Tuesday, February 28, 2006
or
Larkin's This-Does-Not-Contain-Alcohol Spinach
Heat wok or frying pan. Throw a small glob of minced bottled garlic in there with a bit of Pam or (if you aren't afraid of lipids) olive oil. Sizzle a moment. Throw in the spinach. All of it. No it's not too much. BEHOLD the magic of wilting! See how the leaves shrink to a mere fraction of their original bulk. Fascinating. Stir it up. Add a sqeeze or three of lemon/lime, a pinch of pepper, salt to taste. Stir it again. When the leaves are glossy, small, and dark green, take them off the heat. Serve.
I like 'em alone or as a main course over whole wheat pasta or brown rice. Try stuffing them in a tortilla or pita with chunks of feta cheese. Or eat them off your lover's sternum (let them cool first!). Whatever. It's all good. Trust me.
(DISCLAIMER: There name of the dish does not imply that its converse - "Larkin's This-Contains-Alcohol Spinach" - exists. I just thought that it would be a good title. There is no Alcohol anywhere. Do you hear me? NONE! It's a JOKE.)
(Believe me, I looked.)
Friday, February 24, 2006
or
Hopelandic 101
Well, it sure has been a while, hasn't it? Sorry I haven't been around to entertain you, gentle readers. I've been busy round the clock just keeping my grades up and demolishing all my close personal relationships. You know. The usual bill of mayhem.
What you don't know is that I'm now the third biggest Sigur Ros fan on the face of the planet.
Sigur WHAT? That's right. I am in love with "an Icelandic post-rock band with shoe-gazing and minimalist elements." I can hear the protests already. Pourquoi, Larkin, pourquooooiiii! (Pronounced "poohr-kwah")
They played at the Pagent on Tuesday night. By the grace of god (Adam Olansky) Kay and I had free tickets AND a ride to the show (bless the man). When we arrived at the sold-out show, the place was already packed. Standing room only. Whatever, I thought. I've got strong legs.
But when I took a good look at the crowd around me, I began to grow apprehensive. What is this, an audience of kids in hoodies? And HIPSTERS? SHWAH? But wait, who are those hilbilly guys in the back there? The crowd was so mixed, I hardly knew what to expect. Was it a good sign or a bad sign that I couldn't spot a homogenous group in the bunch?
I almost left. The opening band sucked so bad, I scarcely wanted to stay for the main act. "This is WOMEN'S MUSIC," I proclaimed. "It is at once harvest-like and masterbatory. I'LL HAVE NO MORE OF IT!" At length, I was calmed, though the band - an experimental string, xylophone, and voice quartet - had given me a raging headache.
I'm so glad I stayed. Dear Lord. Sigur Ros. Where had they been all my life? Within minutes, the lead singer's epic keening had reduced me to tears.
From The Sigur Ros FAQ:
What language does jónsi sing in?
on von, ágætis byrjun and takk, jónsi sang most songs in icelandic but a few of the songs were sung in 'hopelandic'. all of the vocals ( ) are however in hopelandic. hopelandic (vonlenska in icelandic) is the 'invented language' in which jónsi sings before lyrics are written to the vocals. it's of course not an actual language by definition (no vocabulary, grammar, etc.), it's rather a form of gibberish vocals that fits to the music and acts as another instrument. jónsi likens it with what singers sometimes do when they've decided on the melody but haven't written the lyrics yet. many languages were considered to be used on ( ), including english, but they decided on hopelandic. hopelandic (vonlenska) got its name from first song which jónsi sang it on, hope (von). tracks 7-9 on takk are in hopelandic.
The music's fugue-like repetition, sustained tones, and soaring vocals made me think of Opera, Fado, and Bjork, deftly blended into one. Staggering sound built of simple layers. An opera from 6,000 years in the future. A holy polyphonic wedding cake - and I was the maid of honor.
Did I mention the lighting? I don't think I've mentioned the lighting yet.
The band had rigged lights of every color and quality around the stage. Some could move. Others changed shape. Some projected textures. There was a disco ball. There was a white sheetlike screen on which the band projected images of people marching, water crashing, blood dripping, whatever was appropriate to the song. It was brilliant. The audience was spellbound. I was out of my skull!
Long story short: I highly reccomend Sigur Ros, especially if you are into musical performance or theory. This band is really on to something. They made me cry.
Saturday, February 18, 2006
or
SHIRATAKIIIII!
So I found out about these noodles made out of tofu and yam flour, the other day. Apparently, there's only 40 calories in an 8oz package of the stuff. Compared to 100 calories for 1oz of normal pasta? I knew I had to try them. Hopefully, they don't taste like death itself.
Call me crazy, but I prefer to buy the product first, and THEN read the reviews. I don't know why, but confirming the "facts" makes more sense to me than making an informed purchase. Go figure.
Here's what I found:
Pros
- 40 calories per 8 fucking ounces. You could eat this stuff all day and night and NEVER get fat. EVER.
- Tofu? Yam? Meh. Sounds healthy to me.
- Become a member of the pasta elite!
Cons
- They require parboiling and subsequent blotting to get rid of the excess water.
- most people who tried it say that the noodles have a distinct odor, at least until you parboil them. Descriptions of this odor range from "fishy" to "ammonia-like."
- Descriptions of the texture range from "delightfully chewy" to "like weird glue-covered plastic stings."
- They're rather expensive, and the shipping costs (they have to be kept cold) are astronomical.
I'll tell you guys more once I've actually tried them!
Friday, February 17, 2006
or
For The Benefit of Mr. Snipes
Valentines Day went pretty damned well this year, gentle readers. Kay, the little sweety-pants, bought me a huge clutch of cream colored roses, a bar of 85% cocoa chocolate (I only really like the very dark stuff), and a plush ducky. He knows me well. I named the duck Westley, in honor of Westley Snipes, one of the greatest actors of our century.
As for Kay's present, I commissioned a piece of artwork - a portrait of the lad - from my friend Kenzie. She's really amazing folks. Just check out her Deviant Art Account to see more of her work.
Here's the boy, in all his glory:
Looks just like him, no? And of course, he loved it. Tee hee.
(EDITOR'S NOTE: for those of you who take things too literally, Kay is not a nazi, nor does he necessarily espouse nazi philosophy or nazi moral values. The armband in the portrait is an aesthetic accent and nothing more.)
In other news, I am extremely frickin' tired. Which means it must be a day that ends in "Y." Or rather, "Y oh Y do I do this to myself?" Hahah! Sometimes I laugh so hard at my own witticisms that I choke on my own saliva.
Thursday, February 16, 2006
or
Prozac Nation? Bah.
Is your child listless? Soporific? A lazy-no-good-son-of-a-bitch?
WELL FRET NO MORE! A new pharmaceutical has come to town!
*Pied-piper-esque figure wearing an orange suit with a big "A" on the chest comes frolicking by, playing his flute. A crowd of small children follow after him screaming with joy, as if chasing an ice-cream truck*
Why are these kids so energetic? Because they're . . .
. . . . . . . . ADDLED for ADDERALL!
*cartoon molecule bumbles onscreen*
"Heeyyy, kids. I'm Mr. Dopamine! I'm going to f**k around with your striatum and then you and I can do some math homework!"
(children) "YAY!!! MATH!!!"
(Mr. Dopamine) "And then we can clean the whole goddamn house!"
(children) "YAY!"
(announcer, becoming more agitated) ADDERALL - aka mixed amphetamine salts - is the only stimulant proven to both get kids' asses off the couch and shut them the f**k up.
Caffeine? Forgetabout it.
Ritalin? RITAL-OUT!
Get addled for Adderall today!
Sunday, February 12, 2006
or
This One Goes Out To All The Ladies
Hey. Psssst. If you're a Wash U student (or just a fan of our Student Life Newspaper), look for my op-ed on Monday. It'll be a scream. SCREAMING ORGASM, that is. Bwahaha!
Yes, the rumors are true. It's a How-to on how to perform cunnilingus.
I know what you're thinking: how shocking! How tasteless! But it's not my fault! It wasn't my idea. The paper needed someone to give the female side of things, because last year, there was only a fellatio article, which sent the feminists into a tizzy. And I don't blame them. So I did my civic duty and wrote an article about muff diving, and everyone's happy. Especially me, because I'll get all sorts of attention. Which I love. A lot.
*sets self on fire and throws charring body into a stack of filled gas cans*
LOOOK AT MEEEEEEEEEE!!!! READ MY ARTICLE!!!!
Saturday, February 11, 2006
or
Dreams of Dying Alone
Valentine's Day is just around the corner, gentle readers. Yup. Good ol' time-to-feel-bad-about-yourself-and-eat-an-entire-box-of-cordials day. Whooo!
I've always hated valentine's day. I haven't ever really had a good one. I've definately had a lot of bad ones. The three worst I've had are as follows:
- My oh-so-goth boyfriend of two months made me a floppy heart-shaped valentine out of construction paper and crayola markers. That night, he attempted suicide by taking 25 tablets of asprin. It didn't work so well. He just threw up his stomach lining.
- My boyfriend of one month and I had a respiratory flu so bad that we spent two weeks in bed, applying Vick's vapor rub to each other's chest. We forgot that it was Valentine's Day altogether.
- I had a crush on this guy named Paul for about two years. My desire for him was overpowering. I had never wanted anything so badly in my entire life as I wanted him. I kept it secret for ages. Finally, one Valentine's Day, I got up the nerve to write him a love letter and leave it in his locker. The next morning, I saw him in the auditorium before class started. "Larkin! Come here!" he called, smiling broadly. He beckoned me into the shadows at the back of the stage. Heart pounding, I obeyed.
"I got your letter a few minutes ago," he said, "and there's something I want to tell you." He put his hands on my shoulders. My mouth went dry. Would he try to kiss me? I wondered if my breath was ok. "That was the worst love letter I've ever received in my life," he said. "Your poem sucked. Your handwriting was almost unreadable. And what made you think I'd ever like you, anyway?"
"I . . . I don't know," I said, stunned.
"You're too fat to be pretty. You don't even have tits."
I started to cry. "Don't ever bother me again," he said.
So I didn't.
Yeah, Valentine's Day pretty much sucks donkey balls, as far as I'm concerned. But enough of that. Here, for your enjoyment, is an excerpt from an impromptu love song by my friend Bryan:
I had sex with a pig last night
Boy your mom sure put up a fight
She was pretty good in bed
She gave me satisfactory head
Guess what I'm trying to say is that I fucked your mom . . .
Does that mean I'm kinda like your dad?
Will it make the hair fall off my 'nads?
I had sex with a pig last night
Boy your mom sure put up a fight
What I'm trying to say is that I fucked your mom!
EVERYBODY!
Monday, February 06, 2006
or
Impressionism
When Kay isn't being his usual sweet 'n gloomy self, he likes to try out new disguises. Can you believe it's really him?
Fancy Chicken, fifth horseman of the apocolypse.
As a frenchwoman overcome by ennui in an American diner.
As a peanut.
Kay-thulu calls for you-lu! Ooggah boooga!
or
Give Him an Inch, and He'll Take Forty Feet of Hemp Rope
For your enjoyment, gentle readers, I submit two pictures from the Alternative Lifestyles Association's latest workshop on recreational rope-binding. Behold, your authress trussed like a freshly slain doe. Zounds! And who to hold the leash but my favorite maniac, Kay.
Ah, check out that handiwork. Yeah, my shoulders are hyperextended, but it doesn't hurt me.
Don't try this at home - unless you come to meetings and learn the right way to do it. It would be easy to give your playmate rope burn or nerve damage if you didn't know what you were doing.
Sunday, February 05, 2006
or
Them Bones
Just to make things even, I give you the top five reasons why I'm terrified of abnormally skinny people.
- Eating disorders have a contageous effect. This is well demonstrated by actors on the same tv show, sisters in the same sorority, or atheletes on the same team.
- Really spikey hipbones, elbows, etc. There's something not only anti-erotic, but hostile, about skeletal bodies.
- Irritability from ingesting high doses of caffeine, nicotine, and god knows what other -ine substances. Every good girl knows that stimulants can help keep that waifish figure, and give you a hair-trigger temper to go along with it.
- The effects of bulimia. Bulimics purge one of two ways - either they throw up their food or they take laxatives. Needless to say, either method wrecks the digestive system. For example, some might eventually experience the inability to control their bowel functions. Some have chronic vomit-breath and rotten teeth. SEXY!
- You can't take them out to dinner. You can't make them dinner. You can't share a candy bar with them. You can't bake them a birthday cake. You can't bring them breakfast in bed. You can't go out for ice cream. Need I go on?
Friday, February 03, 2006
or
Miracle Diets
Frou Frou, gentle readers. Why had I not found them before? They are quite sublime. I stumbled upon them quite by accident, too. My god, what lovely female vocals; Imogen Heap - I knew I'd heard that name somewhere before. I just never payed attention to it. Man, I have to buy her solo CD now.
Oh, an update on the anorexic chick that freaked me out at the Baron's (Andrew's) party: she has been exposed. Her parents flew up to see her. The school is going to make her sign a contract that says she can only remain a student here at wash U if she enters a rehab program and afterwards maintains a healthy weight. Hah. Poor thing. Now you've gone and done it. Thank god people care about you!
Speaking of a distinct lack of fat, influenza is nothing short of a miracle diet. I mean, it's gotta be the only program that lives up to those "lose 5lbs in 5 days" claims you see in the back of women's magazines. Seriously. I woke up this morning a hip-jutting 115lbs. GAH! I was 120lbs on sunday. Despite the extra snax and bedrest granted by my week off, you can now see my ribs through the top of my chest.
There is only one cure. It begins with Ch- and ends with -eesecake. Hot diggity damn!
If you want in, ladies, you better hurry. This flu won't last forever. The innoculation is a very simple procedure - just come over, and i'll make out with you for a while. My number is . . .
Wednesday, February 01, 2006
or
Aversion Served Daily
I've been struck down, gentle readers, by a mere virus. Influenza, I believe. Between the raging fever, deep-lung productive cough, and unpleasant body aches, I find myself unwilling to exert myself in the slightest.
Fortunately for all of you, I'm obsessed with my blog. For your viewing pleasure, I give you the top five reasons why I'm scared of morbidly obese people.
- The motherfucking fat virus. Great. A communicable disease that makes you FAT. Just one more thing to keep me awake at night. AIDS, cancer, and fat, oh my! AIDS, cancer, and fat, oh my! Say it with me . . .
- Stomach stapling. I understand that it's some people's only hope of losing the weight, but . . . I dunno. There's something deeply disturbing about a morbidly obese person vomiting every time they try to stuff themselves post-surgery.
- Folds. (Potentially) smegma-ridden folds. 'Nuff said.
- This photo
- Big-Beautiful-Women and Big-Handsome-Men fetishes. Ugh. I guess everyone is entitled to their preferences, but come on. That's just gross, in my opinion. Unnatural. It doesn't make sense on an aesthetic level. It doesn't even make sense on a primal level. There is nothing about an obese body that signals proper conditions for effective mating. Ugh. Morbidly obese people are not beautiful - they're just really really unhealthy.
There. That oughta jostle some controversy out of you guys.
