The Great Gift Basket Excavation

As promised, here is the photographic documentation of the Great Gift Basket Excavation. Enjoy.

The Gift Basket: so pure. Untouched. Soon to be raped.

I am very excited about this basket. In no way let the deadness of my eyes and the large fake smile attempt to fool you.

If only there were some way we could neatly open the basket...OH WAIT.

(complimentary scissors so that we may neatly open the gift basket.)

We excavate without waking up any undead mummies.

The Spoils:

1 box Crisp Light Crackers1 box Saraivanov Smoked Salmon

1 jar Saraivanov Caviar1 box Cassil & Klein Caramels

1 box Hathaways Caramels (same as the Cassil & Klein)

1 box Cassil & Klein Biscotti

1 triangle Cassil & Klein Cranberry Twist (trailmix)

1 pyramid Hathaways Sour Cherry Candy Drops

1 box Hathaways Old Fashioned Candy(coffee hard candies usually found in geriatric pockets)

1 box Hathaways Citrus Gems (squares of gelatin wrapped in a light sugary coat)

2 tubes Bonbon au Chocolat

1 box Dolcetto Wafer Rolls, Tiramisu flavour

1 box Aaron Bell Candy Berries

1 box Macadams White Chocolate Pecan Shortbread Cookies

1 box Brown & Haley Almond Roca Buttercrunch Toffee

1 container Toffee Peanuts

1 box Pretzel Crisps (suspiciously similar to Southwest Airlines pretzels)

1 bag Aaron Bell Pistachios

1 box Los Olivos Wine and Cheese Biscuits

1 box Aaron Bell Seasoned Crackers

1 triangle Camembert

1 container Dagoba Cacao Powder

1 bottle Chateau St. Jean Merlot

1 bottle Chateau St. Michelle Sauvignon Blanc

1 bottle Summerfield Cabernet Sauvignon1 pair Scissors (complimentary)

I won't lie, it's a lot of things one would find in a hotel minibar. Plus a pair of scissors.

So then Whitney and I decided to try the caviar.

Being the champ/thinkforherselfer/general person of AWESOME that I am, I went first.

(I will not be doing this again anytime soon.)

Whitney went second.

(I somehow doubt that she will be trying caviar again anytime soon, as well.)

I mean, it wasn't BAD, per se. The texture was odd and upsetting yet still doable, but then the pressing thoughts of the overall tininess of the eggs and their ability to slip down the back of your throat (funny how reproductivey things have the ability to-- nevermind) was upsetting. Caviar, as I would assume, is made up of dead fishy eggs, yes? But even then, some weird subcortex of my brain begins to wonder, "What if they aren't dead? What if little tiny fishies begin hatching and swimming around in my insides, their only way of escape through my urethra?! STRANGER THINGS HAVE HAPPENED!!"

On a related note: Plans for the Great Foofy Wine Party have begun being drawn up. Expect to dress nicely (dresses, ties, etc.) and drink your weight in wine until Bacchus gleams with vintneristic pride.

Work Product, Example No. 5

Golly my hair has gotten long. What do you think, back to chin length? Karen O. style? Or keep it growing?

ALSO: Tonite we excavate the gift basket. Review of Britta's Caviar Tasting Adventure (complete with disgusty faces!) forthcoming.

A Deal-Breaker, for sure.

I once went on a date with this guy and things were going great until we got back to his place and I saw that his CD collection featured Sublime, Creed and ICP rather prominently. I then had to form a graceful exit strategy claiming "womanly" things. He called me a week later and I let him go to voicemail.

(from Dustinland)

For awhile I felt bad about this until I realized that Music Nerds can and should only date other Music Nerds. It's a safety thing; god forbid you begin to get a little personal and he decides to play "When You Look Me In The Eyes" by The Jonas Brothers in place of anything by Zero 7, M83, or even Prince (all of these acceptable choices. Nothing kills the mood quite like a tune produced by the Mouse).

To further incriminate myself as a Music (Snob) Nerd, there are certain friends of mine at whose parties I always arrive with a fully charged iPod; spending the precious early moments of socialization and imbibery by lurking about the speakers in the corner waiting for that perfect moment to unplug the Pre-Made Party Playlist and usurp the offensive musical power with my own carefully constructed list of tunes. Catty? Very much so, but one can only handle so many exclamations of "OHMYGOD I loooooooooove this song." Before an even-worse-than-the-original-although-I-never-in-a-million-years-could-have-dreamed-that-was-even-possible rendition of The Pussycat Dolls' "Don't Cha" is performed to the delight of nobody.

I consider my actions to be of a great boon to society and ear canals across the board.

Play Us a Song, Dave!

If you've not been blessed enough to witness Dave Matthews Band live, I would suggest procuring a time machine and travelling back to about 1995 when they were still touring the "Under the Table and Dreaming" album, thusly saving yourself the mind-numbing hours of whale infused Celtic flute and Native American wind music that dear Evan and I were saddled with last night.

Granted, tragedy had befallen the band earlier in the day and one cannot blame them for sticking to a more somber setlist than they might have previously planned.

That all being said, can anyone actually understand what Dave Matthews is saying? In an attempt to transcribe the lyrics to a particular song (whose only understandable lyrics seemed to be "brothers and sisters," and "Ooh yeah-eh-eh-yeah,") I could swear I heard him say "the empty sun with angels well lit/ *mumble mumble mumble* oven mitt".

Happily enough, the tickets were free and events of the evening rather epic. Therefore, I feel only a pretentiously parodying piece of poesy may do any justice to the performance, so please enjoy a piece I have entitled:

"'Twas a Free Concert of a Band I Really Liked Back in the Mid-to-Late 90's", or "Play Us a Song, Dave!"*

'Twas a mid-August Tuesday in downtown LA
And the kids were all gathering to see Matthews play.
The tickets were printed, held tightly in hand
Excitement was brewing for their favorite band!

Bartender's served drinks and the swag was well sold
With visions of "ants marching" strung up in bold.
I, in my skinny jeans, and Evan, a bro
Had driven up northwards to go see the show.

When out in the lobby a ruckus we heard
As the bros headed inwards not to be deterred.
So into the arena we wandered to sit
In hopes Dave would play us his one favored hit.

The smoke hit the air as the first chord was struck
And it wafted behind us; that known stench, what luck!
When, what to our wondering ears should be said
But news that the band's saxophonist was dead.

He passed after noon, Dave Matthews dictated,
He gave up the ghost and is sadly belated.
So tonight, he informed us, we're going to play
The songs he enjoyed back in his living day.

With Celtic flute trilling and whale sounds galore
Dave Matthews played music from a far off shore.
Not sure what to ponder, to gander, to think,
We excused ourselves briefly in search of a drink.

As sure as the sunrise will follow midnight
'Tis not a true concert unless there's a fight.
Beverly Hills and her boyfriend; a Tool,
Had decided to make themselves look quite the fools.

Dressed in cheap imitation with gin breath to spare
They begged for a kiff, waved and danced on the chair.
Their friends stood before them, annoying the masses
Harassing the crowd with spilled beer from their glasses.

'Til security came and the Tool he did shout,
"Hey, f*ck you all! I know what it's all about!"
He pulled on his shirt and lunged toward a fellow
Who before this had been rather still and quite mellow.

The guards, they detained him as Dave strummed along
Leading the masses in a well-known song.
Singing the chorus to Gabriel's' "Sledgehammer"
Dave Matthews, he grinned and the words he did stammer.

The band played succinctly, not missing a beat
And Dave, he did hop 'round and dance on his feet
Cradling his guitar with the love of a father
He played more new songs. Play a hit? Oh, why bother!

As the evening wore on and we heard "Satellite",
"Two Step" it seemed, would be nowhere in sight.
David Byrne represented, the house was burned down
And a story was told of an African town.

As we checked our clocks, saw two hours had past
We wondered, would he play "Ants Marching" at last?
Then finally, strung fiddle strings played aloud
That familiar tune truly pleasing the crowd.

The intro extended, Staples Center did swell
With sweet tempered humor the cheering befell
And we heard him mumble, 'fore the stage he was lit;
"Blargedee blumble farfall, merfin dee, oven mitt."


* There was a gentleman sitting three rows behind us who took it upon himself to begin yelling "Play us a song, Dave!" about an hour into the show. Perhaps before this moment Dave had only been reading aloud to us? Lecturing on the theories of Quantum Entanglement and the misunderstood purpose of the Hadron Collider? The world may never know, but thanks to this one man Dave did indeed play us a song (or twenty). Thank you, unknown gentleman.

Oh Hello, My Celebrity Crush From 1997

Welcome back.

Why yes, I believe I will be seeing your silly little film, Mr. Frasier. What's that? You'd like me to thank Hollywood for making you look less like a creepy balding strong-jawed man? Well in that case, Hollywood, let me say from the heartiest of hearts THANK YOU on behalf of myself, Mr. Frasier, and every twenty to thirty-something female/homosexual male who saw George of the Jungle.
Much Love,
Britta