Quality Family Time.

It's pretty rare for a full nuclear family reunion (Mum, Dad, Big Brother, and Me) are all together. This cross-country reunion came about quite unexpectedly this week, thanks to my quarter-life crisis and my brother's pilot friend's Buddy Pass. After spending a good week of time eating out/errand-running/grandma-visiting, how did we choose to spend our last hours together? A picnic? Hot chocolate 'round the olde yule log? Singing show tunes while I pound away at the old grand piano?

Close. We went to a liquor store! Granted, there is a back story. And we had a gift card to spend that we won in a raffle. And we bought some classy stuff: almond tequila, Belgian beers, locally distilled vodka. But I couldn't help but think how fitting it was that we were wandering around like kids in a candy store at this gourmet food/wine/booze center on our last night together. I mean, we'd already had cocktail hour and watched Mad Men. It was fitting. I guess what I'm trying to say is, the family that drinks together, stays together!

the simple joys of suburbia.

It's embarrassing to admit, but I had never mowed a lawn until yesterday. Yes, I was rather sheltered as a child, but now I'm making up for lost time. And I was guilted into it by my parents. I must say, these new battery-operated lawnmowers are quite a delight. They are quiet, smooth, less greasy, and non-intimidating. Within two lanes of grass I was huffing and puffing like an old pro. I waved cheerfully at the neighbors, chomped on my cigar, and glugged away at my can of Schlitz.

Mowing a lawn carefully and slowly is really a Zen-like task. I fell into the zone of perfectly shredding circles in the lawn (my own take on crop circles, if you will) and found myself thinking about all sorts of deep thoughts. I thought about starting my own environmentally friendly landscaping business. I thought about taking some classes in xeroscaping. I thought about how I really should be wearing sunscreen at this time of day.

I was sad when the battery died and the lawn was not yet trimmed to perfection. One of the fallbacks to owning this Prius of lawnmowers. I went to charge it and then settled down into the iciness that is central air-conditioning. Another can of Schlitz soon followed.

word of the day: foppish.

The best glasses worn by a leading man in a mid-90s British romantic comedy can be found on Hugh Grant's perky nose in Four Weddings and a Funeral. I know that's a narrow cateogy, but these roundish black-rimmed glasses are just precious. They say, "I enjoy dusty old bookstores, Fair Isle sweaters, quiet walks at night, and intellectual conversation." I feel there is a certain amount of self-hatred in Hugh Grant's acting. If you look at his body at work, he is obviously typecast as the fumbling, adorable Brit who somehow wins over the ladies with his stammering, earnest appeals at affection. Hugh knows this and accepts this. After all, living in London ain't cheap, and one must have a house in the country for entertaining lady guests on the weekends. So he continues to allow himslf to be cast in frothy light comedies with other veterans of this genre: Sandra Bullock, Drew Barrymoore, Julia Roberts. But as I watch him utter these cheesy lines, I can see this smirking twinkle in the back of his eyes.

He's thinking, "God, what rubbish. I bet Meg hasn't brushed her teeth after lunch today. That'll be a splendid close-up: me grimacing at her horrid garlic breath. I wonder if I should buy that Aston or not? It's obscene, to be sure, but I very well deserve a treat of some sort after today's shooting. 'Whoopsidaisies?' What kind of bluthering idiot talks like this?"

And there you have it.

Voodoo Doughnuuuuutsssss.

God, I love doughnuts. I could eat them at every meal with a big glass of cold milk. I could spend a whole day sitting in a squad car at a stakeout with my partner Ronnie munching on a big fat glazed one. I will miss Portland's Voodoo Doughnuts more than I will miss my friends here. Is that so wrong? Just look at that centerfold of a Cap'n Crunch doughnut. And admire this sampling of their gluttonous goodies...

Grape Ape
(raised doughnut with vanilla frosting and grape powder)

Dirt
(raised doughnut covered with vanilla glaze and oreo cookies)

Arnold Palmer
(cake doughnut covered with lemon and tea powder)

Dirty Snowball
(chocolate cake doughnut covered with pink marshmallow glaze and surprise filling)

Apple Fritter
(apple/glaze/doughnut as big as your head)

The Memphis Mafia
(chocolate chips/banana/ peanut butter glaze)

Snot, boogers, nutria, and swamps.

You know those dorky people that half snort/half laugh while they're reading a book? I've always been really embarrassed for them...until I caught myself doing it the other day. But in my defense, I was in the privacy of my own room. I wasn't in a coffee shop delicately sipping my vanilla soy latte and generally being a tool. So the defense rests. BUT 'tis a rare thing indeed when a book makes me crack a smile, let alone utter a hearty guffaw.

Dark at the Roots by Sarah Thyre is amazing. A-MAY-zing. It's her memoir of growing up in the Louisiana bayou just outside of New Orleans. She holds nothing back: bodily fluids, abusive father, puberty, and sexual awakening are all juicy chapters in the book. And I'm jealous of how wittily and wonderfully she writes. Need I add she played the dykey coach in my favorite TV show Strangers with Candy? I want this woman to be my best friend. We could eat crawfish together and reminisce about the snotty days of youth. Here's a sampling of her pure poetry:

I still wasn't entirely clear about exactly how many holes were between my legs, but I got the feeling one of them was up to no good.
A few days later, while digging through the plastic bag Mom used as a purse, I came across a scrap of paper with a date and a curious-sounding name scribbled on it.
"Sooooo, who's this Pap Smear?" I asked Mom, sure I was catching her having an affair. Pap would be an older man: bearded, courtly, possibly a jazz musician, definitely with a swimming pool.
"That's not a who," Mom said, "that's when they take a spatula and scrape out your vagina to see if you have cancer."
"Ucchhh!" I said, disappointed that I wouldn't be swimming at Pap's mansion and entertaining friends in his gazebo.

Words fail me.

I tried to watch Sarah Palin's speech at the Republican National Convention last night. It made my stomach hurt. I'm not as eloquent as Gloria Steinem, so I'll let her op-ed in the LA Times speak for me. It expresses perfectly how I feel about the whole shebang.

Damn straight, Gloria.

Rip Torn is a dirty old man.

I've loved Rip ever since I watched "The Larry Sanders Show." His booming voice, shit-eating slanted grin, maniacal eyes, and smile wrinkles really get to me. He's like the crazy alcoholic uncle I wish would come to my family reunions to liven things up. And he was born in Temple, Texas and went to UT; we're practically related! I was curious to see what a young Rip Torn was like, so I rented the 1973 film Payday. He plays a boozing, pill-popping, amoral country-western singer. I have to wonder if it was a stretch.

Apparently country singers on the road in the 60s and 70s popped a lot of pills. Uppers, downers, bennies, and ludes...it was all for the takin'! Good times until you black out on the road going 90 mph in your Caddy. Anyways. The film was shot beautifully in that classic, dirty 1970s way I love so well. The eyeglasses men wore back then can never be replicated. Nor can their greasy, slicked-back hair and polyester double-knit pants. They all had that creepy substitute teacher look that I just love!

Soul-crushing disappointment.

Sometimes in life, the universe is against you. Whether you missed the winning kickball shot, received your third DUI in a month, or spilled hot maple syrup all over your fleecy white robe...well, Life just isn't working out for you. I had this experience during Labor Day weekend in Atlanta. The weather was bearable; just a touch of sweltering heat and enough humidity to keep me ever-perspiring. I had a lovely host. I ate at Ria's Bluebird cafe, which the N.Y. Times proclaimed had the best pancakes in the U.S.

But then a dark storm of foreboding passed over. The weekend was almost up, and I still had not gotten my Luther Burger. Now, I had come to Atlanta a year ago for this very reason. Surely I would not fall from grace again. Understandably, my friend was not enthused about this quest for excellence, as she is a vegetarian. But on our last full day in Atlanta, she granted permission for us to seek forth the Gravity Pub in East Atlanta and for me to receive that most holy of communion: a bacon cheeseburger delicately perched upon a grilled, oozing, greasy Krispy Kreme bun. We drive. We walk. We see a sign: "The Gravity Pub is closed for Labor Day weekend. We will re-open on September 2nd."

Defeat. Thoughts of suicide flit through my head. I question the universe and my role in it. Why dost thou not wish me to receive such bounty, O Lord? No matter. Like the phoenix, I will rise again from the ashes. And the ashes will taste like bacon. As soon as I get back to civilization (meaning Texas, of course) I will seek forth the nearest Krispy Kreme and I shall make my own goddamn Luther Burger. And it will be the sweetest nectar of the gods. And I shall find peace within my soul once more.