Posts tagged anarchyandscotch
Posts tagged anarchyandscotch
I can see my future, y’all, and it involves (1) lots of creepy, clandestine, picture-taking of other women’s hats [see above, left], and (2) insecurity about my own hat, which would probably be fine at Coachella, if I ever went there, but not the Derby. I wish Coco were here to tell me how to dress. All that said…
I CAN’T WAIT!!!
Is this a dog or a horse or do I just have Derby fever?
This is a new series in which you help me not be a dum-dum about America. I’ve been thrilled to hear from some of you, and hope to feature everyone who has expressed interest.
Rich, better known to many as Anarchy & Scotch is a 36 year-old doctoral student pursuing a Ph.D in mass communications. He teaches in the School of Journalism at Indiana University and lives with his wife in Indianapolis. He also writes one of the smartest, most hilarious blogs out there, and I love checking it every morning. (He’s going to be totally embarrassed by this paragraph, but he’ll be fine.) I hope you find his interview as interesting as I did!
One of the most inspirational people I know is a professional triathlete named Hillary Biscay. This could sound surprising because I don’t do triathlons. Pretty much the only cardio I get is when I wake up in the morning and leap to check Rich and Chelsea’s blogs. The reason I know and adore Hillary is that we grew up together, carpooling to swimming, and she’s been one of my best friends since we were eight.
Normally I am skeptical of athletes and don’t find them inspirational when they talk about how worked hard or didn’t make the Varsity team on the first try, or whatnot. It’s like when models tell you how awkward they were in high school—because usually the truth is just that they are genetic wonders and maybe they realized it at age 14 instead of age 8, which is actually depressing. Also, most of us weren’t models in high school, so the implication is that we somehow failed by not growing up to be as hot as they are.
Happy Saturday! TGIS! Below are some things I’ve appreciated this week—hope you enjoy them as much as I did! And hope you have a great weekend!!!
Yesterday I mentioned my lifelong affection for Miss Piggy, and was reminded that she is a highly polarizing figure.
In particular I was struck by a comment from this man:
“I’d like to turn her into a BLT.”
This is embarrassing, but until July 4, 2011, I thought “setting off fireworks in your driveway” was something only pyromaniacs did.
I know, I know, but my excuse is that DIY fireworks are so illegal in Los Angeles and New York that it’s practically illegal to think about them. I assumed this was true everywhere else in the USA… until I stopped by a tent-with-fireworks-for-sale just outside Seattle. (And I do mean just outside, lest you think I was in Eastern Washington. (<—Yeah, I learned my WA state stereotypes!))
I forgot all about these important breakthroughs until I was going through my Seattle photos and saw this one, which I took for Rich and Kristin.
This is my last post about Indianapolis.
Recently I figured out something: it’s fine for me to be a foodie, I just can’t go around calling myself one. Or at least, I’m afraid to after reading B.R. Myers’ piece in The Atlantic. (If you haven’t read it, this is the tagline: “Gluttony dressed up as foodie-ism is still gluttony.” And that’s the nicest thing he says about foodies in the whole piece.) And while I don’t agree entirely with Brian Reynolds Myers, I get his point. It’s gotten ridiculous.
Nevertheless I enjoyed the Kombucha on tap at Whole Foods this weekend.
And I’m realizing that people love to hate foodies! Have you noticed? Foodies are the new Eat, Pray, Love. Meaning: something super-popular that gets backlashed. The argument against foodies and Elizabeth Gilbert boils down to this: they are pretentious and selfish and I hate them.
And I’m realizing that people love to hate foodies! Have you noticed? Foodies are the new
Eat, Pray, Love. Meaning: something super-popular that gets backlashed. The argument against foodies and Elizabeth Gilbert boils down to this:
they are pretentious and selfish and I hate them.
In a way these “debates” are fun. They’re a lot easier to understand than the Israel-Palestine conflict. So much simpler for me to have an opinion about one woman’s trip to Bali than pre-1967 boundaries.
Which of course, brings me to Indianapolis. I was thinking about what a great visit we had there, thanks to Rich and Kristin, who are so funny and smart and very kindly showed us around town.
This picture is taken from the website of Trader’s Point, which is a creamery and a restaurant. I lost my camera at the Indy airport.
And something else very cool we learned about Indy is that it’s easy to fall into a foodie culture without being ridiculous about it. Because Indiana is part of the Corn Belt, it has so much farmland that people are (somewhat) locavore by default. Things that seem really over-the-top in other places are just practical. “Farm to table” isn’t some pretentious aspiration; it’s an accurate way to describe the food’s commute.
This picture is also taken from the website of Trader’s Point, which is a creamery and a restaurant. I lost my camera at the Indy airport.
We went to a dairy farm called Trader’s Point and had fresh cheddar and milk from the farm. It was five minutes outside Indianapolis city limits, in Zionsville. After brunch, we got to walk around the farm and look at the piglets. There were 22 born that week.
Another highlight was Recess, which Chef Greg Hardesty calls his “playground,” because he tries out fun creations there using local ingredients as often as possible.
If you are a foodie, or if you want to be one but are wary of the pretension, try Indiana.
If you have a bucket list, I hope the Indy 500 is on it. In fact, it’s worth starting a bucket list just to go the Indy 500.
Amazingly, I managed to ignore the marvels of this race my whole life. Had I known that Florence Henderson (aka Carol Brady), an Indiana native, sings “America the Beautiful” every year I might have paid more attention.
I had the good fortune to go to Indy 500 this weekend, thanks to Rich and Kristin, who are the best Indy 500 buddies (and Indiana guides) on the planet—thanks, guys for answering incessant questions about race rules, Danica Patrick and Crab Rangoon! (Incredibly, those deep fried dumplings have a Wikipedia entry.)
Never again will I refer to Dario Franchitti as “Ashley Judd’s husband!”
I’d expected the fun to come from checking out the scene. The Indy 500 is the most popular single-day sporting event in the world (bigger than the Superbowl!). Supposedly 250,000 people attend.
I guessed that with so many strangers nearby, there would be some pseudo-anthropology-fun to be had in the town of Speedway. (Isn’t that an adorable name for a racing town? Speedway!)
Indy 500 feels like a giant party combined with a national holiday, which is exactly what it is. And sure, I noticed a few cultural differences that made me smile: apparently it’s totally OK to go shirtless. A Catholic bishop gave the official race invocation. (We prayed for “good weather, a safe race, and lots of speed and excitement on the track.”) Hot Wheels sponsored a Monster Truck jump, and it set a world record before the race.
Neat! But no big whoop.
Because guess what?
The race was faaaaaaaascinating. (I’m trying to make that word look like the Doppler effect.)
Surprisingly, it’s very easy to appreciate the race without being engineeringly-inclined because we all drive cars and ride in cars. Thus we can all relate to the action.
Except not really. Here is the difference between me and Dario Franchitti: I get scared when a cab driver goes 55 miles per hour on the West Side highway, and I actually feel grateful for being alive when I get out of the car. Indy Car drivers go 220 miles per hour! On purpose!
Rich has a video of it here.
Take it from me, you do not have to be a mechanical engineer to find that amazing when you see it happen, three rows from the track, which Eric and I were, thanks to Rich and Kristin.
This is why I am newly obsessed with Danica Patrick. I completely misjudged her as “that girl from those annoying GoDaddy ads who wants to be sexy and quirky.” I thought it was no big deal that she can drive a car fast. “After all,” I told myself, “how hard is it to drive a car? I drive a car.”
I WAS SUCH A DUM-DUM!
I bought this book at the airport. I loved it.
Danica is amazing: 1) She finishes consistently in the top ten; 2) She gets more sponsors than anyone in the sport—and one’s ability to race is contingent upon sponsorhip; 3) She finished the race, which is a big deal.
Lots of people don’t actually finish. More than 60 people have died competing since the race started one hundred years ago. The cars have gotten safer, but crashes are still a big deal.
Like when rookie JR Hildebrand tried to pass and instead clipped the wall, lost a tire, and rolled into a second-place finish—while Dan Wheldon passed him and took the lead. (The only thing sadder than that for me is the fact that I lost Eric’s camera with all our Indiana pictures.)
At least we all got to go to Indy 500.
From now on, Memorial Day Weekend is not “the unofficial start of summer” in my book.
It’s Race Weekend.
Today I’m leaving for Indianapolis, and on Sunday I will be at the Indy 500! (You’re welcome, cat burglars!)
I feel a little guilty getting to go our country’s most famous car race, like I didn’t earn it. It would be like knowing nothing about music and going to a Pink Floyd concert in 1973.
If you told me about a woman whose favorite discovery of 2010 was her blogging platform, I’d feel a little bad for her.
Except I am that woman.
I’m just back from a great weekend in Minneapolis, where the temperature was three degrees. If you are not familiar with single-digit-weather, let me tell you: compared to that, the rest of the world feels like Miami. If you talk to someone in Minnesota this winter and that person does not whine about the weather for the entire conversation, SALUTE HIM OR HER. For the record, I am not complaining, because for for my 28-hour visit, the cold was a bonus, like being in a Coen Brothers movie. Kind of quiet and awesome. But I think it would take some getting used to, and an ability to STFU that I
may or may not possess.
Oh yes, there was a blizzard this weekend. At least, by the standards of any other city it was a blizzard. But in Minneapolis people don’t get all fazed by 11 inches of snowfall. At 8:30 am on Sunday, brunch at Hell’s Kitchen was packed. I saw people walking to the Vikings game in hoodies. As in: those sweatshirts I wore for warmth and irony when I lived in Los Angeles, where a cold day is still 55 degrees warmer. Apparently the city towed 1,154 cars for parking violations. (Rules don’t stop for snow!)
It is amazing the human race has survived! I am so glad to live in an era with electricity. And women’s suffrage. And Skyways. I would not have made it, for example, as a Pilgrim. Let alone a Sioux.
Thanks to everyone who saved me from myself, by writing in with comments about what to do in Minneapolis. Not sure what I’d have done in MPS left to my own devices, but doubt it would have included Hell’s Kitchen or 112 Eatery, which were awesome.
Or the discovery of a new favorite artist, Alec Soth, at the Walker, thanks to Aarthi:
Or this, thanks to KellyDeal:
(By the way, this is how the magic in the above photo happens:)
It could not have been more fun! Except maybe if I’d left the Mall of America an hour sooner, and stayed in Minneapolis an extra night.