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July 31, 2009

Channeling Andy Rooney

Andy Rooney had the right idea. String together a series of short sentiments, like bullet points without the bullets, and before you know it, you've got a column.

Kids these days have it so good with their video games. I downloaded the original Legend of Zelda to my Wii Virtual Console, and that game is tough. Of course, you can download the complete overworld map in about two seconds of searching on gamefaqs.com. In my day, you had to draw your own maps. On graph paper!

Video game boxing was a lot different too. You just moved the joystick and hit a button. If you wanted to swing for real, you'd go hit your brother.

I found a play I wrote in high school when I was in PA this past weekend. It's still pretty funny. There's a character in it named Abdulenzeebibble, whom, whenever somebody says his name, everybody says "Geshundheit!" which implies that the wacky foreign-sounding name sounds just like a sneeze. I'm not sure that Mel-Brooksian semi-racist humor would fly as well today. If I rewrite it, I think I'll change his name to Chad.

I bought some beer on the way home last night. In addition to the usual Coors Light, I thought I'd splurge on a Kriek Lambic, from Belgium. I've had it before; it has a sour black cherry taste that's more like a mixed drink of some kind than what you'd consider beer. It's worth trying--or revisiting--something different every now and then if you have the opportunity.

The cat just wanted to be fed dinner and it's not even four in the afternoon. That means she's going to want to be fed again before bedtime, which isn't going to happen. I don't think she understands the concept of delayed gratification.

All things being equal, I prefer positive people to negative people. I'd much rather hear from somebody about all the wonderful things that are going right in their life than all the things that are wrong. There's plenty to be happy about if you just think for a moment.

I used "their" as a singular possessive pronoun two sentences ago. The correct grammar is "hear from somebody about all the wonderful things that are going right in his life." Somebody = singular = his or her. People = plural = their. But I don't like that the masculine is the default, and I think that using "his or her" is clumsy and gets annoying when you do it over and over. "Their" is widely used for just those reasons and I think it's a sensible, reasonable change in the language.

Riding on a roller coaster, which I did recently, isn't that much different from speeding around in a car. But riding on a spinning ride is very different from something you'd do every day, and it actually made me feel more uncomfortable than the roller coaster. Plus, you can compensate somewhat for the g-forces by moving forward and back, but the constant outward centripetal pull is something you can't really control. That's my explanation anyway.

I wonder why I don't just buy everything but consumables online. The store never seems to have exactly what I'm looking for, and it's almost always cheaper on Amazon. If I were smart, I'd buy bulky items, perishable items, and "fitted" items (like clothes and shoes) in-person, and buy everything else over the Internet.

Massachusetts sales tax is going up to 6.25%. That's a shame. People prefer sales tax over income tax, which is foolish: income tax is progressive, meaning you pay more as you're more able to pay. If you earn minimum wage, that sales tax hits you a lot harder than it his me, percentage-wise: we both pay $6.25 on a $100 purchase, but that $100 is a much bigger percentage of your gross income than it is for me. And even though you're supposed to report online purchases and pay taxes on them, it's pretty much a scofflaw at present. Also, who's more likely to buy online: rich or poor? People don't always vote for things that benefit them the most.

Legos are still a lot of fun. We didn't have all the movie tie-ins when I was a kid, but that's ok: half of the spaceships we built were from Star Wars anyway. I refuse to call them "Lego bricks," though. I know they have to protect their copyright, so we'll just agree that they keep telling me I can't say "legos" and I'll keep ignoring them.

Posted by Mark at 03:36 PM | Comments (1)

July 29, 2009

more content on the way...

I was pretty good about sticking to the MWF schedule for a week, but spending the weekend in PA threw me a bit. Plus, got a work project that I'm wrapping up...rest assured, new content is on the way.
--Mark

Posted by Mark at 01:10 PM | Comments (0)

July 24, 2009

How to Waste Advertising Money, or, Please Bring Cici's Pizza to Boston

There are things in this world I fail to understand. Some of these are sensible sources of confusion, like the source of gravity or the nature of time. And some would baffle even Hawking: why would an ad for a pizza place show up on TV in a city a full 8-hour drive from the nearest restaurant?

I speak of Cici's Pizza, who taunts me, endlessly, with their ads.

I've never been there; I've never even seen one in person. But I know all about them.

The all-you-can-eat pizza buffet. The various kinds of pizza (and pasta, and salad, and dessert). Their ridiculous $5.99 price, which makes me wonder just what that pizza could be made of if you can eat as much of it as you want for such a pittance. That promotion they ran where they put pennies around their parking lot and if you found one that said "free pizza" on it or something, you ate for free.

How do I know this? Oh, because in-between every other repeat of House or Law and Order or CSI: Wichita, I see one of their ads.

They're good ads. Funny. Memorable. One of their ads plays off the Seinfeld-esque dilemma of the buffet line jumper: if somebody is trying to make up their mind between the sausage and pepperoni, is it kosher to just skip by on your way to the mushroom, or are you guilty of "cutting"? (According to the ad, it's perfectly acceptable, and the pleasant suburban soccer mom you pass will give you a friendly smile as you do so.)

And even beyond the quality of the TV spots, it's a solid product...everybody likes pizza, and who doesn't salivate at the thought of stuffing as much of it down your gullet as you want for the price of a couple gallons of gas? You could probably save some money by showing 30 seconds of people shoveling pizza into their mouths with a repeated Billy-Mays-style (may he rest in peace) voiceover: "Cici's Pizza: All you can eat for just $5.99!"

So we've established that I'm about one nine-volt battery and a safety pin away from giving myself a Cici's Pizza prison tattoo. The issue is clearly not one of brand awareness. It's availability. I just checked, and the nearest location to Boston is outside of Allentown, PA. Hey, it used to be State College. At least they're getting closer.

And it's not like every product is available everywhere. I can't get Middleswarth potato chips outside of central PA. Yuengling hasn't quite made it to Massachusetts. There are no California Tortillas in Brighton.

They also don't advertise here. That is the crux of my issue, and my message to Cici's: stop taunting me! Enough!

I know that the presence of the ads is likely some large package media buy, where somebody bought airtime on the USA Network with no regional targeting. They probably got it cheap enough that it didn't matter that they were covering areas where no restaurants existed. Since it's a franchise operation, maybe it was even a strategic move to get brand awareness in front of potential franchisees.

If I had the startup capital, I'd open one myself. So I guess that worked.

But since I don't have that kind of cash, I suppose that I'll have to be patient and wait for the brand to make its way up north. I'm sure I'll eventually end up with a plateful of cheap pizza.

In the meantime, don't even get me started on Sonic.

Posted by Mark at 08:00 AM | Comments (0)

July 22, 2009

You Can Never Be Too Careful

Police Officer Hank Johnson looked up from his desk, then immediately looked back down again, managing to miss the piercing, searching eyes of the Chief. It was his last day before retirement, and there was no way he was going to take any unnecessary risks.

"There's a shootout at the gasoline refinery in the Warehouse District!" shouted Chief Goodwin. "I need some volunteers!"

Johnson focused even harder on his Sudoku, tucked between reports and other important official paperwork. It wasn't that he didn't want to do his part--far from it. He had five Medals of Merit for his 30 years on the force, which was one more than any living cop. O'Reilly had 7, but three of them were posthumous, awarded for saving a bus full of senior citizens from an artillery shell during the so-called "Murdertown Massacre." Typical liberal media overreaction.

But you didn't live to retirement age running into every burning drug warehouse full of orphans or throwing every bazooka-wielding drunken hobo onto a sharp iron fence. That was for rookies.

Why, they'd lost one of their own just two days ago...nobody knew why the Mob had chosen that abandoned chemical factory for their headquarters, but Osborne had been up on a catwalk when they opened up with their high-powered automatic weapons. He got hit and fell straight forward, breaking a solid steel safety railing, which exploded, and then plunged into a vat of chemicals, which also exploded. How no-tears shampoo for infants could explode was a mystery, and of no comfort to his young widow and three children, but those were the things that could happen to you on the streets, and they all knew it. Osborne's wailing "aiieeeeee!" as he fell, then exploded, was reminder enough of that.

Goodwin's gruff, gravelly bark brought him back to the present. "Flanagan! Take Lister and get out there! Bring your vests...you might need 'em! And Flanagan...no smoking in that refinery!"

"Yes, sir," Flanagan said, stubbing out his cigarette. "Let's go, rook."

Flanagan was a good cop, Johnson thought to himself. A real role model for Lister, who could learn a few things about policing. Lister was a firebrand, but a little more experience and he'd be a real pro.

Just like he was, once, he thought. A wistful look almost crossed his face before he remembered what he was doing, and he glared back at the Sudoku like he was interrogating a mass murderer.

"Johnson! My office, now!" yelled Goodwin.

Johnson looked up, surprised, as Goodwin stalked off into his office without a backwards glance. Here it comes, he thought. He closed the file folder, hiding the illicit number puzzle, stood up and adjusted his pants. Just have to make it through today. He pushed his chair in--you could never be too careful--and entered the office, shutting the glass door behind him.

"Sit," said Goodwin.

"Sir," he replied, plopping into the dark wooden chair with the less-cracked upholstery. He was a veteran officer, and deserved the best.

"Last day, right Johnson?" The Chief didn't wait for a reply. "Well, don't you worry...I want to see you through to that retirement you've earned for yourself. I think I've got the perfect assignment for you."

He breathed a deep sigh of relief. "Thank you sir. For a second, I thought you were..."

Suddenly, the door burst open and Lieutenant Weaver thrust his head in. "Sir, we've got a situation! A rhino has broken loose from the City Zoo and is rampaging towards the Nitroglycerin Storage Depot!"

"Take one of the choppers, grab Pembroke and a rifle," Goodwin said. Pembroke was the sharpest gun on the force; he had once shot a villainous serial sniper right through his scope, sending him flying off a construction crane and into a meth lab the size of a city block, which exploded. The press had pilloried the Chief for it, of course. Just like civilians to overreact.

But Weaver shook his head. "The chopper was shot down two minutes ago by a crackhead firing live grenades out of a potato gun near the Red Light District," he said.

"Exploded?"

"Exploded."

Goodwin looked at Johnson, who suddenly felt uncomfortable again. "You're good with animal situations, Johnson. Didn't you tranquilize those hyenas when they raided the Inter-City Ice Hockey Championships last year?"

"No sir. That was...Johnston."

"Could have sworn it was you."

"Similar...similar name, sir."

"Huh," said Goodwin. "Those hyenas sure could skate," he added.

"Hem," said Weaver.

"Ok!" said Goodwin. "Was Pembroke on the chopper?"

"No," said Weaver. "Bass and Collins were, though."

"Shame about that. Collins was set to retire next week."

"Shame. Well, I don't think he was wearing his helmet, if it's any consolation."

"You can never be too careful."

"You never can," said Weaver.

Johnson sat very still and stared off at the wall. There was a painting of a sailboat. It was a nice boat. Just the type he would love to sail during his retirement.

Goodwin and Weaver ignored him. "Take Pembroke and...do we have the department Humvee?"

"Drove into the ocean and exploded during that...the, uh, situation with the D.A.R.E. mascot."

Goodwin winced. "Forgot about that. Shame about those kids."

"And the Humvee," Weaver added.

"Well, then, take Pembroke, a regular squad car, and try to find a rooftop that has a good view of the Nitro Depot," Goodwin said, "then take it out."

"The Depot, sir? Or the rhino?"

"Oh," said Goodwin. "The rhino, of course."

"Of course, sir." Weaver nodded, slammed the door, and hurried off.

"Now, where were we?"

Johnson tugged at his ear. "I believe you had an...a very safe assignment for me, sir?"

"I did!" He opened a file. "The ladies knitting club at Shady Acres is having an afternoon ball. I want you to work the security detail. Now get going!"

"Yes sir!" He stood up immediately, threw the door open, and scurried down the hall without so much as a question.

He might make it after all.

"Wear your vest!" shouted Goodwin after him. You could never be too careful.

---

Johnson surveyed the scene from behind his mirrored aviators, his hands resting on his hips, service weapon in easy reach. Exits at 10 and 4 o'clock, and some cover behind the bingo machine to his left.

The ladies of Shady Acres milled about in the slow-motion milling of the elderly and infirm. Sinatra crackled from the speakers at a reasonable volume as a turntable gently spun. A puzzle was under construction on a folding card table. Nothing dangerous in the least.

And then, he noticed a low, far-off sound, like a beehive or a distant racetrack. It increased in volume as he furrowed his brow. He turned towards the front windows just as it reached a crescendo.

Scooters. Dozens of scooters.

And on each one an old lady, armed with knitting needles, heavy purses, umbrellas. The lead scooter crashed through the plate glass, sending shards into the startled crowd, and the rider leaped to her feet, whipping out a folding cane.

"It's the Restful Fields Gang!" shouted one of the Shady Acres women, who was now holding a pair of nunchucks that appeared to be made from parts of her walker.

"Restful Fields rules this town!" shouted the woman from the scooter.

"You shut your yap, Beatrice!" replied the nunchuck-wielding senior citizen.

"That's Queen Bea to you, Louise, and you're first on my list for a beatdown!"

"Not if we ring your bell first! Get 'em, girls!"

Johnson backed into the wall as the two packs of old biddies met in a tangle of blue-white hair and orthopedic shoes, screams filling the air. A silver-framed picture of adorable grandchildren whizzed by, thunking into the plaster scant inches from his head.

He pulled his gun, then stopped, thinking of the implications of opening fire on a nursing home. Even if it was a nursing home in the middle of an unlikely gang war.

Of course, he didn't have to actually shoot anybody. Sure, they were well-armed and surprisingly spry, but they'd see the light when he threatened them with some hollow-point justice.

"Everybody, freeze!" he shouted.

The music stopped, the record literally scratching as an errant set of dentures hit the stylus. For a moment, everyone stood still.

"I want you all down on the ground! Hands out!" He was getting into the spirit of it. "Drop your weapons! Now!"

The woman apparently known as Queen Bea turned, pulling a pair of faux-jeweled trifocals up to her eyes from the chain where they dangled. She peered at him, squinting.

"It's the fuzz!"

She turned her attention to a woman not far from Johnson, who had backed one of the Shady Acres gang into the bingo machine. "Suzanne! Take him out! No witnesses!"

This was an unexpected development, he thought. With a sudden flash of silver, a knitting needle plunged into his wrist.

"Aaah!" he shouted, as the gun dropped from his hand. A purse that felt as if it were filled with lead shot slammed into his knee, and he went down, as blows from a metal cane slammed into his head with startling speed and power.

"No, ladies, this isn't...stop..." He struggled to shield himself from their blows. "I'm almost...to...retirement..."

"You're gonna retire all right! Restful Fields style!" The voice, like his vision, was getting hazier and hazier as he slumped to the floor.

Mercifully, the world faded to black. The last thing he heard was a great thumping, clacking noise, like the sound of a rhinoceros charging on concrete.

---

His vision came back slowly, like a black TV screen fading into static, then into a black and white image, and finally into a color picture. A picture of a man robed in white standing over him.

"Jesus? Is that you?" he rasped.

"Actually, I pronounce it 'Hay-soos,' but you can call me Dr. Castillo," the man said as he looked up from a medical chart.

At that point, he became acutely aware of acute pain. He supposed you weren't supposed to hurt in the afterlife, at least not right away. So maybe he was still alive after all.

"Hey, Hank, you're awake!" He turned his head, painfully, to see Officer Flanagan walking towards his bed.

"Where am I? What happened?"

"You're in the Shady Acres infirmary," he said. "You took a pretty nasty beating, but they said you're going to be just fine. As soon as they're done running some tests, you can leave. And the Chief said you can take the rest of the day off!"

Flanagan pulled a cheap gold watch from his pocket and fixed it around Johnson's left wrist. "Congratulations! You made it to retirement!"

"Well thank God for that," he said, letting out the deepest sigh of the day so far. "I really did it!"

The sunlight caught the plastic face of the watch. It sparkled like costume jewelry.

"Wait," Johnson said. "I thought you and Lister were off at the gas refinery?"

Flanagan pulled out a cigarette and lit it.

"Hey, you can't smoke in here," said Dr. Jesus. "It's the law."

"I'm the law," he said, firmly.

Dr. Jesus shrugged and turned back to his chart.

"Anyway," Flanagan said, "I resolved the situation at the gasoline factory, but Weaver and Pembroke chased that rhino right past me. I decided to help them out with the pursuit. And wouldn't you know it, I ended up running right by here, just in time to save you from that elderly gang."

"Thanks," said Johnson. "You two saved my life."

Flanagan shook his head sadly. "Just me, buddy."

"What happened to Lister?"

"Bought the farm at the gasoline refinery." He took a deep drag on his cigarette.

"You're kidding! What happened? Let me guess," he said, cutting Flanagan off before he could reply. "Explosion of some kind?"

Flanagan blew smoke. "Lung cancer. Kid never smoked a day in his life."

Johnson nodded. "Huh. You can never be too careful."

"You sure can't," said Flanagan, as he flicked his cigarette out the window and into a low shrub, which exploded.

Posted by Mark at 08:00 AM | Comments (1)

July 20, 2009

5 Desert Island Beers

The "desert island scenario" suggests that you'd only have a limited selection of something with which to live out the rest of your (tanned, wave-cooled, coconut-scented) life. Obviously, on a real desert island, you'd have keen survival issues (isn't rum a diuretic?) and complicated logistical problems (how am I going to power this DVD player?) to keep you from enjoying that Criterion Collection copy of Seven Samurai in perpetuity. But realism aside, it seems like everybody's got their desert island movies, albums, and even foods, but how many people have their desert island beers?

The thing is, if you're going to be limited to only one type of something, it's probably going to have to be average. I don't mean average in quality, I mean average in terms of covering all the bases. Sure, you may enjoy the combat scenes in Commando today, but what about years down the road, when you're craving a little romance, or...actually, that's a bad example. Commando is pretty much the pinnacle of Western film, and I'll throw a pole through your chain-mailed torso if you disagree.

To get off the film thing and firmly back into the realm of hops and barley, you're probably going to want a beer that is well-rounded. Something bitter and hoppy might be enjoyable now and again, but as your sole source of booze, you might want a mellower brew. Same thing with anything too dark, too light, too bland, too strong (whisky-aged beer is nice, but not every day), or too extreme (the "ham on rye" beer I had some years ago was surprisingly delicious, but, again, Ham On Rye is a "Sometimes" Beer).

While I love me some suds, I'm not nearly the beer aficionado my brother, Matt, is--I've never traveled to Belgium specifically to track down the elusive Westleveren, often regarded as the best beer in the world. And although I've tried plenty of unusual and limited-availability beers, most of the beers on my list are going to be pretty mainstream, because, again, this is beer for every day for the rest of your life. It's like beer marriage. I love Troeg's Nugget Nectar, but I'm not sure it enjoys CSI as much as I do. Or Rogue's Smoke Ale: an unusual, exotic flavor, but sooner or later, I want it to think about its career and start contributing to the mortgage.

I should also note that I pictured myself on an actual tropical desert island drinking these. If the desert island in question were, say, off Antarctica (the world's largest desert; don't forget that "desert" is defined by rainfall and not ratio of sand to camels), this wouldn't be a beer list at all. It would be "5 Frozen Island Single Malt Whiskys".

So, I thought about the many hundreds of beers I've sampled over the years, and narrowed them down to five that I could see myself never, ever, going without:

5. Coors Light:

I'm drinking an ice-cold Silver Bullet as I write this, and I expect to draw lots of flack from beer lovers on this choice. I mean, when your ads emphasize how cold your product is (it's the Freezy Freakies of beer cans!) instead of, you know, how it tastes, maybe that's a warning signal.

But there's something to be said for a beer that goes down cold, clean and easy, smooth as water and with only slighly more alcohol. The whole sandy desert island scenario plays a role; this is one of my favorite drinks for hot summer days. And you can pretty much down an 18-rack of cans and still make it to work on time the next day, only a little worse for wear. Just try doing that with Guinness. Speaking of which...

4. Guinness:

Now you're wondering if I'm just screwing with you. How could you imagine drinking nothing but thick black stout, especially ankle-deep in palm fronds under a heavy sun? Well, I'll qualify this by saying that I'd have to have Guinness that was off tap, not bottled, and of the same quality as you can get in Dublin...the stuff they serve on the tour of St. James's Gate is sublime.

I actually find Guinness to be quite refreshing, with a taste that has chocolate and coffee notes tempered with a smooth finish and very little bitterness. Rather than comparing it to a milkshake in July, I'd say it's like a Diet Coke on the beach. But, you have to be careful with this one...my personal record is 8 in an night at Flanagan's in Bethesda, and I don't believe I made it into the office the next day.

3. Molson Canadian:

Another big-brand beer, and, like Coors Light, not earth-shatteringly outstanding. My preference for this one hearkens to my days at Syracuse, when a case of bottles would run us a whopping $14 plus modest tax. You'd think that I'd prefer the beer that our cat, Labatt, is named after, but that cost $15 a case. We had to save money somewhere.

But, this beer is a solid contender. Nothing crazy about the taste, just a mellow flavor without anything unpleasant or challenging to your palate, but still classy and down-to-earth. The Frank Sinatra of beers: who doesn't love The Chairman of the Board? Molson Canadian could be the Chairman of the Beers.

2. Carib:

Nothing like an actual island beer to round out the list. The wife and I drank quite a bit of Carib on our honeymoon in Anguilla; while Cerveceria Modelo's marketing would have you believe that every beach in the Caribbean is chock-full of Corona-drinking vacationers, the real locals drank Carib.

It's essentially the same style as Corona: a light, crisp, clean, pale beer that tastes pretty good with a lime. Or without. Definitely a beer you can savor in warm weather, and that reminds you of sunny skies when winter clouds roll in.

1. Yuengling Lager:

An absolute no-brainer. Are there plenty of "better" beers out there? Of course! In fact, Lager (saying "I'll have a Lager" in Pennsylvania gets you a Yuengling, not further questions about what kind of lager beer you want) used to be regarded as a sub-prime beer (to put it politely), and it's still plenty cheap.

But it's the very definition of a solid session beer. Just a little hop flavor, a mellow mouthfeel, and a smooth finish that doesn't send you running for the toothbrush--or a glass of water. If one overindulges, I have it on good faith that the hangovers aren't too unbearable, either. They could have Yuengling and Westleveren on tap--and to be honest, I'd have the Belgian. But only so I could compare it to Yuengling.

Any one of these beers would be a reasonable choice for a solid brew to keep you company until the end of your days. And who needs desert islands: if we could get Yuengling in Massachusetts, I'd probably never bother drinking anything else.

Well, maybe Yuengling Light Lager...gotta maintain this girlish figure.

What beers could you and your volleyball absolutely, positively not live without? Or does a particular wine vintage or a favorite rum rock your hammock instead?

Posted by Mark at 08:00 AM | Comments (2)

July 17, 2009

The Fry-archy: 7 Fabulous French Fry Formats

If there's an American staple side dish, it's the good ol' pomme frite. But all fries are not created equal. I've developed an elaborate hierarchy of preferred fry format: the fry-archy, if you will.

First, a definition: by "french fry" I mean a small unit of potato, configured into a hand-held shape, typically fried and served at a restaurant or fast-food joint alongside sandwich-based dishes. This excludes the hash brown, which is delicious, but considered to be more of a breakfast food. I make a special exception for the tater tot--essentially a bite-sized hash brown--because they're commonly served with dinner.

This also excludes the baked potato, which is awesome in its own right, but is a different beast; the awesomeness of a baked potato is largely determined by the choice of toppings, not by the potato itself. And, of course, it's not fried. Home fries are likewise excluded, being pan-fried baked potato chunks usually served alongside an omelet. Comparing potato chips to french fries is like comparing monster trucks to sports cars, so I'll leave them for a future discussion.

Although the fry-archy is a numbered list (quite popular on the Interwebs, I'm told), there is certainly room for movement. Like a starchy version of Dungeons and Dragons, there are two modifiers we can apply to members of the lineup::

In the rankings, I assume that the fry is cooked perfectly, and that there is no seasoning applied. Here, then, is the canonical fry-archy:

1. the waffle fry

A more prefect design cannot be imagined; the waffle fry gently cradles salt and ketchup like a basket of flavor, and can be used to scoop condiments like a tuber backhoe. Structurally as sound as a Triscuit, you could substitute these for tortilla chips when making nachos, or cover them in cheese and bacon bits. Asylum in Adams Morgan, D.C. once accidentally ordered waffles instead of their standard fries, and that's when I became a regular there. Adding seasoning to waffle fries is creating an unimpeachable juggernaut of french-frydom: the Uberfrite.

2. the curly fry

These are shoestring fries done the way God intended. The thin cross-section allows for optimum cooking, yet the springy structure gives them sufficient surface area for dipping. The "inner curl", about the thickness of your thumb, is perfect for corkscrewing into a cup of ketchup. Even the moon-shaped outer curls carry sauce like little jai-alai baskets. Arby's does these with seasoning; sadly, they're frequently undercooked little twists of potato spaghetti. If you can get a well-done batch, they're heaven.

3. the tater tot

Anything that can get you lusting for cafeteria lunches--or pleasant memories of high school in general--clearly deserves a spot on some kind of list. It's as if somebody took a hole punch to an inch-thick hash brown. These have the perfect crunchy, crispy crust with a soft yet crumbly interior texture, sort of like a little round chimichanga. They're thick enough that even the most well-done exterior shields the core, but there's something about the little granules of potato that keeps the inside from seeming undercooked. These must never be cooked in an oven; they will crumble easily when bitten or submerged in sauces, and you'll end up with ketchup-potato hash.

4. the steak fry

Like a hollow chip filled with mashed potatoes, the steak fry is the grail for those who crave a smooth, crisp exterior over a perfectly soft and chewy center: steak fries are the chocolate chip cookie of the potato world. Their larger size is the probable cause of the separation of textures, and this also makes them superior for dipping.

5. the "standard"

Sad to say, most people probably think of the shoestring when they think of french fries, but I feel that the true standard is the slightly thicker cut you'll often see at chain places like Friendly's or Denny's, or your local diner. They tend to be slightly crispier than the steak fry, but don't have as much surface area, so they're not as good for dipping.

6. the crinkle cut

You'd think that the crinkle cut, with it's greater surface area for sauce adhesion, would defeat the standard, but this is not the case. The rationale: at a restaurant, it's conceivable that they might make their own fresh-cut fries, which would have the standard shape. But if the fries next to your club have a crinkle, you might as well go dumpster-dive for the Ore-Ida bag they came from: you'd need a lathe or a mold to make these by hand.

7. the shoestring fry

As I was planning this article, the bartender at one of our local Boston watering holes shook her head sadly as she heard me mention the rock-bottom placement of this old standby, practically guaranteeing the firestorm of controversy that I'm sure is about to ensue. After all, there are a lot of people who regard McDonald's and their crispy, salty shoestring as the pinnacle of potato perfection. But I have to disagree: first, you need a fistful to pick up a reasonable amount of ketchup. Second, the frying time differential for stringy laces versus little black toothpicks is very small, and a lot of places won't get it right. Third, and most fry-snobby (if there such a thing), is that there's just nothing special about them: to borrow from Michael Pollan's The Omnivore's Dilemma, like a McDonald's McNugget, they are the idea of the french fry, a hollow suggestion of the characteristics that makes it great.

At this point, we might as well have just included the contents of the french fry section of your grocer's freezer and saved the complicated explanations. But, I will also exclude fries in the shape of dinosaurs or letters of the alphabet or what-have-you, as I've never seen those served in an actual restaurant, and because the consistency of the ones I've had is much closer to that of a hash brown. These are not bad, but again, they suggest reconstituted potato bits rather than actual potato (whether or not to include Pringles in a discussion of potato chips requires similar consideration).

All other things being equal, I almost always prefer a homemade attempt from something that comes off a Sysco truck, and so a restaurant that tries making its own hand-cut fries usually defeats most of these.

Unless the alternative is a waffle fry.

What's your preferred french fry? Let the debate begin!

Posted by Mark at 11:50 AM | Comments (1)

July 14, 2009

Malta

Where:


View Larger Map

If you zoom out, you'll see that this small Mediterranean island is south of Sicily.

Just the Facts:

About 121 square miles with a population of a little over 400,000. It's an independent republic, the smallest European Union nation, and one of the smallest countries in the world.

25-Word History:

Inhabited since 5200 BC. Strategically important in the Middle Ages. Part of the...

Actually, this isn't that great an idea for a column. I got bored while writing it. Would be a better idea for a world traveler of some sort, and while I've been a few places, I haven't been to semi-obscure Mediterranean island nations. Moving on...

Posted by Mark at 10:34 AM | Comments (3)

July 13, 2009

upcoming blog changes

I'm considering making some changes to the format of the blog. Facebook has largely replaced the trivial "here are pictures of my cat and we're going to the Vermont house this weekend" type of life updates...the personal stuff. LinkedIn has replaced the professional "here is my resume and some work samples" part, which, frankly, hasn't been up on this site since I changed it from a job hunting site to a blog.

So what I'm thinking about doing is attempting to write more articles that people might want to read and enjoy. I have some ideas for categories, structure, and schedule, and while I'm doubt that I'm going to end up being a HuffingtonPost or BoingBoing or Slashdot, I would like to at least present content that appeals to a wider audience.

What sorts of articles? Well, nothing far out of the realm of what I write about now. Food, cooking, beer, travel, news, thoughts about life, how-to's...basically, I want to learn everything about everything worth knowing, and pass it along to people who like being well-rounded, in a style that's entertaining and accessible. Or something like that. I'm still working out the details.

At various times, I've considered starting up a sort of side-blog project to do something like this, but never really got around to it. Given how infrequently I update this blog, I think adding another blog to the list is a recipe for just not getting anything done.

And, I don't think I need to go register another website and come up with a brand that represents the type of writing about everything that I want to do...I think that markdalius.com, as an extension of me, is also an extension of what I perceive my personal brand to be. I'm curious, I'm obsessed with learning, and I like to teach other people what I know. I'm not planning to build this as a magazine with a staff or anything like that; I'm taking my own hobbies and trying to spend some time writing about them. Basically monetizing my hobby of dabbling.

My motivation behind all this is certainly not to make tons of money...I did a quick analysis of the online magazine/blog space and determined that it's a shockingly lousy industry to be in, with trivial barriers to entry for competitors, lots of buyer and seller power, plenty of substitutes, and a ton of competition. It is not a replacement for my day job. It's just me thinking that I should be writing more and needing a place to do it, and figuring that I might as well try to get people to read what I write, do some self-marketing, and if I can pay for the web hosting with some ads, that's a plus.

So what does this all boil down to? Well, probably these changes:

I'm not sure if this is overly ambitious, but at the very least, I think I can devote an hour a week to banging out a screen of text that is intended to have a point. If I'm honest with myself about, again, my personal brand, and my strengths, I think that I've got some writing skills that could be coupled with that innate curiousity and might result in some good content being generated. It's nice in one sense that the startup costs are nothing...I don't have to deal with editors or shopping my stuff around, or losing ownership rights. It's my stuff, it's up there, and I can do pretty much whatever I want to do, and the market will tell me if it's working or not.

So, let's see how this goes. I'll write up some sample articles over the next few weeks to prime the pump, before I make any changes to the site or do any ads or anything, and we'll take it from there.

Posted by Mark at 04:51 PM | Comments (0)