2/12/2005
Taster's Choice
Can we all just agree that there's no difference between "Peppermint," "Spearmint," and "Wintergreen"? I was just at the convenience store and was overwhelmed by the array of mint flavors that gum is sold in. I mean seriously -- does anyone really say, "Curses...all they have is Spearmint. Only Wintergreen will pass through these lips!" And where does "Icy Blast" and "Fresh Burst" fall on the minty scale? Is "Wint-o-green" the red-headed step child of "wintergreen," or is it just specifically marketed towards illiterates?
Apparently there is some sort of mint rating board involved, doling out names based on the power of mint included in each flavor. Which seems a little curious, on account of there's just the one mint plant. Is it like wine, where they start making crap up like, "Ahh... this one has hints of toasty cedar, pine smoke, and brazzle-berry?" (All of which are actual wine descriptions -- except for that last one, but would you really be all that surprised?) Personally, I think this whole "food taste" thing has gotten carried away into the Land of Complete and Utter Pretention. Sure, there are subtle tastes and flavors. But would anyone really know the difference between "mesquite," "barbeque," or "mesquite barbeque"unless the packaging told them?
To each his own, I suppose. Everyone has their own individual preferences and taste palate. I'm one of those people who isn't necessarily "picky," but there are a lot of things I just don't care for. (And yes, there is a difference.) What has always amazed me is people's reactions when I tell them I don't like something. "Seriously? You don't like tomatoes?" "What? How can you not like fish?!" And the curious response of, "You just don't know what you're missing!!" Um, actually I do. I've eaten it before, and that's how I know I don't like it. See...that's how it works. I eat something; then I decide if I like it or not. It's like magic, it is.
Some people take it so personally, too. "Oh, but you've never had my salmon!" Really? Did you take time out of your day to genetically modify salmon to make it taste like a pork chop? And if your salmon doesn't taste like salmon, why in the world did you make it? Here's a little reassurance from me to you: just because someone doesn't like a certain food doesn't mean they don't like you. It's no reflection on who you are, so just take a breath. I know you didn't invent broccoli, so I'm not going to hold it against you or anything.
Listen -- I get why people like some foods and why they don't like others. They didn't plan it. They didn't just wake up one day and decide that, against all odds, they would hate guava no matter the cost. It's just a question of taste. And when it comes to taste, there's no real rhyme or reason. Unless you refuse to eat my salmon, which I swear, doesn't taste "fishy" at all.
Apparently there is some sort of mint rating board involved, doling out names based on the power of mint included in each flavor. Which seems a little curious, on account of there's just the one mint plant. Is it like wine, where they start making crap up like, "Ahh... this one has hints of toasty cedar, pine smoke, and brazzle-berry?" (All of which are actual wine descriptions -- except for that last one, but would you really be all that surprised?) Personally, I think this whole "food taste" thing has gotten carried away into the Land of Complete and Utter Pretention. Sure, there are subtle tastes and flavors. But would anyone really know the difference between "mesquite," "barbeque," or "mesquite barbeque"unless the packaging told them?
To each his own, I suppose. Everyone has their own individual preferences and taste palate. I'm one of those people who isn't necessarily "picky," but there are a lot of things I just don't care for. (And yes, there is a difference.) What has always amazed me is people's reactions when I tell them I don't like something. "Seriously? You don't like tomatoes?" "What? How can you not like fish?!" And the curious response of, "You just don't know what you're missing!!" Um, actually I do. I've eaten it before, and that's how I know I don't like it. See...that's how it works. I eat something; then I decide if I like it or not. It's like magic, it is.
Some people take it so personally, too. "Oh, but you've never had my salmon!" Really? Did you take time out of your day to genetically modify salmon to make it taste like a pork chop? And if your salmon doesn't taste like salmon, why in the world did you make it? Here's a little reassurance from me to you: just because someone doesn't like a certain food doesn't mean they don't like you. It's no reflection on who you are, so just take a breath. I know you didn't invent broccoli, so I'm not going to hold it against you or anything.
Listen -- I get why people like some foods and why they don't like others. They didn't plan it. They didn't just wake up one day and decide that, against all odds, they would hate guava no matter the cost. It's just a question of taste. And when it comes to taste, there's no real rhyme or reason. Unless you refuse to eat my salmon, which I swear, doesn't taste "fishy" at all.
2/04/2005
The DMV
Ah, 30. The age where you graduate from pretend adulthood to real-life adulthood. Where you no longer have the ability to excuse your dumbass choices with the phrase "Well, I was in my 20s."
And what better place to spend your 30th birthday than...the DMV? (Yes, I know every hack comedian and writer mines plenty of material from the DMV -- second only to material about airline food -- but who I am to pretend I'm not a hack writer?)
I found myself today at a DMV outlet located in the mall. It had a sign at the door identifying itself with what I can only assume was a whimsically ironic name, "DMV Express." It took me awhile to see that sign, however, as the 30 people lined up in front of it blocked my view for the first half hour.
And oh, the people. I'm not one for statistics, but you'd think people at the DMV would a fairly broad section of the population. It's not like it's a refuge for the huddled masses yearning to be free like a check cashing place or WinCo, for goodness sake. No, everybody of every background has to go to the DMV. Well, apparently not this particular one. Perhaps there's a fancy DMV where the "normals" go that I'm not aware of or something -- a DMV where the larger percent of the people in line don't involuntarily drool on themselves or have disturbing facial bandages.
After doing my time in line, I finally got up to the counter. I had already armed myself with the form letter that told me I needed a license renewal, my cash for payment, and 2 forms of ID. I'm one of those people that make it a race to see how quickly I can get through, partially because it's the only game I can regularly beat people at (you should see my rocket through the self check-out at the grocery store...I'm unbelievable), and partially because I don't want to be "that guy" who acts completely flummoxed and bewildered that he has to provide some sort of identification when applying for a government-issued ID. My plan worked flawlessly. Now it was time to wait to get my photo taken.
There were about 18 chairs. 9 or so people had spaced themselves out, each with a chair dividing themselves and the next person. There were no chairs open that didn't directly seat me next to one of them. Decision time. Would it be the old lady who barely understood the vision test she just took? The redneck lady who reaked of stale tobacco and shattered dreams? The gangsta with the magical pants that somehow didn't fall down even though they were precarilously strapped to his upper thighs? I took the only option I had: I stood.
First up to have her picture taken was the old lady. After being asked when her birthday was, she kindly answered, "I got my purse at Sears." (No, I'm not making that up.) After the DMV employee asked her some medical questions (none of which had anything to do with the fact she wouldn't be able to hear a semi truck barreling through her living room), she got her photo taken. By that time, two other people had vacated their seats, and I had sat down, giving myself a nice buffer zone of two seats. Unfortunately, someone else had grabbed one of those, leaving open only the seats beside me. And down sits old lady.
She was nice enough, so that was good. But there was still the "completely deaf" issue to overcome. There was no question she was going to talk to me. (After all, I feel like I have a "Hey crazy person -- come and engage in bizarre chit-chat with me!!" tattoo on my forehead.) I just had to decide my plan of attack. I decided to keep my answers to nods of the head, thereby saving the rest of the waiting room patrons from hearing me randomly shout, "OH REALLY? YOU GOT YOUR FIRST DRIVER'S LICENSE IN 1956?" I shrugged knowingly to her confusion at the pants-that-would-not-fall-down guy. ("How can it possibly be comfortable to sit on your belt like that?") I nodded bemusedly at the story of her sister and brother-in-law having their licenses revoked for dual cataract surgery. ("They each told the doctor the other one had driven them there!")
Then, thankfully, it was my turn to be photographed. After carefully removing my jacket and glasses, making sure my collar was nice and my shirt didn't look disheveled, I stepped up to the line. What proceeded was what has to be the worst picture in all of human history. Taken with no warning, not properly framed or lit. My head, tiny and leaning to the side. My face, pale and sickly. Children would cry. Passers-by would shake their heads and mumbe, "My God. Just...my God."
But I didn't care. I was almost finished. After waiting another 10 excruciating minutes for the license to be printed out, I finally left. Bounding toward the car, so ready to leave the mall, I hardly noticed the woman driving through the parking lot, not preparing to stop at the crosswalk I was in the middle of. Evidentally that old lady was just as blind as she was deaf.
She did smile, though, when I shouted, "Watch where you're going!" "Why yes," she answered. "I rather do like bowling!"
And what better place to spend your 30th birthday than...the DMV? (Yes, I know every hack comedian and writer mines plenty of material from the DMV -- second only to material about airline food -- but who I am to pretend I'm not a hack writer?)
I found myself today at a DMV outlet located in the mall. It had a sign at the door identifying itself with what I can only assume was a whimsically ironic name, "DMV Express." It took me awhile to see that sign, however, as the 30 people lined up in front of it blocked my view for the first half hour.
And oh, the people. I'm not one for statistics, but you'd think people at the DMV would a fairly broad section of the population. It's not like it's a refuge for the huddled masses yearning to be free like a check cashing place or WinCo, for goodness sake. No, everybody of every background has to go to the DMV. Well, apparently not this particular one. Perhaps there's a fancy DMV where the "normals" go that I'm not aware of or something -- a DMV where the larger percent of the people in line don't involuntarily drool on themselves or have disturbing facial bandages.
After doing my time in line, I finally got up to the counter. I had already armed myself with the form letter that told me I needed a license renewal, my cash for payment, and 2 forms of ID. I'm one of those people that make it a race to see how quickly I can get through, partially because it's the only game I can regularly beat people at (you should see my rocket through the self check-out at the grocery store...I'm unbelievable), and partially because I don't want to be "that guy" who acts completely flummoxed and bewildered that he has to provide some sort of identification when applying for a government-issued ID. My plan worked flawlessly. Now it was time to wait to get my photo taken.
There were about 18 chairs. 9 or so people had spaced themselves out, each with a chair dividing themselves and the next person. There were no chairs open that didn't directly seat me next to one of them. Decision time. Would it be the old lady who barely understood the vision test she just took? The redneck lady who reaked of stale tobacco and shattered dreams? The gangsta with the magical pants that somehow didn't fall down even though they were precarilously strapped to his upper thighs? I took the only option I had: I stood.
First up to have her picture taken was the old lady. After being asked when her birthday was, she kindly answered, "I got my purse at Sears." (No, I'm not making that up.) After the DMV employee asked her some medical questions (none of which had anything to do with the fact she wouldn't be able to hear a semi truck barreling through her living room), she got her photo taken. By that time, two other people had vacated their seats, and I had sat down, giving myself a nice buffer zone of two seats. Unfortunately, someone else had grabbed one of those, leaving open only the seats beside me. And down sits old lady.
She was nice enough, so that was good. But there was still the "completely deaf" issue to overcome. There was no question she was going to talk to me. (After all, I feel like I have a "Hey crazy person -- come and engage in bizarre chit-chat with me!!" tattoo on my forehead.) I just had to decide my plan of attack. I decided to keep my answers to nods of the head, thereby saving the rest of the waiting room patrons from hearing me randomly shout, "OH REALLY? YOU GOT YOUR FIRST DRIVER'S LICENSE IN 1956?" I shrugged knowingly to her confusion at the pants-that-would-not-fall-down guy. ("How can it possibly be comfortable to sit on your belt like that?") I nodded bemusedly at the story of her sister and brother-in-law having their licenses revoked for dual cataract surgery. ("They each told the doctor the other one had driven them there!")
Then, thankfully, it was my turn to be photographed. After carefully removing my jacket and glasses, making sure my collar was nice and my shirt didn't look disheveled, I stepped up to the line. What proceeded was what has to be the worst picture in all of human history. Taken with no warning, not properly framed or lit. My head, tiny and leaning to the side. My face, pale and sickly. Children would cry. Passers-by would shake their heads and mumbe, "My God. Just...my God."
But I didn't care. I was almost finished. After waiting another 10 excruciating minutes for the license to be printed out, I finally left. Bounding toward the car, so ready to leave the mall, I hardly noticed the woman driving through the parking lot, not preparing to stop at the crosswalk I was in the middle of. Evidentally that old lady was just as blind as she was deaf.
She did smile, though, when I shouted, "Watch where you're going!" "Why yes," she answered. "I rather do like bowling!"
