It’s National Scrapple Day today, didn’t you know? Mark this day in your calendar and treasure it forever. I wasn’t even aware of the existence of scrapple until a few years ago when my roommate from Philly introduced it to me. I’m from Minnesota where Spam is king, to each their own. Scrapple is like Spam, but doesn’t typically come in a can and it’s grayer in color.
Apparently, dressing up like this probably-pregnant slut is the thing to do this holiday. THL contributor Emily Mcneill was contracted to create the sweetest Katy Perry costume for a fan in Duluth. Check out candy on the lady after the jump.
THL is pretty fancy. By fancy, I mean, we rolled five deep to the upscale and supremely overpriced Florida Room at the Delano on South Beach for free booze at 9 p.m. last night. The free drinks were fancy, too. And strong. The event was hosted by Beefeater London Dry Gin, showcasing their newest recipe. Beefeater 24 isn’t your regular old gin, it is infused with or has extract of grapefruit and green tea.
The guy who created the newest brew was even there with his queer British accent and the sort of touching tale of a successful career. I don’t remember much of what was said, but there were really tasty hors d‘œuvres and an all white guy band playing brass instruments and what looked like a clear plastic piano.
I thought the most interesting thing about Beefeater 24 was what happens the next day after you drink a few glasses of the tasty stuff. I won’t go into detail, but let’s just say it works better than food poisoning. It is the perfect addition to the cocktail for the girl or gay with an eating disorder, or maybe laxative addiction. I believe I lost that five pounds I recently packed on, and I’m thanking the green tea and old lispy Brit that made it.
After the funfunfun I had at the first Beer Snob Bicycle Pub Crawl, last spring, I knew I had to get it together for the fall edition. The crawl is more like a roll, and involves riding around to various bars on your bike. It’s one of the rare bike gatherings that is not intimidating to a wimp like me. I’m even scared of Critical Mass. Generally speaking, the only place I’ll bike is back and forth across the Venetian Causeway. Usually I have a beer at the Abbey or something when I’m over on the beach. So this was my ideal Saturday afternoon. I got a tiny bit of exercise, I had a drink or two and I got to see all the pretty sailboats on the bay. I’m a simple person.
Diagnosing disease in a fully-loaded modern emergency room is a process that rarely takes place entirely within the walls of the department. A patient is seen for five minutes by a physician. Once orders are placed, a cascade of events begins. Blood and urine is collected and sent to a laboratory. Meanwhile, the patient is sent to radiology for scans and x-rays. A call may be placed to the patient’s primary physician. This gathering of data may take many hours, sometimes warranting an overnight stay without a firm diagnosis. American healthcare workers are addicted to data and lashed to it by fear of litigation, and there is no evidence more incriminating than within an emergency room armed to the teeth with diagnostic and interventional firepower.
This is the only world I had ever known before I went to Haiti for a week of volunteer work as a nurse last month. Suddenly, our misfit gang of nurses, paramedics, and firefighters were thrust into an environment wherein each of us was called “doctor” and the most powerful tool we had was the stethoscope around our necks.
... and then she told me about an awful Tommy Lee song about the kid he had with Pamela Anderson
Dispatches from New York
“So I was walking down Keap, not far from the Lorimer L stop, when I came across a half-black guy and a peroxide blonde girl making out hard in the middle of the sidewalk. The best part was his car door was still open with the engine running with some blues song BLASTING out. I had to stop and ask myself ‘did I just walk into a fucking Levis commercial?’” – Gispert
What measure of man? Their objects, their passions? The lives they have changed or the cars that they drive? The watches on their wrists or the chains around their ankles?
I have things. They are strange and diverse, reflecting … something. Something imaginary, a self image made of leather scraps or copper sheeting stamped to look like a thought bubble.
Jimmy just returned from a weeklong medical trip to Haiti. Here are his first impressions.
Haiti is a country that needs friends. During that all-too-brief window between the Cold War and the War on Terror, Bill Clinton attempted to make Haiti an example of American intervention on behalf of human rights instead of capitalism or military strategy. At the time, he seemed like the captain of a pick-up basketball team picking the scrawniest kid on the court first overall. Now, we admire him for bringing Haiti into the Clintonian sphere of influence, but there remains a vast distance between Haiti and that part of the world not related to Bill Clinton.
To be honest, my interest in Haiti, before and since the earthquake, has been cool at best. My Lebanese heritage draws me to the intrigue of the Middle East. I married into a Latino family and am trying to become fluent in Spanish. I was reared to be cultured in Western art, so I worship the European masters. The Haitians have their own language, religions, and culture, which render it fascinating but inaccessible to the intellectually lazy. My sister studied Afro-Caribbean religions in graduate school, so I thought, “Fuck it, I can always say my sister knows about that shit.”
It was in this state of mind that I was offered a chance to go to Haiti to work as a nurse for a week at the end of July. The most preparation I did was to read a book by the doctor who began the Medishare program. I also leafed through a French phrase book. The next thing I knew I was on a plane to Port-au-Prince.
No wonder the population of the United States is just barely hanging on (and that’s only because of immigration?!), when we are writing and publishing long articles about how having children makes you less happy than not having children.
There are many things you can do to be a better person. Lucky for you, I can point you in the right direction, mostly because I am such an amazing person, but you knew that already. So here are a few suggestions.
First of all, I know you’re riding a bike every once in a while, and if you’re not, you should be. Not to reinforce a shitty hipster joke, but because it’s one of the few healthy activities that are actually fun. Wouldn’t you then then become a much awesomer person if you actually knew how that 2-wheeler worked? What if you become a really cool person and rode that bike like everyday, or across Europe or whatever? That would require you to learn how to fix your bike. Here’s a class you can take to learn how to repair your shitty old bike. Proceeds benefit Youth Bike, you learn something new, and you give back to a community organization that helps kids, and encourages bike riding and advocacy.
You like clean water. I like clean water. People like their water clean! There’s a new site called Kick Poverty on which you can check out another cool dude, do-gooder Kevin Coster (whose name is undeniably rad), tapping a soccer ball 20,000 times during the course of the World Cup. Kevin’s raising $5,000 in donations, 100% of which will go toward the building of a well to provide sustainable, clean water for 250 people through charity: water. Charity: water does just that, it builds clean water wells in developing nations. Each touch of the ball costs only $.25, and you can sponsor as many of those kicks as you’d like.
Like it on Facebook, and enjoy the do-gooder feel of that click under your finger. You have already become a better person.
I was waiting until the United States advanced before commenting on the World Cup because, let’s face it: this was almost another pointless hype-fest like Germany ‘06. I deplore the use of this word in sports, but Wednesday’s 1-0 victory over Algeria was a fucking redemption within a redemption. Clint Dempsey’s nullified goal in the first half might have lead to a despicable repeat of the Slovenia debacle. The Americans would have walked away from the Cup righteously protesting the outcome of two of their three games. That would have been worse than a plain ole ass-whoopin’. Instead, the extra-time winner by Donovan erased the memory of the first-half controversy and the Slovenia affair in one fell swoop.
The most immersive subplot of the Americans’ World Cup run is how the tournament is being received here in the U.S. World Cup enthusiasm around the embassies of Northwest D.C. has divided our city not in thirty-six ways, as one might assume, but just three. There are many, like the guys at my 7-11 with a 28’ TV behind the counter, who literally do not miss a minute. Then, there are people who don’t give a wet fart about soccer. Finally, there are my neighbors and friends who show a tepid, transient interest in the passion of the world.
It truly pains me to realize that by the time most of you people see this it will be too late to order one, but today’s Woot Shirt is truly a wonder to behold.
i will likely drive this bitch away in
and will be left holding only my
manboobs swaying in the wind.
Here is something you did not know! Eating cheese at the end of a meal reduces tooth decay. Calcium and phosphate from the cheese slow down the growth of bacteria colonies that eat your tooth enamel. Bonus tooth fact now: you’re only supposed to brush but once per day every day. (Via)
The Kimmy Gimlet
One part Gin
One part limeade
Two parts soda water
Poured over heart shaped ice cubes (THIS IS CRUCIAL)
Served in a plastic glass, preferably one you got for free somewhere.
Talking about boys optional. Talking about Jon Stamos mandatory.
“If a famous top model looks German with a Russian nose, I will do a scientific study and look for cities that were colonized by Germans and Russians in the south of Brazil in order to get a similar face down here,” — Clóvis Pessoa, Brazilian model scout.
A coupla other things that were news to me in this report on fashion model recruiting industry in Brazil:
- They drive around small rural towns in pink SUVs, looking for hawt pre-teens.
- While dark-skinned models are increasingly popular inside Brazil, it’s all about the European descendants (less than 5% of the population) for external consumption.
- The girls are given up willingly by their families, because the alternative is a life of manual labor on a farm or worse, but many of them quit and return, because the process is pretty terrifying.
It warms the very center of my being to hear that the American Academy of Pediatrics has just decided not to support the practice of female circumcision in the US.
Now this really pisses me off. Sierra Nevada’s delicious, complex, blinkeringly strong Bigfoot barleywine listed as Men’s Health worst beer. What these infantile morons do not understand is that you do not drink Bigfoot the way they drink their Budweiser and Blue Moon. You sip that shit. You relish it. You’re doing it wrong if you drink it faster then it’d take to drink three of those watery little things. Maybe Men’s Health should spend more time on the headlines on the cover of their silly homo-erotic magazine (the last time I looked, they bore zero resemblance to the content inside, which always seems to be 10 random pages from a workout book and rejected sex-advice from Cosmo with the genders flipped around).