Our inner Homer Simpson.

You want to know how to write an appreciation of someone hardly anyone knew and even fewer appreciated? You could start by reading Jon Carroll.

I have no appreciation to offer today, other than one for last night’s dinner. After my sophisticated grown-up business lunch — yes, it was in a humble Mexicantown taqueria where everyone spoke Spanish, and the check was for under $10, but these days “sophisticated” means “anywhere other than my kitchen table” — I was feeling, well, sophisticated. European. Not Spanish-speaking, more…French. I decided to go hit a specialty market, see what looked good and plan dinner around it. Thought I’d try a meat market down the block I’ve not yet checked out. I was thinking tenderloin. I was thinking Delmonico. I was thinking expensive.

“What are you looking for today?” the helpful clerk asked. “Something easy for dinner?”

Well, yes.

“Try one of our pre-mixed meat loaves,” she suggested. “We have three kinds.”

And just like that, tenderloin was shoved aside by comfort food. What the hell, it’s still too cool to grill out in comfort, my winter appetite for mashed potatoes has not been entirely sated, and…meat loaf. A pre-mixed meat loaf from a specialty meat market was bound to be a cut above.

“Does it have ground pork and veal and all that? Like we used to make?”

But of course. It even came in its own little pan. Stick it in the oven at 325 for 90 minutes and then sit down to (cue angel choirs) the best meat loaf of my goddamn life. Savory, juicy, meaty, loafy — ohhhh mama. I can’t wait for lunch.

Today was sunny, at least. I drove north along the lake, one-third of the reason we chose the east side over the better-appointed west. (The lake is one hell of an appointment, if you ask me.) The river is still ice-clogged, but it was strange — close in the water was clear, but pack ice was still visible farther out. In between, bergs floated free, making everything look very…well, still very bloody cold. We’ll be out there eventually, but not for a while.

Speaking of being out there, Alan’s on the prowl for a used Flying Scot. If you’ve got one lying around the back yard, holla.


The Boston Phoenix has an amusing feature on High Times magazine. The lead: There are three questions people ask Rick Cusick when they learn he�s an editor at High Times magazine.

“How did you get your job at High Times?”

“Can you get me a job at High Times?”

“Can you get me some weed?”

A few people from my college newspaper ended up there. When they introduced themselves at the reunion, one said, “I work for a youth-oriented consumer magazine.” Chuckles all around.

Richard Cohen’s two-for-two this week with with his column on a few questions some senator or senators should ask Karen Hughes.

Today’s Duh Award winner. Reminds me of the picture I saw, years ago, of a car that had left the road for a ditch. Scrawled across the back: “Daved and confused.” Poor Dave.

Posted at 9:41 am in Uncategorized |

2 responses to “Our inner Homer Simpson.”

  1. mary said on March 17, 2005 at 11:20 am

    >>”I feel really stupid,” he said.

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  2. alex said on March 17, 2005 at 11:38 am

    I’ll keep an eye out for a Flying Scot if you’ll be so kind as to grab me a cheap Grumman next time you see one at a garage sale.

    O, the Times. O, the mor�s. That’d be one of those jobs that’s kind of hard to live down nowadays if you find yourself looking for work elsewhere. Some of my best clips, alas, come from Libido Magazine�as do some of my best stories for new colleagues at cocktail hour.

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