Destroy All Evidence

And Now A Holiday Treat For All

2007-12-25T00:32:00.000-08:00

Merry Christmas, DAE readers!

SNL Christmas Song

Best of 2007: Music

2007-12-17T08:00:00.000-08:00

So, time flies, and now we find ourselves at the tail end of another year. Before we say goodbye to 2007 forever, we here at Destroy All Evidence want to take a moment to look back and remember all of the things we loved in 2007. Starting today and continuing every few days till the end of the year, we'll post a new top 5 list of our favorite things from 2007. It's like Oprah's Favorite Things, except, you know, you don't get anything for free. But you also don't have to fake-fawn over Her Majesty and pee your pants in front of the entire world, so I'm giving us the advantage. Enjoy Day 1's festivities: The best music of 2007.

5. “Black Tears” by Miss Derringer

I turned 22 on my birthday this year, and at first, I really didn’t feel happy or excited about it. What I did feel was indescribably old, older than I usually feel, which, trust me, is really saying something. I was thisclose to giving up the fight, throwing on a caftan and settling in for a “Golden Girls” marathon with a steaming hot cup of chamomile tea. And then…then I heard this song.

Ah, Miss Derringer. This song totally threw me for a loop when I first heard it. I was immediately launched back in time, to a moment when I was still goofy and awkward and anxious to grow up, when I thought that I had personally discovered every awesome thing about the ‘80s – John Hughes movies, Duran Duran, “Jem,” and, of course, mismatched Converse. Because on first listen, that’s what “Black Tears” sounds like: A really great ‘80s song, the best Blondie track that Blondie never recorded. It’s totally girly and completely badass and so sad in the most ridiculously fun way possible. But keep listening, and you realize there’s a lot of the ‘50s and ‘60s American music scene in there too. That just makes me love it even more. So thanks Miss Derringer, for reminding me that sharing a smile with your younger self is a sure fire fix for the old fogey blues.

4. “1234” by Feist

I’m just going to say it: I am not cool. Like, not at all. What’s more, I’ve genuinely given up trying. At this point, I am who I am, and there’s not a whole lot that can change that. I accept it, because for the most part, I honestly like who I’ve become. I love my family, I love my friends, the future is looking bright, and I’m finally (almost completely) comfortable in own skin. Also, I can really handle my liquor, and that makes me proud.

But I digress. Back to the “me not being cool” thing: One unfortunate side effect of this is that I’m usually really behind on what’s hip in music. If I had a nickel for every time I thought to myself, What are the happening cats listening to these days?, I would have somewhere in the realm of $14. Yeah, it’s that bad. Which is why it’s so surprising that I was actually in front of the trend when I discovered Feist, all by myself, way, WAY before Apple began using it for its Nano commercials and the Grey’s Anatomy people started kicking themselves for not snagging it first. A sparkling, jangly, fantastically indie jam that I could call my own – if that’s not end of the year list worthy, I can’t say I know what is.

3. "Shampoo" by Pete Yorn

I remember when I bought my first Pete Yorn album. I had read a little article in Seventeen about him, and, I’m embarrassed to admit, I made a beeline to the record store to buy his debut, musicforthemorningafter, not because I was really inspired by the article or anything he said in it, but because I thought he was cute. Granted, I was only 15 at the time. Not that that’s an excuse, but it does help explain the motive behind it. So I bought the album, gave the liner notes a thorough ogling, popped the CD in, and…wow. Just, wow. I was transfixed. I remember laying on my bed and listening to it front to back, totally in awe of what was going on there. I loved the whole sound of it, how sad and hopeful and searching it was, how it managed to sound old and new at the same time. I was hooked from the first minute of the first track.

Cut to now, 7 years, 3 albums and a dozen completely fantastic concert experiences later, and I’m as devoted to everything Pete Yorn as I was way back then (and, in case you were wondering, time has not diminished Pete's talent - or his looks...). Some artists just stick with you like that, and PY has certainly stuck with me. He released no new albums in 2007 (his latest, the frighteningly good Nightcrawler, was released in late 2006), but that doesn’t mean there weren't fresh Pete tunes floating around the Interweb this year. My favorite is this one, “Shampoo.” It’s perfectly representative of the best of what Pete Yorn brings to the table: Winsome, contemplative lyrics set to a melody so interesting and utterly enjoyable that you can’t help but listen to it again and again.

2. “West Coast” by Coconut Records

Let’s play Six Degrees of Separation, shall we? The Godfather to Coconut Records – GO!

The Godfather was directed by Francis Ford Coppola, whose sister, Talia Shire, married movie producer Jack Schwartzman and gave birth to one Jason Schwartzman, who is - ding ding ding! – the man behind Coconut Records! Huh, that was a short one. And it didn’t even include Kevin Bacon.

Anyway.

When I was talking about “Shampoo” earlier, I described it as “winsome” and “contemplative.” These are the exact same words I would use to sum up “West Coast,” but the songs themselves are so different that it’s hard to believe they’re sprung from the same place emotionally. I think the biggest difference is that while “Shampoo” keeps a crisp, brightly somber (let’s just pretend that’s not an oxymoron, okay?) pace, things are a little more unleashed on “West Coast,” a steady, laidback crescendo from the lonesome man-and-piano beginning to the full blown sing-a-long ending. If you aren’t picturing the diminutive Schwartzman in one of those awful choir robes, conducting a mass of singing funky white boys by the end of this song, there’s something seriously wrong with you. It’s nerdy, lovelorn perfection, and a totally worthy Best of 2007 runner up.

1. “The Thanks I Get” by Wilco

Imagine this: It’s a hot summer day. You’re driving down Pacific Coast Highway with the top down. Sunglasses. Salty air. The crunch of gravel beneath your tires. No place to be, nothing to do, not a care in the world. It’s just you and the road. And on the radio plays… something mellow. Something weathered. Something that fills your soul with the roots of rock and roll. You scan the airwaves, spinning from station to station, and then you hear it. And you smile, because you know you’ve found exactly what you were looking for: The sound that warms your heart, that takes you back to an easier time, that’ll carry you wherever you want to go. The song? Wilco’s “The Thanks I Get.”

Nothing I could say about this song could do it justice. Nothing I could say about this band would do them justice. Let’s just put it like this: For a rock band that’s found a modern way to appreciate the classics that came before while establishing themselves as a vital part of the musical landscape of today, always, ALWAYS choose Wilco. Always. Not Son Volt. Not Ryan Adams. Not My Morning Jacket. They’re good, but they’re not Wilco. I’m making this song my number one most favorite of the year for precisely that reason. There you have it: Wilco’s “The Thanks I Get” – Destroy All Evidence’s Best Song of 2007. Congratulations to you, Wilco. Congratulations to you.

Honorable Mentions (The Movie Soundtrack Remix)
• “Anyone Else But You” by the Moldy Peaches: Romantic love in a most realistic way, this gem from the Juno soundtrack will melt even the hardest hearts.
• “Avril 14th” by Aphex Twin: Rent Marie Antoinette and listen for this song. So apropos for the scene in which Antoine returns to Versailles from Le Petit Trianon. You feel the full weight of the expectation and duty thrust upon her, and the song gives you a pretty good idea of how she feels about it.
• “From Where I’m Standing” by Schuyler Fisk: This is from I’m Reed Fish. That movie sucked. This song doesn’t. Fun fact: Schuyler Fisk is Sissy Spacek's daughter. Speaking of daughters...
• “Daughter” by Loudon Wainwright III: Just when you start to lose faith in Judd Apatow (like when he shows you a baby crowning – that’s just gross), he whips out a montage of sweet scenes set to this song that makes you forget you ever questioned his judgment in the first place. Wainwright’s brilliant cover of Peter Blegvad’s ode to daughters is featured in Knocked Up.
• “Where Do You Go To, My Lovely?” by Peter Sarstedt: My friend Ez and I were recently discussing our favorite movies, and we crowned Wes Anderson one of the kings of music in film (also on the short list: Cameron Crowe, the Coen Brothers, and Quentin Tarantino). This song, from Anderson’s short, Hotel Chevalier, is a prime example of his brilliance when it comes to seamlessly weaving great music into the milieu of an already great film. It’s a thing of beauty.
• “Falling Slowly” by Glen Hansard and Marketa Irglova: Once was an unbelievably powerful movie, but that’s something we’ll get to later in our Best of 2007 retrospective. For now, I’ll just say what an amazing song this is. The line “You have suffered enough/And warred with yourself/It’s time that you won” is one of my favorites in any song ever. Plus, the harmony is absolutely gorgeous.

Next up in our Best of 2007 series: Books, premiering here on Thursday, December 17th. And be sure to check out the BFF blog, Bunker Complex, for Andrea's end of the year recap too.

The Road to Glory: Pumpkin Carving Party 2007

2007-11-07T20:06:00.000-08:00

Tradition is something that’s very important to me. Unfortunately, carving out time to make traditions is often hard when you have a family as active as mine. There’s always a ton of things to do, which means we’re always busy, which means we’re always tired as a result of being busy doing the tons of things there are to do. So tradition is often tossed to the curb, not because it’s not valuable to everyone, but because we’re so beat by the effort it takes to make sure the mechanics of everyday life run smoothly that adding on anything else is daunting. For the most part, I am okay with this. I like to think that I’m a pretty “roll with the punches” kind of gal, and truthfully, I enjoy the chaos that comes with having a family like mine. But there are some things, some traditions that I can not and will not sacrifice no matter what, the most important of which is our annual Pumpkin Carving Party.

For as long as I can remember, my family has carved pumpkins for Halloween. Even when I was really little I was always way more psyched up for carving pumpkins than for getting to wear a costume or going trick-or-treating. It was always a huge production: Going to the pumpkin patch with my little red wagon in tow, looking over every pumpkin meticulously till I found just the right one, then going home and staring at my pick, waiting for inspiration (the perfect Jack O’Lantern face!) to hit me – wow. I get a buzz just thinking about it now. And all that excitement was nothing compared the actual carving. Scraping out the gooey insides was gross in the very best way, and getting to use an actual knife to give my pumpkin a funny/scary mug made me feel both creative and very, very grown up (though my parents were always close by, making sure the only thing getting carved was the pumpkin, not little fingers). I can remember my mom helping me put in candles and guiding my hand as I lit up my masterpiece. We’d go outside and set them all on our front porch, then step back and admire the bright, glowing faces shining back at our own.

As the years have gone on, we’ve modified our pumpkin carving tradition. We always have the same dinner on the night we carve (Sloppy Joe’s, tater tots and corn – a meal which would sound absolutely disgusting to us on any other night, but which we honestly look forward to when it’s paired with pumpkin carving), but in recent years we’ve added some gourmet elements to the meal, usually a snazzy dessert or cocktail for those of us old enough to imbibe. My grandparents have started participating in the past few years as well, and that’s something that gives me endless amounts of joy because my grandparents are awesome. But the biggest – and best – change has been that now, instead of carving just for fun, we’ve turned it into a competition, judged by our ten year old next door neighbor, Caitlin. This new aspect of the Pumpkin Carving Party makes me the happiest of all.

It’s widely known in our family (and on this blog) that I’m a total gamer, and that when there’s an opportunity to win anything, I’m all over it. All over it like a crazy person. In my wildest dreams, people would find this to be a cute, quirky part of my personality. In reality, I think it’s more something that people put up with. That would usually upset me, but not when I’m winning, because nothing – NOTHING – gets me down when I’m on top, and this insane need to be the best definitely extends to pumpkin carving. I would say that I’m a good loser, but I can’t really be sure about that, because for the last three years (that is, ever since we introduced the competition side of the Pumpkin Carving Party), I have been crowned the Pumpkin Carving Queen (Hehe! I’m not really keen on rubbing it in, but suck it, family! You’re all losers.). The first year I won, I went sort of cartoony on my pumpkin, turning out a cute, simple cat face. Last year, I brought home the gold with my Picasso inspired entry (that’s the best way to describe it; it had one triangular eye, one sunburst-looking eye, a wide open v-shaped mouth, and, strangely, all my hair and nail clippings from the last year). This year, like the Lakers before me, I achieved the three-peat with my classic but well executed design. Check it out:

That’s mine in the middle, flanked by a couple of underachieving also-rans. Notice the kind of commitment to excellence that’s a hallmark of my pumpkin carving style: The inside is spotless, with no leftover stringy innards or errant seeds, the uncomplicated design allows for a ton of light to come through, and each feature is back-cut, giving the face a clean, flawless look. Never underestimate the importance of good pumpkin carving technique, people. That attention to detail separates the men from the boys (or in my case, me from everyone else, though the shameless gloating might contribute to that separation as well.). And that’s why I’m the Pumpkin Carving Queen yet again. Congratulations to me. And to you, for having the honor of knowing me.

As an added bonus, here is a picture of my grandparents holding their adorable yet remarkably substandard entries. My grandma went freeform on us, and while she refused to name her inspiration, we think her pumpkin was a dead ringer for William Hung. My grandpa’s pumpkin…well, his design is the same one he’s been doing for exactly 50 years. Every year I try to impart some of my pumpkin carving wisdom, telling him to make the design bigger so it’s brighter and to spend more time cleaning it out, and every year he tells me his design is timeless and that the extra goop inside adds to the spookiness of it (and by “telling him” those things, I mean, of course, whispering them under my breath while secretly thinking, “One less fool to stomp all over in my quest for victory.”). To each his own, I guess.

I emailed this picture to my Aunt Lee after our party, and this was her response: “Hey, do those pumpkins look like them or what? Was this carving supposed to be a self portrait?” I love my aunt. I love Halloween. But most of all, I love ~~winning~~ making lasting memories with my family.

It's Like The Greeks vs. The Trojans All Over Again

2007-10-02T13:15:00.000-07:00

I have tried to stay out of this discourse for as long as is humanly possible, but I know now that it would be the height of irresponsibility for me, holding the position that I do in this world, to withhold my influence any longer. I have decided that the time to speak is now, lest the situation become any direr as a result of my continued silence. Friends, esteemed colleagues, and Canadians who inexplicably subscribe to this blog, the time has come for me to jump headfirst into what future scholars will come to regard as the debate of the century. I am referring, of course, to “Kanye West vs. 50 Cent: Decision 2007”, and the consequences of the outcome now weigh heavily on my shoulders. I can only pray that I’m strong enough to see this conflict through to a peaceful and nonviolent end.

The question of which side to support was never an issue for me. I am a person who values loyalty above all else, and my feet have always been firmly planted on the side of 50. A hardworking man, committed to excellence and physical fitness, 50 has always piqued my interest. Without a doubt, his music is unfailingly fascinating, and he has proven himself to be a fascinating man as well. Born unto the rough streets of South Jamaica, Queens, 50 (nee Curtis Jackson) began selling drugs at the age of twelve. Twelve, ladies and gentlemen. This is nothing short of a tribute to Fiddy’s inherent, unrelenting, entrepreneurial spirit. Still, young Curtis dreamed of a better life for himself and, after a stint in prison for dealing (during which time he adopted the “50 Cent” moniker, which is metaphorical for “change” - man, that is so beautiful. It brings tears to my eyes.), he ended his career as a supplier to pursue a more suitable métier: Rapping.

But Fate did as she often does, and, on the brink of that life-altering decision, Fiddy was the victim of a drive by shooting, taking nine bullets in the arm, chest, hand, left cheek, hip, and both legs. By the grace of God, 50 survived the brutal attack. After spending 13 days in the hospital, followed by another six and a half months in recovery, 50 lives on as a testament to sheer willpower, dedication, and, again, physical fitness. He is a true manifestation of the American dream.

On the other side of this debate, we have Kanye “George Bush Hates Black People” West, who by all accounts lived a far more sheltered, pampered lifestyle than a young Curtis Jackson would ever have dared to dream of. Why should we root for you, Kanye, when the worst thing that happened to you in your formative years was that your parents got divorced? 50’s mom was straight up murdered, and he never even knew his father. You attended the frou frou American Academy of Art in Chicago during your high school years. Where was 50? In jail, getting his GED and trying to make a fresh start, that’s where. And while I would never seek to minimize anyone’s suffering, I feel compelled to point out that while 50 was off getting shot nine times (nine times!), the victim of savage, vicious thuggery, your only claim to physical pain was a broken jaw, a jaw that was broken in a car accident that only occurred because you fell asleep at the wheel. I doubt 50 even had a car! And where you selfishly exploited this bit of personal recklessness for your song “Through The Wire", 50 only briefly mentioned his plight in "In Da Club”, and I feel sure he did this as a courtesy to his fans, to let them know that even after the horrific shooting, he is fine – so fine that his swagger isn’t even marred by the slightest hint of limp. And even now, while you delight in Epicurean romps at various disgusting strip joints, 50 Cent toils away in his humble Manhattan office, taking multiple meetings a day – the consummate businessman. To choose between you two would be like choosing between a Cable Ace Award and an Oscar. I think you know which one you are, Kanye. And I think you know which one I’m choosing.

That being said, the reality of the situation is that the deck is currently stacked in the favor of Mr. West. However, in this epic struggle, I have my suspicions about who will come out the victor. While Kanye may currently be outselling 50 (and congratulations to him on that – his little tune, “Stronger”, is catchy in a way that only superbly processed and manipulated music can be), I feel that the man formerly known as Curtis Jackson will ultimately prevail. Kanye can carry on rapping about Kate Moss, calling himself “The Louis Vuitton Don,” railing against the “haters,” and wearing all the Lacoste polo shirts the world has to offer – I guess that's his "truth," and I hope that fulfills him. As for me, I will continue to delight in the man, the music, and, let's face it, the hero that is 50 Cent.

I Heart NY, Part 2 (With Pictures!)

2007-09-13T19:15:00.000-07:00

Let’s pick up where we left off, shall we? If you’ll remember, I was just being taxied into the city, and was starting to regain my lost optimism about my trip.

Once we got to our hotel, we hunkered down for a few hours of much needed sleep. We wanted to get an early start on our sightseeing, so we woke up at six the next morning (which is unthinkably early for me on any day, much less a vacation day. I don’t think I ever see the world properly till around…noon.). From what little pre-trip research we were able to do, we knew that we could pick up almost any subway line we needed from Grand Central Station, which just so happened to be about four blocks from our hotel. Grand Central Station is beautiful – when you walk in, you’re taken aback by the enormity of the marble concourse. It’s a seamless mix of bigness and delicacy, the latter coming in the form of several exquisite chandeliers and, of course, the famous painted ceiling, a loose depiction of an astrological map. What really struck me was the windows, these great arched portals with the most gorgeous light just streaming through them, and the huge American flag, which was hung just after September 11th. I think it’s easy to feel strangely reverent about New York, especially when you’re in a place like Grand Central Station. There’s something about it that feels important and necessary, and even in our rush to get out into the city, we spent a good fifteen minutes just absorbing our surroundings in the terminal.

From there, we really hit the ground running. We snagged a subway map (which quickly became our best friend) and headed down to Times Square, where we were all set to pick up one of those double decker bus tours. Now, I realize that this goes directly against our goal of living like true Manhattanites (Manhattonians?), but we had to find a way to get our bearings in the city, and for us, the best way to do that was to take a guided bus tour. We must have been on that bus for four solid hours, but we saw everything: the Fashion District, the Financial District, Wall Street, Greenwich Village, Soho, Chinatown, Little Italy, Chelsea, the Upper East Side, the Upper West Side, Central Park – everything. You name it, we saw it, all from the open-air upper level of a ridiculous-looking, gigantic double decker bus. It really helped us figure out where we wanted to go and what we wanted to do for the rest of our time in NYC, though. So thank you much, New York Sight Seeing Gray Line.

Once we completed our bus tour, we grabbed a quick bite and made our way down to Battery Park, where we were going to hop on a ferry to visit the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island. It was a beautiful day, perfect for a ferry ride and an outdoor audio tour of Lady Liberty. I initially wasn't too excited for Ellis Island, but I'm so glad we did it, simply because there’s no way I could have fully appreciated what the Statue of Liberty meant for so many people had we not. Visiting Ellis Island was extremely moving because their audio tour had interviews with people who actually came into the U.S. through Ellis Island. So many of them described difficult journeys filled with illness, crowded quarters and unsanitary conditions (not to mention all the reasons they had to leave their native countries in the first place), but what was so moving to me was their reaction upon seeing Lady Liberty’s shining golden torch ablaze across the sharp blue sky – it’s like they knew they were finally safe, that their grueling voyage was over, that they were home at last. They were so grateful, so full of hope, and hearing their stories made me feel the same way. Love that.

Our day of exploring was tiring, but knowing that we had very limited time in Manhattan (we’d have to spend at least a few days in New Jersey and its surrounding areas for my brother’s tournament), we wanted to make the most of every moment, so we decided to push through the exhaustion and hop on the subway to Little Italy for dinner. I remember this part very vividly: Getting off the subway and not knowing which way to go, I smelled and heard and saw the twinkling lights of Little Italy all at once, and it was like an instant shot of warm, tingly happiness. I think we spent maybe half an hour walking up and down the blocks that comprise Little Italy, checking out all the restaurants. We finally sat down to eat at a little café with outdoor seating so we could take in the whole scene. There was a lot to see: the streets were crowded with tons of people, some visitors like us, some vendors, others residents of apartments located over the restaurants and shops, and, to my great surprise and delight, many, many genuine Italians. The vibe was so homey and welcoming, and colorful in the best possible way. I think it’s one of those places where anyone could feel like they really belonged, which is definitely a beautiful thing. After dinner, we strolled some more and picked up the most delicious cannoli in the world (Four words: Chocolate covered cannoli shell. Fifth word: Wow.), and headed back to the hotel, full and happy and nothing short of enamored with the city. It was the perfect way to end our perfect first day in New York.

I Heart NY, Part 3 (the finale) - coming soon to a blog near you!

Why Andrea and I Are Friends

2007-09-05T23:59:00.000-07:00

I know. I know, I know, I know. There's no "I Heart NY, Part 2" post today. It's not quite ready yet. In the meantime, I give you this little snippet from a recent iChat session. It's just one one of the many reasons why Andrea and I are best buds.

Preface: Andrea's parents are pressuring her to talk to some dude they want her to date. To say that she has lukewarm feelings for him would be...generous.
Andrea: My dad told me to say hi to him when he was sitting right there. It was like I was 8 years old.
Nicole: I still don't understand why you have to say anything to him at all.
Andrea: It's because of my parents. My dad wants me to "make myself available" to him.
Nicole: Ah, like a hooker.
Andrea: Yes. The red light is on.
Nicole: Poor Roxanne. :(
Andrea: I would woop Roxanne. I mean, she's like 50 years old now.
Nicole: I don't know. Hookers are notoriously brutal.
Andrea: But I have a shiv.
Andrea: It's home-made.
Nicole: ...from a spoon...
Nicole: ...from the prison mess hall.
Andrea: Yes. I swiped it during that stint I served for killing my pimp.
Nicole: Yeah, well, that bastard had it coming.
Andrea: Damn straight.

You see? That's just a beautiful thing.

Also, thank God Andrea and I found each other. Because really, who else would be friends with us? Yeah.

The Police - "Roxanne"

It's Funny...Because It's True

2007-09-04T23:40:00.000-07:00

This makes me laugh:

I think I'd be in the "I would be writing right now, but...wait, do you hear that buzzing? No? Because I really hear like a loud, loud buzz happening. Ugh, I'm so tired. [At which point, I'd go watch some previously Tivo'd episodes of Tori and Dean: Inn Love and fall asleep on the couch.]" building. Because that's how I roll.

I Heart NY, Part 2 will be up tomorrow! Fo' realz.

I Heart NY, Part 1

2007-08-31T14:37:00.000-07:00

I have a brother, AJ, who plays high school baseball and is an outstanding third baseman. As anyone who knows baseball will tell you, once you hit a certain age and show a fair amount of talent, you'll want to transition into playing on a travel team (we call it “travel ball”), which caters to a more upper echelon type of player. Travel ball is pretty intense and can get a little cutthroat at times, but the level of competition affords the players valuable game time experience and prepares them for the challenge of playing at the high school (and, hopefully, college) level, which is definitely a good thing. And, as the name suggests, you get to travel, and travel you do, mostly in the summer time, which means that the destination of many a family vacation is determined by the baseball gods. Nine times out of ten, you end up in some bizarre, BFE-type locale (Joplin, MO, anyone? My brother’s Joplin assessment: “Fireworks, sex shops, and boredom.” So sorry, Joplin.). But then there are those glorious moments when travel ball takes you somewhere fantastic, and a few weeks ago, we were finally dealt a winning hand when AJ’s team qualified to play in the Don Mattingly World Series, a prestigious tournament set to take place over seven days in…Flemington, New Jersey!

I know what you’re thinking: Flemington, New Jersey? Really? Sounds…awesome. To that end, I would say that your sarcasm was not only well placed but also very warranted. It’s completely correct to assume that no one would find the prospect of spending a week in Flemington thrilling. The thought that I would be forced to spend my vacation there was horrifying, especially since there are only two things worth noting about Flemington: 1) The Lindbergh trial was held there, oh, I don’t know, a million and a half years ago, which also happens to be about the time it stopped being interesting, and 2) There’s a bunch of pharmaceutical research facilities in the general vicinity (which is not at all riveting, but would explain the multitude of two-headed dear prancing along in that neck o’ the woods). I was all set to bring the serious hate to the Flem, until a little pre-trip research revealed that, miracle of miracles, Flemington was only an hour outside of Manhattan! What once sounded like yet another shaft out of a summer vacation at the hands of Mother Baseball instantly became our ticket to finally (FINALLY!) getting to explore NYC. Needless to say, I was very excited. It was like Harry Potter levels of excitement - times a thousand. Plus five. Squared.

Once New York came into the picture, the prospect of having to tough out a few days in Flemington seemed far less odious. My brother and his teammates were told they’d be flying separately from their families and that once they got there, they’d be staying with host families, which was the second piece of good news: Without having to cart him around to the gym and the batting cages and meetings all day long, our time was more our own than it had been on any baseball-related trip ever. With that in mind, we started planning our great New York adventure. The trouble with that, however, was that none of us really knew anything about New York City. Where do we want to stay? What do we want to do? How do we exist in Manhattan without looking like total rubes? Those are all legitimate questions. Because you don't mess around in New York. Or so we'd heard.

I wasn't overly stressed about the lack of info, though. Rolling out with a few maps and a suitcase full of light layers rarely freaks me out. That kind of vagabond vacationing just so happens to be my family's signature travel style, and I've been flying by the seat of my pants in new places for years as a result. Plus, I like to think that I'm a fairly openminded, adaptable gal, both of which are favorable attributes when exploring an unknown city. I was still slightly troubled by the last minute nature of the trip, though. Since we were all hesitant to sign on the dotted line when we thought the tournament would tie us down in Flemington, it was pretty late in the game when we started getting the essentials in place. I think we ended up booking our flight two days before we had to leave, and our hotel wasn't locked down till around eleven o’clock the night before we left. I don't like to be rushed, and you really can't be more rushed than that. I was still excited though. I mean, it’s New York City. It's the capital of the world. Fuhgeddaboutit.

We flew out of LAX on a Saturday morning. The first leg of the trip, from LAX to Las Vegas (where we’d pick up our connecting flight to JFK), was lovely. I had my traditional airplane beverage, ginger ale, and a purse full of tabloids – all was right in my world. Our connection was smooth, not too much of a layover. Well, enough of a layover for my mom to convince me to play $5 in an airport slot machine, which I promptly lost (Can someone tell me what’s fun about slot machines? I don't get it. Forgive me for being so limited.). Anyway, I would say the first half of the flight to New York was fine. They played “Shrek the Third.” There was minimal turbulence. I had another ginger ale and ate some pretzels. Life was good.

That's when things started to get hairy. Inexplicably, I began to feel…woozy, I guess is the right word. I got that cold, tight, fizzy feeling between my stomach and my throat. I started taking short, shallow breaths. I got sweaty and became unnaturally pale. I’d never felt like that, to that extreme, on a flight before, and that’s why it never occurred to me to take a Dramamine. Which obviously I should have. Because obviously, in my old age, I’ve become pretty weak in the motion sickness department. What made it even worse was the thought that my trip to New York was starting out so unfavorably. I get a little dramatic sometimes, especially when I’m feeling gross and panicked, and in my motion sickness-addled brain, it felt like horrid overshadowing of things to come. It didn’t help that once we landed, we taxied around the tarmac for what seemed like an eternity when what I wanted most in the world was to get as far away from the plane as possible. I was so out of it by the time we deboarded, got our luggage, and made our way to the taxi line that I couldn’t have cared less that we were in New York. I was miserable, and all I wanted to do was get to the hotel, take a shower and go to sleep.

But then, in the cab on the I-495, I saw it: The Manhattan skyline. It was peaceful and beautiful, and, in direct opposition to everything I'd ever heard about NYC, quiet. Not to cheese you out too much, but it really felt like the city was taking a breath with me, helping me calm down so I could drink it all in, and I instantly felt better about things. I always thought people were romanticizing when they waxed poetic on how "magical" New York is. But even then, even from the inside of a cab on the outskirts of the city, I started to understand what they were talking about. And I was ready to let myself be bewitched.

***

Tuesday, September 4th - I Heart NY, Part Two . Have a good weekend.

Where I've Been; Where I'm Going

2007-08-27T16:00:00.000-07:00

So.

It’s been a while there, eh blog buddies? More than a month, in fact. That’s a really long time. Well, maybe not in the span of a lifetime. In the span of a lifetime, you’ll have many, many months. Depending on how long you live, you could have upwards of one thousand months under your belt by the time you die, and if you look at it that way, what’s one month or two or twelve to someone who has lived a thousand? It’s like a blip on the radar screen, not even a worthy side note. Conversely, if you look at months in relation to, say, the school year, one month is one long ass time. So depending on your perspective, we’ve either been apart for a moment or for a lifetime. Whatever your own personal verdict is, you should know that mine is this: It has been far too long since I’ve sent any transmissions out into the blogosphere, and I plan to never be so lax in my duties as your resident snarkster/sentimentalist/loon ever again.

You’re probably wondering what I’ve been doing during my little blog hiatus, and that is most definitely a good question. Not unlike Lucy Ricardo, I know I've got some 'splaining to do. But where to start? Well, for one thing, I’ve been enjoying what is left of my final summer before graduating from college. That’s summer in the most familiar sense of the word, by the way: Those glorious three months between the end of one school year and the beginning of the next. I’ve been relishing every moment spent engaging in my favorite summertime activity: Lounging in my grandparents’ pool for hours and getting out only to eat lunch (or, now that I’m of legal drinking age, to slurp down a fantastic, icy cold margarita made for me by my lovely grandfather, Tom, whom we call Papa). My parents have always worked full time, and as a result my brother and I have, for as long as I can remember, regarded my grandparents’ house as our second home, and we’ve spent many a happy school break there, floating around in the pool and relaxing. Admit it: If you had that, you’d be tempted to neglect your blog duties too, so don’t judge me too harshly for being absent for so long. Those were some really excellent margaritas.

Another thing grabbing my attention away from this here blog: Harry Potter. Not those bizarre leather fetish pictures of the kid who plays Harry Potter (those pretty much scarred me for life – I’d link to them, but that would mean me having to find them online, and that would mean me having to see them again, and even though I’d love to give you all the resources you need to really understand what I’m talking about, I just can’t do it. I don’t think my health care insurance covers temporary blindness caused by Daniel Radcliffe photos. But if you’re really into seeing them, just Google “Daniel+Radcliffe+leather+daddy” and I’m sure you’ll get more than a few hits. Good luck to you. Yikes.). Anyway, I plan to do a rather large post on this topic in the very near future (Andrea and I are going to double team it, and it promises to be a potpourri of mixed media deliciousness), so I’m understandably hesitant to give away too many details right now. I’ll just say that both the fifth movie and the seventh (and final) book came out within a week of each other, and in my world, that’s a tantalizing, all-consuming smorgasbord of overwhelmingly fantastic proportions. In this case, I think you were actually lucky I didn’t blog about it right as it happened. I can say with 100% certainty that it would have contained a load of fan girl giddiness, and now that I’ve had time to gain a little perspective on the situation, I know I can give a much better (read: less obnoxiously excited) account of the good times that were had during Harry Potter mania week and the couple of weeks after that, when the Harry aftermath was still strong-arming itself into every thought and every conversation. I guarantee it would have found its way onto the blog as well. Restraint, friends. It’s what differentiates us here at Destroy All Evidence from the animals. And also from lesser, crappy bloggers. It’s a good thing.

I’ve done a few other things in my time off as well, one in particular so wonderful that I won’t even begin to talk about it presently for fear that my effusive sentimentality might just melt you like hot molten lava. That one will be coming at you (or “atcha,” depending on just how “street” you’re feeling today) in two or three parts, the first installment of which will be published before the end of this week. So come back around on Thursday or Friday for that, and look for a return to your regularly scheduled programming (pessimism, dubiousness, stupidity, etc.) to follow shortly thereafter.

In the meantime, I hope you’re digging (and have been digging) Andrea's blog, which is fun and nearly always full of sonic goodness. And I hope you’ve enjoyed your summer as much as I have mine. If you haven’t, come back later this week and live vicariously through me. I encourage it. And thanks for continuing to read Destroy All Evidence.

From the Beautiful Mind of Nicole

2007-07-14T03:58:00.000-07:00

It’s late. It’s really, really late. I know I should be asleep. I know that. But I’m not. I am what you would call a “night owl” (well, that’s what my grandma calls it anyway. Do people still say “night owl” these days or is it sort of an old-timey kind of phrase? Has it gone the way of “gee golly” and “good heavens”? I don’t know.). If it were up to me, I would get all my crap done at night then sleep during the day. This is especially true in the summer. It’s way too hot here to do anything productive during the day. I mean, your makeup is bound to sweat off, and that’s shortly followed by the frizzing of the perfectly flat-ironed hair, and let’s face it, once the look is gone, there’s really no point in trying to get anything else done. Don’t look at me like that, you know it’s true.

The weird thing is, I’m not really all that productive at night either. I get a little ADD during the insomniac hours. I read a lot of books, and that’s usually because at this time of the night, one can’t hold my interest for more than a couple chapters, so I have to switch to another one. If books don’t keep me occupied, I usually surf the Internets, but there’s not a whole lot of rhyme or reason there (a look at last night’s web activity shows this bizarro trail: Perez Hilton to Amazon to Wikipedia to WebMD to BabelFish Translator to MapQuest. If you can find a straight line from beginning to end in that mess, I’ll give you all the money in my wallet. Which may or may not be $3.17. Minus $.41 for shipping.).

Some nights neither the books nor the web are enough to keep me busy until sheer exhaustion takes over and I finally fall asleep. These are the nights when a lot of thoughts (some deep, most nonsensical) are floating around inside my head. I read once that you’re supposed to write down the thoughts to get them out of your mind, and by doing so you’re ridding yourself of the turmoil they’re causing you, which of course leads to deep inner relaxation and, ultimately, sleep. Honestly, I always thought that doing that exercise was a little fruity and would never work, but I have to be up early tomorrow, and I need to snooze. So here’s my attempt to relax my mind and throw out all the weirdness that’s mucking it up so that I can get to sleep:

***

You know those soft-baked sugar cookies with that really intensely sweet frosting and those waxy/fantastic sprinkles? I want one of those right now. One, psssh. Better make it ~~ten~~ ~~eleven~~ a baker's dozen.

***

I think I had my first alcohol buzz the other day. I think. Is it hard to tell if you have a buzz on? I don’t know. My cousin Denise always says that a good way to know for sure whether or not you’re on the road to Drunktown is to lift your arms and try to sense if they feel any heavier than they did before you started drinking. The only problem with that is that the weird, tentatively suspended arms have a tendency to give the appearance of drunkenness. Or the appearance of signaling to the waiter for another round. I’m pretty sure you’ll end up getting another Cosmopolitan either way.

***

I hate the word "facetious." I feel like people who say "facetious" are trying way too hard to sound smart. Show me someone who genuinely loves the word "facetious" and I will show you an intellectual poseur. An unlikely upside to hating "facetious": If and when I get to be a guest on James Lipton's "Inside the Actor's Studio" and he gives me that quiz at the end and asks what my least favorite word is, I'll have the answer all locked and loaded and ready to go.

***

If I see one more commercial for eharmony.com – just one more! – I think I might lose my mind. It’s not that I have anything against eharmony. It’s online dating. Whatever. Some people choose to go that route, and who am I to judge them? They know what they want, and they’re going for it. I respect that, even if it’s not a road I ever see myself taking. You’d think that kindly, tolerant attitude would earn me some kind of karmic relief from the bombardment of ads from Dr. Neil Warren and Co. Yeah, not so much.

***

Where are Flemish people from?

***

Sometimes I feel like there are needles poking into my eyeballs. It happens for maybe two seconds, during which I blink like a crazy person, and then it’s over. Similarly, I often feel like my two front teeth are being plied out of my mouth. The sensation is, again, momentary, but it’s uncomfortable nonetheless. Does anyone else ever feel that?

***

I would give anything in the world to not have to put the sheets on my bed right now. They’ve just been lying there for hours, and I’ve been finding creative ways to lie around them while reading The Scapegoat by Daphne DuMaurier. It's times like this that make me wish I had a maid. Or a butler who would agree to put sheets on my bed even though butlers typically don’t do that kind of thing. Or do women not have butlers? Are they like ladies-in-waiting or something? I can't say that I know for sure.

***

Wondering if it should be “laying”/“lay” instead of “lying”/“lie.” Wondering if I’m coherent enough at this hour to figure that out. Wondering if I care about the difference between the two even when I'm completely lucid.

***

Who was that chick that got eliminated on Top Chef this week? I swear I’ve never seen her on the show before, and we’re like four weeks in. She must have been pretty flavorless to garner zero screen time until she got ousted. Flavorless, teehee…

***

If I had to say definitively right now which prince I liked best, Prince William or Prince Harry, I would without a doubt go with Harry. Because he seems nasty.

***

My cousin Stacie told me today that she and her friends Joe and Bart once wrote a pilot script for a TV comedy about eight people working in a mall. I really don’t know what to do with that information. My only real thought is that I need to work on finding a copy of that sucker ASAP. Perhaps get it performed by a local theater troupe. Or tweak it so that it could be done as a one-woman show with me as the star. I better get on that.

***

Pete Yorn has a new song, "Shampoo” (go on, click the link and snag it. You know you want to.). He posted it on his message board as his “new favorite song to break up to” or something like that. That’s all fine and good, but I want to know who the backup vocalist is, because it’s a lady, and I’m inclined to think that Pete is probably dating whomever that lady is. And this makes me upset because shouldn’t Pete be saving himself for me? I’m saving myself for him. Or, you know, Dave Lieberman. Whoever I meet first.

***

I got gas today. When you pay at the little island kiosk, it tells you that if you use your ATM card, a transaction fee of $.45 is added onto your total. By an amazing stroke of luck, I bought exactly $39.55 worth of gas, which means my overall total was $40 on the nose. How often does that happen? Almost never! Ah, little victories.

***

***

***

Huh. I don’t feel any more tired now than I was before. I don’t feel any more relaxed either, especially since now I’m really worried that I chose the wrong prince and that somehow that decision will come back to haunt me one day. Blurgh. I feel a massive Excedrin PM shot coming in five...four...three...two...

From Me to You: An Independence Day Gift

2007-07-04T23:57:00.000-07:00

Today is Wednesday, July 4th. It’s widely accepted that the headlining event of the Fourth of July should be the celebration of Independence Day. For the most part, I agree with that assessment. After all, for a while there, Independence Day was my number one most favorite holiday (even beating out Christmas, and that is hard to do). I still look forward to it because on our street, it means a gigantic block party and tons of fireworks. Everyone’s house is open, everyone serves food and drinks (alcoholic ones too! Huzzah.), everyone’s family and friends come and hang out all day, flags are hung up everywhere, there’s music, one of those bouncy houses invariably shows up on someone’s lawn, and there’s almost always some kind of game going on (for the past two years, it’s been volleyball. Not as fun as the football/baseball/foosball hybrid we had a while back, but fun nonetheless. Plus, there's less crying, less rib bruising, and the rules are way clearer, so I guess it's superior in almost every way...). It’s a total idyllic scene, like something straight out of Mayberry, except, you know, without the eccentric sheriff’s deputy. Also, I have an Aunt Dee, not an Aunt Bea. And our theme song is way more rockin' - none of that whistling business for us. Whatever, all that stuff is besides the point, which is this: With all that goodness going on, how could Independence Day not be the highlight of the Fourth of July? 1) Thanks for asking, and 2) I’ll tell you how: Independence Day happens to fall on a Wednesday this year. And what else falls on Wednesdays? That’s right, a new episode of Clark and Michael. This, of course, trumps all else, even free-flowing margaritas and borderline illegal fireworks.

If you don’t know anything about Clark and Michael, well, hold on to your hat, because it is…what is the word…oh yes: legendary. To quickly summarize, Clark and Michael is a series of online shorts written by and starring Clark Duke and Michael Cera (of Arrested Development fame - that’s one of my absolute most favorite shows of all time, by the way) as two friends who live together and have written a script for a TV show which they are tying to sell to a network. The concept is that they’ve hired a film crew (at their own expense) to document what they believe will be their road to stardom, and the result is the most hilarious display of idiocy and camaraderie amongst goons that I’ve seen in a really long time. I love that, ostensibly, the show is about how much hard work it takes to achieve even a modicum of success in Hollywood, yet you rarely see the guys actually working to improve or promote their script. Instead, they’re going to the gym (because their bodies are their “tombs” – I think they may have going for “temples” there…), picking up movies at Vidiot (where they’re pissed because no one carries Touched By An Angel), dancing while drunk (self-explanatory), awkwardly hitting on women (Michael, to a woman who just told him she had a child when she was 16: “Did you breastfeed her?”), and fighting and making up (wrestling, hugging, and ablutionary trips to the local mini-golf course ensue). A new episode is posted on their website every Wednesday, and for the last six weeks, each one has left me cracking up and zealously awaiting the next installment. See for yourself, peep the trailer:

How could you not love a show like that? Seriously, go on over there, take an hour, and watch the show in its entirety. It might not be the most productive thing you do on Independence Day, but it will definitely brighten your day. Though I guess fireworks do that too… Eh, the margaritas are clouding my ability (and desire) to ponder such things. Just go watch the show. Do it because it's the patriotic thing to do. Not reason enough? Then do it because it's what our forefathers would have wanted you to do. Still no? Wow, you people are a hard sell. How about you do it because it's free? Aha, there it is.

***

Happy Fourth of July!

"Jamz" Is A Legitimate Synonym for "Songs," Right? Yeah, Let's Go With That.

2007-06-30T23:45:00.000-07:00

For as long as I can remember, my best buddy (and fellow blogger), Andrea, has been a music fiend. We were shopping at Borders the other day (fine – we were there to reserve copies of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. Whatever.), and when contemplating the purchase of a new full price hardcover, she said, “When I see that the price of that book is $26, I immediately think, ‘That’s 26 songs I could buy from iTunes.’” She’s just passionate and hardcore about music that way. When we were in high school, she used to have this gigantic book of CDs that she would take everywhere with her (this was before the days of the iPod, kiddos). I loved that book. It was so fun to look through it and see what tunes she loved. I mean, sure, there were some questionable choices (*NSYNC’s No Strings Attached comes to mind, but then again, I was into Hanson, so I have no room to talk), and yeah, she did go through a regrettable country phase, but on the whole, her taste in music was generally fabulous and still is to this day. She’s constantly expanding and refining her collection, which is a true gem. It’s a soulful, eclectic mix of hidden treasures that speaks to just how hip a person she is. Whenever I’m looking for something new and cool to listen to, I just ask Andrea what she’s been hearing lately, and I’m always more than satisfied with her recommendations.

A few years ago, Andrea and I started doing these “Best Of” mixes with all of our favorite songs of the year on them. We’d burn each other our “Best Of” CDs and then write out why we loved each song and why they made the cut. There was really no method to the madness (there rarely is with any of our schemes), and the only real rule was that you could choose any song you wanted, just so long as it was new to you in that year. I think we originally started doing these mixes because Andrea was bored at work and needed something to do, and because I am always willing to share my opinion on anything at anytime with anyone. But ever since their inception, they’ve become like a hallmark of our friendship. Every June (the halfway point of the year), we offer up our favorite 15 songs from the first part of the year, and then in December we finish things off by bumping it up to the best 30 jams of the entire year (just because we like that kind of symmetry. Wow, that paints us as way nerdier than we actually are. Maybe not…). I love these mixes. They’re invariably filled with great music, and reading each other’s comments on each song is always interesting (and often hilarious). This year, we thought we’d let you in on the fun and share our midyear “Best Of” mixes with you. And, because we’re cool like that, we’ve made it possible for you to snag the songs for yourself. All you have to do is click the song title and it’s yours to keep, just so long as you promise to go and support the artist if you like what you hear (which, oddly enough, you can do by simply clicking on the album art. We make it so easy to be a good person here, don’t we? You people are so lucky to have us.). Anyway, on to the music:

Nicole’s Best of 2007 So Far
1. “Brand New Set of Wings” by Joe Purdy: I was one of those latecomers to the Lost fandom. Andrea, on the other hand, was all about the show from its inception, and she’s the one that conned me into watching the first season on DVD. I’m so glad she did. Not only do I completely love the show (RIP Charlie, you little reformed cokehead, you), it also introduced me to Joe Purdy, whose track “Wash Away” was featured in the third ep of the first season. That’s a beautiful song, and so is “Brand New Set of Wings.” I love the chorus: “Oh Sally, don’t get down/’Cause I’ve been looking all over town/For a brand new set of wings for you.” It’s such a sweet sentiment. And the sound, the actual instrumentation of the thing, is so full and rich in a folksy, unpretentious kind of way. It’s a keeper!

2. “F*ck Was I” by Jenny Owen Youngs: There is nothing that I don’t love about this song. First of all, the lyrics (about being stupid enough to think that you won’t get hurt by a bad guy) are clever without being obnoxious. I especially dig the chorus: “Skillet on the stove, it’s such a temptation/Maybe I’ll be the lucky one who doesn’t get burned?/What the f*ck was I thinking?” The track is slow and melodic and heavy on the strings, which I love. And even though there’s nothing fancy about Jenny Owen Youngs’ voice, it’s the simplicity of it that makes it so good.

3. “Walt Whitman Bridge” by Marah: I read a review of a Marah album once that compared their sound to Springsteen, if Springsteen and the Replacements got together and made an album. I have to admit that I could never describe who Marah is to you more perceptively or more accurately than that. Listen to this song, note it’s deceptively poetic lyrics (especially right at the end there), enjoy its blue-collar, everyman-accessible vibe, and become a Marah fan. You’ll thank me later.

4. “Amazing Glow” by the Pernice Brothers: Did you ever hear a song where the lyrics did not at all match the music? This song is the exact opposite of that. The simple, melancholy tune is the perfect accompaniment to the lyrics, which tell the story of a guy who dumped a girl, only to realize too late that she was the one for him, and subsequently can’t get her off his mind. My favorite verse (though the whole song is a lyrical gem): “I changed my master plan/I changed my friends and city/I go to sleep, I still wake up screaming//A dream so full and real/You’d think I would know better/I try to stave off a new day from rising.” I think the imagery is just perfection there; he can’t escape her or his broken heart no matter what he does, and it’s no one’s fault but his own. He’s left with memories and loneliness and nothing else (take note, gentlemen – giving up a good girl is not a good idea). What a great song, and also a seriously good band - make it a point to sample their back catalog if you’re not already familiar with their stuff. You won’t be sorry.

5. “Falling Awake” by Gary Jules: I love – LOVE – everything – EVERYTHING – about this one. It’s just excellent in every aspect, from the double entendre title, to the subtle, keyboard-laced melody, to each and every cynical, hopeless lyric in between. I feel like such a glutton for punishment when it comes to this song. It’s incredibly sad, but I keep it on repeat because it’s so gorgeous, and every time I do this, I’m always thrown into a really miserable, depressive funk. This cannot be a good thing. But I can’t stop it. I just can’t. And you won’t be able to either (I apologize in advance). Also, I honestly do not know when I became addicted to sad songs. I blame Andrea. You should too.

6. “Dragon” by Tori Amos: I’m not the world’s biggest Tori Amos fan by a long shot. Most of her songs are a little too angry for my taste. But this song…this song, I love. The vibe of the song is all over the place, hitting moments of somber restraint, sweet desperation, and burning anger, but somehow it seems dynamic rather than unfocused. By the end of the track, you feel like you’ve just listened to a rock opera. Or, like you’ve just been in a fist fight. Either way, you’re exhausted. I don’t know how Tori Amos does that.

7. “Phantom Limb” by The Shins: If you know anything about today’s music scene, you know that the Shins are, shall we say, very well regarded. I don’t think I read one bad review of their latest album, Wincing the Night Away. As I see it, the success of the Shins is based on their ability to stay cool enough to keep the indie kids feeling all hip and superior while still appealing to a more mass market, commercial demographic (ie, your John Mayer fans). I think “Phantom Limb” bridges the gap between the two brilliantly (It was the first single from the album. Coincidence? Doubtful.). Even though it’s hard to find cohesion in the lyrics (which James Mercer, the lead singer, has said are about two young lesbians - to which I say, "Um, what?"), the music is undeniably lovely and incredibly addicting.

8. “Dirty Dream Number Two” by Belle & Sebastian: I am so behind the times with Belle & Sebastian, though maybe I can’t be totally to blame; after all, the in-the-know college kids were listening to them when I was still in high school. Whatever the case, I’m on board now, and it’s all because of this song. I like to think of it as the perfect addition to the soundtrack of my life, combining my slightly ebullient and vivacious side (a la Archie’s Betty), and my snarky and introspective side (a la…Emily the Strange?). A girl can dream. Dream. “Dirty Dream Number Two.” I didn’t even plan that! Nice.

9. “Young Folks” by Peter Bjorn and John: I went to two Pete Yorn shows this year. Both shows had three opening bands. They weren’t heinous…but yeah, they were kind of heinous. The only thing that made waiting for Pete better was this song, which was on the pre-show mix. I am forever indebted to his cousin/merch guy/tour historian, Max, who writes this blog and made that mix. It’s so unusual, and unusually catchy, too. How could you not love it?

10. “Sick of Myself” by Matthew Sweet: I first became aware of Matthew Sweet through my friend, Dave. Dave’s collection is, for lack of a better word, awesome. What’s even more awesome is that it’s all meticulously catalogued on one of those portable hard drives, which Dave drops off at my house every once in a while so I can scavenge for new music. The last time I had the hard drive, I snagged Time Capsule: The Best Of Matthew Sweet because I enjoyed the Thorns’ cover of the Jayhawks’ “Blue,” and Matthew Sweet is in the Thorns. Before this, I hadn’t really heard any of his original songs, but after giving the album a thorough listen, I became a full-fledged fan, and “Sick of Myself” became my favorite Matthew Sweet song. Even though the lyrics are wrought with pessimism and desperation, I still think of this as a kind of post-punk power pop love song. All I know is, whenever I hear this song, I think, “I want a guy to love me like that.” And I also think, “This sounds like it was recorded in a garage.” So there you go.

11. “Diamond Ring” by Joseph Arthur and the Lonely Astronauts: If you have never heard Joseph Arthur’s Redemption’s Son, then I feel tremendously sorry for you. It’s one of my favorite albums of all time, and I honestly can’t say enough good things about it. His latest release, Let’s Just Be, is, well…I find it hard to give it compliments. It’s weirdly meandering and sloppy, and even though I love Joseph Arthur, I just can’t get on board with this particular bit of experimentation. Its only saving grace is “Diamond Ring,” and thank goodness for it. I love this song, not only for its spot-on falsetto and great 70s rock vibe (it’s definitely Rolling Stones-influenced), but because it gives me hope that Joseph Arthur will get his crap together and give us a quality record soon. If he doesn't, I might go all Steven from "The Real World: Seattle" on his ass. I've done it once, I'll do it again. Sleep with one eye open, Arthur.

12. “Hesitating Beauty” by Billy Bragg and Wilco: As the story goes, Nora Guthrie (aka Woody’s daughter) asked Billy Bragg and Jeff Tweedy (of Wilco) to add music to some of her father’s lyrics after his death. The result was an album called Mermaid Avenue, which fused Woody’s idealistic lyrics with contemporary, folksy melodies. This is one of my favorite tracks from that album, for its twangy, straightforward loveliness. (Side note: I'm learning so much about myself while writing this list. In addition to being a person who loves sad songs, I've apparently also turned into one of those people who say "lovely" all the time. I'm like Mrs. Thurston Howell the Third or something. That's just...lovely.)

13. “Fountain of Youth” by Grant-Lee Phillips: I have been a longtime fan of Grant-Lee Phillips. We go so far back that I remember when he was called Grant-Lee Buffalo (I still don’t get what happened there. Was it like a John ~~Cougar~~ Mellencamp kind of situation? Huh. Enigma.). His songs make me feel sort of dopey and light-headed in the best way possible, like I’m floating or something. Some people think heaven is filled with harp music; for me, it’s just an endless string of Grant-Lee Phillips songs, this one included.

14. “Clean Getaway” by Maria Taylor: I was debating between two Maria Taylor songs for this mix, this one and “A Good Start.” The latter is so, so good, and I highly recommend giving it a listen, but in the end, “Clean Getaway” won out (so I flipped a quarter, so sue me). The only word I can think of that would accurately describe the vibe of this song is “plaintive.” Also, “wistful.” And “jackhammer.” “Merciless.” “Insatiable.” Okay, veered off topic there for a sec. Seriously though, back to “Clean Getaway”: It’s all acoustic, just a guitar and Maria Taylor’s pretty voice. It's my most played song on iTunes for a good reason.

15. “Ziggy Stardust” by Seu Jorge: Yes, “Ziggy Stardust” is a classic track off David Bowie’s famously epic album of the same name. Yes, there have been many fine, interesting interpretations of the song offered up by many fine, interesting artists throughout the years. Hear me now: I don’t care about them. Hell, I barely care about David Bowie when I listen to Seu Jorge’s version, which, incidentally, is sung in Brazilian Portuguese. I’m usually such a lyric lover that you would think the language barrier would turn me off, but strangely, it does not. I’m so in love with Seu Jorge’s voice and loose, uncomplicated acoustic guitar work that it more than makes up for the fact that I have no idea what he’s saying. This song makes me feel completely content and grateful, and that's all I need to know.

So there you have it, my midyear mix. If you get your click on here, you can check out Andrea's (super cool) mix too. I hope you enjoy them! And if you don’t, well, I don’t want to hear about it. Seriously, zip the lip.

Hypothetical Love Letter

2007-06-24T19:13:00.000-07:00

Dear Dave Lieberman,

Hi there! My name is Nicole, and although I know this may sound a little crazy, I think I should tell you: I believe, with every fiber of my being, that you and I are soul mates. I realize that this sounds a little…outlandish, especially since we have never actually met. That might be a problem for some people, but not for me, and hopefully not for you either, because I think we could really be something special, and once you give me a chance to explain, I think you’ll come to feel that way too.

I remember the first time I saw your show on the Food Network, making your budget conscious meals and serving them to your friends and family. I was immediately attracted to your easy smile, your sparkling eyes, and your adorable laugh. But those things are apparent to everyone. The more I watched your show, the more I began to appreciate your obvious joie de vivre, your thoughtful, enthusiastic commentary, and your kind heart. I’m always on the lookout for swell guys, but you – you are more than swell, Dave. You’re magnificent.

For those reasons (and several more not totally appropriate to publish reasons), I have a proposal for you: I think we should get married. Soon. I can’t think of any way in which this could possibly be a bad idea. The one snag that we might hit is that you appear to be Jewish and I am not. This isn’t an issue for me. I would even be willing to consider conversion if it was that important to you (it did, after all, work for Charlotte and Harry on “Sex and the City”). I’m not always flexible like that, but for you, Dave, I think I could be. Unless of course you don’t believe in marriage, in which case, let’s move in together and develop our own kind of Goldie Hawn/Kurt Russell dynamic. I’m more than fine with that too. Whatever you want, Dave. Let’s make it happen.

Once we work that stuff out, I think we should absolutely have children. It goes without saying that those would be some gorgeous kids. They would be as beautiful as John Travolta likes to think his kids are. Your inherent perkiness and easy going demeanor, coupled with my dry wit and fantastic organizational skills, would, I think, turn out a few of the most impressive, well-liked people on the planet. They would be marvelous, little half Jewish/half Italian pieces of art. Masterpieces, even.

I can see our lives together very clearly, Dave. Waking up in the morning, reading the paper in bed, dropping the kids off at school, hitting up the farmer’s market, then going home, where you make our family an amazing meal while the nanny cares for the children and I drink a few Mojitos. After dinner, we’d read the kids a book and put them to bed, then watch a little late night TV and adjourn to the boudoir ourselves. And did I mention the passion? Oh yes, there is passion. I can feel it now, even with all these miles between us. Sit closer to the computer monitor and you’ll feel it too – it’s buzzing, completely electric. Doesn’t that sound like a dream to you, Dave? Doesn’t it just sound divine?

I love you, Dave Lieberman, and I hope that after reading this letter, you will love me too, or, at the very least, be open to trying to make something magical happen between us. I know you’re very busy, and it must be terribly exhausting to be as constantly enthusiastic as you are, but I’m willing to wait. I know, in the deepest depths of my soul, that you are it for me. You’re the one, Dave! And for that, I would wait forever (I mean, I’ll wait forever unless Jeffrey Garten - you know, Ina’s husband - happens to come back on the market again. Then I might have to reassess...).

(Almost) Wholeheartedly yours,

Nicole

Mono, Library Fights, Dodgers

2007-06-18T18:12:00.000-07:00

My brother has mono, aka “The Kissing Disease.” I guess this isn’t such a great thing, but I can’t help but wonder if he doesn’t deserve it. He does have sort of manwhorish tendencies. I think he makes out with a lot of girls, and I’m not sure how particularly nice he is to any of them. I’m not totally convinced that karma is a real thing, but this incident is really pushing me in that direction.

When you have mono, they say you get pretty tired because it takes a lot of energy for your body to fight off the virus. What they don’t tell you is that mono makes you one nasty mother. Ever since my brother got sick, he’s been nothing but terrible to everyone he crosses. I understand that he doesn’t feel well, and sure, everyone has the right to be a bit contrary when they’re under the weather, but this is really bad. He’s like that girl with the Lyme Disease from “The Real World: Seattle.” And I’m about to be like that dude that slapped her when she was driving away in that car and then threw her teddy bear out into the bay.

He’d better watch out.

***

In other news, the Dodgers are losing. I hate to say “I told you so,” but I did. I totally called it. Not that this makes me some kind of visionary or soothsayer (though incidentally, how awesome would it be to be a soothsayer? I mean, really.). I’m not insane or anything; I know I can’t see the future. I can, however, see the past, and what the past tells me is that more likely than not, even though we have a lot of season left, it’s all going to be downhill from here. Well, maybe not all downhill. There might be a steady ascension to the top of the heap, but that will only make going down that much faster and more terrifying. Through years of experience, I am, sadly, prepared for either scenario.

I still love Ned Colletti, though. And I still really hope I’m wrong.

***

I was in the library one day last week and, no lie, there was almost a brawl. This moron was talking on his cell phone (ironically while standing next to a “This is a no cell phone zone” sign) and some girl did that obnoxious shushing noise in his direction. He shushed her back. And then it went down like this:

Shushing Girl: “Don’t you know you’re in a library? There’s no cell phones in the library!”
Cell Phone Man: “You’re the one that’s talking!”
SG: “I’m the one that’s telling you to shut the hell up!”
CPM: “I’ll talk on my phone if I want to! You’re the one who needs to shut the hell up!”
SG: “Shuuuuuush! Shush shush!”
CPM: “Shush yourself!”
SG: “SHUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUSH!” [Ed. Note: This was such a long shush that from now on, it will be known as “The Shush Heard ‘Round the World." Well, I’m calling it that. You can join me if you want.]
CPM: (huffily) “This is bullshit.”

And, scene.

I was caught directly in the middle of this whole thing. I kept my eyes down the whole time, partly because I wanted to crack up at the absurdity of it all, and partly because I was afraid that if I cracked up I would somehow be dragged into the fight (if you can call it that). And I would most definitely lose in a fight, because I am a wuss. So in actuality, it was a self-preservation move.

Anyway, the “fight” was over really quickly. It was like one of those canine skirmishes at the dog park. The dogs get in there, rough each other up a bit, and then back off really fast. It was like quick-fire anger. And I have to say, for how petty and ridiculous the whole situation was, I really did get a good laugh out of it (once they both were out of the vicinity, of course).

People can be so idiotic sometimes. Thank God for them, or I’d never have anything to post here.

***

Hope you’re having a good week! May it be filled with your brother not having mono, your home team winning, and a total avoidance of any and all library squabbles.

Alone Time

2007-06-12T16:33:00.000-07:00

I live at home with my parents and my brother, AJ. I don’t feel bad about this because I’m only 21, and also because I’m a girl, which is way less weird than being a guy and still living with your parents in your twenties (which I know is a crazy and ridiculous double standard, but hey, if society wants throw us that one bone, I’ll take it). Besides that, I really love living at home. I have one of those great families that everyone wants but few people actually have. They’re funny and smart and just all around fantastic, and more importantly, they’re the perfect family for me. I’m 100%, completely blessed to be able to call them my own, and that’s a fact that I’m acutely aware of every day. I’m just incredibly lucky to have them.

Still, something happens when you spend large amounts of time with people, any people, regardless of how you really feel about them. Little things start to annoy you. Dishes that pile up in the sink, mail addressed to you that you never see, a total and complete lack of control of the remote – those kinds of things. And no matter how great people are, sometimes those annoyances build up to the point where you just need a break, lest you become murderous over an unflushed toilet or innumerable pairs of shoes left lying around. Lucky for me (and for them), I got that break last weekend when my parents had to chaperone my brother (who is an excellent high school third baseman) during an out-of-town baseball tournament, leaving me home alone for an entire three days.

There are only a handful of things I truly relish in life, and alone time is most definitely one of them. That’s what was so great about them going to the tournament. I would be alone. Just me. By myself. For three days. Three days! The prospect of even one day all to myself thoroughly excites me, so you can imagine how jazzed I was about having all that time just for me. Alone time is always nothing short of a beautiful thing.

My family left early Saturday morning, and from then on the perks set in. The first thing I did was sleep in. I wasn’t even all that tired, but the quiet house, the warm bed, and the knowledge that I didn’t have to do anything for anyone else but me that day made it easy to enjoy a little extra snooze time. Like, four hours of extra zzz’s, to be exact. I know that seems both ridiculously extravagant and strangely decadent, but when you’re sleeping that deeply and comfortably, stuff like that fails to register on your concern-o-meter, especially when the parameters of said meter have shifted from “Is this activity acceptable and/or healthy?” to “Is there any way I could make this activity more pleasant for myself?” Actually, scratch that. A better way of putting it would be to say that my concern-o-meter had morphed itself into a pleasure-o-meter, and that sleeping in was right up there towards the top on the new scale.

Once I woke up, I did something I wouldn’t normally do: I stayed in my pajamas. When my family is home, there are always a million and a half things to do, and as there is so little time to get all that stuff done during the weekend, we have to hit the ground running, which means no elongated pajama wearing. But I didn’t have anything scheduled for myself till later in the day, so I stayed in my pajamas. I put on my robe and made myself breakfast (on a tray, with milk AND orange juice, just because I could), and watched ten episodes of “Barefoot Contessa” that had backlogged on my Tivo. My alone weekend was off to a really great start.

Once I peeled myself off the couch (no easy task), I started to get ready for a late lunch with my favorite cousins, Denise and Stacie, and their mom, my Aunt Dee. These are three of my absolute most favorite people on the planet. Denise and Stacie are like my super fun older sisters, and my aunt is so sweet that you just want to stuff her like a doll and carry her around with you wherever you go. I never have a bad time when I’m with them. They make me feel like I’m the coolest, most dazzling and interesting person in the entire world, and that’s not a terrible feeling to have. They know the best places to go, the conversation is unfailingly excellent, and I always leap at the chance to spend time with them. This time, we went to lunch at a great little creperie (their find, natch), and, as expected, it was awesome. What made it even more awesome was knowing that I didn’t have my family to hurry back to. I could linger at lunch as long as I wanted to because no one was waiting for me at home. I can’t describe how nice that felt, knowing that my time was my own. I really liked it.

I spent the rest of my weekend engaging in similarly self-indulgent activities. I was starting to look like Peter Gallagher and Brooke Shields’ love child, so I got my eyebrows waxed. I took an insanely long shower. I read (this insane book about the Skull and Bones group - it terrifies me and I like it), listened to music (Joe Purdy’s “Paris in the Morning” – get on it), and had a Jim Halpert swoon fest while watching seasons 1 and 2 of “The Office” on DVD. You know when you get so relaxed that you’re basically dopey and have a total inability to function on a normal level? I was about two ticks away from being right there. I was probably as close to that point as a person as tightly wound as I am can ever possibly be. It was glorious.

Still, I was happy when my family came home. I missed them like you miss your bed when you’re in a hotel. I mean, a bed is a bed, but there’s no bed that will ever feel as right to you as your own bed does. And it was the same way with my family. The house was nice without them, and even though I was blissed out to the max on an alone time high in their absence, it felt good to have them back at home with me again. It felt right. Then again, it always feels right till the dishes take on new and impressive architectural heights and the mail gets lost in some sort of bizarro suburban Bermuda Triangle situation. When those things happen (and they will), I feel pretty certain that I’ll be marking the days off on the calender until they have an out-of-town thing again. I'll let you know when that countdown begins...

Change of Heart

2007-06-01T01:53:00.000-07:00

By now, you have probably learned a few things about me, things like how I am heartily entertained by gratuitous violence on television and how I’m into very sad, very depressing novels. And, since starting this blog, I’ve learned something about me too: I don’t really know how to blog. And also, I don’t think I’m a very good blogger. For one thing, I don’t post very often, and really, that’s probably rule number one in the blogger’s manual. That’s another thing: I have never actually read the blogger’s manual, which is just another facet of my blog laziness. I think the main reason that I have a hard time keeping up here is that I try to make every post great, which is not to say that I think every post I write is great, but to admit that I feel weird sending things out into the Internets without them being the very best that I think they can be, because after all, they are a representation of who I am. It’s like with clothes: When you want to make a good impression, you put on your spiffiest, sharpest looking attire. The problem with that is, after a while, it becomes taxing. It’s like a chore, especially for me, because I don’t wear smart little outfits. I wear jeans. And if I’m going out – fancy jeans. Because that’s who I am. I’m just casual that way. And by approaching my blog the way I have been thus far, it feels like I’m wearing my fancy clothes all the time, and I know in my heart that it’s not as fun as it could be. So, from now on, I think I’ll take a more relaxed approach to Destroy All Evidence, one that lets me be the truest version of myself (jeans) and makes it enjoyable for me to share my thoughts and experiences with you, my blog buddies. I hope you stick around while I work this thing out.

Because You Have To: Weddings

2007-05-21T14:45:00.000-07:00

A few Saturdays ago, my cousin Rob married his longtime fiancée, Jackie. This was a totally happy occasion, as Rob is a great person and Jackie his equal in every way. I don’t know if anyone ever wishes for in-laws, but I really don’t see how you could hope to get anyone sweeter than Rob or Jackie for your own. Still, as it is with most weddings, no matter how much you love the bride and groom, there’s always a slight sense of dread when it comes to actually attending the event. And that is precisely what I was feeling when the day was finally upon us.

I had several concerns about attending this wedding, first and foremost being, of course, that I had absolutely nothing to wear. I don’t go to weddings that often, and I have little or no need for dressy clothes in my day-to-day life. Because of this, not only did I have no formal wear in my closet, I also had no idea how to do formal wear properly. By doing a little snooping before hand (ie, asking everyone I knew who was invited to the wedding what they were going to wear) I figured that I could get away with some kind of sassy business attire, maybe even pants. Armed with my new info, I hit the mall with my favorite shopping partner, my grandma, Vivian, and came away with a really cute, appropriate outfit – and my very first pair of stilettos, which I have to say I really, really love. Sure, I couldn’t feel my second and third toes on my left foot for a week or two after the wedding, but the shoes looked hot and – I’ll admit it – were a nice change from my usual Converse and slip-on Vans. After the successful, virtually painless purchase of the ensemble, I was feeling more optimistic about the wedding day.

Optimism is a funny thing though. As any lady will tell you, once you have a cute outfit locked, you can convince yourself to do most things based solely on the confidence boost you get from knowing you look good. I’m fairly sure that I was riding that train right up until the day of the event, when the pessimism set back in and the list of horrible things that could go down starting compiling itself in my head. For example, as I am certain it is at most weddings, Rob and Jackie’s was sure to have a modicum of familial weirdness, which I was most definitely not looking forward to encountering. Another thing: I don’t dance (or rather, I haven’t figured out how to dance in public without looking like some crazy Elaine impersonator), and at a traditional wedding, it’s hard to avoid dancing. Then there’s the added pressure of the bouquet toss. As is well documented, I am single, and being the age that I am, that apparently makes me a prime bouquet toss participant. And how about the fact that you inevitably get greeted by someone you know you should know but then proceed to blank on their name when it comes time to return the salutation? Those things, and a whole host of other equally heinous situations could go down at a wedding at any given time, and, well, I was pretty much at a DefCon 10 level of anxiety when it came time to go to the wedding.

As it turned out, I didn’t really have to worry about any of those things. The family stuff thankfully – mercifully - took a back seat to the happiness of the day. I didn’t have to dance, mainly because whenever anyone asked me, I pointed out that the floor looked very slick and that my shoes were very new (this actually made me love the shoes even more). I managed to escape the bouquet toss simply by lying low behind a tall centerpiece when the DJ called all the single gals to the floor (though my Aunt Virginia almost blew my cover by maniacally pointing from me to the dance floor, at which point I slunk out of my chair and made a beeline to the open bar…it’s funny how Cosmopolitans can deaden the meddling of batty aunts, isn’t it?). And as far as blanking on names goes, I found that if you mumble, you can pretty much get away with calling anyone “Janet” without them ever noticing (though methinks the open bar helped with that one too). All in all, it was a nice event, and I think I enjoyed myself (though that could just be the relief that it’s over talking…).

Finally, 3 Things: April

2007-05-09T17:00:00.000-07:00

Forgive me. I forgot I had a blog there for a minute. I’m not crazy (well, maybe I’m crazy like a fox, but that’s a different story), just busy. Anyway, I’m back with a new post now, the much-delayed “3 Things,” April edition. Enjoy! And if you don’t, I don’t want to hear about it : )

1. Fleetwood Mac, Rumours
One recent obsession of mine has been the VH1 Classic channel. For a long time, whenever I was channel surfing, I would buzz right by this station, mostly because on our satellite it’s grouped with a bunch of other crappy music channels that I really have no interest in (unless I’m watching "Engaged and Underage," but that goes without saying). I would still be buzzing by it had “Classic Albums: Fleetwood Mac” not caught my eye mid-browse. There is something you should know about me: I love Fleetwood Mac, and have for a long, long time. I’m a Fleetwood Mac junkie (as opposed to the members of Fleetwood Mac, who were actual junkies). I love the music and I love all the convoluted, overly dramatic, tempestuous relationship crap that went on (and still goes on) behind it all. Plus, if I could trade lives with anyone in the world, it would almost certainly be Stevie Nicks, not only so that I could wear her awesome clothes and sing with her beautiful voice, but also because she’s just about the coolest chick ever. She’s a little witchy and that freaks me out but in a good way. And if the life trading is possible, I think time travel should also be doable, so I would trade lives with her in the 1970s, mainly because I would want to get it on with Lindsey Buckingham when he was still hot, and have immediate access to a lot of coke. Whoo, not unlike Pam on “The Office,” I am saying a lot of things…so back to the topic at hand, Rumours. This is, hands down, the best Fleetwood Mac album of all time, and maybe the best album of its time. At the time it was recorded, Lindsey and Stevie were breaking up, as were John and Christine, and Mick was getting divorced. I think they all pretty much hated each other during the year it took them to record Rumours, but some intense, gorgeous music came out of those sessions (definitely check out “I Don’t Want to Know” - it’s not often remembered as one of Fleetwood Mac’s greatest songs, but it’s fantastic). I have but one problem with this album: How did “Silver Springs” not make the final cut but “Oh Daddy” did? This glaring oversight, along with Bjork, her music and her fashion choices, is something I will never, ever understand. It’s still an incredible album though, and it was numero uno in my music rotation for all of April.

2. Headbands
My hair is curly, frizzy, and generally unmanageable. Couple that with the fact that I like to invest little or no time in my everyday appearance, and it’s pretty much a recipe for disaster. To make matters worse, no matter what combo of products I use, I always wake up looking like a cracked out Don King. I could blame genetics (and why shouldn’t I? I blame them for pretty much everything else.), or the fact that I sleep like a madwoman, all twisty and turny. Whatever the reason, I always thought that I was destined to forever have a somewhat frazzled daytime look - until I discovered the miracle that is the headband. Hear me now: I love headbands. In style or out, it makes no difference to me. Elastic, metal, silk, patent leather, plastic – I couldn’t care less what they’re made of, bring ‘em all on. If hairstyling were like Scientology, instead of Xenu, its disciples would be worshipping the headband. With minimal effort, I can create a couple of really cute looks. Pull the hair into a low ponytail, slap on a headband, and you’ve got a simple, businesslike look. Tuck the hair up into a high bun and cap it off with a headband – voila! Instant princess. I look finished and put together without even really trying. And that is a beautiful thing.

3. The Best Fan in the World
No, I’m not talking about you, OK.NOWwhat (though I do very much enjoy your comments and appreciate your continued readership). I’m talking about the Seville UltraSlimline Fan. This is, quite simply put, the best fan in the world. Put it to you this way: If fans were like Scientology, instead of Xenu, their disciples would worship the Seville UltraSlimline. I don’t even know where to start when singing the praises of this magic machine. I just know that its tall, thin design is easy to store when it’s cold (read: anytime it’s below 75 degrees), its three “natural breeze” settings rock my world, it’s freakishly quiet even on its highest speed, and its remote control caters to all my lazy tendencies. An added bonus: It comes with a 12-inch personal fan as well! In my house, that fan belongs to the dog, Maverick. That hound is definitely the rock star of the family, so it seemed only fitting that he should get his own mini PF. And you should get one too, because if you’re reading this, you’re for sure regarded as a rock star here at Destroy All Evidence.

I hope your April was filled with great stuff like mine was. Check back in a few days when I'll be posting about a wedding I went to last weekend. Oh, the fun we shall have!

Not As Good As A Box of Gold, But Very Close

2007-04-30T21:11:00.000-07:00

Last Friday night I went to see my friend, Steven, in a production of Andrew Lloyd Webber’s “Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dream Coat” (he was great as Potiphar, who made his money as a BC real estate mogul investing in – what else? – pyramids! So cute.). I wanted to bring him something to congratulate him on a job well done – but what? If he were a girl, I would have picked up some flowers without giving it a second thought. We gals are easy that way. Even the toughest lass likes getting flowers, and take my word for it, any girl who says she wouldn’t love a gorgeous bouquet is, well, let’s just say that it’d be in your best interest to take a few steps back, lest her nose gets so long that it causes you any kind of bodily harm. (As a side note for the fellas, you should know that no matter what kind of gal you’re dealing with, you really, really can’t go wrong with some classy blooms. You just can’t. And may I suggest roses? Any color will do, especially if you ask the florist to make it a roses-only arrangement by getting rid of the carnations, baby’s breath, and those weird ferny fillers. Timeless and swoon-worthy, I’m telling you!). Although some dudes do appreciate a nice arrangement, Steven is not a flower guy. I figured that he would tell me he liked them and thank me for bringing them and then let them sit in the backseat of his car until they developed that really awful rotting flower smell, and really, that’s more like a punishment than a present. So I decided that instead of flowers, Steven would be getting…drum roll…wait for it…a box of homemade cookies! When this thought sprang into my mind, I became that particular brand of really great, over the top, crazy excited usually reserved for children on Christmas morning. If I were a cartoon, a light bulb and a bunch of obnoxious exclamation points would have popped up over my head. And it wasn’t just one of those ideas that seem great at the time but then turn out badly either. Steven loved them, and I was so pleased with the final product that I took it as a huge personal victory. It was such a triumph that I thought I’d share my tips to creating a fantastic baked goods gift with you on this here blog. Without further ado:

• Presentation is key: As a longtime Food Network junkie, I’ve learned over the years that we eat with our eyes first. To me, that means making it a priority to keep the presentation interesting. I’ve seen this theory taken to the extreme (a recent episode of “Iron Chef America” comes to mind, in which the challenger plated his squab with its dead, fried talon clutching a clove of roasted garlic – interesting, yes, yet at the same time undeniably gross), but I like to keep things simpler by presenting them in an understated, unfettered manner. That’s why, when it came to Steven’s gift ‘o goodies, I picked up a 7X7X4 classic pink cake box and tied it shut with silver string finished off in a simple, shoelace-style bow. It had a very vintage bakery feel to it, and I loved the look of it. Additional advantages? It was easy to carry around till the end of the musical, and I didn’t have to worry about getting a plate or plastic container back.

• "No pleasure endures unseasoned by variety."*: To me, there’s nothing more boring than a whole lot of the same thing. Because of that, I made Steven three kinds of cookies. I heard through the grapevine that he was an unabashed chocolate chip cookie fanatic, so I made the traditional (and, in my opinion, best) Nestle recipe that comes printed on the back of every bag of chocolate chips. Then I decided to up the gourmet factor a little bit with Chocolate White Chocolate Chunk Cookies and Blue Ribbon Almond Roca Cookies. I picked those recipes because they seemed to me to be upscale variations on the classic chocolate chip cookie, and the results were fantastic. The Chocolate White Chocolate Chunk was yummy, and I liked how the dark dough and white chocolate pieces came across as sort of a positive/negative version of the chocolate chip cookies. As for the Almond Roca Cookies, anything I say about them would be a complete understatement. They were fantastic. Additional advantage? You get to try out multiple recipes and might come up with a winner or two like I did.

• Never neglect the card: The thing about the cookie box is, you can’t just shove it into someone’s arms. It has to come with a little love attached (so cheesy/so true). It’s just like giving someone money – you give it to them in a card instead of pushing a wad of sweaty bills into their hand. I found a great card for Steven that was totally apropos and just looked right nestled on top of the box under the bow. Additional advantage? Once the whole gift was completed and assembled, it was a thoroughly classy affair. Ron Burgundy would be proud.

So there you have it, my tips for creating a fantastic baked goods gift. Next time you’re hard pressed for a present and the traditional gifts seem trite or inappropriate, take my word for it and serve up the cookie box. Additional advantage? Make enough cookies to gift, then gift yourself with the leftovers.

*This quote is attributed to Publilius Syrus, who is most certainly dead but still deserves credit. So thanks, Pub - you’ve got a box of delicious cookies coming your way in the afterlife, friend.

Our Dodgers, Ourselves

2007-04-18T15:15:00.000-07:00

I live in California. Southern California, more specifically. One thing that the nonnative sect usually notes about this part of state is that the weather is always pretty much the same here - fairly temperate and, more often than not, completely lovely. Even though my aversion to the whole “California girl” image is substantial (and yours would be too if you were brunette and pale and bookish), I have to admit that I love California. There’s something nice about being able to wear flip-flops every day for eleven months of the year. Forget flip-flops – how about the fact that you can enjoy a nice day at the beach for that same period of time as well? Hell, think bigger than the beach – how about the fact that it’s totally possible to, if you were tremendously motivated (and in tremendous physical shape), surf in the ocean, ski in the mountains, and go four-wheeling in the desert, all in the same day? That’s actually pretty extraordinary. So Cal is pretty extraordinary. And I count it an extraordinary privilege to get to call myself her native daughter.

Still, as closely as I hold California to my heart, enjoy her many pleasures, and defend her countless virtues to bitter and lofty out-of-staters (whose outward hate is, I believe, secret envy of the sunshine-y, carefree beauty of my home turf), I have to confess that living here has a tendency to become somewhat tedious. I guess you could say that the grass is always greener on the other side, but that’s just it – the grass is always greener in So Cal, and while the absence of changing seasons makes it an awfully nice place to live, it robs you of a feeling of time and space and rhythm and a sense of the natural progression of things. It’s hard to differentiate between the months when they’re all just an endless parade of warm days strung together one right after the next. There’s really no winter or spring or summer or fall here. It’s just one long, sunny blur until we roll over the calendars in January and start again…that is, unless you’re a baseball fan. To baseball fans, there are two seasons, and two seasons exclusively, no matter where you live: Baseball season, when nothing else seems to hold as much importance as how your team did that day, and the off season, when you sit around waiting for baseball season to start up again. And if you are So Cal born and bred like me, there’s more than a fair chance that you’re a Dodger fan. And if you are indeed a Dodger fan…well, I feel your pain.

Is there anything or anyone in the world that can take your heart, break it, and put it back together again more effectively than the Dodgers? I doubt it. But that’s what they do. They take your already half empty glass, knock it over, then fill it to the brim before downing it, again and again and again, until it occurs to you that your life as a blue-bleeder is nothing more than several minor nervous breakdowns in nine inning increments, 162 times a year. But you love it. It makes you a sadist, sure, but you love it for those moments when it makes you an optimist. And, to be honest, at the core of every Dodger fan’s soul lies a hidden optimist. You would have to be to cherish a team who will unfailingly win enough games to get you thinking that this is the year they’re going to make something big happen, only to inexplicably lose their steam come September, taking your heart and your dreams of post season glory with them. Yet even then, you can’t deny that every time Vin Scully declares, “It’s time for Dodger baseball!” you know in your gut that those are the most beautiful and comforting words in the English language. The Dodgers – they do that to you.

When the train inevitably jumps the tracks, it becomes a spectacle that’s literally painful to watch. It’s like a stab in the heart. Most people say that the ungodly traffic is the reason Dodger fans leave the games in the seventh inning; I say it’s because we just can’t stand to see how bad the damage is when the wheels come off. Either way, you have to know that we’re listening to the game on the radio as we shake our heads and battle our way out of the parking lot. Because that’s what we do – we love them no matter how much they screw things up for us. We keep coming back for more because we know, somewhere in the depths of our souls, that the Dodgers can find their way back from whatever defeats they will most certainly suffer. We might not have a lot of proof to substantiate this claim, but still we cling desperately to the hope that our injured players might get it together and Kirk Gibson their way into baseball history, that our misfit infield will somehow morph itself into a kind of Garvey-Lopes-Russell-Cey magic machine, that when our pitchers take the mound, the memory of the greats like Koufax and Drysdale will be there with them, inspiring every pitch to dance over the plate. We hope for these things because we have no other choice than to hope for these things. For better or for worse, the Dodgers are inherently ours and vice versa.

Maybe being a Dodger fan is a fantastic metaphor for life: It’s a constant, devastating, bullish struggle. You have to be steadfast and unflinching and hopeful, because if you’re not, you have no chance whatsoever of succeeding – you’ve lost before you’ve even really begun. You’ll strike out – a lot – but you have to come to your next at-bat believing that the next pitch is your pitch. You may have lost by 20 runs today, but you have to know that you can win by that many tomorrow. It’s about recognizing and appreciating the fact that you’ll have another opportunity to make things right. It’s a blank scorecard. A freshly raked field. A clean uniform. Another at-bat. Another game. Another chance to start over. Maybe that’s a kind of beacon of hope that we could all use in our lives every once and a while. I’m more than okay with letting the Dodgers be that beacon for me.

3 Things: March

2007-04-03T01:34:00.000-07:00

I would now like to introduce you to "3 Things," which I hope will become a monthly tradition around here. At the end of each month, I'll hit you with three things that I enjoyed over the course of the previous four weeks. I try really hard not to be a pimp on this blog, mostly because I heard from my pals Djay and Shug that it's really hard out there for a pimp - I've got enough problems of my own, thank you very much - but also because I don't want this space to become one big billboard (especially since, hello, no one is paying us for the shout out - we ain't no fools!). Still, when I like something, I want to share it with the people around me, so I think this is a good compromise. Here we go!

1. Movie Madness Marathon (aka, “MMM”)
Last week, Andrea and I were on Spring Break. Neither of us has ever been a big time partier, generally preferring to spend quiet time at home rather than partaking in hours and hours of weirdly loud music and wildly unentertaining people. Because of this, it’s not so surprising that our big activity for Spring Break was an event that united our shared love for lounging, cooking and eating, and watching a crap load of DVDs: the Movie Madness Marathon. We’ve done this a couple of times before, once when we knocked out the whole “Lord of the Rings” trilogy in one sitting and another time when we pushed our way through almost 75% of a season of “24.” Those were exhausting times, but they were good times. It had been far too long since our last MMM, so we thought we would take this mutual time off to resurrect it, and I’m so glad that we did.

To get the ball rolling, we first used our combined Netflixing abilities to procure three movies: "For Your Consideration" (another one of Christopher Guest’s simple, brilliant mock docs), "The Departed" (Martin Scorsese’s Boston-based tale of two men on opposite sides of the law; also this year’s Best Picture Oscar winner), and "Stranger Than Fiction" (the one where your idea that it would be great to have someone directing your life, telling you what to do and what’s going to happen to you, gets totally shot to hell). Then we decided that we’d watch them in that order as well – start with funny lightness, follow it up with weight and drama, finish it off with a nudge-on-the-chin feel gooder. Finally, we figured we would make a veritable smorgasbord of delectable snacks to nibble on at our leisure while laying around in our loungewear, snuggled up in blankets and watching movies. The result: Pure magic. It turned out to be a completely marvelous day. We saw three great movies, ate some truly delicious snackery (Blue cheese stuffed mushrooms! Ham and cheese rolls! Caprese sandwiches! Limoncello cheesecake squares!), and spent hours of quality time together. And we were in loungewear! All day long in the loungewear. I defy you to come up with anything more perfect than that.

2. Which Brings Me to You: A Novel in Confessions by Steve Almond and Julianna Baggott
A few weeks ago, I was bogged down by some heavy required reading for class, and it seemed like all the books I chose to read for pleasure were inexplicably dark (and not just, “Wow, that was sad” dark, but, “Wow, if I keep reading books like this, I’m seriously not going to be able to get out of bed” dark) as well. For the sake of my sanity, I began the arduous process of seeking out some respectable (ie, non-cheeseball) light-hearted fare. I scoured Borders and couldn’t find anything that appealed to me (thereby confirming my theory that “respectable” and “light-hearted” are mutually exclusive in literary terms). I was all set to go home, defeated, and dive right into another hide-the-handgun novel when I saw something scribbled onto the back of my checkbook: the title of a novel I once read an excellent review of, jotted down hastily in purple ink. I don’t remember the last time I had a purple pen. I don’t remember when I made that notation. I don’t remember where I read that review. But none of that matters, because I trusted myself (my purple pen-having self, my checkbook writing self) and bought that book right on the spot. As it turns out, it was just what I needed to get myself out of my depressing book funk.

Which Brings Me to You is the story of a man and woman who meet at a wedding and have an awkward semi-sexual encounter that leads to the exchange of a series of letters laying out their past failures in love and life (those are the “confessions” referenced in the title). I bought it, read it in a day, and am now actively promoting it to all my friends, family, and, of course, blog buddies. Check it out – it’s smart, witty and real, which, let’s face it, you don’t get a lot of these days.

(And also, after reading this piece about his experience coauthoring a novel and this piece about his nephews and the entirety of this book tour diary, I think I sort of heart Steve Almond. How have I never read any of this guy’s work before? He’s smart, witty and real…I'm pretty sure I read somewhere that you don’t get a lot of that these days.)

3. The Colgate 360 toothbrush
Two things I’m always in the business of: 1) Getting my teeth whiter, and 2) Keeping my breath fresh. This fantastic toothbrush accomplishes both things, because not only does it have some soft rubber bristles to remove stains and keep you plaque free, it also has this weird nubby thing on the backside of the head that cleans both the inside of the cheeks and the tongue, ridding your mouth of bacteria that causes bad breath. In short, the brush is genius. The bottom line is, my teeth are super white, my breath is odor free, and you should throw away your old crappy toothbrush and use this one instead. Also, as previously stated, we don't get any kind of payment for recommending things like this, but maybe if someone told Colgate I’d be willing to receive compensation in the form of a lifetime supply of these toothbrushes they'd be willing to pony up. After all, this blog gets over three views a day. That’s got to be worth something. Pass it on.

WWJBD?

2007-03-25T19:55:00.000-07:00

I love the television show “24.” I feel as though at some point, probably when I’ve run out of interesting things to say, I will speak at length (or, as I’m sure the majority of you will probably feel, “ad nauseam”) about how fantastic the show is, about how you should be watching it if you’re not, about how every time Carlos Bernard appeared onscreen during his tenure as Tony Almeida I had the overwhelming urge to reach out and touch his neck, etc. Trust me, those are going to be glorious days for you people. I don’t think I’m ready to go there yet, but I really do feel like I should tell you why I like it so much, because, not unlike the food you consume, you are what you watch. I apparently am a person who loves loads of violence and a healthy dose of patriotism with some hot guys thrown into the mix. Another thing I love: learning (or, more accurately, “I love learning things that I will most likely never need to know and that will serve little or no purpose, now or in the future.”). Perhaps that’s the real reason I love “24”: It has taught me so much about getting through life (i.e., the life of a CTU agent/hero, not my own life, that of a blogger/moron) in times of crisis (i.e., “Terrorists are attacking LA! The horror!” not “We’re out of Diet Peach Snapple? Again? The horror!”). Observe:

If you need to keep a secret, you could…
• …get a heroin addiction. I believe it was season three in which our hero, Jack Bauer, became an addict to get in good with some Mexican drug lords, thereby allowing himself to thwart their eventual goal of purchasing some kind of killer virus (Oh, "24," your complex twists endear us to you so!). He kept as few people in on it as possible, mainly the delicious Tony, his ever-present Cubs mug, and Gael, some generic, I-can’t-believe-I-remember-his-name-all-these-seasons-later Counter Terrorism Unit employee. Jack’s dedication to the project allowed it to develop under the noses of all at CTU. And cultivating a raging heroin addiction? That’s 100% commitment to your goal and keeping your ulterior motives under wraps. I applaud that.

Doing the smack, the junk, the china white, the big H - all in a day's work for our main man, JB.

• …put the info on a computer chip and stitch it up inside your own body. If I’m remembering correctly, some guy Jack was hunting down did this, and Jack only saw it when he looked at an x-ray of the guy’s chest. Because he is Jack Bauer, he dug in there bare-handed and heroic to retrieve the chip, but I still feel like this is a really smart way to conceal information, simply because there are no Jack Bauers in the real world and your chip would most likely go to the grave with you because of that. Those are just the facts, friends.

• …”go dark.” I can’t count how many times Jack has “gone dark” over the years, but he usually does it when he’s doing something, shall we say, a little outside of the accepted parameters of normal behavior. To achieve full “darkness” you have to cut off all communication with your base (or anyone for that matter) and take off of any satellite-tracking device you might have on you. This way, no one knows what you’re doing, where you’re doing it, or whom you’re doing it to.

• …fake your own death. I can’t imagine that I would ever be in a situation that would require me to fake my own death, but I know I can after seeing Jack do it so successfully on “24.” Apparently there’s not a lot to it: Take some sort of medication that stops your heart, have friends on standby ready to push epi to bring you back, then disappear to some ghetto town where you take on a new identity, complete with a new look (Jack got a sweet chop and some cowboy-looking duds; I would probably end up either looking butch or, conversely, like a beauty pageant queen), a new occupation (Jack: Oil Driller, Nicole: Perpetual trainee at a string of fast food joints), and a new, unimpressive name (Jack went with Frank; I’m going with Alice, because I’m cute like that).

Keeping your own secrets is one thing, but if you need information from a perp who won’t talk, you could…
• …shoot the guy in the thigh. Apparently you can survive a thigh shot and walk again, all while remaining coherent enough to answer questions. Hit the knee or below and you’ve permanently paralyzed your informant, which I wouldn’t think would inspire him to give you anything useful. When watching “24,” “Shoot him in the thigh!” is my most common mantra, mainly because Jack has used this technique many times to monumental success and I always wonder why he doesn’t just jump to that move, his ringer, right off the bat instead of trying some other things first. It’s probably because he gets his torture on so often that he needs to mix it up a little, lest it becomes boring and tedious.

A few inches lower = paralyzed. A few inches higher = also not good.

• …give him the “swallow the towel” treatment. In season one, Jack tells some dude how in Russian prisons (gulags?), when they need to get the 411 out of their inmates, they make them swallow one end of a towel, which slowly makes it’s way down to the stomach, while they hold on to the other end. The stomach then begins doing it’s stomachly duties and digests the towel, at which point the towel is slowly pulled out of the mouth, bringing with it the stomach lining. So gross, so fantastically effective. Love it.

• …use sensory deprivation. Remember in season four when Jack had to torture the dippy little brother of his then- paramour, Audrey? This was his chosen method, complete with screeching and screaming in what was probably one of those awesome Bose headsets. Also there were some creepy black out goggles involved, and he may or may not have been strapped to a chair, “$100,000 Pyramid” style. Anyway, that kid was such a wuss I feel sure that Jack thought this was his only way to go; if he’d shot him in the thigh (as I loudly recommended) he probably would have gone all hysterical and wet his pants, and then he would have been no use to Jack. And also, Jack strikes me as the type of man who wouldn’t appreciate a floor covered in urine. Especially someone else’s urine. So there’s that.

• …go for the electroshock, especially if it’s delivered through some live wires you just yanked out of a lamp. Jack laid the torture down on Audrey’s ex-husband this way once. I must say, it was pretty brutal to watch, which of course translates to “It was one of my favorite moments of that season.” Props to Chloe, a CTU tech genius, for using this method in the form of a good tasering when some drunken boob was flirting with her at a bar. I think she hit that guy like four or five times. I’ve never been prouder of a fictional character more so than I was of Chloe at that very moment.

Bravo, Chloe. You're a beacon of hope for annoyed women in bars everywhere.

• …go very, very gorilla and just plastic bag their head. I’ve learned from Jack that when you don’t have time to get creative, you can always hit them where it hurts: oxygen deprivation. Jack did this to his own brother recently. When I saw that, I told my brother, “You know, I don’t think I would have any qualms about torturing you,” to which he replied, after about 30 second of deep thought, “Yeah, me neither.” Huh.

Finally, if torturing is not enough and it becomes necessary to kill someone, or if you have to kill them anyway…
• …use a gift card that you’ve snapped in half. Jack can’t take credit for this little gem; his arch nemesis, the evil Nina, whipped out this technique way back in season three to get slice open the neck of another random, nameless CTU peon. It was unexpected, and while my hate for Nina and her bizarre wardrobe and hair choices runs quite deep, I can’t help but give her props. That’s ingenious.

• …deprive them of their essential medications. Another little biscuit Jack can’t claim; this one was doled out by Sherry Palmer, the (again) evil wife of our beloved President David Palmer. I forget how this all went down, except that she withheld meds from an old dude who had some dirt on her husband and he died. I like it because it’s simple, it’s to the point, and most importantly, it’s bloodless. Plus, who’s to say that she really did anything? Maybe the old coot just couldn’t get himself to his meds in time. There’s no case there, Your Honor.

• …use a pistol fitted with a silencer. I had no idea what a silencer was the first time I saw it, but I liked it immediately. I remember asking Andrea, “What is that thing on the gun?” and she said, “That’s a silencer,” and I said, “Wow.” There were just no other words. I still get excited when I see a silencer on screen, just because I know that there will be some serious business going down. Plus, I think a silencer is indicative of a classier, better thought out production, as a stock gat without a silencer seems more…pedestrian. Because I’m nothing if not a lady, I say bring on the silencer.

• …get your stab on. This is undoubtedly my favorite form of physical violence, mostly because it seems like you’d have to have quite a bit of rage to effectively carry out a stabbing, or else it’s just a poke. You’ve got to have a lot of feeling behind it, you know? It’s very purposeful. I mean, you can accidentally shoot someone, but I would think it’d be super hard to accidentally shiv a guy. Also, it has given Andrea and I an excellent new phrase that we use all the time: “I’m feeling a little stabby today,” as in, “I’m having a bad day, and most likely, if push came to shove, I probably wouldn’t have any difficulty getting my shiv on.”

• …channel your inner Jeffrey Daumer, go balls out and bite straight through a man. At one point this season, it became necessary for Jack to break free of his captors to relay some overheard intel to CTU, and he did so by biting through his guard’s jugular. It just doesn’t get more hardcore than that. He bit through a man! That is awesome.

Gives a new meaning to the phrase, "man meat."

As you can probably deduce, I have had to put exactly zero of these lessons into practice in my own life, but that doesn’t mean I never will. I still think they’re worth knowing, just in case I ever become brave or smart or useful (unlikely) and someone actually needs me to do something heroic on a large scale (i.e., saving the world from some form of imminent destruction – also improbable). Until then…more blogging.

Drop It Like It's Idiotic

2007-03-20T19:53:00.000-07:00

I’ve steered clear of FM radio for a few years now, ever since the glorious inception of the iPod, (my own proudly named iPhil). FM radio is just like that wet steak burrito at the local Alberto’s hole-in-the-wall that makes you weep in your hands all night while planted over the porcelain seat. You think it's a good idea but it quickly spirals down and you end up in a heap. Yet, with time, the memory fades until you find yourself one day thinking it would be good idea to give another one of those behemoths a go. Then all of it, the memory and indigestion, come flooding back as you’re plowing through that sucker. It’s then that you realize that not only are you in for a world of hurt in half an hour, but also that you’re an idiot and that’s all there is to it. Well, I, in my never-ending quest to continuously torture myself, thought that it would be interesting to see what music was being played ad nauseam and then trampled to death on the radio these days. What did I find? Why, classic gems with the following ground-breaking lyrics, of course:

Akon – “Don’t Matter”

“Nobody wanna see us together
But it don't matter no
Cause I got you babe
Nobody wanna see us together
But it don't matter no
Cause I got you babe
Cause we gon' fight
Oh yes we gon' fight
Believe we gon' fight
We gon' fight
Fight for our right to love yeah
Nobody wanna see us together
But it don't matter no
Cause I got you”

How tired is the “us against the world” theme in describing relationships, especially when it’s a cross between Sonny and Cher and The Beastie Boys in lyrical intelligence? Trust me, if everyone is against your relationship, you’re going to crumble like a dieter being offered a chunky peanut butter and apricot jam sandwich (those things are crazy good!). I’d stake my whole Korean stationery collection on it.

Fergie aka “The Troll” – “Glamorous”

“If you ain't got no money take yo' broke ass home
You say: If you ain't got no money take yo' broke ass home
G-L-A-M-O-R-O-U-S, yeah G-L-A-M-O-R-O-U-S”

Ok, I can accept this chorus. I mean, who likes poor people, right? Not me, that’s for sure. And she’s teaching the peeps to spell words. That so qualifies for community service in my book. Big up. But then she had to go and spoil the whole thing and write a few verses to accompany this fine chorus…

“We flying the first class
Up in the sky
Poppin' champagne
Livin' the life
In the fast lane
And I won’t change
By the Glamorous, oh the flossy flossy”

“I've got money in the bank
And I'd really like to thank
All the fans, I'd like to thank
Thank you really though”

Wait, I thought she didn’t want any broke asses hanging with her yet she’s thanking her guaranteed poorer fans for giving her that money? Whaa? Some of these fans need to organize and riot that charter jet.

Mims – “This Is Why I’m Hot”

“This is why I'm Hot, This is why I'm Hot
This is why, this is why, this is why I'm Hot
This is why I'm hot, This is why I'm Hot
This is why, this is why, this is why I'm Hot
I'm Hot cause I'm fly, you ain't cause you not
This is why, this is why, this is why I'm Hot
I'm Hot cause I'm fly, you ain't cause you not
This is why, this is why, this is why I'm Hot”

At the very least, you’ve got to admit that the rules of hip-hop are simple and finite. That’s admirable. Still, whenever I hear this song, it’s at this point where I want to drive off a canyon road and sail down in a blaze of glory into a steep ditch, but then I heard the first 2 lines of the next verse:

“This is why I'm hot, I ain't gotta rap
I sell a mill sayin' nothin' on a track”

I take it back. It’s all genius.

What A Strange Way to Kick Me When I'm Down

2007-03-09T11:46:00.000-08:00

This week, I was struck twice. The first blow was delivered in the form of some sort of flu/cold hybrid that sadistically attacked my immune system. In the grand tradition of hybrid names (Bennifer, holla) I’ve coined this illness “flold.” I would have gone with “clu,” but my deep love for the board game “Clue” and it’s companion film, 1985’s "Clue: The Movie" (starring the enchantingly creepy Tim Curry), prohibits it. Anyway, the general symptoms of this malady included a severe stuffy nose, clogged ears, bizarre fever dreams, horrendous body aches, fiery eyeballs, violent, hacking sneezes, and a face rubbed so raw by tissue that no ointment could soothe it. I spent three days in bed trying to find a position that would ease my congestion while shooting up nose spray and watching hours and hours of whatever was on Bravo (where I saw literally a million commercials for online dating. I hate that they know their target audience so well…). It was so nasty an illness that even the dog, who is a golden retriever, a breed which is generally regarded as the kindest of all the canines, looked at me out of the cut of his eye, turned on his heels and walked away looking disgusted. Yeah, it was that gross. But, as these viral ailments usually do, the flold came and went in a matter of days. Things were looking up…until I foolishly left my sick bed too early and got rear-ended. Blow #2.

I was on my way home when I stopped at an intersection because, although the light was green, there was an ambulance passing through in the opposite direction and that’s what you have to do. Plus, all the other cars around me were stopped and, as the lemming theory has always served me well in the past, I followed along. Unfortunately, the huge, fast-moving truck behind me did not, and I got rear-ended. Now, I probably should have prefaced this by saying that I drive a little car, a VW Beetle. That sucker is a complete road warrior; you would understand if you saw how minimally it was damaged after the hit, but as I am new to the blog world, it didn’t occur to me to take a picture to show you, so you’ll just have to take my word for it. But wow – what a champion. I’m not saying it doesn’t suck to get hit (and from the minute you get your license it seems to be sort of inevitable no matter how good of a driver you are), but knowing your car can withstand it and protect you from any bodily harm is a perk for sure. Anyway, the man who hit me (what’s up, Jay?) was the kind of guy you want to hit you – super sweet and terribly apologetic. And lucky for him, I’m the kind of girl you want to hit (dirty) – I don’t freak out (at least not outwardly) and I’m not mean (ditto, though my inner monologue is so chock full of obscenities that I fear the consequences should I put them in print here). Another good thing: I have a pretty sweet rental ride while my car is in the body shop – a definite plus. I actually couldn’t be happier with how the situation turned out. The only thing better would have been, you know, not getting hit at all.

And now it’s time for me to admit something to you all: I just reread this post and for the life of me I can’t figure out where I was going with it. Probably something about how you get hit the hardest when you’re least expecting it? That’s not ringing true now, especially since a) I felt achy and tired for days before the flold attacked, a clear sign of impending illness, and b) I could see in my rearview mirror that the truck was not going to be able to stop in time and that I would indeed be whacked. Maybe something revolving around the old, “If you get knocked down, get right back up” cliché? That’s also somewhat ridiculous considering that I was a huge moaning baby when I was sick and also that I was so shaken up after the accident it’s a miracle my quivering hands could steer me home, and, now that I’m back on the road, I can’t help checking the rearview every few seconds just to make sure the driver behind me is maintaining a safe following distance. I guess I’ll go with this: If you get sick but not sick enough that you have to go to the doctor, do name your illness something fun, preferably one of those blended names, and do not watch Bravo unless you want to be inundated with online dating ads and hours of “The Real Housewives of Orange County” reruns. Also, if you do get rear-ended, do your best to get hit by Jay and his big truck, because although getting rear-ended is a bummer, at least Jay is nice and will say he is sorry and make sure that your taillights still work before you drive away. Oh, and do write your insurance information on Korean stationery. Not only is it better than a napkin or an envelope or the paper liner from a maxi pad, but the confused look you get when you hand over your info on a little piece of pink paper imprinted with a bear surrounded inexplicably by various drug accoutrements is just classic and can take the edge off of any difficult situation. Trust me.

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And now it’s weird because I just talked about maxi pads. I don’t know what to say, except that sometimes an entry doesn’t end up exactly how you thought it would, yet you can’t get rid of the whole thing because there’s enough good stuff in there to make it worth posting. So, every now and again, you have to talk about maxi pads. You just do. Have a nice weekend.

Thank You

2007-03-02T12:11:00.000-08:00

Last Monday was a very big, very exciting day here for all of us here at Destroy All Evidence because (...drum roll...) we received our first comment! On behalf of Andrea and myself, I’d like to send out a ton of heartfelt thanks and appreciation to OK.NOWwhat, whose lovely words of praise and encouragement completely made our day. And week. And month. Check out her blog, Foma (Mostly), if you have the time – she’s a great, funny writer with loads of interesting things to say, and getting a compliment from a blogger of her caliber is truly an honor.