March 2008

During the week when I’m trying to write while my neighbors practice their trombones or whatever, I often turn on the Food Network Channel on low volume to drown out the noise. This week, I was working with Paula Deen on in the background when I saw her slow cook something delicious-looking called Swiss steaks. I’d never really heard of the dish, but my copy of Joy of Cooking also had their own version. I looked up a few more recipes online and came up with my own version.

It’s great to throw together Sunday afternoon and then eat Sunday night - and it’s tender enough to eat without a knife. Ready?

• 1 to 2 pounds of beef round, cut into portion sizes (some people like to use tenderized meat, but you don’t have to, especially since it’s going in the slow cooker, which makes everything tender)
• 1/2 cup of flour
• 1/4 cup vegetable oil
• 1/2 cup of celery, chopped into tiny pieces
• 1 medium onion, chopped
• 2 carrots, sliced or shredded
• 1 bell pepper, cut into strips
• garlic, to taste
• salt and pepper to taste
• 1 14.5-ounce can of diced tomatoes
• 1/2 cup of beer
• whichever spices you have on hand of the following: thyme, oregano, basil, parsley

1. sprinkle the beef with flour, salt, and pepper. Heat the oil in a large skillet and brown the meat, a few minutes on each side. You don’t want to cook the meat all the way through, just to cook the flour on the outside, which will keep the meat moist (and thicken the sauce later). Place in the slow cooker.

2. on top of the meat, put in all of the chopped veggies and spices. Pour the beer over the top and drink the rest of the can. Cover it and get on with your day, turning it off in 4-6 hours or so.

3. Serve with mashed potatoes or turnips,  green beans, and the rest of the six pack.

As you might imagine, the talk of the town this week in New York City has been the Eliot Spitzer scandal and consequent resignation. People can’t believe he would risk both his career and his family for a few hours with a high-end prostitute. People can’t believe his wife has stood by his side during all of his various announcements.

Personally, I can’t believe that it costs $4,300 for sex. It’s just plain shocking. I guess he has been exposed as an unfaithful husband and I have been exposed as a cheapskate.

But really, think about it: even if she were the most beautiful, most talented, most not-his-wife prostitute ever, a stunning love goddess free of both sexually transmitted diseases and a gag reflex - even then, I can’t begin to comprehend what that woman could have possibly done to him over a few hours at a hotel that could in any way ring up to $4,300. Were exotic animals involved? How about unmentionable fetishes requiring gem-studded diapers and rare fruits? Did the sex session package include a free riding lawn mower?

I mean, $4,300 is almost exactly what I put into my 401K last year - and he splurges it all in one evening? That’s what I find disgusting. And how could his wife stand there next to him, knowing that she could have gotten that used jet ski she’d had her eye on if only he could keep it in his pants for under four figures?

Then today I read this Slate article by Sudhir Venkatesh, who has spent years interviewing sex workers in the New York area. The surprising truth? The most expensive prostitutes cost up to $10,000 a session - and many of the sessions don’t include any more than heavy petting, maybe a bath, and a lot of ego massaging (with “ego” not being a euphemism for anything gross). Apparently, even though you can do unspeakable things to a transvestite heroin addict near the Port Authority for $75, for ten or twenty times that amount, you might be lucky to get a good night kiss on the cheek.

Then I thought about it, and this seems to be the theme with most expensive things: the more you pay, the less you get. For example: I remember the first time I went to a really nice restaurant. For as much money as I was making in a day, I got something called a “micro salad,” a piece of salmon that should have legally been thrown back into the river, and three - three! - spears of asparagus, all laid out in a beautiful fan on my huge, heavy, expensive , mostly empty plate. In that case, I suppose, I was fucked for just under $60.

That’s the real tragedy here. Don’t people know that you can have ALL YOU CAN EAT at the Golden Corral for under ten bucks? Didn’t Spitzer ever stop and think that he could probably get a perfectly good prostitute at a more reasonable price - and that most people couldn’t tell the difference unless they looked at the tag? Or that, even better, he could have put that money into a long-term low-risk retirement fund?

These politicians make me sick. Either that, or it was something on the third plate of food I ate at the Corral.

“The Wire” is over. “The Wire,” which salvaged so many depressing Sunday nights. “The Wire,” which was the only reason we subscribed to HBO. “The Wire,” one of the few television dramas where I’ve repeatedly found myself thinking of all the characters and their situations as real.

I’m sure I’m not the only one who feels the same way. Fictional or not, Omar got obituaries in publications across the country, including this touching one in Newsweek when his character died a few weeks ago. Whole NFL teams gather together to watch. And even Barack Obama has mentioned his love for the show on the road several times. What do we do now that it’s over?

I have at least a temporary solution. A few weeks ago, Ben bought Homicide: A Year on the Killing Streets by David Simon, one of the two creators of the show and a former Baltimore Sun journalist. The non-fiction book follows 30 or so Baltimore detectives through a year of cases - starting on New Year’s day in 1988 and ending on New Year’s Eve 1988. When Ben started reading it, it did nothing less than take over his life, and when I started reading it the day he finished it, it took over mine. In the good way.

Reading Homicide is like reading the true story behind the myth of “The Wire.” You meet the real characters who where mixed up and re-pieced together to create Bunk, McNulty, Lester, and Keema. More than that, it offers a back-stage pass into the details of detective work that are only glimpsed during the show - whole chapters are devoted to what it’s like to work in the city morgue and what it’s like for a detective to testify in court. Vocabulary words from “The Wire” that you always wondered about like a “yo” and a “redball” are finally clearly defined.

In short, Homicide makes me better understand why we loved “The Wire” so much: it is truthful and (as much as a television drama can be) it is real. No wonder that the world has taken Omar’s death as if it he once actually lived. No wonder it was heartbreaking to know that Bubbles makes it but Dookie doesn’t.

There weren’t any fireworks at the end of Homicide - some of the biggest murder cases of the year are never solved and none of the hardworking detectives are recognized or even given enough overtime. There also weren’t any big fireworks at the end of “The Wire” - and Homicide helped me understand that that’s how it should be.

So if your schedule is still empty on Sunday nights, or if you start missing the late-night antics of detectives waiting for the phone to ring, don’t worry: there’s still Homicide, and it’s a solid 650 pages long.

Today I turn 27. I decided to take the afternoon off (after getting Ripley to approve the vacation time) and Ben said that he’d take me to do whatever I wanted. Here’s the day’s itinerary:

1) Going to see the new Will Ferrell movie. Getting popcorn at said movie.
2) Playing Buck Hunter Pro at the local arcade.
3) Eating dinner at the Irish pub down the street that makes the amazing chicken parmesan.

Yeah, it might sound like the birthday wishes of a 12-year-old boy, but that’s just what I happen to like and Ben seemed to be pretty pleased that he never has to take me to the ballet or the opera or fancy restaurants or anything. He’s also baking me a chocolate cake as we speak, which is utterly fabulous on several different levels.

I will also take this birthday post to speak about Pet Peeve #4238: Women Who Refuse to Limit Their Birthday Celebration To A Single Day or Event.

You’ve met this girl, I’m sure. She starts mentioning her birthday months before it happens, with the frequency of the subject increasing until finally she starts referring to March as “my birthday month!” and the first week in March as “my birthday week!” And don’t expect to attend a single party to celebrate this girl’s birth - oh no! Be prepared to 1) shop for her birthday dress! And then, later that week, 2) attend her birthday actual-day-of-her-birth event in which everyone goes out for drinks! Followed by 3) the Friday night of her birthday week, in which there is an official all-out party! not to mention 4) a birthday brunch the following day, in which next year’s birthday plans are already taking form.

The strange thing is that these girls can be perfectly normal and likable throughout the rest of the year (except perhaps for anniversaries or Valentine’s Day) but her birthday turns her into a temporary egotistical, maniacal, demanding birthday diva.

God help you if you do not bake this girl a birthday cake, get her a card, get her a present, call her, text her, send her an eCard, buy her a birthday apple martini, and bring her a silly birthday girl tiara to wear. It’s kind of like how so many cruel dictators in third world countries force everyone under their power to celebrate their births as national holidays, whether they want to or not, mostly out of fear of being sent to underground torture cells.

And if you do not do all of these things, she will pout and say, “But it’s my birthday,” as if she could beat a child to death using a puppy and that would be completely acceptable and understandable, considering the date.

One of our favorite weeknight activities is to curl up on the couch together, watch a dumb movie, and talk through the whole thing. Like any other writer nerds, we enjoy pointing out plot holes, unnatural characterization, bad lines of dialogue, and stupid character names. And like any other human on earth, we enjoy watching an utterly crappy film and spending two hours feeling superior to the writers, actors, and director.

Last night, though, we really struck gold with the teen horror-thriller Disturbia. Based on the Alfred Hitchcock classic Rear Window (but somehow sucking all traces of art out of it), Disturba follows the story of a guy who spies on all of his neighbors while under house arrest all summer long for punching his Spanish teacher. While spying, he 1) ogles the new girl next door and 2) discovers he’s living next door to a serial killer.

The girl next door, when she discovers he has been watching her undress for the last several weeks, immediately falls in love with him. As would any girl being stalked by a stranger, I would guess. The serial killer, who seems to kill someone every single night without raising suspicion, is ultimately caught by the main character even though no one believes him at first. The screenplay is obviously written by a couple of middle-aged dudes who understand neither romance or murder.

I won’t bore you with all of the hilarious details of the movie except to say that after viewing the film, I had extremely low-budget nightmares that were riddled with plot holes. And to say that you should rent this film if you’re looking to see a great bad movie.

No - the real horror of the night was visiting the IMDB website and reading the forum discussion about this movie, a forum which seems to be overrun with - yes! - teenagers! Who took this movie completely seriously! And the weird thing is, even though I’m in my mid-20s, I still often feel like a teenage and get confused when suddenly shown the thoughts of real, actual teenagers.

Let me tell you something, though: after reading the messages in this forum, I clearly understand that I am not a teenager. I am old. Soon, I will understand nothing and no longer be able to attend movies at all. The discussion threads include, but are not limited to:

1) A discussion on how Disturbia is a “total rip- off” of that Simpsons episode where Bart breaks his leg, spends the summer spying on his neighbors, and ultimately begins to believe that Flanders is a killer.
2) A discussion about how it’s okay is someone stalks you, as long as they are cute.
3) Several discussions about Spanish class and feeling like punching your Spanish teacher. Or how hard Spanish class is.
4) A discussion on how totally scary this movie is (not in relation to the lack of talent in the actors or the baffling dialogue).

What does it all mean? I know adults used to think that I was stupid when I was a teenager, but back then I thought that they were just ignorant and uncool. Am I now ignorant and uncool currently, or did I used to be an uneducated superficial brat? The fact that one of these two options has to be true is more than a little bothersome. You might even say it’s Disturbia-ing.

I’m very sensitive to noise, so one of the best parts of working from home, I thought, would be controlling my aural environment. I more or less need absolute silence to get anything done, which was impossible to come by in my former cubicle situation, complete with Chatty Cathy yaking away about her tacky wedding all day. Finally, I thought, I will be able to work in peace, with only the sounds of Ben typing from two rooms away and CEO Ripley purring quietly at my side on the couch.

However, I forgot to take into consideration that I live in New York City. In an apartment building. And that just like every other person in New York City, I manage to have the worst neighbors ever.

Before you relate to me some story about how bad your neighbors are, let me say this: our neighbors play the tuba.

And the cello.
And the synthesizer.
And the violin.
And the saxophone.

Oh, and they sing opera.

This might - might! - be acceptable if they had any talent at all, but they do not. They don’t practice actual pieces or even play scales. They just (excuse my language, but there is no better phrase for it) dick around on these instruments. For hours at a time.

When we first moved in, we invited them to our housewarming party. Within minutes, they had alienated everyone present, insulted our religious views and our way of life, and, when asked what they would like to drink, requested an “H2O on the rocks!”

I don’t have a problem with people who don’t drink or people who hate my friends or people who are evangelical Christians. But I do have a problem when you have a problem with me choosing a different path in life and tell me so while drinking out of one of my water glasses. Oh - and I can totally tell that you guys re-gifted us that Christmas present you left at our door. Nice try.

By now, I’m sure you can guess what they do for a living: they are Children’s Performance Artists. Yes, the performance artist - another way of saying that you own instruments but can’t play them. That you like art but aren’t talented enough to make any. It might even be worse than admitting that you’re a freelance writer.

And get this: they’ve complained about our noise level before, by leaving notes tacked to our door. It’s worse than the pot calling the kettle black, it’s like the pot calling the kettle a TUBA. AT EIGHT IN THE MORNING. I mean, sure, we listen to music from time to time, but our music involves tempos and melodies and choruses and is, for the most part, in tune.

And although Ben and I briefly discussed responding to their note with a note that said, simply, “TUBA!” we haven’t done much except not change our own way of life. But now that I’m in the apartment all day, trying to finish a project by five today but having trouble stringing two words together due to the noise pollution, we might have to act.

I love roasting chickens, but there’s also not much need for an entire roasted chicken with two people in the house. Therefore, I’ve spent the last few weeks perfecting a roasted chicken dish for two that is super-healthy and perfect for a weeknight dinner for two.

The morning before dinner, stick a package (about a pound) of chicken tenderloins (or two chicken breasts) in a Ziploc bag. Add the following and let marinate during the day:

• 2 tablespoons  of extra virign olive oil
• 2 tablespoons of fresh rosemary, chopped
• salt and pepper
• the juice of half of a lemon
• minced garlic (as much as you like)
• any other spices you’d like (such as poultry seasonin)

That night, preheat your oven to 350 degrees. place the chicken in an 8 inch X 8 inch cooking dish or even a deep pie dish. In a separate bowl, mix:

• one large red potato, cut into small cubes
• one or two carrots, sliced
• one small onion
• some finely chopped celery
• the same mixture used to marinate the chicken (see above)

Place the veggies over the chicken and pour about a half-cup of chicken broth into the bottom of the pan (this took me a few times to figure out — without the broth, the chicken dries out). Cover and put in the oven for 30 minutes. Uncover after 30 minutes and cook until done (about 15-30 minutes later). Serve with a salad.