtless shopper.  The last topic was amusing.  This one is most annoying.  As much as I hate waiting behind lazy drivers at stop lights, I really cannot stand waiting behind check-writers in the grocery store.  It's not even about the checks.  It's about the complete disregard for those behind them.  Too many times people are chatting, sorting through either coupons or food stamps, and only once their groceries are totaled to they start writing the check.  By the time the total is ready, the check should have the payee written and the check should be signed.  Only the payment amount should remain.

The express lane, which does not accept checks, is a slight concession to those craving efficiency.  I would propose one step further.  I would propose a check and coupon line.  I understand that people can save money by clipping coupons, but let me play devil's advocate.  People in advertising might disagree with me, but coupons and gym memberships are similar.  Gyms sell memberships, but only a percentage of members actually go.  Coupons printed and mailed in mass quantities, but how many people clip, and how many throw them away?  For that matter, how many people are up in arms because of plastic bottles, but don't blink an eye about junk mail and coupon mailers.  These are not my battles, as plenty of people have drawn attention to the ecological reasons for going paperless.  I just want people to stop writing damned checks in the check-out line.  Checks are for mailing.  And seriously, who doesn't have an ATM card by now?

Good vs. Evil

Tonight, Iron Chef America is showing a repeat from November 2006. I remember this day very well. Three chefs. One non-chef. From the outset, I was torn. My three favorite television chef's were on one show. Two would be paired together. One would have to fall on the grenade that was Rachel Ray. This undesirable task fell upon Mario Batali. On the other side were my favorites, Bobby Flay and Giada de Laurentiis. When the smoke had cleared, Rachel Ray had ridden on Batali's coattails to an upset victory, and it upset me, as well.

I have been unable to let go of this for over two years. No disrespect to Mario Batali, but Rachel Ray represents everything that is soulless and wrong. Giada represents everything that is wholesome and pure. I must take this opportunity to blow off some steam.

As we are two days away from Ray's throat surgery (likely her own body's revolt against her unpleasant voice), I can think of no better time to speak my mind. Watching her on television, it is like she is daring you to despise her. Made up acronyms such as EVOO, saying yum-o, and all of her other peculiar phrases drive me crazy. Ray admits that she is grossly unqualified for what she does, yet shamelessly self-promotes herself alongside experts. Hey Rachel, I'm an internet-ordained minister, but you don't see me placing myself alongside pastors and priests. How can you seriously expect people to take you seriously when you state that you can't even make coffee?

Thankfully, for Ray's yin, we have de Laurentiis' yang. Newton's third law states that for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction, thus we are given an angel--Giada de Laurentiis. Giada's passion for food and life are obvious when you watch her. She does not try to force herself on you, but rather invites you into her kitchen, if you are so inclined. I, for one, am so inclined. She is an innocent seductress, the girl next door, if the girl next door could be a super model. I've tried a few dishes from her show, but sometimes I still feel like she is looking at me through the camera, saying, "I know you're not watching for the food, but that's okay. I understand. Maybe you'll like the next dish." She is an angel, sent to bring joy to the world.

In the end, it is clear that we need both of them. We need Rachel Ray so we appreciate Giada. There is no debate. Don't be deceived by thirty minute meals that take an hour. To quote Judge Smails from Caddyshack, "There are two forces in the world--Goodness and Badness. You need to decide which you want to be. Do you want to be good?" Choose Giada de Laurentiis.

My Golf Game is Like Art

If you've golfed with me you're probably starting to object, but read on.  I've rarely strung together enough good shots to have a really low score.  I'll follow a birdie with a triple bogie.  When you take close to one hundred shots, you're bound to have a few good ones.  Strangers I've played with have made the mistake of complimenting my swing before I strike the ball.  This is their mistake, as the percentages say that the real thing will not live up to the beauty of my practice swing.  But I've hit amazing shots.  Three hundred yard drives with a slight, yet planned draw to set up a short chip for birdie.  Most of the times I try to replicate this beauty it turns into a snap-hook into a hazard.  Such is the fate of the twice-yearly golfer.  But the one or two beauties are enough to keep my clubs off the lake bottom.  Enough to make me, in some cruel self-punishment, believe that there lies within me some speck of talent, and return for another three-digit day.

Art Galleries are similar.  Whenever I go, I inevitably find a few pieces I like.  Some would lead you to believe that art galleries are full of great work, but I say that most galleries are like my golf game.  There are usually a few real winners sprinkled throughout a slew of slices and worm-burners.  The best part of the Guggenheim in Bilbao was the building.  I was bored inside.  Too many dreary Russian portraits.  I like Hopper, Miro, Picasso, Dali, Chagall, and van Gogh's olive trees.  I can't tell you what I like about any of them.  It doesn't matter.  There are usually just enough to keep me coming back.  

So my golf game is like art--because a lot of art sucks, too.