The air-conditioners have been on for about a week (the Woman’s freakishly-fast metabolism runs hot), we’re getting our first real summer rain, and I’ve been in polo shirts for the past five days. Even though summer is still three weeks away, it’s already here.
Ahh, summer. It the season when I remember why I will never be able to keep Kosher (or even be a vegetarian). There’s spare ribs to smoke, bacon cheeseburgers to grill, fish to catch, and Lipitor prescriptions to fill. As I gear up for my annual trip to the Outer Banks (OBX - respresent!), I stumbled on this New York Times recipe for soft-shell crab Poor Boy sandwiches Po’ Boys. Being in the New York Times, though, they call them “Poor Boy Sandwiches.” Facking Chardonnay-swilling Hampton-loving prats.
“THERE may be no bad way to prepare soft-shell crabs. They contain so much moisture they’re just about impossible to overcook, and they cook so quickly they’re hard to undercook. … Having said that, the near-universally favorite way to serve soft-shells is fried. Most people agree that the coating should contain some cornmeal, and that a quick dip in milk or eggs to thicken the coating and help it adhere is useful.
“When you put those fried crabs on bread, you have a riff on the New Orleans poor-boy. The specifics of this creation can be endlessly debated, but the fixings* usually include lettuce, tomato and mayonnaise. Oddly enough, the true poor-boy is made on less-than-fabulous bread, labeled “French” or “Italian” in supermarkets. The sandwich is vastly improved by removing some of the mushy white crumb, and toasting what is left.
“(After a few tries using better bread, I began to understand the logic: the best baguettes are too tough to use for stout fillings like the crabs.)“
O RLY? The New York Times understands a po’ boy. I beg to differ.
Here’s where I’m coming from: I eat sandwiches from skeevy joints. The best Cubano I’ve ever had was from a bat-and-tackle gas station shop called “Mervis Market” in Okeechobee, FL. I buy oysters by the peck at Awful Arthur’s, a raw bar in Nags Head, NC. I’ve eaten ribs from street vendors in DC who use an old oil drum for a smoker. I’ve knocked back beers while eating gator bits and conch fritters at a roadside dive in St. Augustine. And I eat sliders from barmaids of ill-repute at dive bars in New York. The New York Times writers eat cucumber sandwiches while windsurfing at Martha’s Vineyard.
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There was an article in the New York Times this morning, bemoaning the beginning of tourist season. Why do I mention it? Because of this paragraph:
“Especially this year, which according to statistics compiled by New York City, is likely to be a very big year for foreign tourists around here. The dollar is cheap. The shopping is endless.
And about seven million foreign visitors are expected in the city — the highest number since before 9/11 — mainly from Britain, Ireland, France, Italy, Spain, Scandinavia and Germany.
This is good news for New York, of course. Foreigners who vacation in the United States spend about four times as much as American tourists do.”
First off, good job America. Way to ignore the warning signs about the Euro becoming a dominant force and Asian investment in the dollar. Foreign markets are moving away from the dollar, China is holding our currency hostage because they hold so god-damned much of it, and a “service-based economy” is starting to look like W’s only solid prediction. Except it won’t be Americans selling crap to other Americans; it will be Americans selling crap to tourists. That said, now for my main point:
F*ck you, New York Times! While you’re eating cucumber sandwiches and drinking Chardonnay and having clam bakes and windsurfing and playing golf in the Hamptons, the rest of us working stiffs will have to deal with these a**holes from distant lands. Which is why I think that we real New Yorkers need to find a summer pastime other than Yankees/Mets baseball: big-game hunting. Not just any big-game. The most dangerous game of all - man.
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Productivity versus morale. The great question of every friday before a holiday weekend. Do you stay open to get work done or do you let out early to increase morale.
For hard-ass jobs, it’s not really a question. Choose productivity. However, for this approach, you need consistency. In this age of intraoffice e-mail, it is Outlook Express that is watched, not the clock. Now, if you never let people out early for a holiday weekend, no one will have any reason to watch for the little envelope icon because they will know that the e-mail reprieve is not coming. It’s like Jeffrey Dahmer waiting for a call from the governor.
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Tomorrow’s forecast: 88 degrees, 60% humidity, no clouds, and abundant sunshine. As it turns out, I have an office day. Polo, khakis, and boat shoes. And those suckers across the street at L&J will be in suits.
Uggh. It’s like 70-perfect degrees outside and I’m inside. The only windows my office has are made by Microsoft and I’ve reported on all the cases I can report on and moved on all the cases I can move on. I’m damn near done with my iced coffee from Starfucks and still have over an hour to go before quittin’ time. What to do? What to do?
I’m done reading the intarweb and am sorely tempted to start reading my Al Gore book. Unfortunately, in spite of the fact that every attorney’s ‘puter screen is showing ESPN or the New York Times or some other non-work related trifle, I think that popping open a book would be frowned upon. Not that I’m complaining.
My boss told me that the firm evidently has passes for both the Metropolitan Athletic Club and the New York Highlanders. When asked which organization has my loyalty, I politely demurred comment. I believe my boss is a Mets man anyway. Look, I tried being a Mets fan. It did not work. I’m a Redskins fan, which is all the heartbreak that I can take in any given year. The Mets are the Mets, which means that as amazin’ as they are, they’ll shut down in August, finishing a respectable second in the division and narrowly miss the Wild Card by two games.
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The Woman and I saw “28 Weeks Later” this weekend. What lesson can we learn from this movie? Quarantine procedures exist for your protection. Seriously, that is the moral of the story.
The Infection did not spread outside of Britain in the first movie, what with England being an island. Turns out that the quarantine was fiercely enforced to make sure that no Infected made it to the Continent. The US military has set up base in London and, as the Infection has subsided, refugees are slowly being allowed into a Green Zone set up. Of course, everything goes to pot.
The cast is fine, although two great actors are utterly wasted. Robert Carlisle (”Begbie” from “Trainspotting”) plays the father of the first two children to be let back into London. He had a lapse of courage and escapes a horde of Infected instead of jumping into the fray to try to save his wife, which would mean certain death for the both of them. For some reason, Begbie gets horror-movie comeuppance for what is (at least to me) an acceptable human reaction in a time of great crisis. He panics, very understandably, and is traumatized by the event.
As it turns out, his wife has a natural immunity to the virus, making her a carrier. She’s a Typhoid Mary for the 21st Century. Ultimately, an outbreak ensues, the US Army screws up royally, and, at the end, civilization collapses, setting up a third movie which will undoubtedly be called “28 Months Later” which will depict a worldwide outbreak two years in.
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