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Below are the 20 most recent journal entries recorded in
DJ Mrs White In The Library With The Lead Pipe's LiveJournal:
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| Friday, December 4th, 2009 | | 2:24 pm |
| | Thursday, December 3rd, 2009 | | 12:48 pm |
| | Tuesday, December 1st, 2009 | | 4:35 pm |
I am the winner at comparing things to other things.
![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif) moroccomole is still writing his book about Christmas movies. It's due to his publisher at the beginning of January. This means I'll be doing all the housework this month. Right now he's looking at a shitty UK Christmas horror film from 1984 called "Don't Open 'Til Christmas." Any of you people over there remember this one? I keep expecting a teenage Samantha Fox to show up. He just said, "This entire movie looks like a Mike + The Mechanics video." "Wrong," I replied. "Mike + the Mechanics music videos had better production values than that. This movie resembles the filmed output of Fun Fun." He didn't know what I meant. So I showed him: | | Friday, November 27th, 2009 | | 10:04 am |
How I kicked Thanksgiving in the face.
10 AM - Made french toast with day-old challah, Nutella and whipped cream. You know what else is good if you don't think about it too much? Those Jimmy Dean pork sausage patties that you heat and serve. Did that and then, like it was meant to be, the Jimmy Dean float went past on my TV screen and people were dressed like sticks of butter. 11 AM - My new thing of turkey is simpler than it was before. Normally I wrap the whole bird in bacon so that it doesn't need basting, put garlic cloves under the skin, apple and onion and rosemary in the cavity, thyme and sage and root vegetables in the pan. But last week I watched Martha Stewart shove softened butter under the skin and then just salt and pepper it. So I tried that. Two sticks of softened butter evenly distributed under the entire breast area of the turkey. Then I coated the whole thing in kosher salt and pepper. Stuffed the cavity with fresh thyme, sage, rosemary, flat-leaf parsley. Basted it every 20 minutes for like 3ish hours (14.5lb bird). When it came time to eat the turkey, butter had saturated every cubic centimeter and turned it narcotic. 12 PM - Chopped yams, carrots, parsnips. Olive-oiled and salted. Oven for an hour. 12:30 - Made green bean casserole with Cream of Mushroom soup and those crispy canned onions. 1 PM - Rolled out thawed pie crust that my friend Jonathan and I had made on Sunday. Made other people chop Granny Smith apples. Sugar and cinnamon and nutmeg and ginger and flour and butter added. The pie crust kept falling apart and separating as I rolled it out, so I patchworked it into the dish and on top. A Frankenpie. Wound up delicious anyway. 2 PM - Tried a recipe for white cheddar cheese biscuits. Totally easy. Made mattycub grate the cheese and we talked about which bands angered and scared the congregations of churches we attended as teenagers. Punk ran a close second to metal, which had the edge of being from the actual devil instead of from dudes who were just philosophical nihilists. 3 PM - Sat down to eat all the food. xtreem_aaron made a gang of mac+cheese and his man Brian brought fancy beers and wines. Neighbor Jill contributed homemade stuffing. zombietruckstop brought a lasagna. fidgetcub somehow pulled brussels sprouts and carrots and I forget what else from out of his hat because I didn't see them when he walked in the door. Cranberry sauce from the can that retained its perfect can shape when removed. Gravy that was half store-bought and half pan drippings. moroccomole made garlicky mashed potatoes and a chocolate pie to go with the apple and pumpkin ones I'd already done up. Somehow in the middle of all this, a wooden cutting board sitting on the stove caught fire a little. I have no idea how the burner got turned on but it did and when ZTS said, "What's that I smell?" I didn't know. But then I figured out that shit was burning. Nothing was destroyed and we lived to eat more foods. Then we all sat around, food-drugged. Watched "UHF." | | Thursday, November 26th, 2009 | | 6:09 am |
| | Wednesday, November 25th, 2009 | | 3:50 pm |
No, I won't tell you the secret identity of the old guy. I'm no gossip.
Just went to the grocery store. I was going because I wanted to make this caramelized figs recipe I found. Last week they had fresh awesome looking figs. Today they had none. And the place was packed. And then I saw this guy whose face I recognized. He was tall, unshaven, wearing a baseball cap. Handsome face. And somehow I knew he was famous, not just because it was Gelsons and there's always someone famous in there shopping, either Reese Witherspoon or Lauren Ambrose or the guy who played Joe on "Rhoda" or Vinnie Jones or Jody Watley or Shane from "The L Word" or the closeted (and totally old) male star of a 1960s sitcom who hit on me once. But I couldn't figure out who this person just now was. Which meant he couldn't be that famous, really, just probably reality-show-famous. And then I thought, "You're Australian. I don't know how I know you're Australian. But you're Australian. And I can't figure out who you are." And then in the check-out line, it popped into my head. It was this guy. The woman who should have won that season will announce him at about the 45 second mark: | | Tuesday, November 24th, 2009 | | 5:39 pm |
| | Friday, November 20th, 2009 | | 4:16 pm |
| | 4:05 pm |
| | Wednesday, November 18th, 2009 | | 12:21 pm |
| | 9:27 am |
High-end kitchen shops make people really upset.
Here's something fun. Go to Beverly Hills to do your Christmas shopping and watch rich people berate employees in stores. It's gruesome and a gentle reminder of how the holidays trigger some people into becoming even worse wretches than they usually are all year long. After yesterday's post, I remembered that we still had $60 left on that Williams-Sonoma gift card we were given last year. And so I went to spend it. The W-S that used to be in the Beverly Center is long gone, which leaves the next closest one over on the streets parallel to Rodeo Drive. I can't remember which one it's on. Doesn't matter. They have free two-hour parking over there now, and all you have to do to get to it is park half a mile underground, which is a nice change from the quarter-every-five minutes street meters that you'd be a fool to use. Don't fall for those. Breathe the fumes instead. But while I looked at the All-Clad strainers (we had a cheapo one from like Target or wherever and it finally fell apart), a grandmotherly woman walked in, collared not one but two employees and started browbeating them about various complaints she had. Obviously, these employees were used to this sort of treatment and skillfully defused the situation while not giving an inch of responsibility for her problems, all of which--based on my eavesdropping--were ridiculous. Apparently she took issue with something in their catalog and, deciding that the employees of one shop were responsible for that, needed to make sure they know how outraged she was about it. I left with a new strainer and a box of Peppermint Bark that we'll force on people in December unless we eat it all ourselves first. | | Tuesday, November 17th, 2009 | | 2:37 pm |
| | 10:37 am |
Como te a salido
I believe that's how it's spelled. It's Spaniard for "Good dinner" or literally, "how well it turned out for you." Or something. And it might not even be a food-specific compliment, but it was in the childhood home of moroccomole. And in his words last night, "You know, I say this to you a lot when you make something good for dinner. But right now, especially, como te a salido." And xtreem_aaron agreed. When my six year-old niece was selling magazine subscriptions for I don't know what reason, I bought a year-long visit with Martha Stewart's Everyday Food and have no been disappointed once. And last night I made the incredibly easy and mouth-convulsiony delicious recipe for baked chicken with onions, potatoes, garlic and thyme. Recipe [with my alterations in brackets] 1 whole chicken cut into parts [I used two packages of thighs we had in the freezer--we like dark meat] 1 pound potatoes [I had one big Yukon Gold and one big sweet potato] 1 large red onion, cut into eighths 1 head of garlic, cloves separated but unpeeled [I smashed mine a little with a fork by pressing down on them until they split a little] 6 sprigs of fresh thyme 1 big lemon, quartered [I used two medium lemons instead because I like extra lemoniness] 1/2 cup olive oil 2 tablespoons balsamic vinegar salt and pepper Dump it all in a baking dish, make sure stuff's not too piled up on each other, mix up the oil and vinegar, pour it all over the stuff in the dish, dump a bunch of salt and pepper on it, bake it for 50 minutes at 450 degrees, watch everyone love you when they put it in their mouth. This seriously takes like 10 minutes to chop up and throw in the dish. Mine came out looking even better than the one in the magazine, but that's mostly because I think they photographed it before it went into the oven. Mine came out all crispy and brown and was even more attractive in this dish we were given for Christmas last year:  You don't NEED the fancy dish to bake it in, but it makes you feel more autumnal if you do. I recommend marrying into a family that realizes you're too poor to buy this kind of thing for yourself and gives you gift-cards to Williams-Sonoma for Christmas. | | Monday, November 16th, 2009 | | 8:56 am |
I'm in love with you. Want you to love me too.
Slow night spinning music at the bar. I've finally sort of settled into the new format where I play everything and not simply harsh/heavy punk rock and metal. And my transitions between mini-sets of guitars and electronics are now smooth enough that I wound up playing "Holy Diver" and "Like a Motorway" within 15 minutes of each other. Weird fact: playing "Like a Motorway" always inspires at least one gay to come to the booth, thanking you for it. I don't know why that is. I like those people. They seem so happy to be hearing the song and grateful that you put it on for them because they'd never considered they'd get to hear it while drinking in a barely lit bar with blowjobs playing on the TV screens. Best drunk person moment of the night: Guy standing on booth steps staring at me, when asked what I could do for him says: Play The Creatures. Me: I don't have any on me tonight. I have some Siouxsie and the Banshees though. Guy just stares at me while I look for a Siouxsie track. Every so often I turn around and he's still standing on the steps of the booth, just looking at me. I find "Spellbound" and, even though I've played it way too often thanks to at least one Siouxsie request every time I work, I play it again. I need more Siouxsie. I think I have like four songs that I just play over and over. It's not that I dislike her. It's just that every single gay on every single night wants to hear her. It's weird. She's #1, Debbie Harry wins second place, then a big group of random female rock vocalist requests after that. I play "Spellbound." I step toward The Guy. "Anything else you want?" I ask. He takes my hand and kisses it. (Dear gays, please never do that, ever. It's not alluring. It's like sneezing cooties. But he was drunk, so whatever.) Guy: No, that's all. I didn't think you'd know who Siouxsie was. Me: I'm the DJ. I know. I also played this: I've always enjoyed the Black Box-ish thing of putting someone else in the video or on stage to lip-sync an entirely sample-driven track, as though they were the actual singer. This person--who I believe is Saffron, future actual lead vocalist of Republica, a band that I never paid attention to--would have you believe she is both Gwen Guthrie, Caron Wheeler of Soul II Soul and possibly either Aretha Franklin or Loleatta Holloway (whichever one of them it is who's responsible for the spoken line: 'True love can be hard to find'). But she can make her legs go Rockette high in the air, which is something. Anyway, for nerds, major vocal sample taken from: | | Saturday, November 14th, 2009 | | 2:16 pm |
Morning walk garage sale purchase
For the kitchen cassette player...  track listing: glen campbell - gentle on my mind ferlin husky - wings of a dove sonny james - you're the only world i know willie nelson - touch me george jones - the race is on roy clark - the tip of my fingers faron young - hello walls tex ritter - i dreamed of a hillbilly heaven wanda jackson - right or wrong an excellent use of fifty cents | | Friday, November 13th, 2009 | | 8:10 pm |
I would probably touch you even if you were covered with spiders.
We just got back from Target. We bought: *A folding card table so that when a lot of people come over there's a table just for drinks and cups and ice and it can go on the patio and push folks out of the apartment instead of into the kitchen where there's no room anyway. *A PUR water pitcher because it said it got rid of more water-born poisons and micro-creatures. Said it on the box. The Brita box, on the other hand, said, "This thing gets filters 4 types of shit. No more and no less." All y'all with Britas are gonna die from less-than-adequately filtered water. Time to panic. *light bulbs *large mailing envelopes *Q-Tips *Method counter spray that has the grapefruit odor *little price stickers because the Kim sisters--careful readers of my book, "Exile in Guyville," that you should have already bought by now (fresh new copies are still on Amazon.com and make excellent holiday gifts), will remember the Kim sisters as the people who took us in when the horrible miscreants who lived in this apartment before us refused to vacate when they said they would--are having a garage sale next Saturday and we're throwing a bunch of junk in with it *lining paper for the bathroom cabinets *razors *Boo-Berry *a candle that smells line pine trees or Rudolph or something. moroccomole insisted we get it. *Metamucil Normally we go to Target at the crack of 8 AM on a Saturday morning because there are no cars in the parking lot and no people in the store. You glide down the aisles like it's "Career Opportunities" and avoid the 22-year-olds who already have four kids getting in your way with two carts and trying to manage their brats while talking on a cell phone. (That's not me busting on anyone out there, by the way, that's what my mom did. in fact, she had four sons before she was 21; try THAT without becoming one of those killed-her-whole-family ladies.) So tonight we went right after dinner, when everyone else goes, which was dumb. It was crowded. And what being in a crowded Target on Friday night wants to teach you is how to breathe and slow down, even though that's always the last thing you're thinking when some goon is blocking the whole aisle. You have no choice, though, unless you want to get into a fist fight right there with some gay dad and his adopted toddler. You could take them both in a fight but it wouldn't be nice. After that kind of trip you still need a drink. I just had a big glass of wine because it's good for my arteries. Now I'm trying to resist a bowl of Boo-Berry until morning. | | 3:32 pm |
| | 5:16 am |
| | Thursday, November 12th, 2009 | | 5:54 am |
Then Charlie Bucket's mom came in and sang a terrible song for us.
Dang, nothing but links here since the moroccomole unemployment announcement. Not because I was depressed or anything. Those were serious and legitimate links, as you know. I just decided that if he was going to have to look for new work then I would need to start doing the same. I've got a few extra minutes in my day. I can pick up the slack a bit with some new freelance jobs. (He got laid off from his job as the film critic for MSNBC.com due to budget cuts, by the way, which led to asshole readers of his going on to his Twitter account to announce the pleasure they take in this fact. He ignores them all, these people who hate him so much that they can't stop reading his reviews, but if I could only get one of them in person for some fist-face therapy, it'd make me feel a lot better.) But in the meantime there was Gary's laundry to deal with. He's a friend who used to be on LiveJournal, now deleted and purged from here but not from my life or neighborhood. If you're new to reading this you don't know him at all. If you're old to reading this then you know him as xtreem_aaron's ex-boyfriend. He's also been gone for one billion months on a film shoot where his job is to run around, spin countless plates, organize things and, most importantly, be screamed at in the face. He left a big basket of dirty laundry behind and I hate the idea of him coming home in December and the first thing greeting him is a stuffy, stale apartment and a big basket of gnarly laundry. So I decided to do it. You don't hear about me going to the laundromat much anymore because I delegated it to MM as his weekly chore. He listens to his iPod and plays Sudoku or whatever while he's there. I stay home and clean out under the bathroom sink and worse tasks that require the mindset of someone who gives a shit about doing stuff like that. One day a week he and XA pack up the car, drive a few blocks with the hampers, and wash clothes. XA washes his own, obviously, as this is not a commune. MM does all of ours. But this last time I went along, too, with G's stuff. After I gathered towels left hanging on the rack in the bathroom and stiff dishtowels crumpled in the tiny kitchen sink, I noticed the orange, zig-zaggy, acrylic-yarn blanket that some old lady--mother, aunt, grandma, somebody--in G's family made him. It was on the floor and not as orange as you'd want it to be. So I picked it up, wondering how often, if ever, G took it with him to the laundromat. I got my answer on the first wash cycle. I put it in the machine by itself and set the water to hot. After a few minutes of squishing around I opened the lid and found a blanket shocked into cleanliness swimming in black soapy water. Black. I called MM and XA over the machine and let them dry-heave a bit. MM: "That's disgusting." Me, to XA: "Y'all had sex on this blanket, I bet." XA: "Yes, we made love." Me: "Your sex residues are in this machine." I decided to wash the blanket a second time. On that next cycle, during the washy part, the water was a normal laundry-day gray. By the second rise it was fine. I put it in one of the big dryers and folded G's medium-sized everything. He's so not XXL that it was like folding children's clothes. And now for a picture of G's face upon learning that his filthy, seemingly never-washed-before blankie was the topic of semi-public grossed-outness:  Those are his actual, non-enhanced blue tractor beam eyes. | | Tuesday, November 10th, 2009 | | 8:25 am |
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