Wherein I continue to not do drugs

I've never used crack.

I never thought that would bother me, but now I have strong feelings about a thing called Trivia Crack and I wish I knew just how closely the two are related.

My guess is that, aside from the superficial, market-y, tongue-in-cheek type comparisons (so addictive! fun to share with friends, but then you get mad at each other for weird reasons!) the two actually have very little in common. Trivia Crack may waste some of your time and strain your eyeballs, but it has not been decimating impoverished communities for the last three decades.

This is where my strong feelings come in: Trivia Crack is dumb. The name is dumb, the questions are dumb, and if my victorious record against strangers can be believed, most of the people playing it are dumb (because seriously, y'all, I don't even know where I am most of the time). And yet, I have played maybe fifteen games since downloading it on Saturday. I've seen and heard of many other people playing it. There are t-shirts featuring "Trivia Crack characters".

I don't get it, but it's a thing in America, and so I care (see also: most politicians, the VMAs, Sex and the City reruns).

Dearest America, why are we getting all excited about something named Crack? Why do we not think it is wack? Would you play a game called Trivia Booze or Trivia Endemic Community Problems?

Actually...America has a strange, long, presumably proud history of naming things in a way that one sincerely hopes never turns out to be literal: Death by Chocolate, the surprisingly web-savvy Slap Ya Momma hot sauce, Kahlua Mudslide, Sex on the Beach (think of the sand, people -- it's not worth it!). Hell, we have a long tradition of just calling things "crack" when what we really mean is "it's really good". I've seen crack pie, crack cookies, crack brownies -- almost all sweets, although I'm sure that there's a bacon crack somewhere - the pinnacle of "add this word to anything to make it sound good" mania.

And I guess the "mania" bit is what's really tying me in knots about this game. I don't know much about crack, but I've been led to believe that it makes you feel PHENOMENAL. And then it makes your life EXCRUCIATING. It's a substance of extremes, of power - it gets hold of you, and then your life cannot be separated from it. Naming the best pie or brownies or bacon in the world pie/brownie/bacon crack is still extreme, but it makes sense. I have been transported by pie! I have felt like I might be willing to shiv someone over some really great bacon! I understand the highs and lows, the agony and the ecstasy of America's relationship with food.

Life-changing pie, however, Trivia Crack is not. I've been, at turns, mildly annoyed and slightly smirky about it, just as I've been about a lunchbox-clammy RingDing. Calling it "crack" goes way beyond normal salesman-like braggadocio. It's utter nonsense that tears at the fabric of our shared language and, thus, our culture.

We all know marketers are lying to us, but the lie is supposed to have some hope of truth in it. If we don't stop this fast-rolling boulder of misnaming now, grocery stores will start labeling day-old bread "loaf o' crack"; my terrible mailman will earn the title "bacon mail crack"; TMZ will be "the crack of television journalism"....and then, all of  a sudden, crack will mean bad...and then it will all make sense...

Disregard all of the above, Trivia Crack, and godspeed!

Luiggi's

My mom worked at Luiggi's Pizzeria in the 70s. It's still in Lewiston, Maine, where, according to my mom, "all the riff-raff hang out" - never mind that she once lived in Lewiston and attempted to raise two children there.

I took Gerard to Luiggi's last week.

I know, it's the second story in a row about Gerard. My writing class - the people who told me to "concentrate on the carnage!" for my lobster story - pointed out to me that he is my comic foil, and gushed all sorts of things about how brilliantly hilarious I was for writing him as my straight man. Unfortunately for Gerard, he is not a made-up tool of humor, but a real man who simply has no choice other than to go with me to these things and try to remain calm.

Thus, I took him to Luiggi's, and, because it has TWO "g"s in the name, I could offer him TWO promises: 1. a better understanding of my childhood and 2. the off-menu sandwich known as "the A-bomb."

We parked outside the Blue Goose, a dive bar to which my 15-year-old future mother once delivered Luiggi's lunchmeat pizzas. All the pizzas at Luiggi's are lunchmeat. Even the "cheese" pizzas come with thin shavings of salty deli ham. The restaurant has many signs that point out this unflinching commitment to sticking it to vegetarians, but no signs explaining why.

Luiggi's offers no such thing as a "dining experience." If you asked one of the middle-aged counter workers about "ambiance" they would laugh you out the door. There's a counter, where you order your pizza or spaghetti or sandwich, and there are some booths and tables, where you eat them. The lighting is fluorescent, the decor wavering between non-existent and bizarre. There is no memorable color to the plasticky tables and chairs, no pictures - and no visible health department rating - on the walls.

This was a cherished piece of my childhood. Though I had not intended to fill Gerard's head with visions of little me as a grimy street urchin, I was sticking by it. This time around, I would not be embarrassed by Gerard's compassionate gaze as he stared deep into yet another Bell family vacuum of reason and good taste. I braced. I set my eyeballs to "blazing with pride" mode. I stared him down, and...

I'm taking Gerard to his first lobster boil.

“Now, you should know that this isn't the type of 'lobster boil' they have in Cape Cod.”

“I've never been to one of those either.”

“Good – those are dumb. All kinds of corn and potatoes rolling around, getting in your way. Those fancy pants think they are too good for a plain old lobster on a plate.”

My lobster is simple, approached the way my family has approached everything since the grands-peperes and grands-memeres crashed over the American border in a wave of French-Canadian immigration a century ago. My family has un-recipes: Corn – boil water, toss it in. Potatoes – bake. Boiled dinner – heat broth, add whatever you find in your fridge, wait.

Newspaper reports from the early 20th century widely assume that Franco-Americans are  simpletons. Our highly literal interpretation of what we still call “a lobster boil,” adds some muscle to that idea: We take a lobster, and we boil it.

The boiled lobster is my summers, my birthdays, my family parties. It's so entrenched in my family's life processes that when we moved from Maine to South Carolina, there really was no question of where to have my first birthday south of the Mason-Dixon line -- it was Red Lobster or bust. 

Six-year-old me had no idea the gasps of horror that this decision would elicit from foodies hearing this story years later.

Domino's

Know what I noticed today?

1) Google blogger does not automatically capitalize your "i"s.*

*[footnote in a non-footnote spot. don't care!]: False. I've noticed this before, but I really like complaining about Google. I assume that they spy on my every move and if I just mention something, their evil robot watchdogs will take note, eventually spurring them to stop their wackitude.

2) MORE IMPORTANTLY: When they mail you those totally sweet coupon sheets, Domino's Pizza addresses them to "Domino's Pizza Lover OR Resident of [address redacted]."

I think that is awesomely diplomatic of our good friends at Domino's. It's like saying, "This is a gift for my friend. Or -- OR -- for you, random person! Really, anyone, take it. We just CAN"T STOP GIVING."

For the benevolent Domino's cares not what particular pizza love you profess on the surface, but rather, what you hold in your heart -- which is the knowledge that, if offered to you at half-price and delivered right to your door, you would eat a pizza covered in rot.*

*[footnote in the right place]: Not that Domino's pizza is -- or even tastes like it is - covered in rot. It is magnificently delicious. Thank you, Domino's; I will now collect my royalty check.

Hating...Foiled!

For MONTHS I have been mentally preparing a post concerning the inferiority of Post brand cereals -- how their Raisin Bran is but a poor cardboard imitation of the delicious raisinness and brandtasticocity that is Kellogg's; how their so-called "shredded wheat" (heh, creative name guys. real clever.) wants so badly to be Frosted Mini Wheats but is certainly not; how Fruity Pebbles are just...weird. Could they think of a less-appetizing shape for a cereal? It looks like the dandruff flakes of some horrible Red17/ascorbic acid monster. Blurgh.

Today, however, you, dear readers, were robbed of my masterpiece in the medium of derision.

Today, I experienced one of my top 18 breakfast cereal moments, and, though it pains me, I must credit Post for this breakthrough.

I was at the grocery store, getting my usual spaghetti sauce and beer (...), when I decided that I might also like some solid foods -- preferably of the breakfast variety. I went to the ceral aisle with a craving right on the tip of my tongue (where a food craving should be) for something sweet, but not too sweet. Good wet or dry. Not too small or too crumbly. It was a very complex craving.

In spite of my many many misgivings, I chose the latest offering from those chuckleheads over at Post: Shredded Wheat with Strawberries.

Dudes, I cannot even explain to you how delicious this stuff is. The taste may have been enhanced by the fact that I was hungry enough to consume a small donkey, but I think this stuff has got legs. Tiny, bite-size shredded wheat squares, fake white sugar coating stuff, actual freeze-dried strawberry bits...I mean, it's NO Cracklin' Oat Bran (greatest cereal of all time, hands down), but damn.

Of course, you can trust a world-class ruiner of breakfast like Post to keep such satisfying experiences at a minimum. When I looked at the site to check the name of the life-changing cereal (and then felt really stupid when 'that shredded wheat-y one with the strawberry bits' turned out to be 'Shredded Wheat with Strawberries'), I happened upon a mother lode of morning food atrocities that Post is unleashing on the world:

"Dino S'mores Pebbles:

Pebbles cereal introduces Dino S'mores Pebbles! Great s'mores flavor served up in fun Dinosaur Bone, Marshmallowy Boulder and Chocolatey Nugget shapes. Just like Cocoa and Fruity Pebbles, it's low in fat, cholesterol free, and has 10 essential vitamins and minerals. All of this brought to you by the Flintstone's fun-loving dinosaur pet: Dino!"

Biggest problem here = "Marshmallowy Boulder." Do not feed me oxymorons for breakfast, Post!

"LiveActive Cereal:

New LiveActive Cereal from Post is made with whole grain wheat and inulin, a prebiotic fiber, to help promote digestive health. The best part? It tastes great!"

Breakfast to make you poo. I guess it's a good idea, but...ew.

"Shredded Wheat with Strawberries:

I have deleted their description because all you need to know is that this is delicious.

"Chocolate HoneyComb:

Honeycomb cereal introduces Chocolate Honeycomb! A new Honeycomb cereal with a delicious chocolate flavor. Just like Honeycomb, it's an excellent source of whole grain – 16 grams per serving*, has 10 vitamins and minerals and 0g of trans fat. Of course it has the BIG Honeycomb size for the biggest chocolate bite in breakfast!"

Wait for it...

"Honey Bunches of Oats Chocolate:

Announcing new Honey Bunches of Oats with Real Chocolate Clusters cereal! The perfect combination of crispy flakes and crunchy oat clusters with chocolate baked right in. It's a good source of whole grain - 10 grams per serving* and has 9 Essential Vitamins and Minerals. It's sweet, but not too sweet!"

A one-two punch of unnecessary chocolate! Thank you, Post.