Paul Newman and his lemonade.
August 4, 2007
Here in Los Angeles, the only radio station I can listen to is KCRW – not because I hate The Common Man, but because I have this pathological terror of radio DJs who speak in DJ Voice.
Also, phone pranks.
Also, when they explain that you can just go on down to [Car Dealership] with your paycheck and NO ONE WILL BE DENIED A HIGH-INTEREST LOAN TO BUY A CAR THEY CAN’T AFFORD.
Also, Robbins Brothers engagement ring commercials.
So basically there’s a lot of things about commercial radio that I can’t handle. And unlike SOME OF US (Naomi) I don’t have Sirius, so when I’m in the car it’s either:
a) Dread silence
c) The same nine CDs I keep forgetting to swap out for new ones, and there’s only SO OFTEN you can listen to, say, Amy Winehouse before you start grumbling to yourself about how maybe rehab isn’t the worst idea.
KCRW is having its annual subscription drive. I’m not sure what the psychology behind how difficult it is to give money to them is. Someone should do a study. I mean: I listen to NPR all the time! I love NPR. I’m slightly embarrassed to admit that I love it, because it leads to conversations with people who have opinions about What NPR Listeners Are Like, and, okay, yes, I do in fact drive a Volvo, but it’s an OLD Volvo, and listen, sometimes I, too, wonder if Ira Glass ever listens to himself and goes “OH MY GOD.” and– YOU DON’T KNOW ME! YOU DON’T KNOW ME, MAN!
But somehow, the annual membership drive makes me all grouchy. I give them money! But they kind of have to wear me down. And then when I get worn down, and give them money, I’m always amazed that the negative stimulus of “YOU SHOULD GIVE US MONEY” doesn’t immediately go away. I ALREADY GAVE YOU FIFTY DOLLARS FOR A MUG WITH A FLYING PIG ON IT! That’s ALL YOU’RE GETTING.
I’m drinking Newman’s Own Old Fashioned Roadside Virgin (perhaps a grassroots movement countering ladies of the night?) Lemonade. It’s tart and refreshing, and, as Chris Kimball said, much like homemade lemonade would be, if you were so crazy as to actually go to the effort of making your own.
My friend Jen actually does make her own lemonade. She gave me some when I was over at her house recently. It was, as foretold, tart and delicious, and I feel vaguely guilty that MY lemonade comes from a carton and has Paul Newman’s head stamped on it (the carton, not the actual lemonade, which would be both difficult and creepy) but Jen is MARRIED and OWNS A HOUSE. Which… I choose to believe transforms you from the kind of person who buys lemonade at VONS into the kind of person who makes it yourself and then serves it from a lovely glass pitcher.
Or… maybe I’ll just be the kind of married homeowner who’s all “Here, I’m passing around a lump of frozen limeade, just lick it until you’ve had enough.”