Seeking Equuleus

The Green Blob - or The Secret Weapon of Itamae 'Round the World

My friends and family would never typify me as "typical," or in my words "cookie cutter." I have some great eccentricities, or better yet, quirks, that keep life with me interesting. One of those things is the fact that I adore sushi. It's gone from a "what is this on my plate?" to a "when can I have it again" love-love relationship.

Here's something to think about though. Sushi chefs (itamae) are creative. They can put together hand rolls that look like they should be in art museums. Looking at the colorful array of fish, rice, and veggies emerging from the rolled piece of seaweed, I have new found respect for the little guy in the tall hat that just nods like a bobble head doll and smiles. But their creative sides have lent themselves to the dark side, and more and more are turning devious, even evil! There's more going on behind the smile than I could ever know.

Maybe the itamae knows that I envy his ability to slice up the slabs of tuna, salmon, yellowtail, and other delectable fishes from the sea into perfect rectangles with such skill and ease. Maybe he knows that I wish I knew what made the rice stick together so well. My Uncle Ben's 90 second rice just didn't work! He looks down at me from atop his wooden box behind the glass-enclosed sushi bar. In his mind, he's cooking up a plot to take me out, to stop my envy, and exert his power over me, even if he is four inches shorter than I am when barefoot.

When I turn my head, the little guy moves his hand to the left, faster than those anime cartoons characters bouncing all over the TV screen. A green blob is plastered on top of the rice. Before I can turn my head back to watch the masterful artist at work, he's already sealed my fate. The green blob is hidden by a seemingly harmless red-wine colored piece of tuna. Toothy smile still showing, he nods his head up and down rapidly, like a bobble head doll sittng in the back window of a Toyota. He seems innocent enough, right?

Itamae knows. He knows that I'm weak. He knows what will make me cry. He is going for the slow kill. Later, he'll be watching me, enjoying his handiwork, all the while, keeping up that annoying perfect innocent smile. I'll be enjoying a conversation with a friend, chatting and deftly picking up piece after piece of sushi with a set of wooden hashi . Suddenly, my face seizes, my eyes close, and I hope the sensation will go away. My entire mouth is burning, going straight up into my nose, and flowing as tears out of the corners of my eyes. I feel like I might never be able to swallow. I'm cursing the itamae under my breath. Behind me, he's falling over on the floor laughing. Another American's downfall in his restaurant. It kind of reminds me of the soup Nazi, a la "Seinfeld."

Something keeps me coming back though. Wherever I visit, all across the country, I try to find a good sushi bar in the cities that I hop around to, from San Diego to London and back again. Still, there must be some unwritten code at sushi chef school that says you must have seek revenge on the unsuspecting American who partakes in the Japanese version of a cheeseburger. Every place I've been, I always get screwed by the blob of wasabi that hides in the middle of my dinner.

You'd think I'd learn after seven years of eating sushi. I guess I'm just a slow-learner.

Yes, No...Yes, No

Being from the Midwest, I can't say I have any idea what a debutante ball is like. I guess it's supposed to be some big "coming out" party for the social elite of the South. It's their debut, an introduction to all the important people of that particular part of the country. It's something to get excited about, and prepare for endlessly, or at least all day. I'm sure the young woman finds herself getting a manicure, pedicure, a wax, and of course, having her blonde ringlets piled atop her head. Now, if at the very last moment, the young woman found out that her ball had been canceled, can you imagine how devastated she might be?

Tonight was supposed to be my American TV debut. My Australian TV debut was a week ago today for the Nine Network. Granted, I'm not a media fanatic, not by any stretch of the imagination! But there was a part of me that was really looking forward to it. The idea of being seen on TV, and saying what I needed to say to Keith Olbermann and the world was really going to be the highlight of my week. This, of course, comes after Good Morning America canceled for yesterday - something about it being the 35th anniversary of man walking on the moon and such. I actually found out that the interview scheduled for tonight had been canceled secondhand, too. Shame on the producers at MSNBC's Countdown with Keith Olbermann!! My co-interviewee received an email from the producer earlier in the day. I did not receive the phone call until several hours later.

I can't say that I did everything that a socially elite Southern belle might do. I just repainted my nails in a fun OPI color (Vould you like a Lick-tenstein). Nonetheless, I feel like my ball has been canceled. Perhaps my time will still yet come; there is talk of an appearance in mid to late August. Time will tell. For now, I'm just going to stick to what I know how to do...be young, have fun, and stay out of trouble (most of the time).

Leave Your Footprint...Or Your Trademark

Today marks the 35th anniversary of man's first steps on the moon. At the time that man was walking on the moon, I was far from being even an embryo, so I can't say I remember where I was when the event happened. According to a news report, the footprints left by the astronauts will survive for potentially millions of years. Millions of years? I can't even think beyond five years from now, let alone millions of years from now. But if it's going to last millions of years, it would have been smart to make those millions of years count for something.

Now, had someone been thinking when they put men on the moon - that is thinking about anything other than keeping the guys alive and keeping them tethered to something that would be going back to Earth - you might have seen the Nike swoosh stuck in the footprint. I think the symbol is recognized worldwide. Why not make it recognized galaxy-wide? If indeed their are aliens outside of my house somewhere out there, shouldn't they be allowed to experience Nike for all its shoe goodness? I bet Nike could even manufacture a new shoe to fit the oddly shaped feet that I would presume these aliens have attached to their spindly legs. I imagine a cross between Marvin the Martian and Squidward from Spongebob Squarepants with seven-toed gnarly looking feet.

Nike would have a hold on the market for alien shoes, probably through an exclusive contract worth millions of dollars with NASA to only promote the Nike brand. No one would bother complaining about the endorsement. The money that kept flowing into the space program would help to send overnight tycoons into the moon's orbit for an afternoon jaunt. NASA could build bigger and better shuttles, complete with DVD movie systems, reclining seats, and BOSE noise-canceling headphones for every passenger. Better yet, no athletes would lose their scholarships in this promotion, either.

Maybe a little rocket blaster could be attached to the back of the shoe instead of new-fangled plastic contraptions that reduce shock. Perhaps Nike would add moonlight reflective patches for night travel to all the swinging alien social clubs. There are so many possibilities for marketing a better shoe to meet the stylish and functional footwear needs of our friendly, yet polydactyl, neighbors.

Am I the only one who thought of this brilliant idea? I think Nike's people should call my people. We need to talk.

Waiting...

It's happened to all of us before. Waiting patiently, or not so patiently, by the phone. When it rings, you're expecting one person or another, and unfortunately, sometimes it's not who you expected. And you feel your heart sink. Last night, while having an ice cream sundae with my family and friends, my cell phone rang "unavailable." In the past couple weeks, when the phone rings unavailable, it's usually a producer calling from NYC or Australia. As I was waiting on a call from Good Morning America yesterday, when the phone rang unavailable, I nearly jumped out of my chair! Alas, it wasn't GMA calling, but a friend.

So this morning, I'm still waiting. Hopefully in a couple hours, I'll have great news to post to this website. After all, I've been slacking about posting here for some time since returning from London. Until then, I'll just wait for my phone to sing "Bittersweet Symphony."

Happy Birthday To Me!

The title of the post says enough, doesn't it? How old am I?

Guess.

No, you're wrong.

Try again.

Still wrong.

Do you really think I'd tell you if you were right?

London, Baby!

It's late, but not that late. It feels much later than it is, but that's because I've been packing and running around all day. The past four days have been so unexplicably strange and unusual. I have gone from simple Midwesterner to a world traveler, or at least that will be the case in less than 24 hours. I'll be boarding a flight in Chicago tomorrow, and flying to London, England. When I walk through customs, all eyes will be on me. Okay, not all eyes, but definitely some looking through lenses. It's all a bit unnerving.

Flying is like being put through a washing machine, especially on long flights, with the whole of the flight being an extended spin cycle. You walk off looking like you've been whipped through the spin cycle, hair all mussed up, make-up (what make-up?) erased, eyes that look like you been high, and unless you remembered to bring along a toothbrush, fuzzy teeth. Eww. And they want to film this? Now, that would really be "reality TV!"

Alas, I'm jumping head first into some crazy experience in London. The outcome is rather unknown, but what better way to spend a birthday (mine and America's) than flying to the beautiful city on the Thames!? More on this story soon...

Random Thoughts on Movies, Cars, and a Little Old Lady

Okay, it's been out for a little while, but I just saw this movie last night. I started watching it on my laptop, alone, at 1 in the morning. After denying it in the video store several times before, I decided to give it a shot. It sounded more like a psychological thriller, not a horror movie. I was wonderfully surprised at the movie! It made me jump a couple times, and kept my attention, even at such a crazy hour. I thought that Halle Berry's performance in this movie was far better than her Oscar winning performance in "Monster's Ball." So far, though, I haven't been asked to be a part of the committee that votes. What I don't understand though is why the movie is called "Gothika?" The name of the mental institution was not "gothika," and the word doesn't show up in dictionary.com. Of course, I can't think of a better title either.

Other than dealing with the kids, the four-legged kids that is, there's not much happening here. At present, my beloved Jeep is at the dealership. While it's there, I'm stuck with a car that might as well have holes in the floor and be driven by prehistoric cartoon characters. It's a 2002 Dodge Neon. First of all, I feel like I'm sitting only inches above the road itself. Secondly, the car feels like it will fall apart if I accelerate above 65. Perhaps it's a mechanism to prevent me from my normal speed-demon driving skills. Perhaps it's just because it's just a substandard car. Perhaps I should just quit complaining.

I suppose it was better to have a low-to-the-ground car yesterday, though. I had lunch with my grandma, and it would have been more difficult to help her step up into my Jeep than to slide down into the rented Neon. At nearly 91 years old, she's still quite spunky, even with sight in only one eye. The one thing she always comments on, no matter if I saw her three months ago, or saw her last week, is how much I've grown. Well, at 20-something, I'm not growing anymore. It's just that I have a variety of shoes with different heel heights. Yesterday, I was sporting a 3.5" heel on a strappy sandal, making me just about six feet tall. Compared to her barely 5 feet tall stature, I appeared to be a giant. Nonetheless, she made me get out the yardstick, just as you do as a kid, and stand against the wall. Whatever makes her happy...

No Spine? Stay Away!

I was attacked tonight.

I was outside with the dogs, and it came at me in the dark. I didn't know what it was, because my eyes had not yet adjusted to the blackness. It was silent, save the soft buzzing that came from its movement. Suddenly, it was right in my face, beating me...with its wings.

My attacker? A moth. It flew right at my eye, and what emitted from my throat was a shriek not unlike one heard in horror films. I wonder if I could get paid for such vocalizations? I batted it away, but it had friends. Many friends...and a couple of them really didn't like the outside environment, so they flew in the house at the first opportunity.

We have the equivalent of a nuclear weapon in the house, though, in terms of moth-killing. It's a halogen pole lamp that sits in the corner. It's light is like crack for a junkie, nicotine for a chain smoker, or well, chocolate for me. Accordingly to plan, it flew right at the light. Snap, crackle, pop - just like rice krispies. But instead of tasty rice with milk, the room started to smell like burning moth flesh. You know the smell. Ugh.

I think there should be some law against bugs that serve no purpose. In fact, a law against anything that doesn't have a spine would be preferable for me. Now, I'm sure that if some nature conservationist, or even a biologist (which I am by training) reads this, I'll be told some garbage about these creatures being necessary in the food chain and such. Screw the food chain. I want to keep my eyes, thanks.

Moths, spiders, ticks, mites, fleas, flies, and anything else that squirms, buzzes, stings, bites, or performs any other annoying behavior - you're not welcome here. I'm posting a sign, so you'd better learn how to read: "No Spine? Stay Away!"

What's it Like to be the Little Guy?

A nearly nightly ritual in my house is to take the dogs for a walk. If you've ever wondered if your four-legged companions understand English, trust me, they do. We have to spell the word "w-a-l-k" around here because if for some reason the idea is vetoed, they get far too anxious to deal with the rest of the evening. As a side note, MSNBC.com recently had this article on pets and language. Besides language, they get visual clues. Tying on my favorite pair of Nikes, and walking in the general direction of the door where their leashes hang send them into a frenzy.

It must look kind of funny when we're walking down the sidewalk. Sydney, the largest of the three, is just over 100 pounds, a Labrador/Australian shepherd cross. Kanga, the medium version, is about 55 pounds, an Australian shepherd/something cross. Digby, the alien aforementioned, is the smallest, at just about 20 pounds. He's a purebred miniature Australian shepherd. So, all lined up in a row, with two people, we might look like professional dog-walkers.

We pass by the quiet homes of our neighbors and other peaceful citizens of my small hometown. Most of the time, there's no incident. Sometimes, though, out of the darkness, we'll hear something running, and then all of the sudden it's right there over the fence. It's someone else's dog, ready to tear up the trio on leashes. Most of the time, Kanga pays attention to where she's going. Sydney holds her own, and seems to dare any other dog to try to get near her. Ferocious growls are followed by...dancing and yipping? Yeah, the little guy...crazy dog. He must think he's a hundred times his size. He often dances off the ground, turning little pirouettes in the air and getting all twisted in his leash. Yip, yip, yip...it's as if he's telling the dog to dare bark at him. Most of the dogs we encounter would swallow him in one bite, but he's not afraid. Yip, yip, yip...he thinks he's defending the girls who can't do it for themselves. Yip, yip, yip...if you're not careful, you'll fall right over him during his antics.

If ever there were a David and Goliath story to be had from pets, this would be the one. Unfortunately, in this story, I don't think the little guy would win. He just gets an "A" for effort!

It's Here!

It doesn't take much to start a craze. For instance, Oprah, just your average millionaire (or is it billionaire) talk show host from Chicago, decided she wanted to start a book club. Okay, now millions (or at least hundreds of thousands) are reading what she thinks is great. Several years ago, Jennifer Aniston sent a plethora of woman flocking to their salons saying, "I want hair like THAT." With the beginning of "Sex in the City" (a show I regretfully have never seen, even the edited version on TBS), Sarah Jessica Parker made women seek out their very own pair of Manolo Blahnik's, even as their feet screamed out in pain. Just a few examples...

I'm not famous. I'm not even noteable other than to my friends and family. I think I could be successful in starting my own following though, and in doing so, help out my friend. It worked once before; I wrote about the merits of Jack L. Klinger's "487 Indisputable Truths," and what do you know, some more people bought his book! So, Oprah, Ms. Aniston, and Ms. Parker can keep their TV shows; I'll stick to my weblog to give my own "thumbs-up" to something, and wait for the millions to read what I read.

Our mailman arrived late this afternoon, to the yelping and barking of 3 Dog Choir. As a side note, I bet the first few times the mailman came to our house, he jumped out of fear. Now, he probably just psyches himself up a couple feet before he comes into sight of the windows, knowing that the dogs are going to give him hell. Anyway, a small mail box, and lots of letters that were not for me forced the mailman to put the big white envelope on the step in front of the door. When I retrived the mail, I noticed that this big, white envelope was for me! Hurray. Don't you just love getting mail? (As long as it doesn't have a clear window and look like it's a bill?)

Inside, carefully packaged in steel-like bubble wrap, was a book. The book is the winner's prize for a painstakingly difficult blog treasure hunt, which came from the one and only, "Pauly D." in his weekly "Words for Your Enjoyment." The book, Consumer Joe: Harassing Corporate America, One Letter at a Time, is full of letters that the author wrote to various companies including Starbucks (oh for a carmel macchiato!), M&M/Mars (I like the blue M&Ms), Cincinnati's own Proctor and Gamble, and my favorite, Cedar Point (the BEST amusement park in the world). If you want to read the quirky letters from the author's alter ego, David Paulson, and the even better corporate responses, you MUST go to your local Barnes and Noble, Border, or whatever book retailer you prefer, and buy this book. You definitely won't be disappointed!

Of course, your copy won't be signed...but...that treasure hunt was hard, gosh darn it.