I can’t believe it either. Do you think it’s super-secretly good?

In anticipation of the return of my wholly unoriginal but nonetheless burning obsession’s return to primetime, I am reminded of this totally necessary bit of brilliance: Is Lost a Repeat?.

Of course tonight it is, but next week my friends, oh my goodness. The site even has an RSS feed. Which makes it even more perfect.

In today’s Times, Alex Witchel admonishes bartenders for not believing that the lady’s poison is indeed a stiff bourbon, hold the fruit chunks. I have an aversion to dark liquors of any sort but I’ve always been impressed enough by friends who can order up a Scotch neat and sip it with as much delight as I do a Diet Coke. Writeth Witchel:

Though I still drink Scotch periodically, at some point I switched to
Maker’s Mark bourbon. These days, I order it in a tall glass to ensure
that the ratio of booze to soda gives me a fighting chance of getting
to the appetizer without falling out of my chair. But among some male
bartenders, I’ve noticed more than a tad of residual resistance to the
notion that the female of the species can drink hard liquor unadorned
by grenadine or chunks of oxidizing pineapple.

Strong Drink Is Not For Men Alone [NYT]

I ate soap. It was an accident. I thought it was a piece of tomato. It was red and tomato-shaped and on the counter. I ate soap or maybe it was detergent and it’s worse than you think. I brushed my teeth twice and drank root beer and still I am tasting Avalon Rosemary Shampoo when I swallow. This is what I get for excavating crap-covered bottles of crap out from under the sink.

I ate soap.

This piece in Slate, irresistibly entitled “Why I Hate Zach Braff” makes some very good points. I liked Garden State, only to later feel betrayed by Garden State, feeling emotionally manipulated by the indie rock and the “You’re really in it” dialogue. I saw The Last Kiss, which was, I’m sorry to say, almost unwatchable in its soap operatic blah blah blah. I thought about walking out. I find Zach Braff sort of adorable and I wanted to leave, so pointless did the whole enterprise seem.

After reading this in the  Slate article:

Braff also uses pop songs as a cheat, an easy way to heighten the
emotional impact of otherwise unremarkable moments. The music in Garden State is so load-bearing that the movie becomes ridiculous if you swap in different tunes—if you don’t believe me, check this out.

I was in the very right frame of mind to appreciate this:

You’ll notice I’ve added categories to some of the Chickarina posts. These categories are analagous to the chapters of my book. Whenever possible, I’ll label posts with the category/chapter(s) to which they most intuitively correspond. Now you can sort Chickarina posts according to the chapters of The Girl’s Guide to Absolutely Everything, a book you have not yet read but are about to wonder what you ever did without. Think of this as an attempt to bring together my two main loves in this world: Chickarina and filing.

I’m just thinking. Back soon.

Oh my darling, hyper-talented Edward St. Aubyn has been short-listed for the Booker Prize! But where are Claire Messud and David Mitchell? Oh well! E. St. A.! How I love love love.

If I hadn’t read it, I would think I had dreamed it. It’s too much. The president of Kazakhstan is coming to meet with Bush about his country’s image and his outrage at the new Borat movie.

And Survivor: Triumph of the Will debuts tonight. This is our world.

I am here to report that my life has radically changed. Heretofore, I was a victim of the cochlea-ravaging construction outside my window that begins every morning at 7am. This morning, however, conquering my deeply held belief that they are disgusting, I put in a pair of earplugs. From whence these newfangled contraptions? Have you heard of them? What is this “ear plug” and can I buy stock in it? There is still noise, but it sounds like it is coming from far away, like a memory of life-ruining construction instead of one inch from my ears. I am not sure I even have them in correctly, which means the more I wear my earplugs, the quieter it will get, which you must admit is something major to look forward to. I’m in my own little cocoon.

Let it be known that I still find your earplugs disgusting. There is nothing quite so stomach turning than waking up in a low-rent hotel bed to find some previous guest’s stray wax-coated foam grossitude wedged behind one’s knee. Luckily, my earplugs have their own discreet carrying case.