Novelist. Editor. Journalist. Business Writer.
Here’s your WTF moment for today (well, aside from potential passage of that stimulus stinker): Seal with phobia of fish astonishes staff at sanctuary.
As always, there’s a theory for the seal’s behavior. The five-week-old pup was rescued after she was separated from her mother, causing one worker at the sanctuary to speculate: “It is probably because it’s quite stressful and confusing coming to the sanctuary and she was pining for her mummy. … And herring really smells.”
I’m not a Starbucks hater. But I don’t frequent the place for my weekday morning cup of coffee. Why? Price for one. I’m only getting regular coffee. And Starbucks doesn’t taste that any better than the cup I’m getting from the street vendor — Sammy on 44th Street and Third. So I can go to Starbucks, wait in line for five minutes while the latte-swillers confuse the baristas with over-complicated orders. Then pay close too two bucks for a cup of coffee and then put the milk and sugar in myself.
Or I can go to Sammy, say hello and have him recognize me and prepare my coffee for me just the way I like it for the low-low price of 1.25. Not only that, he’ll point out the hot women walking by while jamming to some kicking Egyptian beats. And, on days like today, when he’s feeling good, he’ll give me a free damn donut. A FREE DONUT!
Starbucks is a great place for a third place. When I need to sit and write and drink some coffee, there are few places better. But Starbucks will not give you a free donut.
Etta James will kick Beyonce’s ass! At a concert in Seattle, James said: “I tell you that woman he had singing for him, singing my song, she gonna get her ass whupped.” Sweet, sweet cat fight. James also had this to say about Dear Leader: “You know your President, right? You know the one with the big ears?” she asked the audience. “He ain’t my President.”
Me? I have little use for Beyonce. Her voice is usually fair to middling (and certainly the weakest of the members of Destiny’s Child) and when she dances, it looks like she’s being tazed. Ironically, the only decent acting she’s done is as Etta James in Cadillac Records.
Of course, Etta will probably be apologizing for “the misunderstanding” by the end of the week. I hope not, but such is the media cycle.
This YouTube clip is courtesy of VideoGum (aka, the best place to find ridiculous videos ever).
Jeff Bercovici and at least one person at the Wall Street Journal share my feelings about the prospect of hearing John Madden slobber his way through this weekend’s game. The Journal had one of those polite pieces hinting at why the Big Man should retire with some dignity before he gets any more like Pat Summerall, who’s trotted out for a yearly shamefest during Fox’s BCS coverage. (Before anyone jumps my shit, I think both of them were once stellar at their jobs. And Madden’s video games are not only spectacular games, they actually teach you the real-life rules of a very complicated sport.)
A sample:
Futterman: “[A]s exalted as his position has become, and as beloved as he is, Mr. Madden has, at times this season, struggled with the facts.”
Translation: John Madden is an old person who forgets things and makes other things up.
Since the wife’s family is Thai with a strong dose of Chinese, we’re going out to Queens today to celebrate Lunar New Year, which begins tomorrow. You know the drill, sit around eating pickled ginger chips and chicken feet, watching the Thai College Kickboxing Playoffs on TV and staying up late to see the countdown from a 98-year-old stroke victim before the ball drops: Sip-gao-baht-jet-hohk-hah-see-sahm-song-NEUNG! Yaaayyyyyy!
Ok. Maybe not. We’re just going to sit around and eat. Sadly, the New Year is one time when we’re not treated to Thai flavor sensation. Instead, the traditional dish is this boiled chicken dipped in ginger sauce. The chicken’s fresh (I’m told), but the Asian butcher it in a manner alien to most Americans. Instead of working through the joints, they just bludgeon it with a meat cleaver or something, releasing delicious marrow and bone shards! The only American I ever knew to treat a chicken like that was my grandfather, who had a band-saw in the meat department of his grocery store and didn’t much care which end of the chicken went through first.
But because my wife lacks the tact gene, she told her parents my views on boiled chicken–instead of just letting me sit there and eat it in peace. So now they may serve up a plate of fried chicken with the ginger sauce as well.
Oh, and lobster too.
And, probably, moms-in-law is going to rock some Thai side dishes. And by side dishes, I mean full on meals that would stuff an army.
Anyway, enjoy the year of the Ox. I’m off to eat.
Guaranteed to rocket to the top of the Most E-mailed stories on The New York Times website is a story about towns with weird place names throughout the U.K., including: Butt Hole Road, Crapstone, Penistone, Spanker Lane, Wetwang and Sluthole. (Hell, the story is already at the top of the Most E-mailed list.)
If you’re reading this blog, you’ve undoubtedly developed a fascination with the way I live my life. You sometimes probably find yourself thinking, “WWKD?” or “What’s Ken doing now?” And sometimes, you probably guess exactly wrong. But that’s my fault, because I don’t provide enough guidance.
For example, you may think I start my day with a thick mix of political news, heavy reading and a lot of opinion just to get the engine started. You’d be wrong. Exactly wrong.
KEN WHEATON 