DEBRIS.COMgood for a laugh, or possibly an aneurysm

I really didn’t want to be a fussy pain-in-the-ass granola-toting California vegan food weenie, but somehow word got out among the 20 college friends I’d flown to Cincinnati to spend the weekend with, and at every meal occasion somebody would say, “Let’s make sure we pick a restaurant where Matt can eat.” I downplayed this demand, for I assumed I’d be able to find a salad or even a plate of salmon just about anywhere (not that salmon is a traditional vegan pantry item; I’m not that strict. For the moment, at least, the foods I skip are all the ones that have legs.). But just as “no” didn’t used to mean “no”, “salad” still doesn’t mean “salad”, if you’re within 500 miles of our meat-addled heartland.

A small group of us were in a rush to eat. We dropped in to Dick Clark’s American Bandstand, a restaurant chain from the Friday’s/Hard Rock Cafe mold, with pop-culture paraphernalia hanging on the walls and lots of blood and oil being excreted from the kitchen. As expected, the menu had a section dedicated to salads. As I should have expected, all but one of the salads contained some kind of flesh: grilled chicken Ceasar, taco salad, and — I kid you not — something called Barbecue Salad, which I couldn’t bear to even read about, because one of the least kind things you could do to a generally healthy lettuce leaf is dunk it into sauce made from white sugar, cheap vinegar, and canned tomato paste. I ended up bypassing all these chopped-muscle entree “salads” and opted for the spinach salad from the side-order menu. When it was served, I was reminded of the pervasiveness of dairy-farm thinking in these Midwestern states… Again, I should have expected this, for reasons I’ll go into in a bit: my spinach salad had about eight leaves of green, covered with hard-boiled egg and a mound of bacon bits (gah!). I didn’t ask if the meat nodules were real, because I’m not sure which answer I would have preferred: fatty pig meat pan-fried in oil, or textured soy proteins flavored to taste like fatty pig meat pan-fried in oil, but chemically fortified to be shelf-stable for approximately 400 years. I picked them off as best I could and tried to surreptitiously wrap the remaining baco-crumbs in spinach, in hopes that they’d pass unnoticed through my virginal digestive tract.

The thing is, the salad’s description on the menu did not mention any of these animal products. To be fair, it also didn’t mention that the salad would be served on a plate, or that a fork and a cup of water would be provided; some things are just taken for granted. In the Midwest, the meat is assumed.

Why, as I indicated, should I have expected all this? Because just 30 days ago I was in Cincinnati, reuniting with a different group of old friends, eating dinner at a pub that had an afterthought of meaty salad items on the menu. I’d ordered the one that sounded least likely to require after-dinner defibrillation, but it turned out to be so covered with shredded cheese that I could literally not see anything underneath. I had to ask for a separate bowl to dump the cheese into as I shoveled it away, excavating my vegetables, although in retrospect the wiser course would have been to flip the whole thing over into the second bowl and eat from the bottom up. There was at least a quarter-pound of cheese on there.

Obviously I survived both episodes. I’m really not that fussy about my diet, and I’m sure I wasn’t a pain in the ass about the issue, even though I am a Californian vegan food weenie, and I do travel with my own granola. It was really sweet of everyone to be so concerned about me though. My wife and I were even offered vegetarian dinners at the wedding reception.

Of course, I followed it up with a piece of cold pizza we found abandoned in the hospitality suite, a socializing room in the hotel that was set up for out-of-town guests, provided by the newlyweds to save us from standing the beds up against the wall to make space for the crowds of people we’d otherwise pack into someone’s room like we used to do in college. We’d left the suite at 3pm for lunch, and returned 11 hours later, post-ceremony, post-reception, to find that the bride’s father had absconded with the half-case of beer we’d stashed there for our late-night return. The cold pizza was a small but much appreciated consolation. I don’t often eat found food (hey, look! there’s a piece of gum on the bottom of this desk!) but our forensic clock analysis indicated that the pizza was, at most, 8 hours old, far less than the half-life of delivery pizza, which I’ve never actually seen spoil — someone invariably eats it before it turns, presumably three to four days later.

There were only three slices left: two sausage and one pepperoni. I snaked the latter on the theory that at least the meat was hidden. I figured was going to feel ill the next morning anyway (it was a heck of a party!).

We bought a new car in 1995. Shortly afterwards, a rock flew up off the road and knocked a tiny chip out of our windshield. “Man, that sucks,” I said. “I’ll have to fix that before the windshield cracks.”

Sometime in 1999, another rock flew up off the road, as rocks tend to do especially when they get driven over by all those inconsiderate meatballs who drive 3-ton, 10 m.p.g. SUVs to the grocery store, and knocked another tiny chip out of our windshield. “Man, that sucks,” I said. “Now I’ll really have to fix that before the windshield cracks.”

At four points along this timeline, my father came out to visit, pointed out the chips, and said “you should get those chips fixed before the windshield cracks.” What could I do but agree?

Last week our windshield cracked. A warm afternoon in the sunshine was enough to finally do it. In contrast, having the phone number of the windshield repair shop sit by the phone for two and a half years was not enough to get the thing fixed beforehand.

So, I called around, and learned a few surprising things. First, many windshield repairs are covered by auto insurance. This was a real treat — sure, the nature of insurance is that everyone resents it until they need it, and then they resent not having more. But to find out that I’d get a few hundred dollars’ benefit from all these years of paying premiums without having to get rear-ended by some inattentive slob (driving an SUV, say) was an unexpected benefit.

Next, I discovered the existence of on-site windshield replacement companies. I called one at 9am; by noon, a technician with a replacement windshield was in my driveway prying the old glass out of its frame, no doubt eyeing the long crack connecting the two miniature divots, thinking, if these idiots had called me two years ago, I wouldn’t have to replace whole windshield!

Total cost to me: $50 and two phone calls. Good service is always a bargain, but this felt especially cheap.

9pm PDT at www.thematrix.com tonight: see the first teaser trailer for Matrix: Reloaded.

I’ve been looking for an excuse to buy a pair of Bose noise-cancelling (NC) headphones for years. I think the idea of it really appeals to me: analyse ambient sound, issue an identical waveform that is 100% out-of-phase, and “viola” as I like to say when no one’s listening, the ambient sound disappears. What could be cooler than that?

But I tend to be suspicious of hype, and Bose is known for hype. (How many thousands of times have you seen an ad for the Wave radio? I predict that only these NC headphones will surpass the ad density unleashed on the world by Bose’s Wave campaign.)

And then I stumbled across a concise, contrarian opinion: Noise cancelling headphones are mostly a waste of money. According to HeadRoom, NC headphones offer ~10db of isolation, which is not significantly better than what is provided by a good pair of sealed headphones. Further, they opine (without naming brands or models) that NC headphones are inferior for audio reproduction.

They suggest Etymotic’s in-ear-canal headphones, which offer 20+ db of isolation (!) and are described as the “world’s best sealed headphone.”

Now that I think about it, it’s shocking how badly I need a new pair of cans. My ancient V-6s deposit little vinyl turds on my face because the pads are disintegrating, and one of the earcups has snapped off my old Sennheisers… I’m overdue, man! Quick, where’s my VISA card?!

The worst thing about buying a new house — so far, anyway — is feeling like I don’t own this one any more. I’ve been thrown back into my apartment-living mentality, where every picture hung means one more hole to patch, every moment spent setting up new drums or computer gear or recording equipment means another moment packing it away in a few weeks. When I know I’ll be leaving soon, I have a hard time settling in; the temporary nature of the arrangement wrecks my ability to get comfortable.

Ironically, we’re continuing to remodel, on the advice of our realtor, who insists that a dollar spent on the kitchen now is worth two more in the listing price. Yes, that’s right: had you put all those tech-market investments into kitchen remodels instead, your portfolio would have doubled rather than halved last year. So long as the kitchens in question were located in northern California.

Following this “logic,” we just had the kitchen cabinets refinished, and new counters and a new sink put in. The place looks so good, I’m tempted to say I don’t want to move… but that was true before these changes.

Yeah, I admit it; I’m whining. I can hear your protestations now: “So don’t move if you don’t want to!” It’s not that simple — I want my damn 5 acres, recording studio, datacenter, home theater, and 1700 electronic and/or ethernet devices. It’s just hard to be excited about the property when it exists only conceptually. Whereas it’s easy to be depressed about packing boxes, weekend trips to the self-storage place, and the prospect of putting our home on the market before we find a “suitable replacement.”