the temptation of mediocrity

These two articles go hand in hand:

Wall Street bust a hidden blessing for grads?
and
The Disadvantages of an Elite Education (posted by a commenter on the first article).

The first article...a bit reductive. Every sector is suffering. Whether you sell out of not, your options are slim, and none of these elite school grads are going to be industry heavyweights in any capacity, anytime soon. And sooner or later, Wall Street will bounce back and recover its rep as lifestyle manna for the self-entitled Ivy kids. Or, in the mean time, another industry will emerge as the destination of choice for those looking to get on the fast track to six-figure incomes.

If I could predict what that was, I wouldn't be writing this blog. Ha, just kidding! But not really. Someone, please, pay me more...

I appreciate the sentiment - if you can't make bank, then why not make your pittance doing something you actually enjoy. However, I imagine the so called "sell-outs" wouldn't be so easily swayed, and the second article suggests the same. Daddy's portfolio might be bone-dry, but dagnabbit, he got Junior into Harvard and he can get him a job with that law firm downtown specializing in wrongful termination suits.

And what's to prevent those waylaid from their Wall Street dreams from pursuing a few resume padding graduate degrees until this whole thing blows over? Well, maybe a shriveled trust fund.

The real question is: where is this purported generation of money-grubbing sell-outs?
Today DABA was revealed as a hoax. I called that WEEKS ago! Maybe I can be overpaid by the Times to fall for some mischeivous Bergdorf babes!

The 20-somethings I know, while they may not all have jobs, aren't crying on the steps of Louis Boston. We couldn't afford to shop there in the first place.

truthiness

Whoa - I think this year marks the first time I've ever sat through the ENTIRE Oscars ceremony. I was sucked into the red carpet gushing, the Hugh Jackmania, and even the commercial blitzes. And I loved it. Oops. I'm reading The Reader now, and enjoying an excuse to see the movie later. And dang those Slumdog kids were great. Steve Martin and Tina Fey should make a family of comedic babies. Or at least a movie.

Things are hectic and awesome at work, and I'm really looking forward to a weekend of Miss Andrea and her Southern beau.

This article on the Iraq Museum makes me so sad - I hope in the next few years souls braver than myself will turn it around, and make it an international center of peace and learning that shames art thieves into returning their stolen "loot." Assyrian and Babylonian cultures - and the entire Mesopotamian belt - are incredibly under-represented in ancient Art History. Not everyone had a wonderful history teacher to tell them that Subbiluliuma was the greatest Hittite king. You can't Google that kind of thing.

Of course, it's largely due to Western arrogance and the continued assertions that Rome was the cradle of Civilization as we like to define it (and inexplicably Caucasoid). But the fact that many of these artifacts and pieces of art have been consistently looted, spirited away to palaces, obscured behind barbed wire, or buried in the rubble of bombs and tanks doesn't help our understanding. The media rarely talks about history as a casualty of today's wars. But entire cultures are falling further into obscurity. Soldiers - whether through malevolence or just ignorance - are too often to blame. This program seemed to help, I wonder what happened to it.

I'd love to imagine that in my lifetime I could visit the Iraq Museum as casually as I might visit the Prado or the Uffizi.

psych

I woke up today wondering two things: 1) who was trying to break into my apartment and 2) why wouldn't they just let me sleep in a little bit longer...

After I busted out of bed to find the source of the steady scraping sound and swore like a sailor when I realized the snow removal company was...well, removing snow (shakes fist at winter), I flopped back into bed.

I really wanted to to try and get back into the dream where my amazing boyfriend had given us an adorable bulldog puppy but the dog doesn't want to go to the hockey game and hey why would we go to a hockey game when we're at your sister's wedding never mind she's already married it's just a party-pretend-wedding thing and why am I always under-dressed for these things and isn't this Maine?

Weird.

Speaking of weird...last night's concert was fantastic. Cirkestra is a five piece band with an accordion player (and former circus clown), fiddler, sax/clarinetist, tuba player, and percussionist. They did klezmer, folksy pieces, along with zany tangoes and their trademark: creepy circus waltzes. I kept thinking of Gogol Bordello for all it's Eastern European gypsy wonder... but minus the ska, punk, and reggae, and with some caberet, tango, and jazz instead. They rock.

Argh! I want a piano...and I want an accordion. What do I do??? Craigslist has tons of pianos that are just about being given away...but I'm wary of a lemon that needs refurbishment. Reputable music stores have plenty of options...starting around $500. And accordions don't come cheap either.

If only I'd been in the right place at the right time, then I could have scored this.

PS: I know it's a typewriter, but I love me some Ms. Fey.

appetite stimulus packages...

...are about the most obnoxious ways to bill your pre fixe menu. But I'll still eat it.

Last night the Sig O took us out to Tasca - just a five block walk from our place but with zero visibility thanks to the snow flurries that began exactly as I left the office last night. I thought we were done with this snow thing! It all melted, it looked like we left the teen temps behind, and spring could move in full speed ahead. But nope - as I walked to the T last night I spied a single snowflake and felt that "Oh crap" moment, like in an action movie where one arrow zips past the hero as he dashes away from the angry natives from whom he has stolen their invaluable religious icons and he has one moment to recognize that a deluge of poison tipped barbs will soon be launched his way.

Yup, the Blizzard of Doom.

Anyway, we made it to Tasca for their $15 three course menu, and of course we took advantage of the $6.50 wine flight offering.

Mr. Boyfriend enjoyed the goat cheese fritters for his first course, but I think my portabello carpaccio was simply amazing. Served with capers and a mesclun salad over toasted bread, I could have asked for seconds and thirds.

For the main course I had "cajun spiced" haddock, but the fish was bland to a fault. It was served with the tiniest helping of creamed spinach I've ever seen. It was virtually the same exact thing I had last time we ate there, but with haddock instead of salmon. I eyed Mr. B's butternut squash ravioli and toasted walnuts with a bit of envy, but still enjoyed my dish.

The wine probably helped with that. Three generous pours of pinot noirs - I found one too bitter and Mr. B found another one too dry, so we switched. I usually stick to white - so this was a good learning experience. Three main lessons: My lips are still slightly purple almost 24 hours later, I guess I don't always get headaches from reds like I'd thought, and I get a very special sort of loopy after pinot noir. Who knew?

Tonight: drinks with the Ladies of the Cubes and a museum concert. It promises to be awesome...let's hope the rain/snow/sleet awfulness holds off.

Breakfast Part Too Good to Be True

I just ate breakfast - Kashi with blueberries and Garelick's amazing Over the Moon skim milk (it tastes like 2%!). All in all a good breakfast, it'll keep me going until past noon, and I look forward to having it in the morning. After all, breakfast is my favorite meal and I love to have it for lunch and dinner too. But. It. Just. Got. Better.

This has rocked my world: Breakfast for dessert.

This is amazing, like, Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs amazing.

“Breakfast flavors are so familiar, and that makes them a great way to bring in unfamiliar textures and temperatures,” said Ben Roche, the pastry chef at Moto in Chicago, where he uses an ice-cold “cooking” surface and a syringe full of “batter” (a purée of pancakes, milk and maple syrup) to make a dessert called frozen flapjacks (the taste is like ice cream with concentrated essence of pancake.) Mr. Roche’s twist on coffee and doughnuts is a cup of hot doughnut soup (made from chopped glazed doughnuts steeped in milk) with a circle of coffee-flavored whipped cream. The whipped cream is sucked through a vacuum sealer to make it tall, puffy and firm enough to cut.

Hm. I wonder if JetBlue flies to Chicago...this afternoon.

Presidential, Sweet

The Sig O and I dashed off to South Yarmouth this weekend and enjoyed a long weekend of all things Cape Cod. At least, all things wintry in Cape Cod. (Heh - the hotel I ripped this picture from WISHES midcape looked that good in July.)

So, basically, we ate.

We ate food, and we ate some more, and then we ate some more food.

All in all a good weekend.

What's that you say? Oh, yeah, we did do other stuff - we shopped, played cards, music and, hm, what did we do Sunday afternoon? I can't recall...hm. That's right, we saw The International.

Ha, that's funny, I must've blocked it out...why would I...oh - I remember...
AAAAAAAH AH AHHH NOO NOOOO AAAAAH AAAAH ... I want my $15.00 back!

Please. Please do not see this movie. I am not professing to be an arbiter of cinematic taste here - I do love me some Arnold in Schumacher's stinky cheese-fest Batman & Robin. And the Sig O has caught me watching White Chicks. Like, twice.

But I love me a good action/thriller, especially with Mr. Clive Owen. And Frank Miller seems to love the man. And in Bourne - 2? Or 3? I'll go with 2...he had such an AWESOME cameo.

But this movie does nothing for Owen - as angsty, rogue agent Louis Salinger - and he does nothing for it. He's trying to oust the big evil bank, IBBC, an enemy that should get more complex and scary with every scene. Instead, the enemy is a group of five or six unremarkable bespoke suited fat cats - their imposing, minimalist IBBC headquarters seems more threatening.

Which brings me to the shots - gorgeous - just gorgeous. Berlin and New York shine, but were unfortunately more interesting than their players. And don't get me started on Naomi Watts. Her big scene features texting on a Blackberry. Oh, and she's really good at forgetting how to act like one's wrist is sprained. Please, Naomi, I'm working really hard to block this out and hold you in the esteem The Painted Veil and I Heart Huckabees gave me for you.

The best of the worst parts was a shoot out in the Guggenheim that happens for no discernible reasons other than the systematic destruction of all the modern video art and some gratuitous shots of guys spurting blood from their necks.

I had such high hopes. Don't you hate when the trailer is better than the actual movie?

If you don't mind, I'm going to go back to blocking that out.

Ah yes, that was a lovely weekend on the Cape.

Wanna play?

I am really good at this weekend thing.

Friday at work turned me into a stress ball, so at quittin time I dashed to Eastern Standard with a friend to decompress and vent about the week with DELICIOUS cocktails - it's my new favorite spot and instead of peanutbutter and jelly I will henceforth be refering to perfect pairings as going together like gin and cucumber.

Friday night also featured falafel, Deep Ellum, more gin, and karaoke.

Needless to say, the next morning I sounded like James Earl Jones. But that's ok - since we had brunch at S&S and all was right in the world, at least everything that had to do with poached eggs over smoked salmon and potato pancakes.

We also had friends over Saturday night to play, um...well it was basically Pictionary but your partner has to guess what you sculpt out of play-doh (instead of a drawing). We ran through our cards really quickly (the age rating for the game probably had something to do with that) and the most fun was to be had from the words and phrases we came up with on our own for the other teams to guess. Yeah, you try sculpting the Appalachian Mountains...

Sunday we tidied up the apartment, and I took advantage of the heat wave by walking through Brookling and taking in the sights. More falafel...and then a reunion with an old roommate who re-taught us our FAVORITE card game, called Swiss.

I'm digging this game-night thing. Now, if I can only get Mr. Boyfriend to play Scrabble with me...

PS - Miss Andrea and her beau will visit at the end of February! They better wear their karaoke pants.

opportunity knocks

Good gracious - can someone in Boston please step up?

New York restaurant rating/news/gossip site Eater has daily posts of “Dealfeed,” and a “recession specials map.”

I get the weekly Yelp Boston roundup, but I need someone to start reporting the recession meal deals! The tapas place around the corner from us offers very decent prix fixe stuff, but good lord I don't think I can stand another evening of their passive aggressive wait staff (if you're gonna give us the stink eye for moving from a dangerously wobbly table in an EMPTY restaurant, you must not want our business that badly).

And it irks me when places are half-assing their "deals." Early bird specials? Monday night menus? Inflated prix fixe? Please. Let me know when you're serious and you want my repeat business. Then we'll talk.

I'm just not find this info. Every Boston food feature relies on Boston's role as the consumate tourist destination: you have to eat at this burger place, that ice cream shop, and have your parents take you out to X, Y, or Z when they come to schlep your stuff to your dorm. Yadda yadda. You know, I HATE the freakin Phantom Gourmet. Please do not pass off commercials as food reviews. This does not contribute to Boston's food culture: it's responsible for its decline. Can you tell I'm hungry?

The South End scene is a good place to start investigating, but it's also part of the problem - it's too scene and is less than inviting to those not in the know.

God forbid I come across like an amateur...

Speaking of: Prez' Day weekend/V-Day weekend is on the horizon. What to do??? A cape trip might be in order, but kind of sleepy. Then again, a romantic VDay dinner is nigh impossible in Boston as yet another amateur night (as Kara's Joe dubbed New Years) - and it's a Saturday, no less. Eeugh.

And maaaybe a ski weekend the following week? We'll see.

i heart czechs

It's the last paragraph that I really love.