shouldn't read a book by its cover

but we do. and these penguin decades, with good reason: 

also a big fan of what john squire does for the 80s series.

early morning, augusta blvd., from a phone.

smoke cigarettes. don't give a fuck.

coco chanel at work.

i'm done with my dying

All that I have is a river
The river is always my home
Lord, take me away
For I just cannot stay
Or I’ll sink in my skin and my bones

The water sustains me without even trying
The water can’t drown me, I’m done
With my dying

Please help me build a small boat
One that’ll ride on the flow
Where the river runs deep
And the larger fish creep
I’m glad of what keeps me afloat

The water sustains me without even trying
The water can’t drown me, I’m done
With my dying

Now deeper the water I sail
And faster the current I’m in
That each night brings the stars
And the song in my heart
Is a tune for the journeyman’s tale

The water sustains me without even trying
The water can’t drown me, I’m done
With my dying

Now the land that I knew is a dream
And the line on the distance grows faint
So wide is my river
The horizon a sliver
The artist has run out of paint

The water sustains me without even trying
The water can’t drown me, I’m done
With my dying

Where the blue of the sea meets the sky
And the big yellow sun leads me home
I’m everywhere now
The way is a vow
To the wind of each breath by and by

The water sustains me without even trying
The water can’t drown me, I’m done
With my dying
-the water, johnny flynn

it wasn't so long ago when life was easy.
we'll probably keep this thinking up our whole lives.
but for what it's worth, it's worth the trouble.

it's kind of a funny story

the supply of content is going infinite

shoulder-length hair

something kept brushing the groove right where my shoulder meets my neck. i was working a press release and trying to ignore the pestering gnat or errant collar. turns out it was my own now-nearly shoulder length hair.

i started thinking and realized the last time i had hair past my shoulders was when i was 15. in other words, a decade ago. trying to remember what being 15 was like was similar to remembering when i was a space martian. it didn't resonant. i have memories and emotions i know i felt, but i identify as much with my own past as i do with scenes from 10 things i hate about you.

but maybe not remembering exactly is better than trying to reinvent a past that never existed: "All I conclude is that there’s a whole lot of projection going on with adults, trying desperately, and naively, to re-imagine a simple past that simply never existed." --berkeley breathed

i don't know why it is i can't remember more about that time. i wonder if it's some form of self-preservation, like how the body forgets pain. if we held on tightly to all the beliefs, emotions, and fears we had along the way we'd probably implode by 26.

you gather the world around you--thick and overlapping--and
loneliness persists. you are on the world but not
of the world. detailed but flat--a movie set's backdrop--you are
in front of the plywood house or behind, inside does not exist.

use the church bell to tell time. absorb the front stoop of a man,
his dog, their smile. see what the fat setting sun points out.

it will persist
but there are distractions from the yawning silence

new age fun with a vintage feel

like a corrupt dr. seuss

this is a cat in a box.

this is a cat on box.

this is a cat on the cupboard.

this is a cat in the dryer.

this is a cat tired from all his adventures.

[okay. now somebody find these cute pictures and make this cat an international internet sensation, so i can exploit him with a website, t-shirts, and buttons, thus becoming a millionaire.]

okay. now i'm a fan of lady gaga

i'm such a sucker:

the suburbs

growing up i was surprised to learn that a house could be built and have a floorplan unique to it. all the houses i had ever been in in my neighborhood were either the same layout as mine, exact reverse, or the copy of a friend's house i knew. i assumed this was the same all over.

the aerial spinning shot toward the end of this video gives me chills. i don't think any of us have any idea what we're growing up in until years after we leave.

the fronks
13001 delmar
leawood, ks
66209

look out for that big ant just north of your foot

"It is not easy for us to conceive how Guugu Yimithirr speakers experience the world, with a crisscrossing of cardinal directions imposed on any mental picture and any piece of graphic memory. Nor is it easy to speculate about how geographic languages affect areas of experience other than spatial orientation — whether they influence the speaker’s sense of identity, for instance, or bring about a less-egocentric outlook on life. But one piece of evidence is telling: if you saw a Guugu Yimithirr speaker pointing at himself, you would naturally assume he meant to draw attention to himself. In fact, he is pointing at a cardinal direction that happens to be behind his back. While we are always at the center of the world, and it would never occur to us that pointing in the direction of our chest could mean anything other than to draw attention to ourselves, a Guugu Yimithirr speaker points through himself, as if he were thin air and his own existence were irrelevant."

-"does your language shape how you think?", new york times, 8.26.2010

everybody knows i'm a monster

a motherfucking monster.

neither a doctor nor a scientist

but just like that i was bestowed a Ph.D.

naked but wearing a map

lane smith for rolling stone. record review of talking heads, 1988.

the scent is burned into the pillow case
the bedding the mattress. no number
of washes removes it--the memory
can't be cleaned

only buried.
but the brain--a maniac--flings
dirt shovelfulls to the top, uncovering
what it will greedily bury hours later like
a rabid dog hiding a hallucination. like a sisyphus
of the graveyard.


the only thing worse than the memory of the scent
is the memory of the silence--the roaring answer. the
comforting executioner.

almost there

Almost There (promo #1) from Almost There on Vimeo.

the shifting

there is the sunset on the brick of the building across the street. there are the evening shadows fading out. there is the opaque moon waking herself up for work. there was a breeze, dancing with the flag but now it hangs.

overheard

cam, get the music ready. this song is going to end soon and the album’s going to be done, and i want more music. no silence. don’t want to hear my thoughts.

lawnchair

on july 2, 1982, larry walters took flight. nothing fancy or motorized--something so many children think to do. except he did. 

he was planning to go up 30 feet in his backyard. he wound up about 15,000 feet in the air thanks to 45 helium-filled weather balloons, then drifted into federal air space.

REACT: What information do you wish me to tell [the airport] at this time as to your location and your difficulty?
Larry: Ah, the difficulty is, ah, this was an unauthorized balloon launch, and, uh, I know I'm in a federal airspace, and, uh, I'm sure my ground crew has alerted the proper authority. But, uh, just call them and tell them I'm okay.

he was arrested after getting tangled up in a power line, which resulted in a 20 minute blackout in long beach. in response to a reporter asking him why he did it, a man can't just sit around. 

he shot himself in the heart 11 years later.
a man can't just sit around.

 

odd hours

these last weeks of my 24th year have been restless and wreckless, marked by summer vacation-like long weekends, eating chocolate covered pretzels for breakfast, and a general feeling of anticipation.

during june i dreaded the inevitable approach of the quarter-century birthday. then i watched some movies, read some books, and had a few conversations and remembered that age doesn't mean diddly-doo. plus, i much prefer the odd-numbered years. so far 17, 19, 23--those have been the years in which i've really prospered. (or, i guess it could be the prime numbers that really do me well.)

in no way was 24 a "bad" year, (you want to talk about a bad year--see 22. must've been the double evens that had it out for me.) but following all the major of events of 23, well, it's like having to go on after ac/dc. you just can't top a scot-aussie named angus in schoolboy attire.

this year rolled along, sort of in a recover-take-it-all-in-observe-reflect-plan mode. and that has been well and good. although i'm pretty confident mr. hamilton leithauser was not singing about a birthday it fits:
i'm still living / at the old address / and i'm waiting on the weather / that i know will pass / i know that it's true / it's gonna be a good year / out of the darkness / and into the fire.

the art of slow reading

i've been suspecting this for some time now: that the hyper-bombardment of technology is going to catch up with us.

it only makes sense. not only are there more modes of communication but each one arrives faster, and now even to one location--the palm of your hand, the inner zip of your purse. how's a gal or guy to keep up with it all?

either you give your real life of five senses and interaction with other real lives over to some sub-life that looks an awful lot like yours only on a flat screen, or you move through it all a lot faster in order to keep up. with the number of people engrossed in ipods/pads/touches, it seems like for most it's an equal mix of both.

the thing is refusing to participate isn't the answer either. not reading any emails, responding to any texts, or looking at profile pages isn't exactly fulfilling. because if you can't get together over a beer and laugh about the facebook link to a zach galifianakis stand-up bit, what is there to laugh at?

this guardian article* seemed to make the exact point i'd been pondering: in order to keep up we try to take in too much too fast (that's what she said) to the detriment of actual absorption and learning.

According to The Shallows, a new book by technology sage Nicholas Carr, our hyperactive online habits are damaging the mental faculties we need to process and understand lengthy textual information. Round-the-clock news feeds leave us hyperlinking from one article to the next – without necessarily engaging fully with any of the content; our reading is frequently interrupted by the ping of the latest email; and we are now absorbing short bursts of words on Twitter and Facebook more regularly than longer texts.

so i was all on board and excited by this finding until about the fifth paragraph. at this point the author talks about this new fad called "slow reading." about it they say

Miedema writes on his website that slow reading, like slow food, is now, at root, a localist idea which can help connect a reader to his neighbourhood. "Slow reading," writes Miedema, "is a community event restoring connections between ideas and people. The continuity of relationships through reading is experienced when we borrow books from friends; when we read long stories to our kids until they fall asleep.

umm, NEWSFLASH. this already has a name, yeah. it's called reading.
why the need to reinvent something that already exists? reading without being next to the computer or rereading a passage are things already inherent in the act of opening book. now it might take an iota of effort to shy away from the distractions, but if one's engaged enough in a book to open it and sit down then i think they can manage. none of these things--borrowing a book, reading to your kids, enjoying a novel--are new ideas. so why a new name? are we glamorizing reading to seduce people into doing it? i can just imagine,

oh i'm sorry there's no way i could poooossibly make that dinner date. i have my slow reading group tonight at 9pm.

oh really? what's that, this slow reading you speak of?

well. it's this new thing that started in france by a group of professors from paris 8. there are ten of us in the group. although it's not really a group in the traditional sense you might be thinking of because we all do it separately on our own time, but that doesn't detract from the sense of community we all feel just based on the simple fact we're cognizant that we're all doing it--as a group. anyway. i find that i do my best slow reading when i'm alone. with just a little soft music playing. and a glass of red. and my soft reading silk stretch pants. with some rice cakes. and candles. and the window open...


it comes to this: if you didn't enjoy reading before, you're not going to enjoy it now--slow, medium, or fast. the distracting apps and droids of today are just the neighborhood friend ringing the doorbell or little orphan annie on the radio of before. and to end on an optimistic note, those who engage in a text now will continue to do so even when their phone is implanted in their pinky.

*full disclosure: i did not read the entire article.

right now i'm reading a borrowed book, a man without a country by kurt vonnegut. in it he mentions that polonius character from hamlet and says he disagrees with his wisdom: neither a borrower nor lender be.

i also agree to disagree with polonius, but when borrowing there are a few rules i try to abide by.
1). do unto a borrowed book as you would have a borrower do unto your loaned book. this means if they haven't previously dog-eared pages, then you shouldn't. same goes with underlining, writing in the margins, etc. i don't care how much you want to remember a passage or mark your spot. you gotta use your noggin to remember, and that's coming for a gal with a very poor memory. or, ask permission before you potentially deface their property and ruin what was once a beautiful friendship, romance, brotherhood...

2). do not loan a loan; do not borrow a borrow. if it's not yours to begin with, it's not yours to give to someone else. simple! and again, you can do it as long as you first get permission.


3). the onus is on the borrower, not the lender, to return the borrowed book. someone has been nice enough to part with their beloved copy of sweet valley high #13. don't make them agonize over its condition or well-being. read it, return it, and then have a lively discussion about the merits of this titillating series.

4). [optional. i know rules shouldn't be optional but this one is.] return with a note. again, not necessary, but i think it's a very nice gesture, plus a lovely surprise for the lender on down the road when they decide to crack open the agony and the ecstasy for the 16th time.




and now a selection of quotes from said borrowed book, which kicked this whole hootenanny off:

Then I go outside and there is a mailbox. And I feed the pages to the giant blue bullfrog. And it says, "Ribbit." And I go home. And I have had one hell of a good time. Electronic communities build nothing. You wind up with nothing. We are dancing animals. How beautiful it is to get up and go out and do something."

 ...I have this thing made out of steel, it's called a paper clip, and I put my pages together...

 

western meadowlark.

the shock

we had hopes like hot air balloons
neglecting well-worn, well-walked concrete and broken
glass, we went up
up up up
naive into the melted sun/sky
we ignored the air space of suckers below
and assumed what wasn't ours, up
into the vapor of post--[pick your poison]

then the fire cut
the massive womb
of heated air trembled
and the preserved, the inflated, the invisible
the ghost
cut sharp into electric wires.

lesson learned.

don't do things that box you in, or keep you from letting go.
in this instance i'm keeping the name but dropping the gimmick.
it was obvious and didn't work to begin with.
questions for tuesday, now without questions.

why don't you write more often?

two people. coffee shop.

i don't get it. we sit here every sunday morning and talk. usually are conversations are interesting, i'd even say intelligent. at least 75% of that is thanks to you. you ask probing questions and answer with though-provoking responses. so why can't that translate to paper? you have all the thoughts and the stories, so why don't you write more often?  


i don't know. maybe if i knew the answer i would.


no offense, but that's something a bad writer would say.


oh jeezus, i know. you're right. i don't know, i guess it's because i have a hard time committing. i'm like every other man out there. or every other man i know. or i think i know. even if it's only a screen as soon as i type words onto it i start questioning and hesitating. i hit the delete more than the e. and on the rare occasion i get into the flow i either break to re-read and then start changing everything around, or i get interrupted and can't pick up again. i think i'm a good writer. i believe i'm a good writer. i just can't do it, though. 


you're like a blind surgeon.


what?


a blind surgeon. you have the tools, the knowledge, and the precision, but you lack the vision.


what? that is ridiculous.
...and maybe makes sense. shit.

i do, or i don't?

it started over memorial day weekend--a lot of announcements of engagements and pictures of weddings appeared in the facebook stream. then it was in my mailbox, in the form of a newsweek article arguing against marriage. open my mailbox a few weeks later and there it is again. only this time an article my mom clipped from the Kansas City Star called "marriage matters". and finally today, random internet surfing led me to this Salon article. in a more pretentious and academic way it echoes the newsweek article, saying that marriage is a now outdated institution. it goes further, however, by saying that humans simply weren't meant to be monogamous.

i think it's one of those many things in life, where it's a different answer for every person. if your the devout, religious sort you'll want to get married just like the very insecure and needy person who's doing it for a hope at life security. or you might opt out because wild sex and orgies doesn't mesh with in sickness and in health, 'til death do us part, or you might feel like justifying your relationship before the state and someone else's god isn't your cup of tea.

strange that such different reasons can still lead to the same action. the choice to marry or not to marry is only one part of it, though. i have no idea where i stand on the issue, and thankfully, the question is a long way off, but i do know one thing: most people never go beyond choosing whether to marry or not. and all too often they choose to marry but really have no idea why.

why are we haunted by other people's ghost?

we all have a closet wherein several suitcases are packed with neat rows of femurs and phalanges, tibias and craniums. some of us keep the baggage on the floor, stacking winter blankets and wool sweaters over the top, hiding it from nosy mothers and unexpected guests. others are obsessed with the luggage, constantly pulling it out and repacking for a trip they will never again take. we know it's one bag (or two or three) that refuses to get lost in the maze of airline connections and airport carousels. but whether by contemplating it or ignoring it, most of us learn to deal with it.

learning to live with our own mistakes and bad memories is not easy, but because it was our own past and that experience is part of our being today, we cope. figuring out how to reconcile our past fuck-ups with the present and also accepting the inevitable fact that we'll find new ways to screw up creating future hardships is, i do believe, "growing up."

so often that phrase suggests the solitary experience of one person and the evolving that person does. rarely does it describe the process of evolving with someone else. in other words, learning to live with the skeletons, ghosts, and haunts of someone else. this process doesn't afford the luxury of rationale. unlike justifying your own past, you can't say well that was really stupid what i did, treating that person wrong. but i learned from it and am a better person as a result. instead it just reveals the other as the flawed individual you knew them to be--a fact you'd been having a fairly successful go at ignoring. and although you have flaws that at least match or even trump the other's, that knowledge doesn't quell the fear that mistakes and transgressions will be repeated. if anything the truth is only magnified--you may very likely have hurt coming in your future. maybe even the making of a brand new suitcase to add to your matching baggage set.

it's unavoidable: in order to have anything real with another person you have to share your pasts, including the uncomfortable, the painful, and the downright ugly. that means living with decisions and consequences that you played no part of and maybe don't even agree with. this sucks. a lot. then suddenly you see two colored pills and a stentorian voice in your head says something about the story ending or seeing how far the rabbit hole goes. and you think goddamn i hated that movie, and now i hate it even more now that i realize there's actual truth in it. 

eventually you catch up on the other person's past, they catch up on yours, you realize what potential the human has for being an asshole, you marvel, you worry, you suspect, you rationalize, you question. then you realize that if you can know and accept this other person's not-so-pretty past and they still look all right then you might just be on to something really worthwhile, and that's probably worth holding on to, skeletons and all.

what do you do at work?

Sent: Tuesday, May 25
From: Mr. L
To: alastore@ala.org

I ordered a 2010 summer reading golf shirt through my library in March as part of the summer reading promo. Today I learn that the company used can not fulfill my order because thay did not order enough of those shirts to begin with and refuses to obtain any more "for just the few they are short" They are the ones who screwed me out of a shirt I had already paid for. Yes, I got my money returned---but now I can not do my part to promote summer reading in the same way my female counterparts are able to do. Can you say discrimination---I can!

Dear Mr. L,

I’m sorry to hear you never received the golf shirt you ordered to promote summer reading through your library. As this is not our product, I fear there’s not much I can do to assist, except perhaps suggest that you contact Gary (sales@cstonegraphics.com) at Summer Reading Shirts to see if he can help.


Best wishes,
Katharine Fronk
ALA Graphics Coordinator
50 E. Huron St.
Chicago, IL
60622
p). 312-2802-2427

Dear Ms. Fronk,

Just for the fun of it I went to that website you included for the company printing and selling the summer reading shirts. I clicked on the order form for the golf shirts and found the shirt but DID NOT FIND ONE WORD ABOUT THEM BEING OUT OF SHIRTS IN ANY SIZE. I also saw where they had TWO deadlines for ordering shirts and one deadline is June 1 with a shipping date of June 15. I bet you that I could fill out an order form for one of those shirts right now and still get one made and sent to me---but they could not put the one I did request initially on back-order. Instead, I get a cock-and-bull story from the customer service supervisor.

So why am I telling you all this when there is nothing you can do about it? Just to let you know about the company you people turned to when coming up with this year's promo program. Maybe you should pass this complaint on to the company you folks have chosen to do business with! Maybe you should remember it next year when you start looking around for more suppliers for your programs.

Dear Mr. L,

The program to which I believe you’re referring--Collaborative Summer Library Program (CSLP)--is actually not affiliated with the American Library Association (ALA). I did some quick research to find the link to the Summer Reading Shirts thinking it might be helpful, and while it sounds like you were in contact with the correct people, you did not get the desired results.

Perhaps you will see better customer service if you contact CSLP directly at:

Collaborative Summer Library Program (CSLP)
Administrative Service Agency
22 North Georgia, Suite 208
Mason City  IA  50401-3435
Phone/Fax: (641) 423-0005
Toll Free: (866) 657-8556

Again, ALA is not affiliated in any way with this program, but I do hope you’re able to get your Summer Reading golf shirt to show your support for literacy and libraries.

why do we tattoo?

my coworker said this on getting ink, and i very much like it:

"Sometimes I ask myself, 'is this something I'll want in 30 years?' And then I remember to completely disregard that question, because honestly? Probably not! But I think I'll still love all of my tattoos when I'm an old granny because it's going to be a map of my youth. They'll all be exactly what I wanted at the time and to have a permanent reminder of the different stages of yourself, I think, is incredibly cool. Anyway, enough with the Hallmark moment... I hope you do it."

why does this cat act like a dog?

it's not that i don't like dogs. it's just that what so many people find attractive about them--their undying loyalty--i find irritating. dogs are always up in your business, wanting attention, love, pets. cats, however, leave you alone. they entertain themselves, they are independent creatures. i admire this, and prefer occasional aloofness to constant dog slobber.

i agreed to take care of my friend's cat for two years. for the most part, vlad, is a very good guest-cat. he gets along with my cat as if they were apart of the same litter, and for that i'm very thankful. he is more dog than cat, though, and i struggle with this fact from time-to-time.

never have i seen a more acurate portrayl of me attempting to be on the computer, watch tv, read a book, or eat dinner:

what happens to a dream deferred?

my love for cats solidified at age six. i'd harassed my parents for many months about owning a kitten when the neighbor's cat had a litter. after finally convincing them that yes i would clean the cat box and feed and water and brush the cat every day, they acquiesced and thus a terrified, tiny puff of an animal entered our home.

overjoyed, i immediately had to hold her. having no knowledge of cats, i scooped her up and cradled her, baby-like, to my chest. i looked down at her. our eyes meet. two young and nervous souls about to embark on a life journey as owner and pet. she extended her little paw, flashed five claw-knives, and macheted my neck.

despite my surprise, the blood, and subsequent tears, deep down i admired that a creature so soft and beautiful could tear into young flesh without regret. this was my kinda animal! zuki was not a "lap cat", though, and try as i might i never really got to hold her. instead, i made other attempts at interacting.

also owning a dog, i one day decided that nothing in this world would be better than walking my cat on a leash. i pursued this dream with the tenacity that only ignorant children posses, wrestling the now declawed cat into collars that she would immediately slip out of, then moving up to harnesses that were still no match for her houdini-like skills. the few times i managed to secure her in the harness she hissed me away before i could clip the leash.
needless to say, walking the cat never worked out for me.

*

yesterday, a black cat was sitting in the grass next to a woman who was holding something long and red. as i got closer i realized it was: a leash! this woman had achieved what i thought not possible, and yet there sat her cat with a fine red collar leashed and happy. she sniffed at my feet and let me pet her before sauntering over to chew some grass (which i presume she later threw up on the woman's carpet).

i asked this champion of cat-owning what the secret was. she said oh i don't know. she really likes being outside, but she kinda chases animals and cars so i get nervous. i put her on a leash and she didn't mind. 

i was thoroughly impressed and assumed the cat whisperer was just being modest. she went on, yea, it's cool...i guess. kind of embarrassing, really. the other day i was walking her down the block and some guys rode by and shouted "get a dog!"

*

my childhood was marked with several factors that set me apart from my peers. probably best the whole i-have-a-cat-i-walk-on-a-leash-thing didn't work out...

why do i not already own this?

edward gorey is the bees knees.
that's really all that needs to be said.

what's the best way to eat a leftover french fry?

i love to eat. 

i love to eat because i love food. 

i also love eating food out.  like at a restaurant.

you might think i was a snob then when it came to food. not so. to ensure I have enough money to eat not just out, but also in, and during the week, and on the weekends, and also so two cats can eat, i tend to eat really cheap when left to my own devices. understand "cheap" doesn't mean gross. it does mean "simple" or "repetitive" or some might even go so far as to say "unimaginative". 

i subsit on a regular diet of: spinach, hummus, milk, peanut butter, bread, pita chips, and cheese. this is the trader joe’s booty every week with the possible addition of edamame, ice cream, and wine. (and subtraction of peanut butter. even i can't get through a jar of peanut butter a week.) and actually, the wine isn’t so much the exception as it is the rule.

supplementing these groceries are leftovers, which i very much respect and thrive on. there's a certain art in preparing leftovers--the goal, in my mind, is to get them to meet or beat their previous taste. (okay, perhaps it's not an art, but certainly a challenge.) at this point, presentation is no object. so there's no fretting there, plus the food is free, and if you went to the trouble of taking the food home you know you already like it! and yet, many people don't like leftovers. i know this because they put them in the work fridge after lunch and then the same doggie bag sits there all week. neglected. like an unwanted puppy. 

i'm guessing they're just approaching their leftovers in the wrong way--mainly with a microwave. people think leftover=microwave. to that i say: amateurs!! again the goal is get them to meet or beat their previous taste. often this is done without a microwave, as it tends to just make everything mushy and inconsistently warm throughout.

i find that many leftovers are actually best eaten cold even if the meal has warmth inherent in its original meal. pizza is probably the most obvious with chinese food a close second. other foods include macaroni and cheese, along with most pastas, any cream-based soup, and stir fry.  the huge exception is cheese. anything that involved melted cheese originally should be eaten warm upon leftovers. except with pizza. (that's why it's the huge exception. duh.)

my other favorite method is the toaster oven. when not wanting cold pizza: toaster oven. when doing up casseroles that need the cheese melted: toaster oven. for anything liquid, put it back in the pot! it only takes a bit longer than the microwave and gets it much hotter in the end. 

that's not to say i shirk the microwave though! oh no. i appreciate the modern technology, and at work it's my only option for "heat". but it must be approached with foresight and care. for instance, i had a leftover veggie burger with french fries the other day. most people would've just popped that in the micro for 45 seconds and been done. amateurs.

french fries have become my white whale, with the proper way to reheat them eluding me every time. the best i've come up with is just letting them warm to room temp. yep, i take my leftovers out of the fridge around 10am, so by 12:30 the fries are room temp and pretty much the same texture as they were originally. for the sandwich, i heated that in the microwave but not before taking the lettuce, pickle, and bun OFF. if you're not disassembling your food before microwaving, you're probably not doing it right.

welcome to the blog. home of neuroses and things no one else would dare waste time thinking of, or certainly not admit to it.