Jess, Tyler, Mike and I saw Wall-E on Friday night at El Capitan Theater in Hollywood. Jen saw it, too, and already posted her thoughts on her blog, which I will repost here because, really, I couldn't say it better. I have nothing more to add except that this perfect, adorable movie totally made me cry.
WALL-E!!!!!I LOVED IT. like obsessively loved it. it was so freakin cute. wow. gah. i can't even explain how much i liked that movie. every moment was sheer cute overload. the first like 20 or so minutes you get to see wall-e just roaming around piling trash and discovering funny little things like a fire extinguisher, rubik's cube, and frisbee. all of which he puts in his trusty cooler that he hangs off his back. gah it's so cute. and his fascination and love for "hello dolly." the "romance" btwn wall-e and eve is insanely cute in an adolescent sort of way. he wants to hold her hand but can't bring himself to make the move. and when she closes up he tries anything to get her to "wake up." i don't want to give more away but i simply loved it. like it's totally going to be one of my favorite movies of the year. if not THE favorite. i know i know. an animated movie. but it's about a robot with big googley eyes. i don't see how you can't like this movie. it's just so cute!
So that's all, folks. Get your nearest and dearest and GO SEE THIS MOVIE.
Also, Alex had a few thoughts here.
**Note: This is my official review for Neublack, so you'll note copious references to said website in this review.**
Fleet Foxes graced Los Angeles with their presence on Saturday night at the Echo in Echo Park. I previously reviewed their stellar LP here, and was greatly anticipating what kind of show would be in store for the evening.
But first things first.
This is Neublack, after all: purveyors of The Awesome in LA and beyond, denizens of The Cool and Unusual, we spend endless weekends tirelessly discovering what's new or great or worthy of your attention so you have something to read during your weekday 9 - 5.
Before the show, I checked out a newish bar on Sunset called El Prado. Despite its proximity to plenty of other spots (Tiki Ti, Good Luck, Gold Room), The Echo isn't really within comfortable walking distance from any decent bars (and by "walking distance," I mean, stumbling distance, which is about 35 feet).
Until now, that is. Situated right smack dab across the street from The Echo, El Prado keeps it simple: Beer, snacks, records. The atmosphere is chill, the staff is cool, the Franzenkaner is $5 and they play Stevie Wonder. In my book, that's all you can really hope for, and El Prado certainly delivers.
Back to the show. Despite the fact that it was Death Valley-hot in the venue, the crowd was in relatively good spirits, myself included. I had a clear view of the stage as the band soundchecked before the show.
Had a clear view, that is, until a dude with a fistfull of beer hunkered down in front of me, completely blocking my view of anything but the lights on the ceiling above the stage. No, really. Thanks bro. I had hoped to at least get a sense of things from watching the guys onstage work their magic, but then some blockhead with shoulders the width of the venue decides to to set up camp in front of me. I spent the first half of the Foxes' set peering through shiny rows of gelled hair while my human wall occasionally turned around to his buddy behind him to give him the chin greeting. U still there, brah? Yeah? Bitchin'. U dig?
I don't. But you know what? Despite all that, the Fleet Foxes were truly the center of the room. The first words out of Robin Pecknold's mouth were, "What a life I lead in the summer..." And truer words were never crooned, my friend. "Sun It Rises" kicked things off while the band worked through its catalogue thusfar--most of the tracks from the self-titled LP and Sun Giant EP were offered, the highlight being the full-throttle "Your Protector," which thumped and chugged along at full speed while the crowd responded in turn.
But the highlight, truly, was Pecknold's honeyed vocals. He belted out a few tunes on his own, often even without the help of his acoustic guitar, and the resulting sound was mesmerizing. His crystalline timbre stood out far and away, obliterating any previous comparisons the band has suffered to My Morning Jacket or Band of Horses. Listening to the heartbreaking "Oliver James" unravel, I couldn't help but draw a different kind of comparison; that being one of Ruscha's velvety ribbon-words, the visual equal to Pecknold's sliding enunciation and golden tenor.
Lisp (paper tape), 1968, courtesy of edruscha.com
I had emailed the band with a couple of questions, but sadly they haven't responded to my inquiry as of yet. However, I was still determined to get the scoop from Robin et al, so below are the questions I asked the band, along with what I imagine their fictional answers might have been on Saturday night after the show.
Neublack: So you're from Seattle, the Pacific Northwest, home of rain, trees, and That Little Neighborhood Coffee Shop. How much have your years spend in the Emerald City influenced your music?Robin Pecknold: Well, for one, we're completely ill-equipped to handle this hot weather. You will note that we took the stage in various plaids--flannels, that is--and it was hotter than Coachella in there. Given that it's the middle of Summer and it still managed to rain this weekend in the Pacific Northwest, we're always prepared for precipitation, not for stifling walls of heat.NeuB: The flowing man-locks you all sport probably didn't help, either.RP: No, they didn't.NeuB: Pardon me while I fan myself. You're on tour right now, which means you're playing a whole helluva lot of venues in a short amount of time. How does your music change the more you play it in a live setting? Do you think your time on the road will influence future recordings?RP: Well, every venue has a different sound, a different crowd. Every city has a different vibe. Speaking of, I could feel you throwing vibes my way during the show. You dig my flannel, don't you?NeuB: Well, ah...I...yes. Yes I do.RP: Cool. I liked your floral sundress. It was very florally.NeuB: H&M. Do they have those in Seattle?RP: No, they don't.NeuB: One more reason why LA has got it goin' on.RP: Uh, whatever.NeuB: Right. Er. Los Angeles has a reputation for having terrible crowds. Your thoughts?RP: I love this place. This place is great! [ed. note: he really did say this during the show, so I did at least get one question answered.]NeuB: You don't say. Well, you know there's a great little bar that just opened up across the street. Want to get a beer?RP: Want to make our love eternal?NeuB: Yeah, that too.RP: You had me at man-locks.
Ok. Let me say this straightaway: This blog will contain language, folks.
Yep. Of the potty-mouthed, dirty sailor type.
So you've been warned.
And if you haven't run screaming for your Bibles or for the hills or for a bar of soap by now, then settle on in and hear me out. Because it's worth the trip, y'know what I'm sayin'?
Speaking of trip, amongst the varying bits of fun I've had this weekend (and believe me, there have been puh-lenty of bits. But more on those later. Or in other posts.), one of the highlights came at 11 a.m. this morning when Jess, Tyler and I took a jaunty Sunday morn' stroll down to Newport (and by 'stroll,' I mean, I drove, so there was a lot of yelling and a lot of highly condescending banter between myself and other inferior drivers on the road, i.e. everyone) to go on a gondola experience with Mike Ruffino.
Mike is a gondolier for the summer--I know, some summer job, huh? I mean, you could be serving those venti caramel half-caf frapps with no whip and extra self loathing, but that's just less impressive. And a guy like this...
...Can't help but be impressive, you catch my drift?
So Mike is still an in-training gondolier, and part of his practice is to take his friends out on rides so, as he puts it, "If anything happens, it's okay."
Okay how, exactly?
Our Sunday morning float was going along swimmingly, if you can excuse the terrible puns, with the sun and the sea and the general mood doing precisely what it does to make California such an undeniably cool place to live.
Jess, Italy, 1955. La dolce vita.
We were nearing the end of our ride and we saddled up to the strand of dock to our left, with a hulking three-story yacht, fully decked out in khaki-and-pastel-colored wedding guests, bride, groom, and penguin-suited waitstaff, to our right. The aptly-named Athena was tied to a flimsy dock on her right, and while we pulled into our narrow destination we started noticing something odd: The Athena was beginning to drift, her moaning, bloated white exterior moving in excruciatingly slow motion in our very direction. Maybe it was the sun, or perhaps it was the relatively cinematic turn of events happening before our eyes, but none of us, not Tyler, not Jess, nor I, were terribly nonplussed about the whole thing until Mike muttered under his breath, "Oh, shit."
The Athena inched closer, her swooping, shiny hips swaying closer and closer to our itty, bitty gondola.
"Oh, shit..." Mike said again, this time a bit more urgently.
Again, The Athena closed the gap between our tiny vessel until it was mere inches from the lacquered edges of the gondola.
"Oh SHIT!" Mike spat, vehemently this time.
"Should we get out...?" Tyler ventured calmly, unsure of what to expect.
Mike's voice reached its fever pitch and he, in all manners of urgent levelheadedness, intoned: "Get out, NOW."
Well, you don't have to tell me twice. We leapt out of the boat with the agility of gazelles (if gazelles were wearing floral dresses and bright yellow floppy hats and actually stumbled against the dock, eventually crawling out of the gondola with floral-clad asses in full view of the wedding party aboard The Athena, that is) and from our strand of safety we watched Mike successfully edge the gondola away from the hull of The Athena (you fat broad), with but two inches to spare, and out into the Newport Bay.
Sigh. Of. Relief.
And while Tony Bennett crooned from the battery-powered CD player aboard the gondola, I thought to myself, "Whennn the moon hits the sky like a big pizza pie--wait, I'm really hungry. Wow. Uh, I could eat my bright yellow hat for lunch."
So Tyler, Jessica and I bid Mike adieu (or, more appropriately, "Ciao!") and headed for our favorite Indian restaurant on 2nd Street for their unlimited champagne brunch. Afterward, we got lost in a new candy store in Belmont Shore and napped the afternoon away, capping off the evening at Janelle's house for a vegan-friendly and entirely delicious family dinner.
La dolce vita, indeed.
One year ago today I pushed open the oversized, wooden double doors to Quiksilver HQ, walked inside the spacious lobby and marveled at the fish tank, the constellation of surfboards, and th--
Then I got run over by some barefoot punk on a skateboard. He claims he was director of marketing or something. Whatever, man. Go back to college. Oh, I'm sorry, you're actually the director of marketing? Wow, uh, ok. And you were born in 1987. Faa-scinating. Stay cool, bro. Don't do drugs.
Ok, that didn't really happen, but one year ago today I did start my job here at Quik. There have been up times (our in-studio picnic stands out as one) and down times (eh, I'm not one to kiss and tell to The Internet, y'know what I mean?), and puh-lenty of guys on skateboards. I try not to air any laundry, whether dirty or clean, about my job on this blog so I'll stay pretty mum about the details of working here. I suppose if you're really dying to know, you can always come visit me for lunch. I will say this much: The chicken tortilla soup they sell here is ah-mazing.
Seriously. I could dedicate an entire blog just to the soup. And also the type of ice they put in the Diet Coke. Oh, wonderful ice. You have seen me through one cracked tooth and an entire Winter of shivering through the cold, cold afternoons while shoveling piles of You into mah mouf. Oh, ice. Oh, soup.
I suppose in the interest of partial disclosure, I'll reveal a few items about my year in retrospect at Quik.
1. The soap in the bathrooms smells like coconut. When they say they're all about the surf and beach lifestyle, they mean it.2. My cubicle really is the best place in the building. No, really.
3. The second-best place in the building is the Photo Studio because that's where Michelle and I hang out all day and shoot things like this:
4. Speaking of Michelle, she's THE BEST. No really. I dare you to scrounge up a better boss. Kyle isn't so bad, either.
So there's the short list. It's been a great year, and I look forward to another great year in 2008-2009.
Last year on the 4th of July I posted about a time when I was wading through a hippie-dippy pool of my own insoluble self-pity (you can see the melodramatics here), and I remember taking a dazed walk through my old neighborhood. I overheard someone playing the piano from within their house, and I stopped there on the sidewalk and listened like it was the last thing I might do on earth. At the time, it only reminded me of how things felt unsettled and of how much I hated that feeling.
Last night, Jeff and I went to Sushi of Naples for some dinner (the usual: Waikiki Roll for him, Sweet Sixteen roll for me, and a pitcher of beer) and afterwards decided to take a walk around Naples to enjoy the summertime evening and also so that he could encourage his wholly deplorable non-addiction to self-rolled cigarettes. We came up on a house and through the slanted blinds I could see an older man hunched over a piano, playing. And playing beautifully, I might add. I stopped again, a year later, and listened. This time, the only thought in my head was this:
This is what contentment feels like.
If Girl Talk were Diet Coke, I'd have three cups a day, with ice, plus another can when I got home at the end of the day. Since he's not really consumable as an addictive caffeine-addled substance, whose only purpose is to fuel my mid-morning rants on The Internet, I will settle with listening to Feed The Animals on repeat (especially track 1, track 6, and track 12). I suppose it's the best he has to offer when he's not hunched shirtless and sweaty over a laptop and a pile of DJ equipment at one of his better-than-the-best-party-you've-ever-been-to-no-suuuriously live shows.
So for fellow fans and addicts alike, click here and watch the videos of Gregg talking us through each track on Feed The Animals. I should add that his favorite track is also my favorite track. I've embedded the first video in the series. Head on over to Stereogum to see the rest.
Where's my Diet Coke?
One of the benefits of working in a photo studio is the freedom we often have to play around with lighting and backgrounds and all the other goodies that send photographers into asthmatic spasm. Yesterday we shot for Quik Women's, which is both the newest and the cutest. Seriously. I just got my first couple of employee purchases today and I can't wait to get more.
No offense to the Women's design team, but do you know what's even cuter than that?
The dress my sister made me.
Here are a few more shots, just to show off her handiwork.
Way back at the beginning of April, I heard a new single from Islands' then-upcoming release, In Arm's Way (out 5/20 and available here). "Creeper" did precisely what its title suggests and crawled into my brain, clinging for dear life to any filament of music appreciation mashed up in there, cross-firing synapses so that I instinctively pressed "repeat" every time the song ended. At the time, I made a few grandiose claims that if the rest of the LP even remotely lived up to the insane catchiness of "Creeper," I'd be a fool not to throw in the towel, tie on an apron and submit to my duties as a long-suffering housewife because I would marry the album in a hot minute if I could.
The release almost lives up to the expectation. Almost. There's something about it that falls just short of eternal vows and a lifetime of wifely devotion, but it's nevertheless a stellar second album from Nick Thorburn & Co. So it was with these ever-so-slightly diminished expectations that I saw Islands last week at the El Rey Theater (The The Rey? Is that what I'm saying here?).
And let's just be honest: it was a Tuesday night. I (regretfully) have a 9 - 5. I was tired. I'd nibbled on some grub at Doughboys Express, but the gin and tonic I had subsequently was making me even sleepier. I had a conversation with Jen while we were waiting for the show to begin that went something like this:
Jen: It sucks when you go to a show and you start off being tired. Because then when it starts all you can think about is the show ending. "How many more songs do they have? Encore? Ok, ok just play one."Me: "Ok. Maaaaybe two. Three TOPS."Jen: Yeah, that sucks, because usually you just want the band to play forever, but when you are tired you just want it to end. No fun.
Our conversation was cut short by dimming lights. Thorburn and the rest of the band took the stage and what followed, I'm pleased to say, completely blew my idiotic expectations out of the water. (Oh, ye of little faith).
They opened the show with a shimmering wall of guitars and chain-like percussion, allowing "Vertigo (If It's A Crime)" to build (and build and build) until it exerted a cacophonous blast of sound. And the sound! Oh, sweet mother mary, the sound. It was flawless. Baroque piano swells bled into dueling squalls of violin, 10+ minutes of pure exhilaration which transitioned with a quick-change screech of the strings into album opener "The Arm."
The band stopped only once to breathlessly greet the crowd, and in truth, I've never been one with a high tolerance for inter-song band-crowd banter (unless the band is Magnetic Fields and the banter all revolves around a very crotchety Stephin Merritt, who is wholly delightful), and in this case, the songs transitioned so impeccably one into the next that to stop and blather on about the weather or Obama would have killed the mood completely.
"Kids Don't Know Shit" revealed itself amidst a sonic curtain of fuzz, "J'aime Vous Voire Quitter" with a jangly ska-like beat before cha-cha-ing into a loopy Island jam. The band played plenty of old favorites as well, tongues firmly in cheek during "Don't Call Me Whitney, Bobby."
Another bit of honesty, in the spirit of full disclosure here: During a show, I can't help but create a wishlist in my head of songs I want the band to play. In some cases, it's a given: Of course MGMT is going to play "Electric Feel." they only have one album of material to pull from. In other cases, it's up to the powers that be: Ryan Adams, you have about five billion albums in your formidable oeuvre. My wishlist is, at best, a flimsy "mother may I?" of expectations.
During Islands, I wanted four songs: "Swans (Life After Death)," "Rough Gem," "Creeper," and the inimitable "Volcanoes."
The band walked off the stage initially without playing a single one of those songs, but I clung to my black Moleskin wherein I'd written the secret desires of my heart because I knew--I KNEW--they'd be back (and who are we kidding, anyway? The encore is a given these days). And sure enough, as soon as they exited behind the curtains, the crowd went nuts, cawing and bleating in all manners of reckless abandon, imploring them back to the stage.
The encore was as follows:
1. Creeper2. Rough Gem3. Swans (Life After Death)
Had they also played "Volcanoes," it's very possible I would have fainted right then and there. After the show, I turned to Jen, who was in an equal state of breathless wonderment.
Me: This was definitely one of those nights where I wanted them to just play and play forever.Jen: "Yes, definitely."
On Sunday I spent the afternoon in Culver City and en route from the restaurant back to my friends' apartment, we stopped to get Thrifty's ice cream from Rite Aid. While there, I bought my $8.99 outfit that I'm wearing today.
Internet, behold: the mauve dress-skirt thing from Rite Aid.
It seems I've become my own one-legged nightmare.
Who says Rite Aid is only good for Thrifty's ice cream and sunscreen? I'd argue a person could really put together a decent outfit and afford a single scoop of chocolate malted crunch for under $10.
Oh, the weekend.
It was good. It was full of the usual shenanigans: eating too much sushi (this time at a new place [well, new to us, anyway], Sushi Studio), which was AH-MAZING, blah blah blah. Eating too much of everything else (Eggs, Etc., Belmont Brewery, Ugo, and so forth), watching things (The Happening [DON'TWASTEYOURMONEY], and also, the trees? The trees are killing us? Puh-leeze. I think Al Gore just spit up on himself), oh, (and a documentary on Christo & Jeanne Claude's umbrellas, which were beautiful and looked like little poppies),
Uh. Right, so that paragraph? The one just before this one? I'm sorry, every reader of this blog, and every person who had to suffer through hours of interminable English and grammar classes, and especially to you, Mike Posey, for whom grammar isn't just a passion, it's your job.
But okay. The weekend, suffice it to say, was good, and long, and HOT. A lot of food was consumed. At one point Holé Molé ran out of ice. Also, pigs flew and the sun exploded.
On Friday night, I found myself sitting alone on my couch, alone in my living room, alone in my house, alone in Long Beach, alone in THE WHOLE ENTIRE WORLD since the whole entire world (or at least my whole entire world) was precisely elsewhere, that is, somewhere I wasn't, and they weren't planning on returning anytime soon. Jess was gone. Ash, Jodes, Jeff, Adam, Josh, and Jon were out of town. Mike was cleaning (or being antisocial or WHATEVER). Jess, Janelle, and Tyler were otherwise occupied. I tell you: No ONE was around.
So I sat for a bit.
Then I moved from the black couch to the white couch. Sat. Laid. Sat in a different position. Braided my hair.
Moved back to the black couch.
WHY is it so frick pissing hot in the living room? why? WHY?
I watched "When Harry Met Sally." You go, Sally. Yeah, that's right. Guys and girls can TOTALLY be friends. Wow, Meg Ryan, that is some feathered hair, girlfriend. The world must look so hazy and pleasant when you view it through a vignetted fringe of feathered bangs. It's like having the soft focus thrown on life. Also, Harry, dude. The scene with the power walkiing and the itty-bitty leggings? Ay yay YAY.
Movie over. Texted Jessica: Ok I am SO BORED right now. No one is home. No one is around. And it's hot. I'm going a little bit crazy.
Watched a bit of Seinfeld. Oh, this IS the best episode ever written! The one where Jerry and Elaine are on a flight, and Jerry is in first class, and Elaine is in coach--Elaine, my friend, I KNOW HOW IT GOES. The middle seat. I KNOW.
Texted Jessica again: No seriously. Going out of my mind with boredom here.
Unbraided my hair. Moved to the other couch. Watched more Seinfeld.
Texted Jessica, yet again: Also, it's 84 degrees in my room right now. Did I mention that I am alone in Long Beach right now? Just me and some spiders.
Turned the fan on high. Turned the fan on medium. Turned the fan back to high. Tossed and turned a bit.
Went to sleep.
A few years ago, I had the idea to fashion a mix using the structure of a palindrome as its theme. A palindrome, for the uninitiated or unaware, is a word or sentence that is the same backwards as it is forwards. To wit: The name Hannah is a palindrome. "A man, a plan, a canal - Panama!" Is also a palindrome.
The idea took flight and quite a few people ended up throwing together their own palindrome compilations. The rules were simple: Take an even number of songs (say, 12 or 14 or 16), half of which are originals and the other half of which are covers of that original. Arrange them so that the mix, technically, would be the same if played beginning to end or end to beginning. So song 1 aligns with song 12, song 2 with song 11, and so on. The order in which the covers/originals are placed is mixer's choice (not every cover has to be grouped together, for example), as long as the mix follows a palindrome structure.
Well, it's been, as I said, a few years since the original Palindrome Project first surfaced, so I thought that in time for Summer, I'd create a new palindrome. I've selected songs that have a uniformly Summery feel (to me, anyway), and arranged them in a way that follows the structure of the project.
So for one week only (you'd better click fast), go HERE to download my Summer Palindrome. And get the album art at the top of this post. My only stipulation is that if you choose to D/L my mix, you leave a comment with your own palindrome track list OR a few of your favorite covers. Sharing is caring, children.
**Please note that in accordance with the general theme of summer, strict adherence to the "one cover, one ORIGINAL" rule of the Palindrome will not be observed as closely. It's not that I don't know better - because trust me, I do - it's that the weather is so warm and the sun burns brighter longer and I'm wearing shorts when perhaps I shouldn't, and certain people with seasonal jobs (like teachers) are partying like they're in grade school again, and essentially what I'm saying is, when summer rolls around, all hell breaks loose, so forgive the disparate discrepancies within this mix (there should be precisely one that could be argued and one that is a grey area, and I dare you to figure out which they are), because overall I think you'll agree that the idea is pretty damn brilliant.
For those of you unfamiliar with Hedi Slimane, shame on you.
Also, I suppose I don't blame you, so sit up a little straighter and pay attention, boys and girls, while I take you on a brief tour of the unparalleled work of Hedi Slimane.
Slimane spent the past 7 years as head designer for Dior Homme (for Christian Dior). Though you may not be able to recall any specific design, he can be credited for a very specific silhouette permeating fast-living young circles in most major cities: Slim. Very, very slim.
Slimane is also a photographer, and his online photo diary is what I'm sharing today. High contrast, gritty photos featuring young, beautiful things living la dolce vita abound here, and it's something I was personally inspired by today, so I hope you enjoy his work as much as I do.
This one is a long time coming
On Saturday I was enjoying a leisurely lunch at one of my new favorite Long Beach establishments. The sun was shining, we were sitting in the lush back patio and I was sipping a Blue Moon while perusing the menu. The choices! The food! Soup, salad, or fries! In short: It was the perfect meal with the perfect people on a perfect day. I'd venture to say that somewhere Lou Reed was crooning an ode to that very day, and butterflies and hummingbirds were actually exploding from all the perfection (and if you've never seen a butterfly explode from perfection, well, my friend, you haven't LIVED).
But then Jess pointed out an item on the menu that managed to bring the whole day to a screeching halt. Jess, seriously, girl. Why'd you have to bring up the M Word?
Mike looked at me sideways a moment after witnessing my reaction to the M Word. Mike, could it be that you have not heard my thoughts and feelings on the M Word? Have you not born witness to the inherent emotional baggage that comes along with such a discussion? Clearly you have not.
"Mike," I said, taking a sip of my Blue Moon. "I am vehemently opposed to melon."
"Whoa," He said.
"VEHEMENTLY." I said.
I realized that this violent opposition is only common knowledge in some circles, and that of all the various and senseless items I choose to ruminate on in this very blog, melon has not, as of yet, been one of them.
Well. May it be known that I am vehemently opposed to melon. Mike may have also at that point made mention that my opinions overwhelm him, or something to that effect, but I didn't hear him because I have selective hearing these days, and typically I choose not to hear any semblance of a complaint that my opinions on such important matters as fruit and pleated trou are overbearing.
What? I'M SORRY I CAN'T HEAR YOU, I'M TOO BUSY BLOGGING AND BEING OPINIONATED.
Now where was I?
So Melon. Maybe I should address Melon directly (notice how I am now capitalizing the word. See, this personifies it. Makes it personal. Oh yeah, I'm going to TAKE IT THERE).
You are a useless excuse for fruit.
I don't expect you to be too dejected over this revelation because you have no heart. Or rather, no pit. In fact, what you have is a mushy array of seeds that look like human guts, and Melon, that's just gross.
You are inexpensive, which is why you proliferate even the best fruit platters and salads, you cheap whore of Babylon. Yes, I'm talking to you, evil Jezebel of the Fruits. You tantalize people with your girth and relatively inexpensive fruit-per-slice ratio. You make people think of things like Summertime and BBQ's and the Fourth of July and screaming eagles of American freedom, but it's all a LIE, Melon. It's a lie because instead of offering up the succulent, ripe flesh of your innermost core, what do we get on that fruit platter? MASSIVE HUNKS, mercilessly chopped away far too near your bitter outer rind. We get cantaloup and honeydew that tastes as bland and unappetizing as packing peanuts.
We get fruit platters promising variety: Pineapple! Watermelon! (for all intents and purposes, I exclude watermelon from the category of Evil Melon)Grapes! And if we're lucky, the most hallowed and revered and coveted of all the fruit platter options: Berries.
Berries, I love you. (And you most of all, Raspberries. I reserve a special little place in my heart for you, and don't you ever forget it. I pledge to you my eternal and unerring devotion).
Yes, we are promised all those things when we spy a fruit platter or a fruit salad at a church picnic or a family potluck. But what do we really get? We get melon, in disproportionate amounts. We see strawberries scattered atop the glacial mass of melon and we think, "Lo! What's here: strawberries! My, how I love strawberries on a warm day!"
But one need only to take the top strawberry from the pile to see the deception lurking just below the surface: Indeed, that iceberg consists entirely of MELON as deep as the ocean. Or at least to the bottom of the bowl. Whichever comes first.
And you KNOW, Melon, you know that people at church picnics are ruthless. There is an unspoken one-strawberry rule when the fruit platter is so unfavorably disproportionate, but you know that even Jesus followers don't follow all the rules, Melon, and when all is said and done, what are we left with?
Yes, you, you bland and unappetizing idiot-fruit.
In short, I find you deplorable. When I go to a restaurant and order the seasonal fruit plate or bowl or side-of-fruit-instead-of-wilted-lettuce,-please, I expect variety. I mean, I live in Southern California, whose lovely climate breeds most of the best fruits and therefore, in theory, should offer almost every fruit 'in season,' year-round. But no. Do you know what 'seasonal fruit' is code for?
It's code for CHUNKY PILE OF CRAP. That's you, Melon. Because that's all there ever is. Just you, you, and more of you. Infuriating piles of you. One pale orange or green square after the other. And despite having this knowledge of Seasonal Fruit parlance, I find myself disappointed each and every time I hoped for a strawberry and instead got a stupid bowl of you.
So here's to you, Melon. I hope you rot in the bottom of my sink disposal and poison all the cockroaches living down there with your stink and your ever-present unfavorableness. Because I don't just dislike you, Melon. I loathe you.
The pesticide to your baffling popularity,