DEBRIS.COMgood for a laugh, or possibly an aneurysm

I was doing some research for a forthcoming rant on the “dribble box” container used for Vruit and a variety of rice and soy milks, because these containers, as far as I could tell, are not recyclable. Also: these boxes invariably deposit their contents somewhere other than where I’m aiming.

The official name for these doubly-loathed “drink box” or “juice box” containers is “aseptic packaging.” I was happy to learn, in the course of my research, that they can be recycled, and in some communities aseptic packages can actually be recycled within the local curbside recycling program. Here’s the official word on recycling aseptic containers from the Aseptic Packaging Council. See also their database of nationwide beverage-carton recyclers.

To be clear, I still think this form of packaging sucks, because it always squirts juice across my counter. But at least now I don’t have to feel bad about contributing to the landfill crisis.

So I’m driving around town, running errands, station-hopping in an attempt to find some music on the radio. My tapes are out of reach or I wouldn’t bother, because trying to find music on the radio — at least in the morning — is futile. (Finding smarmy DJ’s performing unfunny verbal masturbation is, in contrast, no challenge at all.)

Anyway, I switch to a station to hear the announcer say “…playing great music from the 1980s!” Must be another joke, I thought; they’ll play 15 seconds of silence and jest, “ahh, sorry, we couldn’t find any great music from the 1980s.”

But no, they broke into a Pat Benatar Half-Hour.

At which point I decided I’d have been happier with 15 seconds of silence.

Harmful Intent is the most engrossing courtroom drama I’ve read in years. I’d never heard of the author, Baine Kerr, but at this point I’ll be buying whatever else he publishes. This book is that good.

The cover bills it as a “legal thriller.” I disagree with that characterization; the action is much more subdued and intellectual than what the term thriller would lead me to expect. But the writing is great, demonstrating genuine experience (from my perspective anyway) with the legal process and specifically medical malpractice. The plot takes some shocking twists, of the sort that make the book difficult to put down.

The obvious comparison is to Grisham, author of a half-dozen best-selling courtroom dramas. I’ve read them all and I think Harmful Intent is as good as the best Grishham has done. Certainly it’s safe to say that if you enjoy Grisham, you’ll like Kerr.

Patronize these links, man:

• Amazon (paperback)

The fake Tampax commercial at AdCritic.com is really funny! (Requires QuickTime 4)

So I’m at a party where I know literally one person, my wife. I’m standing at the sink drawing a glass of tap water when from a dark recess of my attention I realize that the hostess’ teenage son is huddled near his mother, surreptitiously pointing at me and whispering. I glance in their direction casually, to see the two of them look away with a hint of alarm around the eyes, but as I return my gaze to the sink, I sense them again motioning and staring.

OK, this is time for a quick personal inventory, I think. Most-embarrassing-moment fantasies and worse-case scenarios need to be addressed first: I haven’t left home without my pants. I haven’t inadvertently advertised recent digestion in any way. But my pants are white, so there exists the possibility that I’ve sat in something messy, such as barbecue sauce. Hmm.

It is unlikely I’m trailing a loop of toilet paper all the way back to their bathroom, because I haven’t been there yet.

From where they’re standing they can’t see my fly, so that’s not the problem. Ditto with stuff hanging from my nose or teeth, or hunks of greasy roasted animal glued to my chin. All in all I think I’m OK, BBQ sauce notwithstanding — must check that out immediately.

So I turn to them, smile inquiringly, and as they realize they’ve been insufficiently subtle I wait with some tension to figure out what the hell they’ve been staring at. Whereupon the boy weighs his options and decides that the truth of what he was doing would be less damning than an empty denial. He points at the back of my head and says aloud to his mom, who apparently hadn’t understood all his motioning and whispering yet anyway, “I want to get my hair cut just like that.”

I had to laugh. Steeped in delusions of the grotesque, I had in fact been the subject of a sort of compliment.

So you can imagine how really dumb I felt when, a bit later, I farted out loud and spilled barbecue sauce all over my crotch.