fink.about.it.

pretty good, for a girl

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A Neighborly Request

To the neighbors who live in The Parlour:

Please quit murdering my earholes on Friday nights. I mean this in the politest way possible. HOWEVER, I work at 8am EVERY Saturday in an intense, professional environment that transforms into the worst parts of the book of Revelation when I’m tired. I do not expect you to stop throwing parties. In fact, I could probably give you some pointers to throw some real bangers down there. I’ve noticed that you actually charge money to these get-togethers so I’m sure you’d like to see increases in both the quality (which could DEFINITELY be improved) and profit margin of your soirees. My friends and I rage supreme with the best of them. You’re probably noticed. Party. Party hard. Just stop doing it on Fridays. One problem I’m having is the narcissistic conversations happening in the alleys and on the front sidewalk. Based on things I’ve heard, I’m guessing you send actual invitations to your parties that read “BYO cigarettes and desire to talk about yourself loudly”.  The conversations in the side alley are so shockingly magnified I’ve thought people were in my apt more than once.  Some of my favorite conversations include: The Tale of Different Animals’ Souls and What A Nasally Girl Can Feel When She Looks Into Their Eyes;   How Everyone Should At Least Come Inside To Say Hi And Bye Even Though They Aren’t Going To Stay-A Terminally Repetitive Novel;   The Saga Of Someone’s New Hat and If It’s Just TOO “Right Now”;  A Brief History Of How Many Times Someone Meant To Wish Someone Else A Happy Birthday;  A Stoic Explanation of How Someone’s Girlfriend  Hates Marijuana & He’s Completely Ok With It & Clearly Fooling No One But Himself; The Diatribe Of American Spirits’ Superiority...just to name a few. My next problem is the 174 electric set shows your band so ambitiously tackles. The walls are very thin and I hear everything. EVERYTHING. Over the last few months, I’ve learned that when the bass player is actually in the pocket (which is usually brief) my bed vibrates. This isn’t a complaint, it’s a compliment. It’s awesome. The guitar player is pretty decent. He’s usually just on the cusp of really shredding. Last night I think he noodled around a little too much, he needs to stay focused. A few months back, a vocalist let the entire block know that his name is Daniel and he’s here to say we need to eat our vegetables every day.  Terrible. 0 out of 10.

If you MUST get wild on Fridays a heads up would be greatly appreciated. Optimally, you’d throw parties on Saturdays.  Saturdays are great. Go frickin’ bananas. Hire a marching band. Rent a gong. Shoot cannons. Point the bass amp directly towards my bedroom. Whatever. I don’t care. I promise.

Have Fun!

Your neighbor that wishes they could get weird on Fridays.

PS: WTF is up with that mattress that’s always on the floor? Are you having orgies? 

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Who Is Travis Spurley and Why Is He Taking Over The Internet?

You've probably seen Travis Spurley's name on some form of social media over the last week. Something terrible is going on. Something amazing is going on. These things are closely related. People from all over the world have been asking me the same question: "Who is Travis Spurley and why is he taking over my internet?". I feel much obliged to pay tribute to my friend Travis. From now on, let's call him Quad.

 It's not surprising that Quad is so popular. He knows how to have a great time and is definitely not boring. Quad is always ready for an adventure. However, Quad's worldwide popularity doesn't stem from his unwavering commitment to fun. Everyone loves him because Quad is the best friend you could ever ask for; a great American and outstanding person. In the time I've spent with Quad over the last 7+ years in at least 14 states and 3 countries, I have not heard anyone utter a single negative word about the guy. How is it possible for someone to have 1000 best friends? Quad does; he's everyone's second self. He is the most loving, positive, generous and humble man on the planet. Being a modest man, there is nothing too fancy at first glance. Once you get to know him, you'll quickly realize he outshines the sun and emanates a sweetness that could knock you to the floor.  In a made to measure world, he breaks the mold. Quad would do anything for his family and friends. His conviction is slow, but steady. I can tell Quad anything and he will listen without judging me, making me feel stupid or ever saying "I told you so"; the lecture never comes. He is just there to be my friend. That's what he does. Quad is a man who has made his intentions clear. He cares about people. He really is as he seems and never promises more than he'll provide. If giving hugs was an Olympic sport Quad would bring home the gold. It's not uncommon for him to call you to tell you he bought you a concert ticket and has a hotel for you to stay in because all your friends will be there and he misses you. Never believe the lie that people will always want something in return. If you think he expects anything from anyone you're off your rocker. Quad would give you his walletsworth if you needed it. His compassion spreads triple wide and he never makes you feel like a slacker. He's the kind of guy that will share a tiny, Japanese bed with Alki in San Francisco so that Jenni and I don't have to share with a boy. The visual contrast of the occupants of those 2 beds next to each other was comedic perfection. Quad is the man with a thousand friends and he cares about them all the same, and they love him back. He is a salmon in a river full of trouts. Sounds like he's got it all, right? 

Quad is sick. It makes me sick. It feels like someone took a plunger to my brain and i can't possibly breathe this thin air. When I heard the news it was like an anchor dropped through my heart; it's a terrible conversation, even worse of a thing to plan. Dear Lord, I didn't know things were supposed to be this way. Everything seemed out of order and i was flooded with memories of home. That's the feeling Quad give you: home. My mind was instantly transported to bright lights, big cities and countless miles of highway.  I remembered sitting on a front porch nursing a hangover together and his arm around me to protect me from an uninvited prowler.  I had visions of when the fuzz pulled up outside Logan Square Auditorium and I turned around in time to see Quad sitting on the hood of a cop car, just chillin in all his glory.

As I gave myself time to mullet over, I began to see the time other side of things and was able to overcome my grief. Some of the sadness was passing and I know now that, all in time, Quad will be better than ever. It will be harder than crossing a bridgeless river. It will be more challenging than shaking off the haunt of a wizard burial ground. As words and support began to shower in, i realized this isn't just angular momentum, it's linear. You can't have missed the boat on what I've said, but if you think I'm exaggerating the effect Quad has on people, you're wrong. The support that is pouring in from every corner of the planet is astronomical. Quad is a conduit of love. No one else I've ever met could ever inspire this global movement of pure, heartfelt support.  I'm currently watching a group of partyin' peeps, who were once just syncopated strangers, unite as one nation under Quad. It's amazing to see so much passion in a time of sadness. There's now a stronger sense of gravity, you can smell it in the air. We are so fortunate to have found each other and there doesn't seem like there's much left to search for. We will be with Quad through every step of the way. Everyone is his bottom half now. We refuse to pay the snucka, no way; it's getting t-boned. Quad needs us and we're gonna be the ones to ride it through. I see the road leading towards the solution we need.

Countless people have questioned why I continue to travel to see music, usually the same band over the last 10 years. It has always been hard to adequately verbalize the personal and emotion gains I've made through the rock solid friendships that have arisen from these shared experiences. So many times I've been asked to make it matter, but just couldn't find the words. It's not like there's a book about this or something you could read. I've realized so many things over the last week as I've watched love stream in from far and wide. I know that we can go where we want to and walk where we will, we will always be here for each other. We're here for each other if we have to drive all night through rain and when the action's slow. I've realized that if everyone was half the person Quad is the world would be a lot better place. Throughout all of many, many trials Quad has dealt with in his life, he has stood strong and faced his challenges head on. I have never heard him complain once. Quad deserves the absolute best and that's what we're going to give him. It's time to put your ego aside and get used to the thought you can't be what you're not, life has already got plans for you. In a few hours I will celebrate with friends I've had from the start and the band that brought us all together. We will celebrate lives filled with love in Quad's honor and reflect on this ongoing odyssey we're all still a part of. We will not be sad, today is about being thankful for what we all have. What we all have is each other. Today, and always, we stand as one nation under Quad. 

I know the day seems long, but it's gonna be ok. This isn't the end of the road; this is just the preamble.

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Adulthood: Death By Beach Zamboni

Today I was wrong about something. I led myself to believe I hate being an adult.  That is false. I’m an innately happy person who hates certain parts of being an adult. I hate paying bills, worrying and heartbreak. I hate cleaning my bathroom and via experience knowing someone is making a terrible mistake and not being able to do a damn thing about it. I hate things that I never would have noticed when I was young, like people that use the word “heady” over the age of 15 and adults who are scared for no reason. I hate that emotions don’t pass fleetingly like they did in childhood when all you needed to feel better was a Handisnack or to realize Are You Afraid of The Dark was on.  All it took to turn a bad day around was a Mondo and a Gogurt in your lunchbox, a new Goosebumps book on the Scholastic order form  or being able to stay up to watch the Olympics (why was that so cool?).  When you’re a kid it’s ok to blow up GI Joes in the backyard to make them look like they stepped on landmines. When you’re a kid you are still within the age requirements to apply for Legends of the Hidden Temple and Double Dare.  When you’re a kid you can’t wait to grow up.  Then you grow up.

As an adult, some things stay the same.  My sneakers are still rad and I still watch cartoons. I’ve realized a taste for beets will never “grow on me”.  Last week, I wore a pair of shorts to work that I’ve had since 8th grade.  I still love candy, still get motion sickness, still hate sleeping alone and am still terrified of centipedes. My ADD is worse than ever and I am having a hard time grasping that I will never be Mrs. Adam Yauch. We might live in the future, but at this point we are unable to return to an age where our biggest concern was if the high bounce in four square was illegal or not.  Then again, we were right about some things when we were hurrying to get bigger. Turns out we CAN stay up as late as we want, eat ice cream for breakfast and watch R rated movies.  Some things are even BETTER as an adult. I can wear a robe in public whenever I want (I always want), can light fireworks off my roof and can shred a head of lettuce into coleslaw with a hedge trimmer.  As an adult I can go wherever I want, see whatever I want and do whatever I want. WRONG, that was a test. You have to work to get to that point in life.  That’s the true definition of success in adulthood.  Thinking about these things made me realize something. I love a lot and hate very little. This realization led to one of the more frustrating things I’ve thought about in a while...something that in my mind’s daily pondering competes with the Fermi Paradox and Schrodinger’s Cat.  This conundrum has bothered me since I moved to the Windy City and I think today, I’ve finally had a breakthrough.

Why the hell people do people go to the beach in Chicago? It’s one of those things you just DO in the summer…like eating on the Big Star patio or going to a street fest. There are always too many people and you get drunker than you planned. Why do we do it? The beaches in this city are disgusting. The garbage to sand ratio is out of this world. I’m sure the water is over 50% motor oil and gasoline.  If you do venture into the water, you’re standing on sharpish rocks and a decent amount of glass. It is an hour long expedition to even get to the beach, even if you pay to park in a lot. If you drive you have to park 7 miles away in a spot that is far too small while bikes zoom past your door at top speed. The sand temperature is usually 800 degress and you have to clear at least 24 cigarette butts out of the way to put a blanket down.  There are babies in diapers who are stupid.  They can’t do anything for themselves except take up beach space. It’s rude. Sure, there is a bar at one beach shaped like a giant boat, but drinks are expensive and the bro to tourist ratio is 100%. No thanks.  I am not saying I never go to the beach…im just confused why I do it. Then it hit me like a CTA bus changing several lanes without looking.

You can do whatever you want at Chicago beaches. No one cares what’s going on. Ever. At all. It’s a total free for all, usually. I take that back, as long as you’re not a complete idiot you can do whatever you want. Sure, minors will get underage drinking tickets but all they need to remedy that is a different container. Sure, there are lifeguards. It’s their job to sleep until someone needs to be saved. The posted “beach hours”? Bigger joke.  Anyone who has been to a Chicago beach knows the drill. The whistle blows at the “end” of beach time, everyone gets out of the water and pack up, the lifeguards leave, everyone else stays. This happens every single day. 

Now we enter the sexy, mysterious world of NightBeach. NightBeach isn’t just a location, it’s a lifestyle. At NightBeach you can REALLY do whatever you want…except use the bathroom indoors, they most definitely lock those so be prepared to piss in a bush.  There are garbage can fires, people in the shadows and beer. You could probably transition between Night and Day beach for a straight week and no one would notice. I like NightBeach significantly more than day beach. That is, except for one major detail. Beach zambonis are trying to kill me.

Everything at NightBeach is perfect until you hear that sputtering rumble. In one swift movement you’ve been blinded as you try to locate the source of the noise of technology past and the world’s most intrusive light. Then you see it: a beach zamboni. You know what I’m talking about : The tractors that comb the beaches at night. I call them beach zambonis and they are my arch nemesis.  I would be ok with sharing Night Beach with them if they weren’t trying to hunt me down and flatten me. It’s personal, I’m not the only person who feels this way. I’ve asked around. Chances are you’re already having flashbacks to this very situation.  There are vast expanses of beach to be combed, why is the square foot section I’m  standing on the most important thing in the zamboni drivers life? Have they been given an exact target to hit and when they punched the coordinates into the zamboni gps it happened to be exactly where im standing or sitting? EVERY TIME I GO TO NIGHTBEACH? I think the zamboni drivers’ insatiable urge to destroy humans (specifically me) stems from both resentment of the beach dwellers who are not working the night/sunrise shift and subsection 12B of the beach zamboni driver employee handbook which states:  I solemnly swear I will be as huge of a funsucking jerk as humanly possible. Don’t they understand I would trade places with them in a heartbeat? I would do almost anything to blaze through North Ave beach on high powered machinery.  Instead of trying to exterminate me, a better approach would be to simply ask me to cover their shift so they can enjoy a beer in the moonlight. Recently, to demonstrate the zambonis’ hatred of me to my brother, I moved as closely to a dock and Lake Michigan as possible to see just what lengths a beach zamboni would go to in order to crush my body. We waited. We could hear it, but we couldn’t see it. It was like the water glass ripples in Jurassic Park. Impending doom was upon us. Suddenly, from the far end of the dock, out of the water emerged the Loch Ness Beach Tractor. I swear on my life a zamboni  actually drove out into the water around a dock to try to eradicate me from the Earth’s surface. Scuba was there as a witness. Ask him.  I have the vividmost of imaginations, but  lake tractors are beyond me. Can you imagine the conversation between the zamboni driver and his boss if he’d gotten lodged in the lake? Honestly, I can’t believe it he made it out; he was pretty deep and that thing has to weigh 3 million lbs.  His boss either would have been horrified that the zamboni company was about to be a city wide embarrassment or would have given the driver a raise for being so dedicated to the execution of subsection 12B. These are things that I think about it.

Soon after this, we packed up our things and went home. It only takes one sunrise Loch Ness Lake Tractor to kill the dreams of NightBeach.  Besides, that’s another sign I’ve reached adulthood. I’m getting better at knowing when it’s time to go home. 

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Killing Centipedes Is Bad For My Soul: Exhibit B

  I killed the second centipede of my adult* life this morning. It was possibly worse than the first. Under the impression that every centipede north of the Mason Dixon has heard about my valiant victory in the last insect showdown, you can imagine the shock and horror I endured upon finding another million legged Satan bug near my shower drain this morning.  It crossed my mind that I may be able to trap my nemesis under a cup and transport him into the wilderness far, far from my front door in the manner I deal with spiders. Impossible. The speed of a centipede falls somewhere between a cheetah and a speedboat. They have 50 times as many legs as a human. In my mind and the reality that we currently live in, they can run 50 times as fast as a human. 

     I have survived very close calls in which spiders have actually come in contact with my skin. If a centipede crawled on me, I can only hope I would die instantaneously as not to endure the psychological damage I would live with for the rest of my days. Don't believe me?  My hair is offensively long now, and every 18-24 minutes it brushes my elbows. Each and every time I am sure it is a centipede trying to crawl onto my face and then presumably steal every happy thought in my brain. Fuzz or a random loose hair on my bathroom floor? Stop breathing completely and wonder if I should call 911 or just take my own life before I'm dragged into the 7th circle of hell which is evidently located in a pipe under my bathtub.

          Eventually, I ended up reliving almost every part of my last encounter with evil. Same mental dilemmas, same gag reflex and the same existential meltdown. It felt grimier this time. Killing something makes me feel sad and a little dirty. I took a longer shower than usual and put on heels and a dress with flowers on it to make myself feel like less of a monster. As I stood in my kitchen dressed like a cross between Laura Ingalls Wilder and a librarian with too much cleavage**, I realized how many centipede children were now orphans, just in time for Father's Day. Is 9am too early to do a shot of whiskey alone? I'm fairly certain that centipedes are directly related to the invention of alcohol, xanax and the atomic bomb. Recently, I was telling someone that I enjoy being an adult. When I spoke those words, I forgot about this part. This part is the worst. 

           During the traumatic aftermath of my second insect murder, I forgot to put my watch on. Now, in addition to being emotionally scarred, I am constantly looking at my bare wrist out of habit. Centipedes: 6,687,947. Mallory:2.     

*entire

**for once

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Some Grade A dumpster fires at the University of Hartford. 

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A Letter To Someone Who Is Sexist and Hates Dumpster Fires

http://hartfordinformer.com/2013/02/sports/dumpster-fires-cool-bro-as-immature-as-dumpster-fires-seem-nothing-is-below-some-people/ 

Dear Tim Rizzo, 

     Recently, while looking at dumpster fires on the internet, I stumbled upon your response to the arsonist responsible for the University of Hartford campus blazes earlier in the year. I am not a student but am honestly offended. Not once throughout of the course of your self righteous fun-sucking rant did you refer to the arsonist as a "she". As an adult woman I am shocked that this discrimination and sexism still exists in our world today. Women possess the mental stamina and physical capability to create a glorious, garbage fueled inferno as well as any man is able to. 

     The internet tells me you are a student, which comes as quite the surprise in itself. I was quite certain you were a teacher, hall moniter or Argus Filch. The internet also tells me you have written other essays before. You are never going to be taken seriously as a journalist if you don't start doing a little research. Dumpster fires have a long running tradition in Hartford before you even stepped foot on campus. One student can be accredited with a staggering 13 majestic blazes from 2004-2007. That student was a female. I have attached photographic evidence for your records. 

     Also, I am concerned about your feelings towards children. Children are our future. They are precious little snuggle nuggets that need to be nurtured. Odds are that one of the firemen/women or first responders who destroyed that flaming, energy producing dumpster fire is a parent. If those parents don't work, those children starve to death. Next time you claim to speak for the entire student body, find out first if they would like to be portrayed as sexist child haters. 

Sincerely, 

Mallory

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tumblrbot asked: WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE INANIMATE OBJECT? Answer: probably a solid gold jet ski that also shoots lazers and can fly in outer space if you want it to without the change in atmosphere...

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Why Girls Go To The Bathroom Together.

     Females are very complicated. That is a universal truth. I should know. I am one. While I'm not the girliest girl you know, I do meet all of the anatomical requirements. Sure, I LOVE Star Wars, Nintendo, fireworks, deep space, whiskey, dinosaurs and think Uggs are the worst fashion trend of my generation ......but I also have an exorbitant amount of accessories. My makeup case is the size of a Buick. The last time I broke a nail I understood what it was like to be at Pearl Harbor. Just remembering that one time the power went out before work and I couldn't blow dry my hair makes me want to kill myself. I cry when old people win the showcase showdown on the Price is Right (their life's dream!!) and change the channel during those Sarah Mclachlan commercials with the sad animals. Puppies are so cute my head might explode. I love hummus, anything in a lettuce wrap and wish I could wear yoga pants everywhere. Recently, I became so suddenly annoyed with something I could barely finish my cupcake. Just kidding, I ate 3.  Some things are just standard characteristics of being a girl........like the way we go to the bathroom in packs.

     Everyone has noticed it. Most people have commented on it. Few people understand it. Today I'd like to take a moment to clear things up. We do not use the bathroom together to gossip, look important, because we are afraid to go alone, do drugs or because we don't know where it is. Girls go to the bathroom together to make sure no one walks  through the back of the stall and ends up in Narnia. 

     Can you even imagine? It doesn't matter if I'm in my favorite Nike's or tallest heels, I'm not ruining them to defeat the White Witch. She's been making it snow for 100 freaking years. Do you know how cold it is there? It's a proven fact that a woman's hands and feet are the exact same temperature as an icicle 97% of the time. I know that my friends care about me because they will escort me to the bathroom and loudly talk to me from a different stall making sure I'm still in our realm and not freezing to death in Narnia. This morning, I developed hypothermia just getting out of the shower. I have a space heater blasting me from October through April at my desk at work. When I ran the Chiditarod in March I wore 4 shirts. I wouldn't last 20 minutes in Narnia. 

     How about when Aslan pretty much comes back from the dead and then a giant war happens? I'm the least competitive person I know. There is no way in hell I'm following a zombie Jesus lion into a war. I've thought about what would happen to me if I were forced to join the armed forces. You know those runs that soldiers have to go on during bootcamp with a thousand pounds of gear strapped to their backs? I would make sure I was last in line, jump in a ditch and cover myself with leaves. When all the other soldiers returned I'd just jump in the back of the line and act really sweaty. If someone asked me to actually fight in a war and actually hurt people? Cry until someone told me to go home. Dishonorable discharge. Don't care.

     The White Witch is one of the most formidable villains of all time. I'm not dealing with that. I don't really watch scary movies. Most nights, I make sure my door is tightly shut when I go to bed....not for privacy, but so I don't run the risk of opening my eyes and seeing Chucky standing in my doorway silhouetted by the moonlight. TVs are turned off not for energy conservation, but to guarantee that chick from the ring doesn't crawl out. Some of the spookier parts of Harry Potter have prompted me to check my closet for dementors or inferi (and that is as close as a bad thing I'll ever come to saying about Harry Potter. He is so brave.).  You expect me to go to the bathroom alone with this much at stake? Even the White Witch's hair looks like a weapon, all sharp and pointy. No thanks.

     My ADD is also a pretty major factor. I get distracted by everything and Narnia is one of the most convoluted places ever chronicled. I'm kinda already bored NOW thinking about it. This is why girls go to the bathroom together. So we don't have to deal with this shit.

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This is my friend Andy. The one who tried to make a Bloomin' Onion on the grill. You've probably heard about it. 

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Andy Makes A Bloomin' Onion: Never Forget

     I have a friend named Andy.  He is a silly goose. Andy likes planning things, the Disco Biscuits, describing his lunch to me and grilling meats. I will probably write an entire book about Andy someday. This story will be in that book. 

     When I lived with Sean, I pretty much lived with Andy, too.  Andy is the friend who comes over on Friday and leaves on Sunday. Andy is the friend that you sometimes forget has a job, and maybe he forgets, too. Don't get me wrong, I love Andy. I also love the predicaments he gets himself into and the tall tales that come out of his mouth at random, completely out of his control.

     I came home from work one Saturday afternoon and Sean and Andy were standing in our kitchen. Sean and Andy together are like gasoline, a rocket launcher, a bulldozer that can maybe fly and a hurricane that doesn't end. Most weekends result in some sort of spectacular disaster of the best time ever. The destruction they do it astonishing. This particular Saturday they were sunburned, drinking champagne out of pint glasses and surrounded by meat. Apparently, they had just bought $100 worth of raw meat from Whole Foods and were going to grill on the roof. So many meats. Steaks, sausages, porks chops. You name it, they were going to grill it. I just listened for awhile as they discussed marinades while simultaneously admiring the impressive shapes and points their ruffled hair was making. I was noticing how sweaty they both were when their plans hit a small snag: they didn't possibly have enough meat. I'm not kidding. They went back to the store. I will never, ever, ever in my life forget them walking back into the kitchen and what happened next. Honestly, I've told this story probably 50 times. Hell, Roz makes me retell it to her almost every single day. It's incredible. Sean returned from the store with some fancy sausages. Andy returned from the store with the onion.

     Andy was going to make a Bloomin' Onion. Yeah, that alien-looking monstrosity from Outback Steakhouse. He swore he had made it before. He was basically an expert. He would probably put Outback Steakhouse out of business with his culinary expertise. This was going to be great, I would never have to spend money on Bloomin' Onions again....well, they'd be significantly cheaper now, at least. Andy was very excited about this. King of the Onion Patch. The next chain of events makes me laugh out loud every time i think about it, without fail. I'm laughing right now.

     I looked up just in time to see Andy slathering the whole, peeled onion with butter. Just really going at it. I never in a million years thought I would watch Andy lube up an onion. So much butter. He swore this was an integral part of the process. When he decided the onion was greased to perfection, he wrapped it in tinfoil. That's it. That's all he did. This is the exact moment I realized Andy had absolutely no idea what was going on. I mean, it should have occurred to me earlier since we didn't own a deep fryer. This didn't matter because Andy was going to grill it. GRILL IT. MAKE A BLOOMIN' ONION ON THE GRILL. Well, NOT make a Bloomin' Onion on the grill, I was quite sure, and I was absolutely going to watch. Andy was still sure it would work. That "it just bloooooms" There was a hand motion that he did EVERY time he said "blooooms" that is insanely hard to describe. I promise I will do it for you if you ask. 

     In Andy's world, everything was going swimmingly. His butter lubed, foil wrapped onion was warming on the grill, presumably transforming itself into a tasty treat. Soon, we would all be reaping the delicious benefits of Andy's vast cooking knowledge. We actually had a conversation while waiting about how Andy couldn't believe that the general public was so uneducated about the ease of making Bloomin' Onions at home. What a bunch of chumps! Finally, the moment had arrived: time to unwrap his little creation. Andy was honestly, legitimately shocked that the onion hadn't magically sliced, seasoned and deep fried itself on the grill. He was so frustrated. It ALWAYS works! He'd done it so many times before!!  I kid you not, he put it back on the grill and tried again. Second time wasn't the charm. He actually ate part of the onion anyway just to prove...well i don't know what he was trying to prove. That he really, really likes onions, I guess. Now, he was more sweaty, more sunburned and Bloomin' Onionless. 

     He drowned his sorrow in champagne, a wide array of grilled meats and a new Cinnamon Chasers mix while he let me know he couldn't wait for Michigan College football season to start. Now Andy knew what I had known all along. You can't make a Bloomin' Onion on a grill.      

     Even though he'd done it before.

[civilizedleisure]

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::::originally posted on my other blog:::::::::::

I have reached adulthood. I take 2 trains to work, am currently wearing a blazer and recently killed my first centipede. I’ve put a bounty on every centipede I’ve ever encountered, but this is the first time I’ve taken the life of the worst insect known to humanity. Centipedes are the thing I...