Coach killers strike again

Now I know the 10 commandments condemn murder. But how can a Vikings fan contain his or her elation today? The Packers, working in conjunction with their storied former flagship quarterback, Favre, successfully got Vikings coach Brad Childress fired today. That's right. I'm calling for an investigation into the conspiracy between Favre and the Packers to kill off coaches throughout the NFL. Yes, a horrible season and a locker room full of disgruntled coach-hating Vikings have a lot to do with it, but Favre's single year in New York also paved the way for the release of then Jets coach Eric Mangini. And just this season, after a brutal loss to the Packers, the Dallas Cowboys fired head coach Wade Phillips. The trend undeniably links Favre and the Pack in a violent plot to kill coaches one by one until there are none left.

But hey, Vikings fans couldn't be happier. Feel free to join me on the Leslie Frazier band wagon. Or sinking ship. Either way you look at it, it's better than gagging on Childress's stoic circular non-statements every Sunday.

Don’t mess with the Ustins

My bestie, Dustin, and I… well there’s no two ways about it. We rhyme. As a matter of fact, that’s why we became friends. Just goes to show any reason can be reason enough. We lived together for a while back in the mid 2000s. Those were the glory days. Nerf gun battles. Three-player NCAA 05. A U of M beer fridge. There’s no doubt it was good, but there was one major hang up. We had a roommate named Sam. Once in a while we’d call him “Sustin” to keep the rhyming streak alive, but it wasn’t the same. Now you can’t blame us. I don’t think you can find another name that rhymes with ours. We once considered asking an Austin to live with us, but that isn’t even close to rhyming.

This past weekend I visited the city of Austin, Texas. It could quite possibly be my favorite city in the United States. I think I’m going move to Austin and plead Dustin to move in with me. Sustin should probably come along for good measure.

 

Venues visited:
Oliva Restaurant
Jo's Coffee on Congress
Hopdoddy Burger Bar

I opine, you opine, we all opine for nice design

You can’t deny it. Art is cool. Well maybe you can. I guess that’s what they call an “opinion.” But I can’t deny it. Ok. I take it back. Some art is cool. Some fails to impress me. (See earlier statement re: opinion.) Ok. My high-impact blanket statement opening is losing steam here. Onward…

The One Twelve Gallery (slash church) has an exhibit right now called Seamless featuring textile art from local artists. The wildest pieces there were Clay McLaurin's black and white sewn paper thingies (That’s a technical term—I asked the artist*). I wasn’t too impressed with the reconstructed jeans. There goes that mighty opinion again.

* Lie #1 on this blog: I did not talk to the artist about the technical term for his pieces, but I did talk to him about how freakin awesome they were. 

Dinner's dirty little secret

It was a crisis. I had no butter. And I had to figure out something quick. My mind was racing, slowed by the wine. How dumb could I be? I was at the grocery store moments before. I remembered three pounds of pork tenderloin, fresh sage, 100% pure maple syrup. Syrup! But no butter.

Yes, olive oil is magic, but not that magic. Paula Deen has testified to this point in the court of law. But it was going to have to do. Just as the little engine that could, olive oil was going to have to crisp the top of the acorn squash as best it could.

Tonight I took my first crack ever at notakeout's sauteed pork medallions. My panel of judges certainly made for no Iron Chef's sentencing, still these gentlemen are not strangers to fine cooking. My roommate just this weekend brought home some form of leftover ambrosia his old college buddy's mom prepared. She calls them "chicken roll ups." How dare I tempt fate with such storied eaters as these?! No butter... I should have been doomed from the start.

We made our way through the squash topped with the syrup (and the sneaky substitute oil) and the medallions with a spattering of shallot-and-chicken broth reduction adorned with fresh sage. My judges complimented the meal. Sure it tasted good. But I knew the secret. And I couldn't hold on to it any longer.

"I didn't use any butter! I thought we had some in the fridge!" I was apologetic as ever.

"I never would have known," Matt said. The compliments continued.

Yes, it tastes incredible, thank you. And I mean really, really incredible. But all that worry! About the lack of butter! For naught? I'll have to take a stand and be my own worst critic. I'm appalled. What a failure. 

Setting the tempo

I've got rhythm. I've got music. I've got... whoa... that's where it stops for me, Gershwin.

Well, maybe I don't even really have rhythm. Bear with me folks. This is going to be a bumpy ride.

Right now I'm knee deep in exploring my new music software (Ableton Live, if you must know), getting a feel for my new guitar (Epihpone Casino, if you must know), and getting some ideas recorded for all the people of earth to cherish (you, if you must know). But creating a tune by myself means learning about something I've never really been a part of: drum beats. Bass drum = thud, snare = snap, hi hat = click. OK. Got it. so.... thud click snap click. repeat. There. All done. What say you, drummer friends? Well. Even my "never-touched-a-drum" friends are not impressed. So I continue to pursue learning the drum beat.

In this struggle to conquer a continent of musical expression, is it possible the concept has seized my subconscious? As I was just flipping through my phone's photo gallery, it seems that it has. My shoot-from-the-hip camera photography tendencies have been gravitating to images with strong graphical rhythms. Of course some of these may be a stretch, but then again, so may some of those "drum beats" I've been smushing together the last couple months.

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