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Did you know that some canned tomatoes are processed with lye? Did you know that the famed italian plum tomatoes, San Marzanos, aren’t really available any more? Have you ever used canned tomatoes and then had to fish rock-hard lumps of canned-tomato flesh out of the pot? Did you know that those lumps result from a chemical additive that can be avoided by careful shopping?

Read all about canned tomatoes: how they’re picked, how they’re processed, and which taste the best: Tomatoes by the Tin

There’s a line in Good Will Hunting that I never understood. I’ve seen the movie a few times, but could never make sense of this one line — which was clearly a joke, but over my head. It comes in the scene where Matt Damon’s character argues with Robin Williams’ character, and then Williams’ character throws Damon’s out of the office. On the way out, Damon says, “Fuck you!” To which Williams replies, “You’re the shepherd.”

He’s the shepherd? WTF?

The other day on the treadmill, I had an insight: I understood the joke. I think it’s great how these mysteries occupy dark corners of the mind, only to spring into the light with no conscious provocation weeks or months later.

Here’s the scene: Sean (Williams’ character, the therapist) and Will (Damon) are discussing Will’s plans for the future. Will is being characteristically sarcastic. IMDB provides this transcript of the exchange:

And then Sean walks to the door, opens it up, and makes a “get the hell out” motion. He’s upset because Will is not taking the therapy seriously. If you don’t remember this, the big revelation isn’t going to be very interesting. But I’ll tell you anyway.

The key isn’t what Will said, but what Sean responded to. There’s an implied pun. Will said, “Fuck you!” But Sean turned it into an insult back at Will. Sean’s reply, “You’re the shepherd,” makes perfect sense if you spell Will’s comment this way: “Fuck ewe!”

(If you just said “ee-wee” under your breath, please visit this pronounciation guide right now.)

I need to get limber after a long break, loosen up all the fused phalanges. Here’s a groove that will do that for me.

It’s in straight time, but cut me some slack — I haven’t touched a stick in six months. I’m shaking the cobwebs off, one meter at a time you might say.

The first half of each bar is the same throughout the groove; this establishes a structure from which we’ll attempt to hang music. The second half of each bar varies, injecting some rhythmic tension and interest, and maybe some melody.

The ride ostinato varies slightly across the pattern. You could call this organic, or just inconsistent if you’re one of those people who correct anyone who says “good morning” at ten seconds after noon. The idea behind the variation is to be sensitive to the rhythms happening elsewhere on the kit. Also, this way is easier to play; for example, it doesn’t require three hands.

You might want to loop the last two beats a few times until you get the coordination down. Feel free to use two kick pedals if you want, but be sure to swing your hi-hat foot back in time for the next downbeat. Note, too, that the snare hand has to catch the open hats on the + of 4 in bars 2 and 4.

    1 + 2 + 3 + 4 + 1 + 2 + 3 + 4 + 1 + 2 + 3 + 4 + 1 + 2 + 3 + 4 +
RC  x x x xxx x  xx x x x xxx x  xx x x x xxx x x   x x x xx    x x 
SD   o oO      oO    o oO       O    o oO      oO O  o oO   OO  O   
KD  o o       o     o o       o  o  o o       o     o o       oo oo 
HH  x   x   x   x o x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x o x   x           

Patronize these links, man:

• Virtual Drummer loop
• MIDI
• MP3

We had an electrician out to the house to investigate a flaky power outlet in the garage. Because I’m home all day, I generally get conscripted by these guys to assist — they interpret my standing around watching as a desire to volunteer, when really I’m just trying to make sure they’re not swiping loose change and ATM receipts.

This electrician was a product of the local environment. That is, he was an aging hippie… long hair braided down his back, clothing of questionable vintage, and a certain, erm, presence that suggested that bathing wasn’t necessarily the first thing on the to-do list every morning. I’m not saying any of this to denigrate the guy; honestly, in 15 years I’ll probably look and smell just the same. And I’m not planning to buy any new clothes, so that aspect is already taken care of.

He announced that we’d need to cut the power to this outlet at the circuit breaker, so he could open it up without risking electrocution. Unfortunately the previous owners didn’t label any of the breakers, and Lord knows I haven’t had time to do it what with all this standing around watching contractors fix stuff. So he said I should rapidly flip every breaker off and on, and that he’d yell when I’d hit the right one. I said I’d be way on the other side of the house, and that I didn’t think I’d be able to hear him, and he said he’d yell real loud.

So I started flipping breakers, mentally counting all the clocks and such that would have to be reset after having their power interrupted, when I heard the electrician bellowing “OFF!! OFF!! OFF!! OFF!!” The sound was frightening, really loud and with a tone that suggested very bad things, like I’d find his boots welded together on the concrete floor, empty but smoking, if I didn’t cut the power soon. But then when he yelled “OFF!” about 12 more times I guessed he probably hadn’t actually electrocuted himself yet. I kept flipping.

I eventually found the breaker, and the electrician eventually fixed the voltage problem. Also he traded me part of his fee for the second-ugliest light fixture in all of Sonoma County — something frosted with glitter and roses that I’d asked him to replace. He asked me what I planned to do with it. “This nasty old thing? The dump is too good for — err, sure, you can have it if you’d like.”

A mix of autobiographical essays and fiction, of new pieces and previous releases, Holidays on Ice presents a mixed picture of the author. I’ll say first of all that this is not appropriate holiday reading, unless you really hate the holidays, but there are significant redeeming qualities.

The first piece, SantaLand Diaries, is worth the price of the volume. It ranks among Sedaris’ best — self-deprecating, dry, and laugh-out-loud funny. The essay tells the story of Sedaris’ holiday stint as an Elf at Macy’s SantaLand. It’s a treasure of sharp characters and sharp observations, all delivered with trademark deappan aplomb.

Today was the official opening day of SantaLand and I worked as a Magic Window Elf… My job was to say, “Step on the Magic Star and look through the window, and you can see Santa!” I was at the Magic Window for 15 minutes before a man approached me and said, “You look so fucking stupid.”

I had to admit that he had a point. But still, I wanted to say that at least I get paid to look stupid, that he gives it away for free.

The opening of the next piece, Season’s Greetings to Our Friends and Family is a brilliant and knife-edged satire of the sort of Christmas newsletters that accompany holiday greeting cards. But it quickly turns dark, and although it maintains its sarcastic and satirical tone (which is fun to read), the story reveals a murder, which mars the volume’s tone of holiday cheer.

Then again, nobody promised that this book would provide lighthearted entertainment.

I recommend the book, because some of the pieces are must-reads. But I think this particular Sedaris collection would appeal more to fans of Vonnegut than to, say, fans of Dave Barry.

Patronize these links, man:

• Amazon (paperback)
• Powell’s (hardback, used
• Powell’s (paperback)