Pushing the Limits of Refrigeration

Clearly, the above photo portrays a new twist on an ancient method of food preservation. FYI, it's a sandwich on the roof of a car.

I had made said sandwich in Plymouth, Michigan with materials I bought in Kalamazoo, but on the way to Pittsburgh we were passing through Cleveland, where we never pass up an opportunity to eat at the Peking Gourmet.

“If only there were some way to save my sandwich for later so that I could eat Chinese food now,” I thought. As the expression goes, tofu in the hand is worth turkey on the airplane.

I got the idea to keep the sandwich cold when I noticed that outside it was cold. And what better place to keep food fresh than the luggage rack of a Dodge Grand Caravan while barreling down I-275, I-75, I-280, I-80, I-76, I-79 and then I-279? I figured the buffeting winds and smattering of rain would only help lock in freshness. It also made me feel popular, because everywhere we went, people stopped and shouted: “Hey! (There’s something on your roof.)”

In the end, the sandwich stayed cool and dry, and Seth owed me a cool, dry dollar for his skepticism. Who needs refrigerators when you’ve got wind, rain, highways, and friends?

There’s Something Funny About This Exercise Room

Actually, there are three things.

1. The scale said I weighed 102 pounds. The scale is either wrong, or a time machine to 1992.

2. While there is a window, the treadmill faces away from it. Clearly, whoever arranged the equipment has a loathing of nature so deep that they prefer the sight of sweat encrusted beige wallpaper to, say, a tree. To compensate, the different incline levels have names like “Alpine Ascent" and "Hillock Schlep.”

3. The Health Rules sign declares the following:

“If your doctor recommends that you refrain from exercise, take his advice.”

That inspired me to create a riddle. It is:

"If a doctor recommends that you refrain from exercise, how can the doctor be a woman?"

Answer: If you aren’t sexist.

Gandalf the Gay

Extra post today to congratulate our good friend and former/kind-of-still LNP Andrew Slack. He has supplied the LA Times with a great cover story on the Harry Potter character who is now officially gayer than any other: Albus Dumbledore. Zach did the anagram and adds that instead of saying "That's so gay," people should now say "What a Dumbledore."

http://www.latimes.com/entertainment/news/movies/la-et-showbiz7-23oct23,0,5726083.story?coll=la-home-entertainment

Bad Routing

I’m writing from Chicago Midway, en route back to Boston after a show in Wisconsin. Unfortunately, it was a one-off performance, which means we traveled roughly 2,522
miles for every hour of comedy.

The only thing less desirable than a one-off show is a daytime show. This was both. To add insult to injury, upon arrival we were chastised by an art teacher.

Her: Where are you coming from?
Us: Boston.
Her: Where are you going to?
Us: (sheepishly) Boston.
Her: Don’t you understand how block booking works?
Us: Yes.

But sometimes that’s just how the schedule crumbles. Despite the imperfect circumstances, our brief experience at the college was still a rich one. We were surprised to find a display of student drawings about the graphic novel “Maus.” Speaking about the professor who created the project, our host said: “Oh yeah, he’s really into the holocaust.”

The “theater” (cafeteria) where we performed was called the Marauder’s Cove – a fitting name for a landlocked technical college’s dining hall. In the serving area hung a sign proclaiming: “Taco must be able to be taco without a fork, or else it will be taco salad.” Apparently, people try to make off with more taco than they pay for. I guess they’re the “marauders.”

When I asked the cook what the best thing there was, he said “the girls.” When I asked him what the best thing that he cooked was, he said “nothing.”

It's Tough Eating on the Road

It's tough eating on the road, but somehow we manage.



Note the veins.

-ak

Don't Eat Here

I should have known by the pop music blaring from the speaker outside The Plain and Fancy that it’s not as Amish as it’s cracked up to be. In fact, a more apt name would be "The Plain and Crappy, and Expensive."

If the music hadn’t given it away, our “Amish” host’s lavalier mic should have. That or something they had called "Amish Experience F/X Theater." In all fairness, the place doesn’t claim to adhere to the strict doctrine of the Amish. It’s just Amish-ish.

I enjoy things both plain and fancy, but for some reason the combo proved deadly. As a ravenous consumer of local foods, I was optimistic about my odds at the P&F. I figured that even a copy of a cuisine religiously mandated by an Ordnung had to be good. I was wrong.

As Seth quipped after our meal, "If I were Amish I would hate this place." Well I'm not Amish, and I do.

Also, don’t eat at the Red Avocado in Iowa City. It’s everything meat eaters say about vegetarians come true.

Gas Station Salvation

Seth was getting gas when I noticed something strange on the oily concrete next to the pump. It turned out to be the cutest animal I have ever seen - an abandoned baby mouse so young it's eyes were still shut. It's head was roughly the size of it's body, placing it in the developmental phase known as "Cartoon-Like Cute." The biological function of this is to make others want to care for it. As Gallagher once quipped: "God makes babies cute so you don't kill 'em." Then he probably smashed something with his giant hammer, perhaps a baby doll, or something juicier.

Nature's strategy worked on us. Me, Seth, a mechanic, and the cashier from inside were all gathered around the tiny, shivering creature in no time flat. The mechanic summed up what we were all thinking when he said: "I know people kill mice, but it's just a baby."

The cashier ran inside and returned with an empty Dentyne Fire "Spicy Cinnamon" box, and the mechanic gently pushed the mouse into it. I covered it up with shredded Panera napkins I had in my pocket.

We took it to an animal hospital about three quarters of a mile down the road, where the attendant said it didn't look too dehydrated. She seemed sorry not to have any mouse milk on hand, and recommended that we feed it some other kind. The she saw the look on our faces and said: "Oh, I see. You just wanted to drop it off."

I then pulled out the trump card. The excuse that has delayed the return of countless voice mails and e-mails. The bane of concerned family members and friends. The wedge between us and our girlfriends.

"We'd love to help, really. But you see, we're on the road."

Happy anniversary, Jack Kerouac. Good luck, little mouse.

Cheesequake?

Does you realize there's a town in New Jersey called "Cheesequake?" Cheesequake!? Like a cheese earthquake? Why this isn't talked about more often I cannot understand.