Partying like it's 1996

The CD changer in my car broke a few weeks ago. I'm sure that it can be repaired, but because my commute to work is so much shorter than it used to be it's not nearly as high a priority as it would have been at this time a year and a half ago.

My console holds a few mix-tape treasures from the mid- to late-1990s, that period of time spanning college and the immediate post-graduation years. As you might imagine, these mix tapes are bitchin'. Though they contain some songs that I can't stomach in 2007 ("Moondance," by Van Morrison and "Because the Night" [the 10,000 Maniacs MTV Unplugged version -- not the Boss/Patti Smith version]), most of what I hear when I get in the car are delightful little surprises, tunes I haven't heard in years for no particular reason.

Some of them are quality compositions: today I enjoyed Morphine's "All Wrong" and the Beastie Boys' "Shake Your Rump" (Paul's Boutique being one of the most brilliant and fabulous albums of all time). Also, "The Dreaming," by Kate Bush, which I admit maybe not everyone loves but I do because it is the sonic equivalent of Australia, an entire Southern continent condensed into song.

Some songs are guilty pleasures: "One Night in Bangkok," from the Chess soundtrack, is AWESOMELY cheesy; "Does Your Mother Know," by Abba, is the campiest song about statutory rape that I can name. But taking the cake this morning: "You Oughta Know," by Alanis Morissette. I feel compelled to mention this song because when it came out, it was every woman my age's motivating fuck-you to those guys who had wronged us (as if life was so difficult). It perfectly captured the angst of rejection from the female perspective; its rage was significant, harsh, simultaneously profound and petty. Whoever she wrote that song about had to have been one bad-ass motherfucker.

But then I learned that the song is quite possibly about "Full House" "star" Dave Coulier. WTF?!? Every time she scratches her nails down someone else's back she hopes this guy feels it?!?


Knowing its potential subject removes a little of the song's credibility. I suppose it's possible that Dave is a raging beast of a lover; perhaps he is also an incredible actor whose "Full House" purity masks his white hot sexuality. But that doesn't really make sense and, as Judge Judy says, when something doesn't make sense, usually it isn't true. So thanks a lot, Alanis, for getting a generation of women all revved up about...Joey Gladstone.

Anyway, nothing I've written here is new or particularly relevatory. It's just what I was thinking about while I careened mindlessly to work this morning.

Regarding Rachael Ray: "Complain all you want. It’s like railing against the pounding surf."

I am rather displeased with the Food Network.

But Tony Bourdain says it more thoroughly -- and with more insider knowledge -- than I ever could. Salient point:

I mourn for Mario..and Alton...Bobby and yes--even Emeril, nobly holding the fort while the TV empire he helped build crumbles like undercooked Bundt cake into a goo of Cheez Wiz around him.

Enjoy as I regurgitate dot-com content for your reading pleasure.

What Would Boner Do?

I am completely and utterly fascinated by Kirk Cameron's born-again Christian show on TBN, "The Way of the Master." I could watch Mike Seaver harrass unsuspecting people on the street about the nature of God all. day. long.

"Master" claims to be "a new look at reality TV. Each program is 30 minutes of [co-host] Ray [Comfort] and Kirk teaching Christians how to share their faith effectively and inoffensively....Learn how to approach strangers — without offense and yet with great effectiveness. How to answer difficult questions. How to prove God's existence. Learn how to do what Jesus did and circumnavigate the intellect (the area of argument) and speak to the sinner’s conscience. How to get tracts into the hands of the lost without looking like a fanatic." (Emphasis mine.)

Every person from whom I've ever received a tract was rather fanatical, I have to say. Despite claiming otherwise, dear Kirk is actually especially fanatical. Really, all I ever needed from Kirk Cameron was some whiny banter between him and Alan Thicke, or perhaps some Pritikin diet tips. What I'm not so keen on is...

"How should I witness to a Jew?"
Sadly, many of today’s Jews profess godliness but don’t embrace the Scriptures as we presume they do. Therefore, it is often difficult to reason with them about Jesus being the Messiah. This is why it is imperative to ask a Jew if he has kept the Law of Moses — to "shut" him up under the Law (Galatians 3:23) and strip him of his self-righteousness. The Law will show him his need of a Savior and become a "schoolmaster" to bring him to Christ (Galatians 3:24), as happened to Paul, Nicodemus, and Nathaniel. It was the Law that brought 3,000 Jews to the foot of the cross on the Day of Pentecost. Without it they would not have known that they had sinned (Romans 7:7), and therefore would not have seen their need of the Savior. See Luke 18:20 footnote for how to use the Law in evangelism.

...yet I can't turn it off.

Slow afternoon

Not much happening today at work, and much to my shame I've been perusing the Rachael Ray Sucks Community at LiveJournal. And while I do think she kind of sucks, I have only been able to come to that conclusion because I watch her show. Which means that I either like her, or am jealous of her, or something. Which means she wins. (But I will be the winner when I play 30 Minute Meals bingo later, when I hit the jackpot on her first mention of Grandpa Emmanuel.)

I am fully aware of my place among the people who "hate" her but who are also strangely "obssessed" with her; I want to read about how much energy the haters are willing to devote to the dot-com in the service of reviling her. My husband thinks this strange love/hate phenomenon makes her seem somewhat like the antichrist.

Anyway, the focus of this post is not Rachael Ray. The crap I was reading about her this afternoon got me thinking about how much the Food Network has changed since I started watching it nearly 10 years ago. I consider myself to be a decent and knowledgeable cook, and what I didn't learn from Mom and Dad I learned from late-'90s Food Network. David Rosengarten. Sara Moulton. Ming Tsai. Two Fat Ladies. Too Hot Tamales.

Sadly, the network now is a vast wasteland of insipid food competitions, poorly executed travel documentaries, cursory lists and cloyingly-written peeks into mass food production. Alton Brown is the lone guiding beacon on this foggy, craggy shore.

I would forsake all other TV (except "Lost") to see some of those 1990s shows again. There should be a "Food Network Classic" channel -- much like ESPN Classic. They could run all those old hour-long live shows that Sara Moulton used to do. Those were awesome. Sara finished a complete meal in a whole freaking hour, and did it without resorting to carrying around a delicately balanced tower of onions, unwashed celery and poultry seasoning to save supposedly time-sucking trips to and from the cupboards. They could also rerun...

..."Taste." David Rosengarten's brilliant mother show, which begat Alton Brown's nearly perfect but not-all-the-way-there "Good Eats." I beseech someone -- ANYONE -- to release the old "Taste"s on DVD. David, do you own them? Does some production company? How about the Food Network? PLEASE! That show was sublime, and did the absolute best job of devoting whole episodes to a single ingredient or dish. The pasta carbonara installment was especially great; David dressed up as a WWII soldier to enjoy the finished product (apparently the dish gained popularity among American GIs in Italy during the second World War). If I recall correctly, both David and Alton have theater degrees and also went to cooking school. Is it any wonder their shows are so similar in execution?

Attention, Food Network: people love Alton. They will love David (if they don't already). Rerun the old "Taste." Or release it on DVD. Or facilitate the DVD release, somehow, if you don't own the shows. Do something, I beg. It really isn't that much to ask.