Phood foto phun

If you were the editor who wrote captions for the photos accompanying the Los Angeles Times' restaurant reviews, wouldn't you try to learn the visual differences between - just for example - a stuffed chicken on the one hand and pierogies on a bed of sauteed cabbage on the other?

No. Apparently, you would not.


Unless Jidori is Hebrew for "cleverly disguised to look like pierogies," I think this description is a bit off.

One other quick thought: Are those of us in L.A. and New York getting to the point where a restaurant having a "Top Chef" alum on staff is sort of like having a basketball team with a "tall dude"?*

* I think we are.

A sharp mind

It seems highly unlikely, but maybe my migraines are being caused by something like this.

I hope not, though, because the doctors who were unable to properly diagnose that dude's problem four years ago deserve to have the title of Stupidest Doctors on the Face of the Planet all to themselves.

Why I'm waiting until (at least) tomorrow for those tattoos and piercings

I'm just about an hour away from my first-ever visit to the inside of an MRI.

I understand that metal objects and recently inked tattoos don't really get along very well with MRI machines, so I'm thankful that I recently made the decision to not get my nose pierced, and that I managed to go another year without a tattoo. (I had been thinking about getting one that replicated the design of the snazziest t-shirt I've ever designed, which you can find here.)

Anyway, I'm going in to get my brain scanned, which makes me think that tomorrow, I'll be quoting Dizzy Dean a lot. In 1934, the pitcher, then with the St. Louis Cardinals, was hit in the head by a baseball while trying to break up a double play, and suffered a concussion. After his trip to the hospital, he reportedly said, "They x-rayed my head and found nothing."

I've Got Reservations*

My aunt and uncle are coming to L.A. next month. The other day, to ensure that I was aware of every possible detail I might need to know about their travel plans as well as some I might not - and, possibly, to give me some kind of guilt trip for not having an apartment with a second bedroom - my aunt forwarded the hotel's reservation confirmation email.

I wasn't sure what she intended for me to do with the information. (Make a note of the last four digits of her credit card number, maybe?) But I decided I'd use it as an opportunity to write back and reinforce the notion that I am Very Excited about her visit.

To that end, I sent a one-word response: "Awesome!"

I thought that would probably be the end of the conversation. I was mistaken.

A few minutes later, a reply arrived. "Hardly," it read. "A much overused word, I'm afraid!"**

There was only one thing to write back: "Is 'Whatever' overused?"



* Post title inspired by this Wilco song.
** Capitalization corrected to improve readability.

Why I'm pretty sure Juliette Binoche hates Yugos: A dream illustrated with helpful links

As if you needed further proof that my brain just does not shut down - even when I'm sleeping - I have been having some wacky dreams lately. Often two the same night. I've been visited during the night by celebrities, strangers, and people I grew up with but haven't seen or thought about in 23 years.

Oh sure, there are the common, everyday dreams that everyone has - like the one last week, in which I came off the bench to hit a few clutch baskets for the Bulls in the seventh game of the Eastern Conference finals. But, unlike that one, most are completely unrealistic.

It could be that this new dream activity is related to the new herbal extract pills that I'm taking in an attempt to do something about those migraine headaches I wrote about a few weeks ago. I haven't read the little pamphlet that comes with the supplement to try to figure out what the possible side effects are, but I did look it up on Wikipedia, which is usually a pretty trustworthy source for Medical Information You Can Trust, and  there was no mention of side effects, so I'm sure I'm in the clear.

Anyway, last night's dream was another winner.

For some reason, Juliette Binoche, the lovely French actress, was on the Late Show, sitting in the chair next to David Letterman. Like any good guest, she had a story to share with the TV viewing audience.

"We were driving through Europe in a Ford Fiesta," she began, before a man in the studio audience interrupted.

"That's like a Yugo!" the dream audience member shouted.

Juliette-in-my-dream, who I have never known to lose her temper, was not pleased.

"That's it. Fuck you all," she said. And she stormed off the set.

Anyone want to interpret that one?