Join Fred the Freshwater Drop as he bids a fond and friendly farewell to the world’s water supply…or perhaps to humanity itself. Embrace your fate in style…with a smile.
Archive for December, 2010
Texting Kills.
2010
12.29
12.29
I’m intrigued with the thought that everyone…and everything…has a story. We all have a beginning and end. Perhaps that’s why I’m really into worn, antiquated and aged vintage things…because their story really tells itself without words. For example: old pennies. The oldest one I have is from 1918, and I can stare at that thing for long periods of time, just turning it end over end in my fingers, wondering where its been for the past 92 years, and how I of all people ended up with it.
Nevertheless, I can’t be happier to know that I’m equipped with both a camera and a video camera 24/7 these days, as long as my iPhone 4 is in my pocket. This lifetime is speeding by like a bullet, and it’s nice to be able to capture some of its fleeting moments on the fly…such as the demise of this toy car, which I found in a West Covina parking lot.
From wherever it had its beginning, it appears it met its end beneath the wheel of a departing, or arriving vehicle. I know that it belonged to somebody, and I wonder if he/she is totally heartbroken at the absence of their car (I know Greg would be), or if they’re totally oblivious to it. Either way, it serves my memory in its departure from this world, forever commemorated here on Lefty Limbo. Well, forever until, um, the host server and its backup totally melts down or this world explodes or something.
What Kind of Postmodernist Are You?
2010
12.23
12.23
Long ago, in my earlier days of blogging, memes were a popular way to spice up one’s blog, often with random quizzes such as those presented by Quizilla. I never really cared to do them, but one quiz in particular grabbed my attention out of the blue: What Kind of Postmodernist Are You?
Being the random artsy nerdy type, I took it, was amused by my result, and posted it to my blog.
Now, 7–8 years later, I took it again, thinking maybe I would have evolved into a different type of postmodernist, especially after having a kid. Hmm. But no, the result was the same:
You are a Deconstructionist Weirdo. Although ostensibly originating with Derrida, the theories of your particular school have long since passed beyond intellegibillity; half the time you don’t even understand what you’re saying anymore. That’s okay, though. You’re a lot more fun to party with than a bunch of stodgy new historicists.
Too funny, and still very accurate. I actually still look like that, too. Yes, low-carb diets do work.
Timing.
2010
12.20
12.20
My iPhone isn’t known for its fast shutter speed, but by pure luck I was able to snap this one off a split-second before lil’ Greg had his very first rain puddle splash. Weird thing is, I don’t even remember taking this picture. It must have happened by a slip of the finger just before I started shooting video of his adventure. At first glance, it looks like he’s just stepping off the curb. Upon closer inspection, it turns out he’s completely airborne, frozen in the air for that one brief instant before the cataclysmic shattering of the glassy mirrored universe beneath him.
He had so much fun. Puddle splashing is definitely something I never did as a kid—I never even had rain boots, come to think of it. However, I did make tremendous splashes and skids in puddles on my BMX bike. That was awesome back in my day.
I miss Maui.
2010
12.17
12.17
Spam Musubi from Ono Hawaiian BBQ. Not as Ono as Maui's though!
Of all the beautiful sights and sounds of Maui, the one thing that I miss the most is the Spam Musubi which I discovered in the small cafe in the hotel lobby where we were staying. I just happened to see it one morning just before our excursion to the Road To Hana—a trip which must be made literally at the crack of dawn in order to “follow the sun.”
We never had time to eat a good breakfast during those trips, so I usually grabbed whatever the cafe had prepared, which was typically some kind of ham and cheese croissant or sandwich of some sort.
One morning when I brought the sandwich up to the counter, I saw this small nondescript brick next to the register, wrapped neatly in plastic. I picked it up and felt the heft in my hand. It was a solid, dense thing, and I examined it closely. It was wrapped in seaweed and looked like it had some kind of meat and rice within. I asked the cashier what it was.
“That’s a Spam Musubi,” she said.
“Spam Musubi? That’s Spam in there?” My jaw dropped (*Note: If there’s anything that gets a Filipino excited, it’s Spam. I tell you, it’s like catnip). “Wow!”
Without hesitation, I tossed the sandwich aside and bought the brick. And I tell you, that thing was freakin’ delicious. Plus, it held me over for a long, long time—I wasn’t hungry on the whole Road to Hana.
I think about the WWII servicemen who stayed in the Pacific and missed certain elements of their exotic locales, and inevitably brought their fetishes forth at home through tiki lounges and such. I would make a musubi lounge if I could. I worship those things.
Not to be totally out of luck here on the mainland. There’s a few Hawaiian places that stock Spam Musubi, even a spot by my house—Rutt’s Cafe—whose shirts say “What the heck is a Spam Musubi?” (guess who bought one of those?), but none of them yet have featured that island finesse that made that Maui one Ono. The one in Maui was wrapped tight enough to bounce a quarter off the seaweed. All its sides were flat and perpendicular with neat, sharp edges. And inside, the rice was so sticky and densely packed that it maintained its shape to the very last bite. It really was a work of art.
Here, although the ones I’ve had contain the same basic ingredients (you can’t go wrong with just three), they don’t reflect quite the same flavor and craftsmanship which I remember. The one above was from Ono Hawaiian BBQ. It tasted good, but totally fell apart after the first bite.
Oh well. Maybe I’m just a musubi snob.
