Ke$ha and the joys of elitism.

I know, I know, I just started this blog and I'm already flaking out on it. But I have two very legitimate excuses (I always have at least two).

First of all, I'm losing the war on pollen, the most recent battle a sinus infection that had me squirting warm saltwater up my nostrils in a feeble attempt at home remedy because I dont have health insurance. If Obama were the political maverick we think he is, he would have been there with a flip cam, put that shit on You Tube, emailed it to the entire world with the subject line, "THIS IS WHY WE NEED HEALTH CARE REFORM."

My other excuse is even more legitimate - I got a job! Yes, that's right, I am a member of the workforce. Of course as of this moment I'm still broke and uninsured, but at the end of this paycycle I'll be ballin' with a nonprofit salary and a P to the P to the O.

Now on to the pressing matters of the day (prepare yourself for vulgarity):

I feel the strong need to rag on the music industry for its new low, which I was subjected to while in Queens visiting my friend who thinks its SOOOOOO HILLARIOUS to force me to listen to z100 on his car radio. Ke$ha, pronounced Kay-Dollar Sign-Ha, is apparently the new white trash blonde the world needs to revere for her ability to gargle up the bitchy, vapid rants of an overprivilaged 15 year old who thinks she's soooo cool because she can take a shot of Jack to the mouth (among other things). Thanks to the advent of snazzy digital audio editing tools and beats that are catchy despite being boring, this shining star is raking in millions of clams for a single that is actually titled "Blah Blah Blah" and tells the tale of one girl's want of dick without the usual get-to-know-you chatter. When she's not singing, AKA making whatever noise she wants to into a digital distortion application, she's "rapping." According to her wikipedia article, the NY Times said that the success of her first single, Tik Tok, represents "the complete and painless assimilation of the white female rapper into pop music." The Los Angeles Times compared this vocal style to that of L'Trimm and Salt-N-Pepa.

To the NY Times: Is it painless? Is it?

To the LA Times: I may be a white girl who listens to Creedance, but I am fairly positive that in the Venn diagram of Salt-N-Pepa and K-dollah dollah bills-Ha, the only items that occupy the shared space in the middle are the English language, commerical success, and the absence of melody.

LASWTTTD Rating: Frozen chicken nuggets. Like those breaded, deep-fried chicken chunks available in your grocher's freezer, K-Capital Gain-Ha's singles are cheap, will kill you from the inside out, are produced in a manner you would find disillusioning, and leave you asking, "Who keeps buying this shit for their kids???" The upside: they can be easily digested when you're wasted.

Editor's note: I realize that I'm, like, about a year behind the times with this review.

I'm an elitist when it comes to two things: music and beer. What, in life, is better than a song that paves a clear connection between you and a feeling, all by the power of artful melody and rhythm? Is there anything more satisfying than a cold pint of rich, hoppy goodness?

I'll admit, I can tolerate cheap music in just the right circumstance (drunk), and a crap beer is better than no beer at all. But most of the time, I have standards, and I live by those standards, even if it means scouring a city to find a bar that doesn't play Bon Jovi on "club nights" and shelling out the extra $1.50 for a pint of microbrew.

Which gets me thinking. Pardon me while I go meta on this - so if I'm such an elitist, why then do I bother to trash the stuff that I purposely avoid? Wouldn't the wiser approach be to simply enjoy what I enjoy, and let the rest be? Why did I just feel compelled to go on some egotistical rant about my own feelings towards a music I don't listen to, via a blog that, like, 3 people read?

In other words, why is pointless, baseless shit-talking so much fun?

Oh, that pesky personal growth and maturity thing might have something to do with it. Someday I hope to experience the zen-like state of total mental oblivion to all things I deem shitty, or at least the tolerance to live with them without getting all bent out of shape.

But until then, I'm going to sip my Beligan Ale and keep telling the world what it's doing wrong.

Jealousy, immaturity, and breakfast sandwiches.

My poor boyfriend. What a saint.

I should take a moment to explain to my devoted readers the sad truth of the matter which is that I am a crazy jealous bitch. I have my reasons. My last relationship was the kind that could make the entire cast of Love Actually jump into a black hole while Kiera Knightly screams "RUBBISH!!!!" I'll let you make sense of that one on your own.

Essentially, I got played bunches of times. Dude played my forgiving ass like a fiddle, and since then I've remembered the golden rule: Don't take shit from nobody. So let's go ahead and hang on my conditioned responses a giant banner that reads "NEVER FORGET," because that relationship was like the fucking 9/11 of my interpersonal experiences.

(All of the Beyonce songs of the past 3 years should be playing on a loop in your head by now. You're welcome.)

So, after my current boyfriend spent the weekend on a bachelor-party-bender, needless to say I greeted him with some minor inquisition, starting with "Did the stripper's big fake boobs make you reconsider our relationship?" closely followed by "I DONT BELIEVE YOU."

And like I said, the man is a saint. He patiently endured my ridiculous questions and my patented "I am thoroughly evaluating the moral fiber of your character behind these enormous sunglasses" death stare. He didn't panic when I waved my finger and bobbled my head as only the highly-righteous North Jersey woman can. And then, two beers and a chicken quesadilla later, I remembered just who it was I was talking to, and my jealousy subsided.

And there lies the rub: How does one be trustful without being naive? How do I convince myself that mofo isn't cheating on me without driving poor dude crazy? DISCUSS!

I suspect my personal growth and maturity has something to do with the answer... but before I open that can of worms, let me lay out the groundwork for my future bachelorette party: First, I'm going to have a spy inform me of the general level of depravity of my fiance's bachelor party. Then I'll simply ensure that my party is so much raunchier and inappropriate. And then I'm going to say "IN YO' FACE, HUSBAND."

On a sad note, breakfast sandwiches in this country just aren't living up to my expectations. If Marta and Domingo at the local deli can, in a timely manner, whip up a fresh, homemade bacon-egg-and-cheese on a whole grain bagel, why on God's green earth is Au Bon Pan and every other purveyor of yuppy bullshit food using precooked egg product? For fuck's sake people, let's get our shit together and scramble some eggs!

Marta and Domingo, we salute you.

Zombie Nazis, duck fat, and my new favorite spice grinder

Yesterday, I decided that Maryland is speeding up my natural aging process, and that a weekend-er in Queens would be a beneficial respite. And so here I am, in Queens, staying with a friend who thinks its SOOOOOOOO HILARIOUS to wake me up by sitting his overweight, hyper-allergenic cat on my face.

And I'm all out of box-wine... :(

Since I've been here, two very important topics for discussion have arisen: Zombie Nazis and Duck Fat.

Dead Snow, a Norwegian (I think) movie released in 2009, is the cinematic mastery of juxtaposition: Nazis that are Zombies, and after what looks like pirate gold; Medical students on a chain-saw-zombie-massacre; Sex on an outhouse toilet (guy shits, girl comes in an bangs him, she shits... and then her intestines are ripped out). And then, there's the intestines motif. Everybody, it seems, has their intestines ripped out by a zombie, or at the very least a pesky tree branch.

LASWTTTD Rating: a gourmet hot dog.

Like a gourmet hot dog, Dead Snow was delightfully familiar in its nature, slightly upgraded from what you've come to expect, and yet, not so healthy. Two complaints, however: I was waiting for the scene where Zombie Nazi does a Hitler salute and SHAZAM chainsaw gets his arm, but sadly, that never happened. Also, you just can't hang cliff-side from another's intestines. They aren't made of fucking polypropylene, and they are way too slippery to climb. I mean, I realize this is a movie about Zombie Nazis but let's just have a little respect for basic physics.

As for duck fat, it's delicious. I highly recommend its usage to put a professional foodie spin on your meal. The stuff is not easy to come by, so I jumped at the chance to throw it into my shopping cart while perusing the best grocery store ever in Brooklyn. Seven dollars gets you seven ounces, so you'll feel like you're purchasing crack, but roast some potatoes or asparagus in the stuff and it will totally be worth the shame emanating from your wallet.

And because I'm such a benevolent soul, I am going to provide a second fantastic foodie recommendation - the spice grinder to end all spice grinders, which I found in that same awesome grocery store. The company is called Elements of Spice, and they manufacture a series of clever grinders that combine multiple spices for a powerful punch of flavor per twist. Heat Wave is one such grinder, which combines sea salt, green chillies, garlic, coriander leaves, ginger, horse radish, lime peel, and ginkgo biloba. I have yet to try this herbal clusterfuck on food, but in the palm of my hand it smells and tastes as good as this scenario:

You're on the shore of a lush caribbean island at nightfall, the sky rich with colors as the sun dips below the horizon. Spicy Latin rhythms pound the sand as people dance and grill delicious foods, while fruity and heavily alcoholic beverages flow freely. A Herculean local wearing not but a beach towel invites you to the water's edge for a passionate make out session reminiscent of your adolescent days at the Cineplex. And then someone just hands you money for no reason.

Tonight's menu: Delirium Nocturnum Belgian Ale, pork chops, asparagus, and the lovelies mentioned above.

Happy eating!

My mission: Journalistic Excellence

Now that I have slept off my antihistamine-and-box-wine-cocktail and started my day with some coffee and eggs, allow me to detail the ways in which LASATTTD stands to enrich your thinking and perspective.

Topics for future discussion: Food, mainly cheese. The media. Organic farming. Parenting advice from people who don't have kids. Viggo Mortensen. The machine uprising. Wedding planning. *GIANT EYE ROLL* UGHHH.... politics. Male nudity. Quantum physics. The universe's mixed feelings regarding The Who. Zombie movies vs. vampire movies. Jesus. Decentralized economic development. Beer and wine. The best dog breeds for various lifestyles. All phrases beginning with "marine."

Basically, let's go ahead and discuss all the important things.

And a little about the author:

I just moved from Cambridge, MA to rural Maryland, to live on a sailboat with "the one." Its a love story, really...

Since I've been in Maryland, I've noticed some minor cultural differences. You know, clam chowder vs. crab cake (oh, but notice the serendipity of both appetizers having the initials "CC"). And Maryland is boring about 80% of the time.

Anywho, I blog to kill time address the pressing issues of our day. Stay tuned for journalistic excellence.

Oh look, I'm blogging.

First observation: I feel arrogant.

Second observation: Cottage cheese. Just ate some. Wonderous stuff.

Its 11:06 PM on a Wednesday night, and I've created a blog because sharing Netflix movies with my mother just doesn't provide the entertainment value I had hoped for. I can tell already this is going to change my life (stop reading if you think I'm serious).

Its also allergy season, which, for me, means heavy nose bleeds and box wine. Done. Check it off the list, right next to "blog."

The antihistamines are making me drowsy, so I'll blow your mind with my insight on wordly affairs later. Peace, bitches.

Sincerely yours,

The spokeswoman for the universe
(no really)