Nom nom nom
April 9, 2008
More than anything, I now want this lady’s writing career.
Helen Crawley is British! She lives on a farm and breeds obscure heritage pigs! She writes character-driven geopolitical epics! She has a spouse and a baby! I bet she has a DOG. Nay- a brace of dogs!
I am going to add “I would like a farm upon which to breed heritage pigs, please” to my List of Things, I believe.
One of the things I really like about my manager-dude is that he often sounds kind of surprised when I make him laugh, a kind of “Jesus, I can’t believe I’m laughing at that line” sound.
Another thing I really like is that he knows IN ADVANCE what kind of things will make me crazy and neurotic and so doesn’t tell me about them! Isn’t that excellent? I’m so impressed by this, I can’t even tell you.
I have mentioned before that I am OBSESSED with chain restaurants. I don’t know why: I assume it’s some combination of being raised on hippie food and being easily swayed by TV commercials.
Last night, my roommates and I had an excellent conversation about soup-based restaurants. And then we went to SOUP PLANTATION.
Soup Plantation is DEEPLY DISAPPOINTING. (This always – ALWAYS – happens when I go to chain restaurants. You’d think that I would have learned my lesson, but no. NO. Anytime someone is like “Do you want to go to CRAPPY MCCRAPPERSON’S CRAPTABLE?” I’m like “Man, their commercials look really delicious, let’s go!”) I can’t believe we went there! Everything was terrible. Their salads were — what’s the word I’m looking for, that means “limp and floppy and unappetizing”? FLACCID? Their soups LACKED FLAVOR. Everything was like “Here is a pile of crap and some bacon bits. ENJOY.”
You know what would be a good restaurant? A restaurant that just had different kinds of delicious vegetables. Like asparagus! And maybe artichokes, and grilled corn on the cob, and little steamed carrots, tossed with some lemon and parsley. NOM NOM NOM.
(I am not a vegetarian. I just really like vegetables. They’re delicious.)
I find that if I stay home and write in solitude, I go a little nuts. I just wander around the house wearing my Homer Simpson Head slippers and whine to myself. “This is the worst thing I have ever written! Ugh. No, wait. THIS scene is the worst thing I have ever written.”
So I’ve been taking El Laptoppo and going to Starbucks, which I know makes me One Of Those People, and I apologize. My local Starbucks is pretty good. This morning, for instance, it was a good mix of:
*homeless dudes napping
*kids studying for their bar mitzvah
*Japanese tourists who were confused that you can’t smoke indoors
*another writer who looked as tortured as I felt
But then I tired of Starbucks, so I came over to my local library. Which is ALSO a mix of homeless dudes napping, bar mitzvah-studiers, and confused people. There may be a local circuit.