Shrimp Quest 2007.

It's already 7 hours after Shrimp Quest 2007, and I'm still having trouble cleansing my mouth of shellfish slime.

We had lunch catered at work on Wednesday, and I learned that the Oak Tree would have a shit-ton of peel-and-eat shrimp on hand. After learning what was on the menu, I stretched, drank multiple glasses of water, and prepared myself to set the world record for shrimp eating.

The world record for shrimp eating (9 on the list) has already by set - by some guy named Erik Denmark - and equals four pounds, 15 ounces of "spot shrimp" in 12 minutes. Well that was nothing. And I'm not a fancy guy. My goal was an easy-to-remember five pounds of shrimp eaten over the course of my lunch hour.

Some have held contests where the shrimp count is the most important record, but there could be a few Sea Monkeys in that "record-setting" collection.

I've been fooled by other "all you can eat" promotions, but this one I was actually able to see - a giant platter with 10 pounds of shellfish.

There were complications. After having an allergy incident at a local restaurant over the summer (involving delicious ahi tuna and a trip to the emergency room), I was nervous about the undertaking. But a half hour before I started lunch I sampled one of the shrimp - just to see if anything would happen. Nothing did happen, thankfully, but it's funny how the mind can play tricks on you. The whole half hour before lunch I felt phantom pains, and phantom blushes, and phantom choking sensations. It could've been that my brain recoilled in horror at the thought of five pounds of dead seafood sitting in my stomach.

The brain can be tricked, and the stomach can be made numb. I had work to do.




Here are my notes on the attempt:

0:05: Lunch is prepared. A sandwich, some tomato soup, and a little more than a dozen shrimp, plus a cup of dipping sauce to help the little beauties go down. Still no effects from the trial shrimp. All systems go.

0:07: A Diet Coke may complicate things. Carbonation in the stomach = less room for seafood. Will test results.

0:08: No time for diet coke. Must concentrate on eating.

0:12: Next batch of shrimp on plate - all is well. Stomach is protesting the speed, but tongue is thanking me for the taste. These are quality shrimp.

0:16: Sandwich half gone, leaving more room for shrimp.

0:19: Co-workers bugging me with conversation. [Something scribbled out, won't post here] The march continues.

0:24: More than a third of the way through, but progress is slipping. Thoughts of the poor Eskimos displaced during the raid to fetch these fine shrimp developing into mad glee at smashed igloos and fleeing Inuits for the benefit of this delicious lunch. Other news: the soup is tasty.

0:27: Drifting in and out of consciousness. Restless leg syndrome looks like an acceptable consequence of today's attempt.

0:35: No way to describe the gustational noises erupting from my stomach. Hallucinations coming on strong now. Maybe a pound or two of shrimp eaten by now. Will I ever make it? And will that flying clown ever land to eat lunch?

0:45: Only 15 minutes left. Attempt almost aborted seven minutes ago after another co-worker joined me in the shrimp eating. Thoughts of using the plastic cutlery as weapons if things ever get heated. Beads of sweat are dripping into the dipping sauce. No matter. It will help the shellfish slide down.

0:52: Seven minutes since last post. Co-workers are suspecting something, what with the slimy drool and bug-eyed despair that shows on my swollen face. Is the allergy there after all? Have I made out a will? Is this digestive Armageddon?

0:53: Like clouds clearing after a rainy day, my thoughts are becoming clearer. The shrimp may actually be digesting, though how there's any room for such activity is beyond me. The brownie I just ate is at war with the shrimp. The shellfish have the numbers - things could get ugly. Co-workers are avoiding me.

0:56: Marching two by two, hurrah. Hurrah. The saints go marching in. Shrimp salad. Shrimp stew. Shrimp stir-fry. *Burp* What's rosebud? Is everybody happy? I want everybody to be happy. I know I'm happy. Ah, that tastes nice. Thank you. Et tu, Brute? The earth is suffocating . . . Swear to make them cut me open, so that I won't be buried alive. I am not the least afraid to die. Do you hear the rain? What was that sound? Adieu, mes amis. Je vais la gloire.

0:58: Fever, vomitting, diarrhea: they're starting to sound like a blessing.

0:59: Zzzzzzzzzzzzzz

There was dabs of horseradish and bits of discarded shell on my notebook. I'm assuming I didn't complete the task, but no matter. It's the attempt that counts, right? I've learned that the original record setter is now dead, probably because the human body wasn't designed to digest more than two pounds of shrimp on any given day.

My co-workers found me in a slump on the floor of the breakroom. Before I cashed out I was babbling something about dead eagles and the turkey being the legitimate national bird, but not before I had made a mess out of my teammate's workstation:




I learned, above all, that I'm not allergic to shrimp. And that's good, because a world without shrimp is a world I don't want to live in.

Besides, this was just a warm-up for Thanksgiving. And there's always next year.

Edible summer.

Sometimes it's not a bad thing to be a single guy living in an apartment.

I say this because in the past few weeks friends and coworkers have been giving up their summer garden vegetables, mostly because they can't possible eat them all before they go bad.

Which makes me feel good because - hey, we all win, right?

Last Tuesday at Rotary, Donna was complaining she had "way too many" tomatoes getting ripe for her and her husband to eat. So I volunteered myself to take them, and she showed up at work a few hours later with a trunk full. Jackpot.

My grandma's are getting ripe too, which means cherry tomatoes galore. And Liz at work brought in these giant cucumbers, which will go great with a few dashes of salt.

Besides being cheap (read: free), getting your hands on local vegetables has all kinds of benefits. Taste being the most important.

I remember as a kid going out to my grandma Maxine's house, and picking fresh green beans and corn and broccoli out of her garden. Maybe that instilled in me my appreciation for fresh veggies, because now - unless it's winter - I avoid canned goods strictly out of taste and principle.

How, after all, can you beat an ear of fresh sweet corn?

Fresh, garden-grown vegetables have the distinct honor of tasting great without flourish. In other words, you don't need to dress them up, or even cook them, to appreciate their flavor. Maybe a few slabs of butter on corn or beans, or a sprinkle of salt on a newly-cut watermelon, but that's all you need.

Plus I'm helping relieve my friends and neighbors of their burden, so in a way I'm doing some charity. We wouldn't want them to be overwhelmed with tomatoes, would we? No, we wouldn't.

So bring me your almost-ripe, your vine-grown, your freshly-picked. None of it will go to waste.

Meet you in Missoula

Someone swiped my pen at work today.

It was a marvel of modern engineering: all smooth, blue plastic and expert writing ability. It made me want to sign some important document, like the Declaration, with it. But like all beautiful things doomed to fail, it disappeared from my desk sometime while I was at lunch. The bastards tried replacing it with a common American 1 pen, which - as loyal as I am - doesn't hold a candle to the variety Visa produces.

They've got the wealth, surely, and it shines through in their writing utensils.

Goodbye, dear pen. My words looked better because of you.

[update: it was my boss. She took it on "accident."]



* * * * *



I've been trying all week to come up with some unifying concept to wrap-up my Seattle/Yellowstone/all points west trip last week, but the words fail me.

Beauty I saw, and wonder I discovered, in the valleys of Mt. Rainier and the docks of Seattle. Creates great and small noted my presence in Yellowstone, and my footprints grace the trails of Roosevelt National Park.

But I think the pictures do it the best justice. So go check them out yourself. Maybe someday I'll share my thoughts, but some things - toothpicks, tortured humor, and ten bottles of Moose Drool beer - are mine alone to keep.



* * * * *



I'm thinking of leaving the cruel world of MySpace behind.

After my account was hacked while I was away, I have to admit feeling violated and unnerved. The whole thing shattered my sense of online security (mostly because I've never had any problems until now).

Suzanne thought maybe my password wasn't strong enough, but does coolness count for nothing in today's grim world? Must I develop a forgettable amalgam of dates, addresses, and initials so some creep living in his mother's basement can't send stupid comments to all 300 of my MySpace comrades?

Is there no decency?

It will be a slow transition, I think, because I like to maintain some sort of online presence. My photos and Google maps and rants will still have a place online. But going through my friends list with Katie the other night, and explaining who each person was ("How the heck do you have over 300 friends?" she asked in disbelief) left me with a hollow feeling.

I once had a Blogger account, and I think I'll resurrect that. But maybe I'll keep this MySpace account a shell, just in case some sap who graduated with me eight years ago decides to look me up. It happens, and then we don't talk again. That's MySpace.

That, and I'm finding less and less time to devote to this thing. Like everything else in our fickle culture, New Things last only as long as our attention span. And I hear there's good things coming out of Cupertino that deserve more of my attention.

And frankly, it's only the spare 20 folks or so who regularly talk to me on this thing, anyway. To hell with the rest of you.

I started my MySpace career doing research on bands for the music website I was writing for, and quickly found it a worthy replacement to the ultra-personal LiveJournal and Blogger stuff I was participating in. I've done a decent job of keeping my personal life off the screens of others, and for that I can be proud.

So stay tuned. Big changes are coming.



* * * * *



If you've eaten in one Chinese take-out, you eaten in them all.

That's what I've learned after grabbing dinner for grandma and I a few weeks ago. At the recently-opened China Garden on West Ave., I faced existential terror at the prospect of sitting in another bland, institutionalized Mandarin eatery serving the same neon pink sweet & sour sauce as everyone else.

The place was truly spartan. The only attempts at decoration were soy sauce containers on the tables, and etched glass partitions with bamboo and dragons engaged in constant struggle. Bare walls. Tile floors. Creamy, mauve, hospital-waiting-room decor. It was depressing, and as the cashier handed me a bag of almond chicken and egg rolls, I had nightmare flash of deja vu: this happens in the same way, in the same manner, with the same duck sauce, as every other town in America.

If MSG and bland, battered chicken is your gig, then Chinese places are the last refuge for the hungry and bored. Don't feel like spending the 15-20 minutes it takes to make a decent meal at home? Order the Peking Duck, and hope for the best.

General Tso was a bastard, and his legacy lives on in the same sort of cuisine the Red Chinese have learned to hate, much as the Mexicans almost started a second War with Texas over Taco Bell.

Real Chinese cuisine is a marvel of tradition and ceremony. American Chinese cuisine (it's big in Ireland too, I guess) sticks Moa's people in restaurants whose name can feature a combination of "China," "Garden," "Buffet," "City," "Yen," "Lucky," and "King" (go ahead - make your own business by mixing and matching the words).

You have to travel to a big city to sample any kind of authentic Chinese meal, so in the meantime grandma and I will travel to Yen King, the classiest Chinese joint in town, and enjoy our fried rice and glowing sauce amid steaming bowls of egg drop soup.

Good luck, comrades, and may fortune cookies rain down upon you.

In bed.Someone swiped my pen at work today.

It was a marvel of modern engineering: all smooth, blue plastic and expert writing ability. It made me want to sign some important document, like the Declaration, with it. But like all beautiful things doomed to fail, it disappeared from my desk sometime while I was at lunch. The bastards tried replacing it with a common American 1 pen, which - as loyal as I am - doesn't hold a candle to the variety Visa produces.

They've got the wealth, surely, and it shines through in their writing utensils.

Goodbye, dear pen. My words looked better because of you.

[update: it was my boss. She took it on "accident."]



* * * * *



I've been trying all week to come up with some unifying concept to wrap-up my Seattle/Yellowstone/all points west trip last week, but the words fail me.

Beauty I saw, and wonder I discovered, in the valleys of Mt. Rainier and the docks of Seattle. Creates great and small noted my presence in Yellowstone, and my footprints grace the trails of Roosevelt National Park.

But I think the pictures do it the best justice. So go check them out yourself. Maybe someday I'll share my thoughts, but some things - toothpicks, tortured humor, and ten bottles of Moose Drool beer - are mine alone to keep.



* * * * *



I'm thinking of leaving the cruel world of MySpace behind.

After my account was hacked while I was away, I have to admit feeling violated and unnerved. The whole thing shattered my sense of online security (mostly because I've never had any problems until now).

Suzanne thought maybe my password wasn't strong enough, but does coolness count for nothing in today's grim world? Must I develop a forgettable amalgam of dates, addresses, and initials so some creep living in his mother's basement can't send stupid comments to all 300 of my MySpace comrades?

Is there no decency?

It will be a slow transition, I think, because I like to maintain some sort of online presence. My photos and Google maps and rants will still have a place online. But going through my friends list with Katie the other night, and explaining who each person was ("How the heck do you have over 300 friends?" she asked in disbelief) left me with a hollow feeling.

I once had a Blogger account, and I think I'll resurrect that. But maybe I'll keep this MySpace account a shell, just in case some sap who graduated with me eight years ago decides to look me up. It happens, and then we don't talk again. That's MySpace.

That, and I'm finding less and less time to devote to this thing. Like everything else in our fickle culture, New Things last only as long as our attention span. And I hear there's good things coming out of Cupertino that deserve more of my attention.

And frankly, it's only the spare 20 folks or so who regularly talk to me on this thing, anyway. To hell with the rest of you.

I started my MySpace career doing research on bands for the music website I was writing for, and quickly found it a worthy replacement to the ultra-personal LiveJournal and Blogger stuff I was participating in. I've done a decent job of keeping my personal life off the screens of others, and for that I can be proud.

So stay tuned. Big changes are coming.



* * * * *



If you've eaten in one Chinese take-out, you eaten in them all.

That's what I've learned after grabbing dinner for grandma and I a few weeks ago. At the recently-opened China Garden on West Ave., I faced existential terror at the prospect of sitting in another bland, institutionalized Mandarin eatery serving the same neon pink sweet & sour sauce as everyone else.

The place was truly spartan. The only attempts at decoration were soy sauce containers on the tables, and etched glass partitions with bamboo and dragons engaged in constant struggle. Bare walls. Tile floors. Creamy, mauve, hospital-waiting-room decor. It was depressing, and as the cashier handed me a bag of almond chicken and egg rolls, I had nightmare flash of deja vu: this happens in the same way, in the same manner, with the same duck sauce, as every other town in America.

If MSG and bland, battered chicken is your gig, then Chinese places are the last refuge for the hungry and bored. Don't feel like spending the 15-20 minutes it takes to make a decent meal at home? Order the Peking Duck, and hope for the best.

General Tso was a bastard, and his legacy lives on in the same sort of cuisine the Red Chinese have learned to hate, much as the Mexicans almost started a second War with Texas over Taco Bell.

Real Chinese cuisine is a marvel of tradition and ceremony. American Chinese cuisine (it's big in Ireland too, I guess) sticks Moa's people in restaurants whose name can feature a combination of "China," "Garden," "Buffet," "City," "Yen," "Lucky," and "King" (go ahead - make your own business by mixing and matching the words).

You have to travel to a big city to sample any kind of authentic Chinese meal, so in the meantime grandma and I will travel to Yen King, the classiest Chinese joint in town, and enjoy our fried rice and glowing sauce amid steaming bowls of egg drop soup.

Good luck, comrades, and may fortune cookies rain down upon you.

In bed.

An ode to watermelon

It doesn't take much to tell me it's summer.

But the biggest indication? All the cheap watermelon.

Last week gramma shared half of her giant watermelon with me. I took it home. It was good.

Everyone has those memories, most likely from childhood, that take them back and remind them of certain seasons. Sledding in winter, the weather breaking in spring, back-to-school in fall. For summer, though, it's that first juicy bite of a watermelon for me.

Sometimes I get a little crazy when it comes to watermelon. Don can tell you stories of me devouring an entire melon in one sitting, my face dripping, my belly painfully full. It's kind of like alcoholics blacking out after too much to drink - that's me and melons.

Watermelons were discovered in the African Kalahari Desert, of all places, and were good sources of water for the parched residents. Egyptians used to lay watermelon at the tombs of pharoahs to nourish them through the afterlife.

When I die, I want a watermelon, too.

Seeds, seedless, yellow, pink - whatever. Just give me a fork, a napkin (the more the merrier), and a big half-hunk of melon, and I'm in heaven.

You know at funerals, when most people are grieving for their lost friend or relative? I'm probably thinking of watermelon.

It's kind of sexual, if you think about it. Pink flesh. Dripping juices. Sweet and, at times, sour. Serpentine vines with dozes of giant, round spectacles of sin.

Yeah. I said "serpentine."

There are already religions devoted to watermelon. Well sign me up, comrade, because I'm preaching the Good News.

Give me watermelon, or give me...well...maybe some vine-ripe tomatoes would work, too.

Yes Virginia, there is a coney dog

After calling in an order for lunch today, I found that I have become a regular.

You know - one of those folks who goes to the same spot and the same time and orders the same thing. That's me.

I use my Fridays as a sort of "me day." I grab a red-eye coffee on the way in to work, I treat myself to lunch out (as opposed to my regularly packed sandwhich-and-chips), and I take a nap when I get home from work. Pretty regular.

This week, however, it all came in to sharp focus. I made the call to the Virginia Coney Island across the street, my regular spot, and the woman on the other end knew (a) who I was, (b) what I wanted, and (c) when I would make it across the street. She was good.

Before I ate my first lunch at the Virginia I was warned that the clientele was "shady" and the atmosphere was "too blue collar." In other words, it was a real live local restaurant, full of working people who loved crinkle fries as much as I did. You can't beat the prices ($5 for my lunch, usually) and you can't beat the view of Michigan Ave. out the steamed-up windows.

There's an obsession with local, Jackson-made coneys. We make them different than any other place in America, and are nationally known for our dynamic coney dogs. Supposedly, the "coney stuff" we put on top of our coneys - a dry mix, as opposed to the wet, sloppy-joe style coney mix - is unique to Jackson. Damn tasty, too. As a result, a local fascination with the weiners has sprung up, and given Jackson a sense of local gustational pride.

I love the coneys at the Virginia. And the cute waitress - the one who answers the phone - doesn't hurt either. To achieve true "regular-hood" however, I'll have to learn her name.

When I first started going, the waitress yelled at me because I dumped my ketchup on napkins. Now she gives me a bowl, a ketchup depository, for my condiments. Today she even had a Diet Coke waiting for me at my usual spot. They know me there. And that's a good feeling.

Sometimes a person's "regular-hood" can be unwelcome. If you're a regular at the local jail or brothel, a co-worker pointed out, it can be a bad thing.

But being a regular at the Virginia is a good thing, no bones about it.

Who's up for crinkle fries?

Spare me the drive-thru

My grandma and I have watched for the Jackson Citizen Patriot's Brad Flory, a local all-about-town columnist, to release his "Top Five" best hamburgers in town.

Finally, on Tuesday, he picked his favorites - based on taste, tradition, community history, etc.

Out of the five, Schlenker's Sandwich Shop was one of the best burger winners, and one of the few places in town I haven't been.

So we went last night.

And, I'm here to report, it is one of the best burgers in town.

My grandma had been going there since she was a kid - it's been open since 1927 in the same cram-packed location on Ganson St. - and she finally showed me what it was all about.

But what I noticed was the layout - a U-shaped counter, able to sit about 14 people at one time, and very, very cramped. Everyone's proximity to everyone else, however, was actually part of the place's charm.

For instance: most of the folks in there last night were about my grandma's age, 50-70. The old timers. And my grandma, the social butterfly she is, starting talking with everyone while they ate.

And it was awesome. They shared stories of all the burger joints that used to be in town, and how downtown used to be a happening place. The good old days? I was feeling them.

"Everyone is so isolated these days," my grandma said to me. "You can't get this kind of conversation in a drive-thru."

By god, she was right. I had so much fun listening and chatting with all the customers that the burger was an after-thought. Sure, the food was great (and cheap!), but the conversation and the atmosphere was what made Schlenker's so popular with Jacksonians.

This is one principal guiding my decision to never eat at a chain store when I'm out and traveling. Sure, McDonald's can be great if you're in rush. But when I'm traveling, I want the local flavor (literally), and that's why I'll only eat at locally-owned, non-chain restaurants and diners.

Not only is the food generally better, but you can learn something about the community you're in by pulling up a chair, sipping on your straw, and gabbing with your neighbor. There's not enough of that these days, as my grandma sees it, and it's a shame.

Everyone has their local hangout - the place they go where they know the food, know the servers, and know conversation and community are going to be as much a part of the menu as a sandwich and fries.

Here's to Schlenker's. And here's to the classic burger joint.

They're a dying breed.