. : 5.29.2001

Things have calmed down. It's been nearly six months, in which time I've gotten married, done ridiculous amounts of artwork and marketing for the Hanover College Theatre and the American Education Institute, had gall bladder surgery, rediscovered racquetball, gotten pregnant, written and directed (and stage managed and did lights and sound and set design and construction and props and what have you) a new play, and somehow gotten plenty of sleep and not much stress...and then I remembered all my procrastination Blog-wise.

All this time, it's been in the back of my head, I'm sure. But I didn't honestly think about it until today, watching the Food Network continuously. No, I'm not going to write about the wonders of "Iron Chef," nor am I going to laugh at Emeril and the idea of his new NBC sitcom. (I'll do that in the fall.) Wait for it.

See, I was watching a marathon of shows that travelled the country, finding the best restaurants, etc. It's not important. It's what came in between the shows that made me want to write something, made me wish I had a place to write such a thing, made me remember all about the Blog.

It begins with a red-haired man in a hideous baby blue shirt, doing something with a grill and the words "ConAgra Foods" superimposed in the corner. "Hi, I'm Bobby Flay, and I'm grilling up a Butterball turkey." Yes, yes, it does look like Bobby Flay, but the Bobby Flay I know and love doesn't dress like that. My Bobby Flay wears tight black t-shirts and maybe a solid overshirt, maybe a leather jacket. This man is wearing that baby blue shirt with--can it be?--little white pineapples all over...who is he, and what has he done with Bobby Flay?

But lo and behold, it is indeed Bobby Flay. The eyes are right, the hair, the voice. But instead of being a mostly cool superstar chef, this man looks like a demented Alfred E. Neuman, presiding over the superficial advertising agency idea of a hip pool party. (Which means a grill and a Butterball turkey.)

I know it's really him, because this ad is sandwiched between an ad for Bobby Flay's Food Nation series and then an ad for the Ultimate Iron Chef match, between Masaharu Morimoto and, yes, Bobby Flay. He looks cool in these ads, he looks hip, he IS Bobby Flay.

It wouldn't be so bad--a turkey ad, Bobby? What were you thinking?--if it didn't air at EVERY BREAK in the marathon. "Hi, I'm Bobby Flay, and I'm grilling up a Butterball turkey." Every eight minutes, like clockwork. "Hi, I'm Bobby Flay..." It was like a car accident. "...and I'm grilling up a Butterball turkey." We couldn't turn the channel off after a while, we wanted to see just how many times Bobby was going to grill that thing. (For God's sake, change your shirt between turkeys.) "Hi, I'm Bobby Flay..."

And then, as if this all weren't painful enough--"and I'm grilling up a Butterball turkey."--the ad ends with "Happy Thanksgrilling!" A little turn of the knife just when you least expect it.

To think, he finally gets Jacqui Malouf off of "Hot Off the Grill," and now he has to do ads with turkeys.

I apologize to all of you out there without Food Network, because you probably don't know Bobby Flay or Iron Chef or Jacqui Malouf. I'd compare myself to the "Ranting Swede," but you might not have Cartoon Network either. All I know is, I'm going off to lick my wounds and watch some BBC America. Go, go, digital cable. Then again, there is one drawback to BBC America.

"Hi, I'm Mick Hasty. Have you ever tried to flip an omelet?"
posted by david j. loehr, 01:59

. : 1.6.2001

I've been procrastinating. I've wanted to write about procrastination for weeks now, and I still haven't gotten around to it. Honest.

Actual real life things have gotten in the way of my killing time by writing about killing time to avoid writing. Theatre work, holiday shopping, wedding plans. These are probably in the wrong order of importance, but you get the idea. I've actually been busy. Stop laughing.

So I'm just posting a note, a snippet, a teaser of things to come. A reminder that I'm alive, I remember the Blog, I'll be back when things calm down. After the wedding. Which still needs planning. I said, stop laughing.
posted by david j. loehr, 01:07

. : 12.18.2000

Okay, it's true, I don't own a BMW. I can't recall ever wanting one. People who owned them were morons. I say this only from the experience of dealing with them on the road. B'mers drive at 90mph, one hand holding coffee, the other hand moving the hands-free cell phone mouthpiece out of the way. It's safe to say that, as a genus, I loathe the b'mius selfius importia.

And then my friend Wes has to go out and get a BMW. He lives in the Beltway, such brain damage is de rigeur there. I don't hold this against him. He is Gadget Boy. Which is to say, the car is loaded. Mini-disc changers, electronic mirrors, ejector seat, the works. I admit, one cold winter visit, I was won over by the climatically adjustable seat cushion device. The butt warmer. But even that wasn't enough to convince me. Yes, nice thing, warm buns, still don't want the car.

What about the keyless entry? The locks popping open, lights turning on? Nice, but no, don't need it. What about the individual temperature controls for driver and passenger? No, I'd be afraid of keeping my side warm, the other side cold, and creating a thunderstorm over the gear shift where the air masses meet. What about the adjustable cup holder? Please. I am not a B'mer. I am a free man.

So there I am this morning, awakened by my love after three hours sleep. Her car is frozen shut, can I drive her to work? All right. On with the warm silk and thermolene, on with the heavy wool sweater, on with the berber fleece muffler, on with the Polartec gloves by Timberland, on with the Columbia Bugaboo parka, on with the black western hat. Grab the Aim'N'Flame lighter and the Rain-X windshield de-icer spray. Go out into the cold. Six degrees, no Kevin Bacon in sight. (And for my father and other such interested souls, a dewpoint of negative one.) Time to spray and scrape. But first, I'll open my door.

No, no I won't. The lock is frozen. Aim'N'Flame time. The theory--which has worked in the past--is that I will light the lighter, hold the flame to the lock for a while, and voila, it is workable. If it lights. I think it took on the fortieth try as Heather unlocked the door from the inside. This doesn't matter. I am a man, I have made fire, I must be able to open my own door. What if I come out some cold icicle morning and she isn't conveniently sitting in the car to let me in?

Fine, it still won't budge. I'll spray the windows with the Rain-X, life will be good. Time is wasting, she should get to work, I'll just play with the lock when I get home. So what if all the windows are hopelessly fogged up now? I don't need no stinkin' windows. I am a man, I have made fire, I can drive with minimal visibility. It's not like we live in the Beltway.

So okay, I have delivered her to work, I have come home. I stand next to the car, watching as the residual Rain-X drips down the side of the car, drips over the lock in question, and I start to flick the Aim'N'Flame. Again, the cold and the wind conspire against me. I huddle closer to the car, flick, flick. And somewhere in the back of the sleep-deprived, cold-cocked brain, I see a picture, a label of some sort with a Rain-X logo and words to the general effect of "dear God, whatever you do, keep this product away from flames or else you deserve what will become of you." The brain thinks this over. Flick, flick. Hm. Flick. Wait a minute, that label might be talking to me. Flick.

The BMW has a heater at every lock. They don't freeze. Not that I want one. I'm just saying.
posted by david j. loehr, 09:59

Welcome back to the Writer's Block. Or Blog, as it were. This is my first post using Blogger, a new website/program/deus ex machina. It's also my first post of any sort in months. Blame it on the wedding preparations, or the theatre work, or the web design work. I blame it on the bossanova.

Basically, what this means is that I can post quick thoughts on the fly--on the web--without going to the trouble of writing a new column or a new file or, well, much of anything beyond the thought itself. The name is a contraction of "web log," and if that concept doesn't leave me feeling like Jim Kirk, nothing will.

Thanks to Aaron Barnhart at TV Barn for turning me on to Blogger. It really does make life easier for the web-based writer who's too busy to write...

posted by david j. loehr, 02:45