September 29, 2005
all i want for christmas
Today I stumbled* upon this website, which provides me with an opportunity I have been eagerly awaiting for some time: a chance to purchase a Reinhardt Heydrich action figure!
Here is the "limited edition" Heydrich doll:
I suppose there's a market for almost anything.
* Actually, to be honest: I've been reading The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich and was curious as to what the "characters" looked like, so I conducted a search for Heinrich Himmler--one of the first results for which was a picture of a Himmler action figure, which I was regrettably unable to find in a purchase-able setting.
Posted by onion slayer at 03:56 PM | Comments (1)
four moronic things i believed as a kid
(1) I used to think that we pledged allegiance to the "Witch that Stands" in morning assembly.
(2) I convinced myself for some reason that Mica (as in: the sheeted mineral) was valuable as gold in Mexico. This was probably just to rationalize my pastime of sifting painstakingly through the sand on the playground, extracting the minutest shiny specks, rather than interacting with my disapproving classmates.
(3) Unaware of the multiple meanings of the word "free", I didn't understand the "drug free" campaign. "Why would we want to make drugs free?" I asked myself. Struggling to make sense of it, I ended up concocting the following nonsensical explanation: "If drugs are free, then there won't be any monetary value attached to them. And if they aren't valued, then people won't think they're worth anything. So they won't use them." I also remember thinking that the "drug free" campaign involved legalization.
(4) My parents never told me about human sexuality, but as a kid I read a variety of books on animal behavior. So I understood, in ridiculous detail, how a female wolf was impregnated--however, I was unable to extend this process to the human sphere. I believed, rather, that a woman was impregnated on her wedding night by dancing with the groom; nine months later, a child was spawned out of her anus.
Posted by onion slayer at 12:11 PM | Comments (7)
September 27, 2005
impasse
I hate Neil Diamond.
But I like Johnny Cash's cover of "Solitary Man".
Does that make me a hypocrite?
Posted by onion slayer at 02:55 PM | Comments (7787)
September 26, 2005
thoroughly unscientific online "test" number 2053
| You are a Social Liberal (75% permissive) and an... Economic Conservative (63% permissive) You are best described as a:
Link: The Politics Test on Ok Cupid |
Posted by onion slayer at 03:31 PM | Comments (1)
too early
This morning I received a phone call at work. It was Anjuli, one of the few friends from high school with whom I'm in some degree of contact.
"How are things with you?" she asked in Italian. "Long time no talk."
"Oh, you know. The same," I responded in English.
"How's work?"
"It's work. I'm writing sentences. I got the full-time position with benefits and more pay though. How are you doing?" English again.
"Well, things have been really busy. I got promoted to cashier, and I've been taking classes at the JC, and I've been busy planning for next year when I'm getting married."
I was taken aback. "Wait, wait...you're getting what?"
"Married." Right--I'd heard it the first time. And I suppose she's been pretty committed to her, erm, fiance for some time. But Jesus. She's younger than I am, and has never dated anyone else.
She was giddy with excitement. "It was so romantic. He took me out on a date to the same place where we went on our third date ever. I thought he was just going to give me a nicer promise ring, but when I saw it was an engagement ring I was so happy, I broke down and cried; he had to ask me twice."
"Well, congratulations." What else could I say?
The first of my friends to be getting married; I guess it had to happen sometime. And just a month ago my cousin Melina, a year my junior, wrote me an email to announce her own engagement.
Not for me--but nevertheless, all this marriage-of-peers business is making me feel uncomfortably older.
Posted by onion slayer at 02:01 PM | Comments (0)
September 22, 2005
worship
(Via Sappho.)
Posted by onion slayer at 09:55 AM | Comments (0)
September 20, 2005
a conversation
Onion Slayer (upon waking up): Yesterday was an unusually hot day, and I was uncomfortable wearing jeans and a shirt with sleeves. So today I will wear a tanktop and a skirt, and I will bring only my lightest sweater. I assume that today will be like yesterday, but I will open the window to check on the temperature.
Weather: Look at me. I reveal clear skies. And feel the air--I promise you it is temperate. Haven't your suspicions of a hot day on the Peninsula been practically verified?
Onion Slayer: I suppose so. I will wear these light summery garments, and run to catch public transportation. (Takes public transportation to Stanford.)
Weather: In order to irritate you, I will wait until you are stuck in the Peninsula with no way of getting a hold of warmer clothing. Then, I will send a group of grey clouds over you (out of nowhere!); the air will grow cold.
Onion Slayer: You fiend! I am cold and my office is quite thoroughly air-conditioned because today was supposed to be a hot day. Would you mind making things a bit warmer?
Weather: Yes, in fact. I much prefer to watch you complain over a dip in the mercury that would be laughably trivial if you weren't dressed for ninety-five-degree weather, you wretched San Diegan.
Onion Slayer: I hate you.
Weather: And I you. Here--take this: the first rain of the season! You didn't see that coming, did you?
Onion Slayer: Tomorrow I will wear all my warmest clothes.
Weather: Go ahead.
Onion Slayer: You have bested me once again, meteorological scum. But one day, I swear to you--there will be a reckoning.
Posted by onion slayer at 04:45 PM | Comments (0)
September 19, 2005
do you like mittens?
Joanna wrote of my unlikely run-in with Professor Wolfe that occured while I was working at the Media department in the basement of Green Library. I spent over two years serving as a vassal in that minor purgatory, and I have seen and experienced many perturbing things other than the tale related by Joanna.
There was a particular period of time near the beginning of my Junior year during which all the University's forces of Disquiet seemed to be assaulting me at once. There was the shadowy character who derived some enjoyment from speaking to me in affected foreign accents and thereby pretending to be different people in turn; there was the persistent Argentine law student and the clueless Ph.D. candidate in E.E., and there was the day that two separate people asked to watch Home Alone within one minute of each other.
But certainly the most memorable of these incidents was the one involving the Nightmare on Elm Street boxed set, a freshman studying philosophy, and a pair of mittens.
Every night I worked for a couple of weeks, a gang of three geeky-looking boys had been coming into the Media department asking for successive installments in the Nightmare on Elm Street series. One was tall and pale, dressed all in black, with white-blond hair and blond eyelashes. The other two were smaller and dark-haired; one wore thick-rimmed, black-framed glasses. Since I found it notable that anyone would care to watch all six of these movies, I began to recognize the boys and chuckled to myself every time they left with yet another Freddy Kreuger movie.
One night, as I handed Freddy's Dead: The Final Nightmare over the counter to the boys, I was met with a fit of hysterical giggling that I couldn't explain, but I had the distinct feeling that it wasn't unrelated to me. I narrowed my eyes at the boys as I asked for an ID card, but their giggling didn't desist. They left with the movie and I continued about my business (probably: working a crossword puzzle from the Stanford Daily), but at some point I looked up and noticed that one of the rapscallions, the taller blond one, was skulking about suspiciously and with no apparent purpose.
"Do you need anything?" I asked rudely in that brusque tone I had cultivated exclusively for library clientele.
The urchin moved up to the counter. "I have a question," he asked.
"Yes?"
"Do you like mittens?"
This was not a question I had expected. I blinked.
"What?"
"Do you, like, mittens?" His tone was matter-of-fact, as though he were repeating a routine query that I was so deaf as to mishear.
"I...I don't think I have any particularly strong feelings about mittens, one way or the other," I finally said, extremely wary.
The strange boy nodded. "Okay," he said, and, evidently satisfied, walked out and away.
---
He returned, though, over the following weeks: sometimes alone, sometimes snickering with his conspirators. "So, have you thought about it: do you like mittens?" he persisted. I began to expect his visit. Often he would come in without companions and without intention to check out DVDs at all.
One night I took note of the name on his ID card and searched for him in the University directory. Therein I made the discovery that he was a freshman, a philosophy major, and a resident of a dorm in which my friend Katie was an R.A. The next time I saw Katie I told her about her resident's strange behavior and asked if she could provide an explanation.
"He's a little weird," she said. "Maybe he likes you."
She informed Mittens Boy of our little discussion. Mittens Boy, in turn, told me that she had told him. I told Katie that Mittens Boy had told me that she had told him. So it goes.
---
A lull in the Mittens Affair. And breaking the lull: a party at Terra, the co-op in which I lived for three of the four years of my undergraduate career.
It was a good party, I think, or at least a decent one. I danced beyond 4am--but the party itself is irrelevant to the story at hand. What is not irrelevant is what followed the party--I returned to my room only to find, resting atop my pillow, a pair of blue woolen mittens.
I was actually afraid. To this point I had presumed Mittens Boy to be essentially harmless: a little quirky, perhaps a little creepy, but not worrisomely so. Breaking into my room, though? I felt a bit discomposed. Running to find Katie, I brought her so she could behold the unwanted gift. "Did you tell Mittens Boy where to find me?" I asked.
She thought the whole thing was very funny. (I admit that, abstractly, it was.) She claimed no part in the prank. "You keeping the mittens?" she wanted to know. "They're nice mittens."
I told her she could have them.
---
Some time later, yet another night in the basement of Green library, Mittens Boy stood in line behind the counter. When he came to the front he wore a roguish smirk.
"What."
"I heard some creep broke into your room and left a pair of mittens on your bed," he said.
"It's true," I responded. "What kind of a creep would do something like that? Someone really fucking creepy, that's for sure."
He laughed.
"You are very creepy," I insisted redundantly.
He laughed again, and left.
I went to Florence soon thereafter, and didn't see much of Mittens Boy after that.
Posted by onion slayer at 04:09 PM | Comments (2)
September 15, 2005
in praise of tacos el grullense
Whenever I am afforded the opportunity, I eat lunch at an establishment in Redwood City called Tacos El Grullense.
A quick Google search revealed a scarcity of attention paid to this excellent locale--and so, I believe it my solemn duty to sing its praises herein.
I know of several restaurants in the Peninsula known as "Tacos El Grullense"--however, having lunched at two of them I know that not all Tacos El Grullenses were created equal. The El Grullense to which I refer in this entry, and which I encourage all reasonable human beings to visit, is located at the corner of Middlefield and Charter Streets in Redwood City. It is patronized primarily by local Mexicans, though I have heard that it is also quite popular with white police officers.
A disclaimer: I can't comment on the quality of El Grullense's burritos, tortas, quesadillas or birria. I can say, however, that the tacos are very good and authentically Mexican, nearly identical to those my uncle serves at his restaurant in Tijuana. That is--two small tortillas filled with a generous portion of meat (I prefer the carnitas), onions and cilantro (pathologically avoided by this onion slayer), and salsa (the spicier kind is best). In my spice-fiendishness I also add extra peppers, and squeeze a slice of lime on top of the tacos. These tacos, in addition to being near perfect, only cost a dollar each.
As delicious as they are, though, I can rarely bring myself to order them, too great being the opportunity cost: a missed chance at enjoying El Grullense's flawless sopes.
I was unable to find a satisfactory image of sopes online, but here is the best I could find:
Sopes are somewhat like small tostadas. Each is made up of a thick cornmeal (masa) shell, about three inches in diameter, that is fried in oil or lard and can range widely in softness and quality. As with many things, the best sope shells toe a delicate line between two extremes, and the best ones are not too soft but not too rigid, either. The Mexican restaurant I've gone to in the Castro, "La Tortilla", errs on the side of too soft. I don't believe I am exaggerating when I say that El Grullense's sope shells don't err at all.
What goes atop this masa shell also varies widely. My mom's sopes, which are just as good as El Grullense's, are a wholly different and far more elaborate dish involving a delicate process of preparation: cabbage, zucchini, radishes, and chicken broth are among its many ingredients. El Grullense's, on the other hand, are elegant in their simplicity. I order them as follows: on top of the masa shell there goes a small amount of melted fresh Mexican cheese, and then a spattering of pinto beans, a modest layer of finely shredded lettuce, a dash of cream (not the heavy dollop of sour cream that overwhelms La Tortilla's sopes), and finally a spoonful of red chili salsa. Because of my irritating compulsions regarding food I also order a small plate of carnitas (tender roasted pork) on the side so I may painstakingly remove all extraneous fat and gristle before placing it on the sopes such that it does not cause me distress in the eating. And once again, I am sure to add lime juice and slices of serrano peppers.
So simple the recipe, but so wildly successful the result, and I haven't yet found anything remotely comparable in a restaurant setting. But there is only so much that words alone can do in convincing the reader as to the excellence of Tacos El Grullense and of the sopes in particular. I thus repeat my recommendation: go there, and if you are a reasonable human being*, you will not be disappointed.
Postscript: Each sope costs $1.95. Two or three of them make a good lunch.
* This excludes vegetarians.
Posted by onion slayer at 08:44 PM | Comments (0)
September 14, 2005
heil, schicklgruber
From The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich by William L. Shirer:
Johann Georg Hiedler, Adolf's grandfather, was a wandering miller...Five years before the marriage, on June 7, 1837, Maria Anna Schicklgruber had an illegimtimate son whom she named Alois and who became Adolf Hitler's father. At any rate Johann eventually married the woman, but contrary to the usual custom in such cases he did not trouble himself with legitimizing the son after the marriage. The child grew up as Alois Shicklgruber....There are many weird twists of fate in the strange life of Adolf Hitler, but none more odd than this one which took place thirteen years before his birth. Had the eighty-four-year-old wandering miller not made his unexpected reappearance to recognize the paternity of his thirty-nine year old son nearly thirty years after the death of his mother, Adolf Hitler would have been born Adolf Schicklgruber. There may not be much or anything in a name, but I have heard Germans speculate whether Hitler could have become the master of Germany had he been known to the world as Schicklgruber. It has a slightly comic sound as it rolls off the tongue of a South German. Can one imagine the frenzied German masses acclaiming a Schicklgruber with their thunderous "Heils"? "Heil Schicklgruber!"? Not only was "Heil Hitler!" used as a Wagnerian, pagan-like chant by the multitude in the mystic pageantry of the massive Nazi rallies, but it became the obligatory form of greeting between Germans during the Third Reich, even on the telephone, where it replaced the conventional "Hello." "Heil Schicklgruber!"? It is a little difficult to imagine.
Posted by onion slayer at 03:11 PM | Comments (0)
September 13, 2005
paranoia blogging
In early 2001 FEMA issued a list of the three likeliest and deadliest disasters that could befall the U.S.
In order:
1) A terrorist attack on New York (check)
2) A massive hurricane hitting downtown New Orleans (check)
3) A severe earthquake in San Francisco ( ... )
In short, as San Francisco residents we are doomed.
Were I a more proactive individual, I would take advantage of this height of risk awareness to devise some foolproof Road Warrior-style survival plan. Being myself, however, it is far more natural for me to dwell on the nature and scope of our latent ruin.
For example: How certain my death if I am on the Bart or the Caltrain when the Big One strikes? Is the Mission District particularly susceptible to liquefaction? Is it a good thing to live in a new building--because it was theoretically subject to sounder regulation--or does newness merely indicate that the building has yet to be quake-tested? Or worse, that it is built on some patch of yielding soil that in 1906 was responsible for the collapse of twenty city blocks, thus necessitating their being re-built into the relatively new neighborhood we see today?
And online I look at maps.
Here is a plain map of San Francisco:
I have compared it to the following map, which details the intensity of shaking in the 1906 earthquake (7.9):
And I have also looked at the "interactive liquefaction susceptibility" map on this site.
The prognosis? It doesn't look good. According to the "shake map" my location is squarely in an area that withstood "violent" shaking during the 1906 earthquake. While I suppose this isn't necessarily a harbinger of a repetition of the same, I would wager that the topography hasn't changed too much since then--and moreover I'm inclined to believe that the epicenter is of peripheral importance when examining the hazard in the Mission District versus, for example, that of the Haight. I look forward, then, to the "violent" shaking.
The "liquefaction susceptibility" map is a little more ambiguous as to our chances of being sucked into the liquid soil. Comparing it to the plain San Francisco street map it seems that my location is very close to an unlikely frontier zone at which Very High, Moderate, and Very Low meet. I could easily fall into any of those three zones. My cursory attempts to find detailed geological maps of underlying soil have yielded no fruit.
I did, however, find this interactive earthquake site on National Geographic. It includes a feature that allows you to start an earthquake of a given magnitude and see what it does to a building resting on a given soil type. I also watched a before-and-after video medley on the 1906 earthquake.
And here are some pictures taken on Howard St. after the quake:
In this instance, paranoia is probably justified. But it's my guess that it will pass, and the Big One will come only after a complacency has settled in. By then, though, we may all be living on Mars, and then we won't care about earthquakes in San Francisco.
Posted by onion slayer at 04:18 PM | Comments (2)
September 12, 2005
(in)opportune wording
(Snopes via Lakshmi via Scott.
Posted by onion slayer at 12:19 PM | Comments (1)
inaugural
Having once committed the sin of bloggery I return to the medium wiser, de-fanged, and with little idea of what to do with it.
One idea: to defer fully to my one true love--food--and join the ranks of the million-and-one other SF area food bloggers. This may prove difficult, however, as without a digital camera I'm essentially useless. And my current coffers are far too scant to afford one just yet.
I admit that I haven't any other ideas. In the meantime, (?)
Posted by onion slayer at 09:54 AM | Comments (0)