America’s Got Talent: August 9, 2011 – Your Top Tweets from the YouTube Special

Booze, weed, and #AGT. The unholy trinity.

When will this show allow “writing snarky comments on Twitter” to be an acceptable talent? #AGT

Holy hot clogging criminal defense attorney, Batman! #AGT

If they clog to Lady GAGA i’m OUT. #agt

#AGT – NBC… once the home of Jerry Seinfeld,… now presents contemporary clogging

Great trick! Making Marilyn Monroe fat and ugly. #agt

#AGT will someone show America’s Got Talent how to use Google. There has to be better acts that this shit.

#AGT It’s like The Gong Show tonight  – where’s Jamie Farr?

Is that bulldog gonna ride a skateboard? #AGT

#AGT oh my god skateboarding bulldogs are older than Gilligan.

My cat can high-five. I’m going on #AGT

I’ve got a goldfish that eats on command. #agt Here I come!

#AGT this is the best worst skateboarding dog ever!

Click through for the best tweets from tonight’s YouTube Contestant’s Special

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I Can Get You to The Hamburgers

Apparently, wherever we’re going, you do not want me to drive.

I’m forever being reminded by Sean and Laura, two who claim to be friends, that rarely do I dare drive more than thirty miles an hour on the freeway, but that I’ll happily plow over the center divider and zip down the wrong side of any city street if it gets me through the light faster.

I’ve also been told that I’m not very good with driving directions.  On this point, I have to agree.  I have never enjoyed having a car.  As with most of society, I don’t like putting gas into it and I don’t like having to insure it, but my disinterest in the entire idea of automobiles goes even further.  I have no desire to keep the interior clean.  If a knob falls off of something and hopelessly rolls under the seat, as far as I’m concerned that’s the knob’s new home.  Somewhere in the trunk I may have jumper cables or a spare tire, but they’re completely buried underneath old laptops, empty luggage and 1990s mix tapes I made with my 1990s boyfriend.  For me, the automobile is mostly a trying and unfortunately necessary nuisance.  If Henry Ford and I met one day, it would be interesting to see which one of us would beat the shit out of the other first.

I can do a great many things well, but getting someone from Point A to Point B in my Chevy Malibu is not one of them.  Sure, like anyone I can be occasionally absent-minded.  Who among us hasn’t temporarily lost a pizza in their house only to find it under the bed after three hours of exhaustive searching?

But when it comes to successfully reaching a destination behind the wheel, I am only what can be politely called a pure and total abomination.  I have lived within the same twenty-mile stretch of Los Angeles for the last fifteen years, and I still get lost on the way home from work.  I once had to pull over to the curb and call my boyfriend to remind me what his cross-streets were.  As for the friendly British woman who tells me from the little box on the dashboard, “In one hundred feet, turn left…” she needs to learn that advance warnings like that do not help me.  They merely create a ball of anxiety in my stomach that increases over the next ninety-nine feet until I’m so worried I’ll disappoint her I completely forget what she told me to do in the first place.  And instead of ending up at Disneyland, I end up in Venezuela having to ask a rebel para-military group how to get back to the 101.

There have been times I’ve gotten so lost driving that I’ve considered giving up on finding my way back and just re-locating to wherever I currently am.  “It’s not too bad here,” I cheerily reason with myself.  “This place has a lot of appeal.  There are many available apartments. I could rent one today.  And look, a FotoMat!  That’s convenient.  Yes!  This is making more sense the longer I consider it.  I’ll just pull over and live here now.  True, I’d have to buy all new clothes, new furniture, and replace the cat.  Plus, since I don’t know where I am, it would be impossible for me to tell friends and family how to get here for a visit, so I guess it’s out with them, too!  But that’s not a bad trade-off for such a quick solution to my problem.  It’s just like the sign says… If I lived here, I would be home now.

But something curious and stimulating happens to me whenever I’m San Francisco.  Freed of my car in a town where walking is often easier and faster, I find I’m suddenly imbued with a superior sense of direction that emerges so unexpectedly and is so remarkably accurate it frightens everyone I know, me most of all.

It’s odd and unsettling.  I don’t understand it, but it’s true.  I can’t get you to the Hollywood sign though I live less than five miles from it, but I can get you anywhere in San Francisco.  If the City by the Bay is a charming, fog-infused maze, I’m the smartest baby rat in the box.

I can get you to Union Square just in case you want to say hello to the silver guy standing motionless on a box with a donation cup in hand. Or I can take you to Clown Alley on Columbus Street where Sean and I once encountered a traditional jazz funeral complete with brass band, dirges and hymns proceeding right through the middle of the Financial District.  If you want to see articulated skeletons of bats and rabbits, I can get you to Paxton Gate on Valencia Street. It’s right next door to the city’s only independent pirate supply store where you can scoop your own lard!

And once an afternoon of street performers, music and trying on hook hands has come to a close, I can get you to the hamburgers.

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Listening To: “Cry Me a River” – Julie London

It’s not too often you hear a song that’s capable of casually tossing off the word “plebeian,” but “Cry Me a River,” does just that.


Written by Arthur Hamilton and originally recorded by Ella Fitzgerald, the song became Julie London’s biggest hit ever after being included in the 1956 film The Girl Can’t Help It starring Jayne Mansfield and Tom Ewell. Ewell plays an alcoholic press agent hired to promote Mansfield’s singing career based on his past (ficticious) success with real-life singer London.

Julie appears in the film as a serenading vision to an intoxicated Ewell, and makes it very clear where the film’s wardrobe budget went. The two minute parade of glam 1950s fashions is reason enough to send this flick up to the top of your Netflix queue.

By the way, did people routinely keep their booze in their kitchen cabinets during the 1950s? Is Tom just loading up on the cooking sherry? It’s not the first time I’ve seen the liquor stashed there in movies from this era. What exactly is going on?

Check out Julie London performing “Cry Me a River” from the film below.

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Dancing with the Stars Recap: April 4, 2011

As I turned off the fireplace and closed the blinds after the end of tonight’s Dancing with the Stars, I wondered if I was a contestant on the show, would I prefer to have an almost impeccable performance obliterated at the end by a really bad fall, or have the stumble right off the top and have the next ninety seconds or so to recover the way Kirstie Alley and Maksim Chmerkovskiy did tonight.

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Season of the Cookie: Banana Walnut Chocolate Chunk

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again… want some job security?  Flood your workplace with homemade cookies.

Most of my co-workers are familiar with my website and the Tv Food and Drink photo album on my Facebook profile. They can generally be assured that if they see pics of a new dessert pop up at either spot, it’s most likely going to end up in the production control room the next day where everyone can come by and partake… except for Josh, that is.

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Athens Food and Drink, Day Three

Over 1600 Waffle Houses grace this great nation of ours, mostly in the South.

Their signs, plain and tall, beckon you from the interstate.  The melody to “Prop Me Next to the Jukebox if I Die” by Joe Diffie pings off the countertops.  The Waffle House’s vibrant, laminated menus are reminders that theirs is an establishment where quick cleanups and a rarely changing food roster are keys to success. Patrons are conditioned to know what they want and how they want it before they push through the glass door.  When a stuffed truck driver vacates a booth, the employee wipe-down process is so instantaneous that the seats are still warm when a family of Sunday churchgoers claims them next.

Eat, drink, pay, get out.  That’s what the Waffle House strives for.  And the customers seem happy to comply. All except me, of course.  I was the only one in the place who, instead of scarfing down my meal the moment it arrived, began photographing it.  Our plump Waffle House waitress, Roxie, observed my actions with a mildly bemused grin before asking, “Ya’ll aren’t from these parts, are ya’?”

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