FORMED A BLOG.

Baked clams a la Dat

2008-09-16T21:10:00.001-04:00

This is my dad's famous baked clam recipe. It equals summer for me.

50 littleneck clams (whatever is the smallest size)
1/3 cup fresh parsley, finely chopped (parsley flakes are OK, but fresh is best)
5 cloves garlic, finely chopped
1 level teaspoon celery seed
1/4 teaspoon ground cloves
3/4 c. olive oil (extra virgin is not necessary, just use good quality olive oil)
Frank's Red Hot hot sauce
good crusty bread

1. Soak the clams in salted room-temperature water for several hours to clean themselves out. You may have to change the water several times; the clams tend to disgorge lots of sand.
2. While the clams are cleaning themselves out, mix up the sauce. Combine the parsley, garlic, celery seed, cloves, and olive oil. Set the sauce aside for several hours to allow the flavors to combine.
3. When the clams are sufficiently clean, drain the water, rinse them off one more time, and pat them dry with a clean tea towel. Preheat the oven to 375 degrees.
4. Put the clams in a single layer in a high-sided baking dish. Pour the sauce over the clams.
5. Bake the clams until they are all open and the sauce has reduced. This could take anywhere from 15 to 30 minutes. The clams are particularly good after they've been broiled a bit to crisp the tops up. When the clams are all open, turn on the broiler and give the clams 2-3 minutes under the broiler. Just be careful not to burn them (if the garlic burns, they're garbage).
6. Serve the clams with warm, crusty bread and Frank's Red Hot.

Notes: Be careful when eating the clams immediately out of the oven; the shells get super hot. I have burned my fingers and mouth many times on hot clam shells. We dip the bread into the clam juice and I joke that the clams are an excuse to eat disgustingly large hunks of bread. You can also use this recipe for linguine and clams: Add 3/4 cup of white wine to the sauce and allow the clams to steam on the stove.

Everything should taste like bacon, huh?

2007-08-24T10:31:00.000-04:00

On my the recommendations of Furiousball at We Should be GM's and my pal Pete, I bought some of this:

BACON SALT.

It finally arrived last night, so for dinner I made myself a salad of romaine hearts, grape tomatoes, cucumbers and blue cheese, and dressed it with bordeaux vinegar, extra virgin olive oil, cracked black pepper and a generous sprinkling of Bacon Salt.

Initial reaction: Meh.

It had a savory character reminiscent of Lawry's Seasoning Salt, which as a kid I loved, but I just didn't get that WHAM hit of bacon I was promised. I'll give it another try tonight on creamy scrambled eggs with toast.

Mr. Yuck

2007-04-27T12:34:00.000-04:00

Someone had a bad day on the hill yesterday.

Cole had a magnificent 15-K complete game ON MY BIRTHDAY (Best. Gift. EVAR.), and as I followed the box score online yesterday, I hoped he'd maintain that momentum going into yesterday's game (and pull out a win for Shan and Mario, who were at the CBP yesterday afternoon). Unfortunately, he only went 5 1/3 innings and gave up four runs before getting the hook.

I know that young pitchers run hot and cold, but a little consistency couldn't hurt, please?

It's OK, baby, I still love you. Even if our love is a curse.

What is going ON here?!

2007-03-29T13:28:00.001-04:00

misshapestubbies2
Originally uploaded by clareperretta.

Greg K dyed his hair red!

Oh, and also, THE MISSHAPES ARE IN A PHOTO WITH THE TELETUBBIES. THE APOCALYPSE IS NIGH!

RUN FOR YOUR LIVES!

Paging Dr. Jung

2007-03-19T14:45:00.000-04:00

I had a horrible dream last night:

I dreamed I was on a factory floor. Now that I think about it it might have been the Mauna Loa Macadamia Nut factory I visited last week. The only thing the factory did was yank out people's teeth and take out their tonsils. It was just row upon row of people having their teeth removed and their tonsils taken out, screaming and wailing and crying.

And the two dentists yanking my molars out against my will? Craig (of Craig and Cara fame) and Rhett Miller.

WTF?

I get why Rhett Miller woud be there (lately I've been a bit obsessed with him and the Old 97s), but Craig? Why? He and Cara are lovely people to get drunk on a beach in Honolulu with. He is a carpenter, though, and he does have the tools to pull teeth.

Losing one's teeth is a classic anxiety dream, and dreaming about factories is supposed to represent monotony, but I just got back from vacation: What do I have to be anxious or feel stuck in a rut about?

This post also represents another opportunity to run a photo of Rhett Miller. Ha ha!

Gastric bypass ain't nothin' to f*ck wit

2007-02-20T12:51:00.000-05:00

Ha ha, fat people are easy to make fun of! They're slow and they're big, easy targets! Ha ha! Aren't I just a card, with my clever jokes about Charlie Weis' gastric bypass lawsuit?

I have to be serious here for a moment. The truth is that gastric bypass is not just kind of a big deal, it's a HUGE deal. It's really, really serious surgery, and you have to be at an absolute nadir (or zenith, if you want to think about it another way) to even contemplate having it.

My dad had gastric bypass a few years ago. He looks and feels great now. He lost a lot of weight with relatively few side effects but I know people who've had it done who've had life-threatening sepsis, become addicted to painkillers afterward, or people for whom the surgery just didn't work. About six months after his surgery, he told me that when he was in the hospital, the night after his surgery, he was lying in bed thinking, "What the hell have I gotten myself into?" My dad spent four days in the hospital; I'm shocked that Weis would even consider sneaking in and out of the hospital for his procedure.

My dad will maintain a healthy weight for the rest of his life--which he's probably lengthened by about 25-30 years--but there are a shitload of drawbacks, too. The pre-op testing was intense: All kinds of scans, examinations, tests, even psychological evaluations. It was a full year between his first appointment with his surgeon and the actual day of surgery. He has to take handful of pills every morning to make up for the nutritional deficiencies caused by the rejiggering of his plumbing. He can't tolerate certain foods anymore. And on a superficial note, he looks kind of like a shar-pei puppy now.

But he and the rest of my family are happy--no, ecstatic--with the results. As much of a pain in the ass as he is, I'm glad he'll be around a lot longer to torment me.

It really pisses me off that fat people are the last bastion of scorn in this country. You can't make fun of, say, black people or Jews or the gays, without Jesse Jackson getting all up in your biz, but if you're fat, it's open season. Well, it's not cool or funny, and we're tired of hearing it. Of all the things you could make fun of Charlie Weis for--bad haircut, pleated khakis, his degree from Notre Dame is in DRAMA, for God's sake--the fact that he's fat should be the last thing on that list.

Aloha oe; farewell to thee, mainland

2007-02-15T14:49:00.001-05:00

I know a lot of you come over from Deadspin and Gawker in general to read my self-indulgent little blog, and I haven't updated for some time. I'm trying to remedy that, but I haven't really had anything exciting to write about since I saw that photo of Antonio Bryant's tuchis. (Was that really almost four months ago?)

Now that Valentine's Day has mercifully ended, everyone in my immediate family can breathe a sigh of relief and look forward to vacations--for my parents, a trip to Myrtle Beach, and for me, only three weeks until I visit H-bomb and Kyle in beautiful, sunny Hawaii! So very excited. Ten days of sun, black sand, orchids and fruity, twee drinks full of rum.

This was the scene in Hilo earlier this week.

DowntownHiloMaunaKea
Originally uploaded by richardsullivan.

And here's a shot from my bedroom before I left work this morning.

Sad, isn't it? You can see why I'm so excited to get the hell out of dodge.

Now I want to solicit the Gawker brain trust for their advice: I need ideas for what to do in Hawaii. Big Island in particular. I've got a AAA book (too like my dad), and I've perused Lonely Planet (too crunchy). What's fun? What's overrated? Kyle kindly offered to come to Oahu to escort me back to the Big Island, but he's not too interested in some of the touristy things on Honolulu. I am not spending 14 hours on a plane NOT to go to Pearl Harbor and the USS Arizona.

So comment away with recommendations for things to do, places to visit, places to eat and drink, and anything else you think I need to know.

(And thanks for reading!)

You wanna see my apartment?

2006-11-09T10:58:00.000-05:00

Hola, Deadspinners! Thanks for coming over.

The fine hiney of a Pitt grad.

When I went to Pitt, one semester Antonio Bryant and a few dudes from the Pitt basketball team lived in the apartment immediately beneath mine. There was, as you can probably imagine, a constant stream of girls flowing in and out at all hours of the day and night. (They also had the loudest stereo playing the most banal collection of hip-hop albums I've ever heard, but that's neither here nor there.)

One afternoon I was in the lobby getting my mail, and Antonio came in behind me. We kind of nodded at each other, and he gave me the up-down. Now, I'm a thick white girl with a big ass. He took one look at me and said, "Don't you live upstairs from me?"

Me: "Yeah."

Antonio: "You wanna see my apartment?"

Me: "Maybe some other time."

Now I know what I missed.

Recipe time!

2006-10-23T16:37:00.000-04:00

Gather 'round, TWoPers, it's recipe time with Clare!

Blue Cheese and Caramelized Shallot Dip

6 large shallots
1 1/2 T oil (NOT olive oil--you want something that doesn't have a lot of flavor)
1/2 cup sour cream
1/2 cup mayo
4 oz crumbled blue cheese
Veggies and crackers (for dipping)

Slice the shallots into thin rings. Over medium heat, heat the oil in a medium-size frying pan. Once the oil is hot, add the shallot rings and cook gently, stirring occasionally until the shallots are wilted, golden and caramelized, about 10-12 minutes. Remove the shallots from the pan and allow to cool on a paper towel-covered plate.

Add the crumbled blue cheese to a bowl and smash into smaller bits with a fork. Add the sour cream and mayo to the blue cheese and combine. Add the shallots once they are completely cooled and the excess oil is drained. Stir shallots, blue cheese, mayo and sour cream together to combine thoroughly. Cover with plastic wrap and chill several hours to combine flavors. Serve with crudites and crackers for dipping (I like baby carrots, broccoli florets, Belgian endive, sesame crackers from Trader Joe's, and kettle-cooked potato chips).

Gus's Bacon and Horseradish Dip
(So named because I brought it to a party at Gus's once, so he is with whom I associate it.)

7 strips bacon (6 for the dip, 1 for the chef)
1/4 cup horseradish, drained well
1 cup mayo
1 cup sour cream

Fry the bacon over medium-high heat until browned and most of the fat has rendered. Remove from the pan and allow to cool on a paper towel-lined plate. Once drained and cooled, crumble or cut the bacon into small pieces and set aside.

Combine mayo, sour cream and horseradish in a small bowl and add cooled bacon pieces. Stir to combine, cover with plastic wrap and chill to allow flavors to develop. Also good with veggies, crackers and chips.

Not that you really asked for that one.

BEST. WEEK. EVER.

2006-10-13T17:44:00.000-04:00

I said this on Monday about this douchebag, and the estimable Jessica Coen saw fit to reward me today (her last day!) with a Gold Star Motel about it.

I think Billy Corgan said it best: "Today is the greatest day I've ever known."

Justin Strzelczyk, burritos, and me

2006-10-05T14:29:00.000-04:00

Hello, Deadspinners. Thank you for coming over here.

This story is entirely true.

As you might or might not know, I went to Pitt, and I used to live around the corner from Mad Mex in Oakland. Late one Sunday night, I sat at the bar by myself and ordered dinner and a drink. A gigantic, refrigerator-sized man came in, sat next to me, and started chatting me up. I had worked all day and I wasn't in the mood to be flirty (I was still in my work uniform) but I figured I'd be polite and talk to the guy. He says his name is Justin and I ask him what he does for a living.

"I was a football player."
"Yeah? That's cool. For whom?"
"The hometown team." He pauses, and says real viciously, "You know it?"
"Hey, give me some credit: I might be from Philly but I still know who the Steelers are. I live in Pittsburgh, right?"

So we talk some more. Mostly, he does the talking. He tells me about how he ruined his knees playing football, and how he's taking acting lessons now (he does a soliloquy from Henry V), and how he loves his little girl and boy, and he doesn't really get along with his ex-wife, and he's drinking and drinking and drinking and I just feel sorrier and sorrier for him. I don't even stop him when he reaches across the bar saying, "You don't need this" and stabs a forkful of burrito off my plate.

When he finishes eating my dinner and drinking a sixer of Coors Light, he slides off his barstool and slurs that he's going to walk me home. I'm no waif, but I didn't want this huge, intimidating guy to know where I lived, so I told him I was going to pay my tab and I'd meet him outside. I paid my check (the bartender, who knew me, comped my dinner since she knew I didn't eat it) and when I left the bar, he was nowhere to be found. I admit I was relieved.

Two summers later, I'm watching a sad segment on Inside the NFL about what happens to linebackers when their bodies are shot and they're no good anymore. The man being interviewed, himself a former Steeler (I forget who, you can tell me in the comments), mentions Justin Strzelczyk's fiery car wreck. I'm like, "God, that name sounds familiar." I put two and two together, looked him up on the Post-Gazette web site, and was horrified to find the story of how he died.

We belong with Mimi

2006-08-14T13:33:00.000-04:00

Speaking of packed gay dance clubs (yes, I admit that is a very tenuous segue--please ignore this brief aside, kind moderators!) I'll speak a little bit here about the Mariah concert. JakeyIsSusan over at TWoP asked me about the show, and I didn't feel like getting slapped on the wrist by the mods, so I'm going to post my impressions of the Mariah show in convenient plus-minus format over here.

Pluses:

The woman is absolutely Amazonian in her five-inch Louboutin stilettos. Even from our nosebleed seats, she was a terrifying spectre. We stood up and danced and screamed "DIVAAAAA!" the whole time (OK, I screamed "DIVAAAA!" the whole time.)

The costumes! (Five costume changes, which I will now list: Black sequined bra top-spanky panty-black floor-length chiffon hoodie combo, yellow halter gown with gold bling and side cutouts, black denim pedal-pushers with sparkly shrug and big Dior sunglasses, a teal-and-powder blue number Kristin and I called "the mermaid dress" with blue rhinestones and long pointy sleeves, and the closing look was a beige gown with beige rhinestones all over the bodice).

She did a lot of older material. Kristin and I were really hoping to hear were "It's Like That" (which she opened with), "Honey," and "Vision of Love." She did all three. Mariah said that this was the first show on the tour where they did "Vision of Love," and Kristin and I felt like we'd had an audience with the Pope!

The songs with guest vocals like "Heartbreaker" and "Fantasy" (the ODB version! So awesome! Me and Mariiiiiah go back like babies and pacifiiiiiiers!) she did with the video playing in the background on big video screens.

Mariah had a good backup band. The guy that sang on "I'll Be There" on Unplugged with her was one of her backup singers, and she had him do a single from his new album while she changed costumes. He wasn’t bad—he kind of reminded me of Jamie Foxx’s slow jammy sound.

She closed the show with “We Belong Together” and “Butterfly.” Confetti cannons shot out pink and purple mylar butterflies at the end of the show. I have one of the butterflies pinned to my bulletin board right now. They had a soft, pretty fluttery effect, twirling down through the arena. (That might be the gayest sentence I have ever written.)

Minuses:

We got there too late for Sean Paul, which I was sad about. I really wanted to hear him live: His flow is so difficult that I want to know if he does it live with any inflection at all, or if he just shouts out the lyrics as fast as he can. I have a feeling it's the latter but I would have been impressed to be wrong.

Mimi took her sweet time coming out. Sean Paul was long finished by the time we got in and we waited about 40 minutes in our seats until Mimi came on.

Lame stage set and A/V setup. Having seen Madonna and Nine Inch Nails twice each in the past year, I can say that her stage set ranks a distant third (the Dixie Chicks’ was worse, though). The stage was surrounded by a giant, glowing marquee in the shape of an elongated M (lame). The upper portion of the stage was connected to the lower part by a long, curved staircase with metal railings dotted with butterflies (cool). During “Shake It Off” the giant “MIMI” marquee came down from the rafters behind Mariah (super cool). But there was a round screen above the stage on which was projected bits and pieces of video (at one point, there was a shot of a spinning disco ball on it, a concept jacked wholesale from Kylie’s Kyliefever tour. LAME!)

As you probably know, Mariah's tour has not been selling very well, and the Wachovia Center was not nearly full. Everyone was packed in ass-to-elbow for Madonna. Mimi’s show wasn’t nearly as crowded, nor did the crowd have nearly as much energy as they had for Madonna (or even Nine Inch Nails).

Mariah’s stage patter was really banal. She didn’t seem comfortable chatting to the crowd. On the other hand, Madonna and the Dixie Chicks (whom I saw in Washington a few weeks ago) seemed like they were very at ease controlling a room of that size.

Mariah sang live, but she relied heavily on the backup singers. She seemed to save herself up for the "important parts" of her big songs—the “suh-WEEEEEET destiiiiiiny” part of “Vision of Love,” for example.

Despite my complaints, I bought a Mariah poster to keep Madonna company above my desk. Kristin and I loved it...for what it was.

We're trying for Justin Timberlake tickets next.

Hung up on Madonna

2006-07-18T11:35:00.000-04:00

Karen asked me how Madonna was. This is from an e-mail I sent to her.

The stage was amazing--a huge disco ball came down from the rafters to start the show. The disco ball split open eight ways and it was filled with tiny blinking blue and pink and white lights. Madge emerged from it a la Venus on the half shell in an amazing riding outfit amid huge projections of herself in riding gear (check out this photoshoot if you want to see what I mean).

Now I shall provide a look into Madge's psyche throughout the course of the show:

"I think I'm ready to start now! I knew you'd wait 45 minutes with no AC for me!

Look at me! Look how versatile I am! Don't I look awesome in riding gear? Don't I look fantastic for being--Jesus Christ!--almost 50 years old? A disco ball AND riding gear! Can you believe it? I am so clever, with these combinations of disparate elements.

Now look at my x-rays from when I broke my collarbone! Ouch!

I know a lot of you in the audience are the gay, and I know that because you are the gay, you probably know of that Kylie Minogue person. Perhaps some of you have even seen her concert DVDs too. But please ignore the fact that I'm mashing up one of MY songs with "I Feel Love" which Kylie did, like, four years ago. Just...forget she did that.

Look, I'm riding a carousel horse to 'Like a Virgin!' Watch me work this pole! WATCH ME WORK IT!!!

Now, some dancers will tell little stories about themselves about gangbanging, and cutting, and domestic abuse, but it's really the part where I change outfits.

Now's the time for the disco crucifix! Yes! Isn't it just the shit? I know you were looking forward to seeing it.

Now let's blow the shofar! Hey, listen, any day I am in your town is a high holy day, bitch.

Now I'll show you a video for a remix of a song I've already done this evening. Don't I look good in a leotard and big diamond jewelry?

I'm back now! I had to change my outfit again! Isn't my jacket cool? I think it's very Ziggy Stardust. Now I'm going to sing a song with a guitar! LOOK AT ME PLAY THE GUITAR! LOOK HOW GOOD I AM AT THESE SAME THREE BAR CHORDS, GODDAMMIT!

Let me sit down on this step and chat with my fans. Stop answering questions with "WOOOOOO!" "Woooo!" is not an answer! You have to be specific!

I had to change my outfit again. Now look! I'm in the white suit from Saturday Night Fever, doing the dance that John Travolta does! My dancers are on rollerskates! No, it's not gimmicky! I AM DOING IT--THAT IS WHY IT IS NOT GIMMICKY, GODDAMMIT!

Rrrrrrip! Ooh, I'm naughty--I have on breakaway pants! I'm actually wearing a white jumpsuit with purple sparkles! Now I'm going to steal from James Brown and pretend to die on stage!

I'm dead.

Surprise, I'm not dead! Look at my awesome cape! It says 'Dancing Queen' on it and there's flashing lights inside!

Incidentally, haven't I been wearing fantastic boots this whole show?

OK, I'm almost done so you better get up off your ass and dance for my last big number. I'll be right back after I change my outfit one last time.

Last outfit! I'm really working my ass off! Now I'm going to do my big single! Everybody dance! Dance now! 'Night, everybody! Buy lots of shit at the merch booths! I have two kids to put through college!"

It was pretty great. Even though the sets were the same both nights and I was sitting pretty far from the stage, she worked HARD (although reports from around the blogosphere have said that she doesn't dance as much on this tour as she used to--no surprise there, since she is almost 50!) and made it worth the ridiculous amount of money her tickets went for. My co-workers seem to be amused by the gigantic Madge-in-fishnets-and-biting-a-riding-crop poster I bought for above my desk.

Edge of twenty-five (with apologies to Stevie Nicks)

2006-04-13T12:54:00.000-04:00

Tomorrow, I turn 25.

When I was still working at The Pitt News, Leslie reviewed a book called Quarterlife Crisis: The Unique Challenges of Life in Your Twenties. I was still copy editor at the time, and not yet 21, and I thought, "Oh, piffle! These weiners don't know what they're talking about! I can't wait to be 25. I'll be out of college, and living on my own and have a job and life will be awesome."

Ah, the callowness of youth.

I'm having trouble enumerating all the ways I feel deficient in turning 25, deficient in achieving all those mileposts of young adulthood (graduating, getting your first job, having a boyfriend, moving out on your own, the list goes on.) I'm turning 25 and what do I have to show for it? I live at home, I have a shit job, I have no boyfriend and barely any money. My friends are getting advanced degrees, and moving to wonderful, sexy places, and getting married and having babies.

But I am truly lucky to have friends who not just tolerate me but seem to actively enjoy having me around, a lovely if loud and abrasive family, absolutely NO DEBT (seriously, this might be the most important thing to me), and my health. They all indulged me these past few weeks on my berfday divatude/drain-circling despondency. So I'll just say thank you to all the people I've complained to about turning 25 and eat some wings.

You have GOT to be kidding me.

2006-04-12T15:01:00.000-04:00

Read this week's The Dubliner with your vomit-catching receptacle at the ready.

The impetus

2006-04-12T11:18:00.000-04:00

Since Jojo McSweeney seems to only sorta believe in giving opposing sides of an argument equal time, I feel compelled to post my response to Kyle's letter of Monday, April 10.

A little background: I start my day by breezing into work 45 minutes late (8:45 is the new 8:00), checking my email and reading the three blogs in the column on the right of this page. On Monday morning, I saw Kyle's note about the crazy Art Brut show at Haverford College. Late Tuesday, Joey posts a vituperative response from a Haverfordie who was at the show. So here's my note of Monday afternoon.

Since Kyle called me out, Jojo, I guess I have to respond to his note.

First, nice work on your DJ gig. (The girl that screamed "JOJO!" when you put on Gnarls Barkley? Me.) During Franz Ferdinand's set, I wasn't paying as much attention to the crowd as Kyle was since I was dancing stupidly in my own little "I will attract Alex Kapranos's romantic attentions with only the power of my interpretive dance freakout" world. The crowd did indeed suck, though. No one mustered much enthusiasm for Franz, and I don't know how one would rock out with his cock out to Death Cab. I mean, I saw a girl reading a textbook during Franz's set, OKAAAAAY? Girl, it is SATURDAY NIGHT. Leave that AP calculus shit at HOME.

Behavior like that would surely be more appropriate and expected at Haverford College, right? Oh, I was so very wrong.

Kyle walked right into the basement like he owned the place. Since I'm older and fatter and dorkier than the Havernerds (but I'm not yet a "grup," Joey--I read that New York Mag article too, dude) three officious Haverford kids stopped me and demanded "Tri-co ID! Where's your ID? Do you have Tri-co ID? I wanna see ID!" Oh, I'll give you ID, kids. You need me to go buy another keg for you, too, since I've got five years on most of you? A tip for the hipster doofus Amanda Scheer Demme-lite clone at the door: If someone wants to PAY to come a show in your stinky basement, JUST TAKE THEIR MONEY, MARK THEIR HAND AND SAY THANK YOU. Honey, I may not have gone to your fancy-pants liberal arts college, but I have A PAYING JOB. You can't intimidate me by making me pay a whole $10 to get in.

Bearing in mind that Kyle and I went to the University of Pittsburgh, we could not stop saying "This would never happen at Pitt!" The university sponsoring a foofy, artsy British indie rock band and an synth combo in spandex, fishnet shirts and bitchin' Richie Sambora leather hats in a dorm basement? A friendly and orderly keg line in the dorm laundry room? Smoking of both legal and illegal substances indoors? Kids drinking straight from a handle of Banker's Club and sharing it with the band during their set? And no pushy cops shutting the party down just as it gets good?! You would NEVER go to a show like that at Pitt. So we were kinda amazed.

I don't really know what Kyle expects me to say about Gil Mantera's Party Dream, since he was standing right next to me. I rubbed up against their sweaty sweatyness when they dove into the crowd and laughed my ass off when they did a vocoderrific cover of "Dreams" by Fleetwood Mac. We got sick of being stepped on and pushed around by overzealous 19-year-olds, so we stood on the riser at the back of the room to watch Art Brut, who were hilarious and delightful. They open their set with the opening riff from "Enter Sandman." Eddie Argos looks even more like Tony Hadley in real life. Very fun indeed.

Ta--
The aforementioned Clare P.

I mean, come on! Had Joey posted what I had to say about the Art Brut show (and other shows I might mention) Haverford Indie Popster would not be writing that little invective.

Kyle and I were discussing this lil' tiff last night, and he made a good point: It all comes down to sweet, sweet alcohol. Had we been as hammered as the Haverford kids pouring onto the stage and being told by Eddie Argos to take a big step back like they were playing Red Rover at day camp, we won't lie: We too would have been in the pit, gleefully smashing into each other and the random 19-year-olds whose party we crashed. But we weren't, and we didn't.

Or, to ask my previous question in a different way, does NOT wanting to get stepped on and coated in a mixture of sweat, Jack Daniel's, patchouli oil and bongwater mean we enjoy the band any less? I think it's possible to be the tipsy, dancing superfan screaming "DO 'TRACK #1' AGAIN!!! AND DON'T LEAVE OUT THAT SECTION I LIKE IN THE MIDDLE 8 THIS TIME!!!" one night and the person tapping her feet and enjoying not just the band but the whole (to use a Lit Crit-tastic word--I know 'em too, kid) milieu another night.

2006-04-10T11:26:00.000-04:00

The view from my desk chair.

Six months behind on everything

2006-04-10T09:02:00.000-04:00

A few years ago, two of my friends had a good laugh at my expense. We were talking about the then-new Beck album (I think it was Sea Change) and I said it didn't wow me. They said, "Oh Clare, it doesn't matter whether you like the new Beck album or not, because in six months' time it'll be your new favorite thing." Then they laughed and laughed and laughed, and I died a little inside. Because they were right.

In keeping with my "six months behind" steez, I give you FORMED A BLOG. 'Cause, y'know, I'm six months behind the blog zeitgeist.

What can you expect from FORMED A BLOG? You can expect ruminations and commentary on work, friends, going out, shows (both TV and live music), "the scene," hipsters, family, Philadelphia, music, pop culture, links to stuff, shopping and anything else I find. You can expect it to be relatively funny, and very occasionally poignant. You can expect overuse of the following words and phrases: so, like, fuck, zeitgeist, strategery, whatevs, shows, "mother of pearl!" "for Pete’s sake," parenthetical statements, double dashes (like this --), too many commas, and too many subordinate clauses. You can expect me to make fun of people with bad taste while absolving myself of guilt about my own questionable taste. Sometimes there will be photos. And this "post to your blog from your phone!" thing is tantalizing.

So welcome to FORMED A BLOG. Look at me! I formed a blog!