The ultimate sign that cupcakes have nowhere to go but down: Some flack pitched them as a gift suggestion for graduates. Unless the recipient is moving on up from kindergarten, I can think of many things more appropriate. Cash, say. At least evolve to macarons.
Post Category → my biggest fan
We’re all angry white people now
I probably should be more worried about the next book from My Biggest Fan, but what I won’t read can’t hurt me. (Some “friend” or reader will report, I’m sure; he’s very good for traffic.) And I did survive the Porcine Pantload’s straining at stool, after all. Until any acid hits, though, I am enjoying seeing one thing reaffirmed: It’s hard out there for a Schnorrer.
4 & 20 hairs, baked
Glitch of the week: My Biggest Fan was described somewhere as “a former heroine user.” Guess that means he’s treating superwomen more respectfully these days? And in other silliness, I had to go and notice part of the URL for the public editor at the hometown paper is “pubed.” Given how much they resent him, tell me that’s an accident. . .
Ham bone’s connected
If I were the industrious type, I’d be working on a tell-all on how Twitter ate my life and made me fat and obliterated my bank account. (One day I expect to have to confess to my consort, Samuel L. Jackson-style, that “I Tweeted the teevee.”) But one reason it is so addictive is that it leads you to shit discoveries you would not have otherwise, no matter how satiated you always felt following 600 blogs a day. And the best sick highs are of MSM sites hanging out down at the corner of Ho and Puta. Could anything be sadder than well-established magazines on the block trying to save their irrelevant asses by dancing to manipulative readers’ tunes? Stop the Publish button, but “food blogs are having a serious impact” — that’s a story? Planted by a blog that needs hits like roaches need griddle grease? Really. If you want to show just how many years behind the curve you are, run a photo of my biggest fan in a necktie.
When Molto met Marcella
And since even I am obviously incapable of resisting the celluloid meth of the summer, I have to add that I’m a big admirer of Madeleine Kamman’s recipes; her roasted duck legs changed the way we eat. But I like a catfight as much as anyone else and so appreciated the dredging up of the old rivalry with Mme Child. It’s yet another gauge of character that the nastiness was kept buried until she was. Could you imagine that today? I Feel Bad About My Dreck should consider making a sequel: “No Reservations, Rachael.” Targeted at two such disparate audiences, it would be a blockbuster.
Smoked
Now that the greatest cat ever has joined the choir invisible, I can’t decide who deserves more blame for jinxing him, the crazy-optimistic vet or my biggest fan. Whatever. It kicked the snark out of me. I could barely rouse myself to wonder what the hell an achiote pepper might be. (Can you say annato makes the cheese go orange?) Or why someone for whom English is obviously a second language is allowed to digest DI/DO with no intervention by a copy desk. (Can you say kill the fucking index and give A-section stories room to run?) And did an albino really take a dump all over the magazine? Talk about acid redux. . . .