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allthefilmsiveseenforfree · 3 years

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Connie and Carla

I know nothing about this film requested by Chad other than the following facts: It was Nia Vardalos’s follow-up to the indie smash hit My Big Fat Greek Wedding, and it was universally reviled by audiences and critics alike. So I’m in for a fun afternoon! The plot is your basic Some Like It Hot ripoff - Connie (Vardalos) and Carla (Toni Collette) are childhood best friends who have spent their whole lives performing together, believing they are destined for musical theater greatness. After witnessing a murder, they go on the run and hide out in the last place anyone would think to look for them - as women pretending to be men pretending to be women, aka performers in a drag queen bar in L.A. Everything’s going great until a BOY shows up (David Duchovny), and Connie falls for him. Gender gags, musical theater numbers, mistaken identify, Russian mobsters, hijinks - yeah, we’ve all drunk this cocktail before. So was this top shelf, or something found in a plastic jug at the gas station? Well...

How about a mid-level ridiculous flavored vodka? Like Pinnacle Whipped Cream or something. The film’s conceptions of gender (and of straight women’s feelings of entitlement to what should be LGBTQ spaces) are not my favorite. But its heart is in the right place and overall this leads to something pretty fun and charming, especially if you happen to love musical theater.

Some thoughts:

If there were an airport lounge where I could watch two sad 30-somethings singing a medley of musical theater’s greatest hits, I would go there every day. I wouldn’t even book a flight, that would just be my favorite bar. I think I would go broke driving to the airport every day and buying drinks in this lounge. I’d have my birthday party there.

Oh I love Greg Gruenberg in a bit part as the cheesy celebrity bus tour guide in L.A.

Hello David Duchovny as Jeff! He was my first celebrity crush, and his aw shucks nice guy thing in this movie is really working for me.

This is wildly offensive to drag queens not because of stereotypes, but because no drag act would ever come so ill-prepared with a Rocky Horror number. I recognize that in 2004 we didn’t have over a decade of RuPaul’s Drag Race under our belts, but c’mon, even the most sheltered Midwestern queer would come with something better than this.

Is this supposed to be some kind of feminist statement about beauty standards in L.A.? This anti-botox rant Connie and Carla go on, and the makeover of the woman in the salon - no no no, straight hair and beige lipstick is Bad but curly hair and lip liner is Good. It feels confusing that we’re supposed to see this as empowering when we’re just trading one commodified flavor of femininity for another.

There’s something that just feels deeply wrong about these women taking one of the only paying drag gigs in town, particularly when actual drag performers come to them and beg them to open up their act to include other drag queens. Note that they all offer up tangible skills - I can sew a dress in 3 hours, I can do incredible makeup, I’ve got great choreography. Yes Connie and Carla can sing, but drag is meant to be performative - the artifice is part of what makes it an art form. Smarter queer people than me have written about this, but even for the uneducated, there’s something about this concept that feels off, wrong and exploitative, and deeply rooted in straight privilege. It’s the same icky feeling I get at the gay bar when all the seats for the drag show are taken up by straight women’s bachelorette parties, while actual queer women and men who came to see the show are pushed to standing room.

Ok, I do kind of love these interludes with Tibor (Boris McGiver) looking for the girls in every dinner theater and Broadway show in the country and the only show playing is Mame every time. Fun fact - McGiver’s father actually starred in the 1974 version of Mame!

Feels a little weird that Connie is the one who is explaining to Jeff why drag queens “like to dress up.” Is this being an ally or just erasing and talking over queer folks’ experiences? This is what I mean when I say it feels off - I don’t think it’s malicious, but the way the film handles queer stories feels like a dismissal, an invalidation. Like these straight women can do queer camp better than these gay men.

Did Carla literally just say “I need to get out of this closet”????

Connie is literally the worst at maintaining a cover. The trappings of fame are proving too alluring!

As far as performances go, Collette and Vardalos have great chemistry, and Duchovny is being pretty dreamy as the romantic lead who’s around because he’s trying to reconnect with his estranged brother, Robert (Stephen Spinella). Nobody is winning an acting award for this, but Collette especially is a lot of bubbly fun.

Jeff is a difficult character to grapple with. On the one hand, he doesn’t always handle Robert’s sexuality with grace or compassion, and that can be difficult to watch as a queer person because we all have experienced that same kind of look, that tone of “why can’t you just be normal?” However, he’s putting in an honest effort to grow, and I think that should count for something. Also he straight up gets sexually assaulted by Connie, so I don’t blame him for having a hard time feeling comfortable around the drag queen scene. And that’s another fucked up thing, just adding to the “gay men are predatory and will put the moves on straight guys at the first chance” stereotype.

Even though it sounds cringey as hell when he says it, I’m sure it is probably cathartic for any gay kid who stumbles across this movie and hears Jeff make his big speech about “I should have just loved you and accepted you and not cared about the fact that you wear dresses.” That’s what I mean when I say the script seems to have its heart in the right place even though the way it’s expressing a lot of these ideas just reinforces the status quo rather than interrogating it, or propping up the stories of people who live outside that status quo.

My god, do I love Debbie Reynolds in this head-to-toe red glitter number.

Yeah I don’t think all these queens would take this kindly to being lied to and having their act infiltrated by a couple of straight women. Like this feels laughably “all’s well that ends well.”

Did I Cry? Ok, a tear slipped out when Jeff and Robert hugged for the first time.

This was a very interesting watch. I know I seem to be dragging this shit out of this movie, but I actually largely enjoyed the experience of watching it. It’s got a very 2004-esque view of some complex gender and sexuality issues (and wouldn’t it have been so much more interesting if a queer person had written this and was able to use it to interrogate issues of femininity and its performance as it relates to queerness?). BUT, honestly, the whole thing is Shakespearean in its plot and its broad strokes characters. You’ve got crossdressing, mistaken identity, some light gay panic, long lost brothers reuniting - all that’s missing is a Duke and a forest setting, and you’ve got half of Shakespeare’s comedies right there. And much like Shakespeare, there’s nothing here that hasn’t been done before - it’s the medium parts of Some Like It Hot, the general plot of Sister Act (swap nuns for drag queens), the gender panic of every cross-dressing movie. All very surface-level stuff but there’s a reason these same kind of stories have been putting butts in seats for 400 years.

If you liked this review, please consider reblogging or subscribing to my Patreon! For as low as $1, you can access bonus content and movie reviews, or even request that I review any movie of your choice.

#121in2021 #connie and carla #connie and carla review #nia vardalos #toni collette #david duchovny #movie reviews #film reviews #patreon review

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etraytin · 6 years

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HEADCANONS FOR JOSH AND DONNA'S WEDDING

Okay, so last night I was kinda freaking out about the whole moving-again thing, so extra thanks to everybody who liked my post and gave me that virtual “there, there,” because that did help. :D Today I have sorted some paperwork and eaten an egg sandwich and I’m feeling some better, so obviously it is time to get back to my favorite moving-procrastination activity: writing headcanons!

Josh and Donna’s wedding is something I’ve never written because I’m kinda terrible at writing weddings and avoid it when I can. That said, I did do one pre-wedding fic, Personnel Matters.�� that deals with the apportionment of maidly and manly wedding duties. I think it turned out pretty funny, but I will be ignoring it for the purposes of this headcanon.

Once Josh and Donna get going on thewhole romance train, they move along at a reasonable clip. Notsuper-fast, they are trying to run a country after all, but once theyget things talked out in Hawaii, there's a certain feeling that theyknow the endgame that they are heading for. This is very helpful forJosh, especially, who freaks out over the engagement only about 60%as much as he might have otherwise (which is still a fair amount).They get engaged about six months into the Santos administration,once the first and second hundred days are behind them, then have thewedding six months later, just before things really rev up formidterms. Some might see that sort of political calculus asunromantic, but Donna and Josh have both lived their lives to therhythms of politics for many years and it never even occurs to eitherof them to do otherwise.

Donna hires a wedding planner to takecare of all the actual details. Given their respective positions andthe sort of people they'll be inviting, certain standards need to bemet and she is way too busy to do it herself, despite formidableorganizational skills. Between her salary, Josh's salary, and herparents wanting to chip in, they can afford to do things up properly.The whole “His and hers” matching Chiefs of Staff thing hasgotten a lot of traction in some of the news outlets, but they limitpress access to a few friendly reporters and one photography teamfrom Vanity Fair, who have been quite favorable to the newadministration and have earned Josh's grudging appreciation. There'snot quite as much protocol as at, say, Ellie Bartlet's wedding, butwith two presidents and a bunch of other VIPs attending, security isgoing to be tight. They settle on the Hay Adams Hotel in DC for bothceremony and reception, even though it invites teasing about neitherof them being able to get away from work (it's in eyesight of theWhite House!), because it's a gorgeous event space that understandshow to handle this sort of function.

The ceremony itself is a bit of acultural mix. Neither Josh nor Donna are particularly observant intheir religious lives, but both of them have deep cultural roots andfamilies they want to honor. Toby helps Josh create a beautifullylettered ketubah, and it turns out Margaret has a friend who doesmanuscript illumination in their spare time because of course shedoes. So that's taken care of, and the chuppah cannot be open to thesky because of security concerns but it's still gorgeous (thank you,wedding planner!) and decorated with many, many flowers. They smashthe glass as well, a specially-designed smashing-glass, much to thedelight of the youngest members of the crowd. Most of the rest of theceremony is pretty standard Midwestern Protestant, rings and a unitycandle and a big procession with the wedding march playing.

Toby's twins serving as ring-bearer andflower girl and Peter and Miranda as junior attendants becauseMiranda idolizes Donna and wasabsolutelydesperate to be in the wedding. Donna's sister is her maid of honorbecause friendship doesn't count as much as blood when it comes towho stands where on one's wedding day, but she gets Stephanie Gaulttoo, plus Annabeth and Margaret and CJ, once she works up the nerveto ask. Josh isn't sure he knows five guys who'll stand up for him,but he recruits Sam for his best man, of course, then gets Toby,Charlie, Danny Concannon and, because my poor little fanficcer'sbrain has it as quasi-canon that these guys are old friends, MattSkinner. (This was a huge thing in a lot of early-season fanfic I'veread, and I just sort of absorbed it as true despite a lack of realtextual evidence. I like it anyway!) Donna teases that if Josh gotWill Bailey as well, he could reenact the time when they all gotdrunk and threw snowballs at her apartment, but Josh points out boththat Will was merely substituting in for Sam anyway and that weddingparties have a strict one-congressman limit and he'd hate to jinxWill's run. Donna does allow that, Congressman limit or no, thatmight be entirely too many speechwriters for one wedding party as shedoes hope to have a chance to do things like dance and eat at thereception.

Josh'smom doesn't meet Donna's parents until just a few days before theceremony, but the two moms have been conversing by phone for monthsand they all get along like gangbusters. It is apparently very easyto bond over children who do not call or visit enough and who need tobe a lot more proactive on the whole grandchildren issue. Before theend of the wedding week, the Mosses are making plans to vacation inWest Palm Beach during the winter when nobody wants to be inWisconsin anyway. Donna's younger sister is more than happy to bepaired up with Sam during the wedding party activities, enough thatDonna has to warn her off with threats of brutal lawyer retaliationfrom Sam's fiance (who is in reality a sweetheart and slightlysocially awkward but Little Sis doesn't need to know that.) To staveoff any fights, she blithely foists her sister off onto Bram instead,who turns out to be a perfectly adequate substitute. There are many,many other Moss relatives as well, far more than Josh can keep trackof. It's a little weird when his side of the family has a photo withjust him, Donna, his mom and a couple of cousins, but then he and hismom both get folded into the dozens of people cramming together forthe Moss family photo and it's actually kind of nice.

AsDonna had feared, the reception involves a whole lot of speeches andtoasts. Turns out when you invite a president to your wedding youhave to let him speak, and when you invite two presidents they bothget to speak, and when two of your groomsmen have written speechesfor the president they are going to have surreptitious littleslapfights over grammar while one of them is trying to talk. By thetime all those speeches are done, Donna's sister is too intimidatedto speak at all, and has also finished a glass and a half ofchampagne. CJ gracefully steps in and delivers the maid of honortoast with all the poise of a press secretary and the wit of Josh'shonorary big sister, and the extemporaneous speech is probably thebest received of the whole night. After that, everybody finally getsto eat.

The Secret Service will not allow the use of the rooftopbalcony for dancing, but from inside the ballroom they can still seethe White House in the distace, which is kind of nice, all thingsconsidered. It seems fitting. Josh and Donna disappear after a couplehours of dancing and the compulsory throwing-of-Donna's-accessories(she puts the garter around her ankle just before the toss and makesJosh take it off with his hands, thank you!), both of which arescored by Donna's speedy and highly competitive extended family. Theyhead off for a Hawaiian honeymoon to do all the stuff Donna pickedout of the guidebook on the first trip but they didn't have a chanceto do, while the rest of the guests close the place down, dancing andcelebrating till late. It's really quite something!

#the west wing #headcanons #fanfiction #josh x donna #josh lyman #donna moss #joshuallyman

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memorylang · 4 years

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Identity at the End | #34 | March 2020

With this last story, I share my journey crossing the States, having arrived from Mongolia beyond a blur evacuating around COVID-19.

With this to conclude my first nine months a Peace Corps Volunteer, I focus on identity. I share subtle moments from between hours of packing, farewells to Mongolian friends and the journey to Mongolia’s capital. I also share huge moments from my flights crossing Eurasia. By my stories’ end, you’ll know what’s next.

First, let’s pick up where we left off.

America Alone

Moments before, I said goodbye to the last Peace Corps Volunteer I’d see for a while. That late Thursday, March 5, I just had me now.

I stepped inside the Radisson JFK where I’d stay this night. I felt a little disappointed the receptionist said to take the 5:30 a.m. shuttle not the 6:30 (when I could’ve gotten breakfast). But I tried not to sweat it, knowing my backpack of food from Mongolia remained.

That night, I enjoyed a refreshing shower, rested four and a half hours and reorganized my packs to get off the many clothes layers I wouldn’t wear flying to Vegas. Then I headed forth before the crack of dawn.

Turns out my flight’s captain rode our shuttle, which felt neat. Being able to understand people’s small talk in English felt weird. Like a superpower.

The shuttle driver had us announce our airlines, then he dropped us off accordingly. Nice guy.

I wandered to find Delta in JFK’s big place. Bright lights contrasted outside’s darkness. American diversity caught my eye. I felt amazed, seeing so many different looking people. I felt as though in ‘another country’ in the Big Apple. Even when I lived in Nevada, visiting NYC felt like trips abroad.

I felt surprised to see almost no one wore masks to try mitigating Coronavirus spread. I heard New York had serious cases. So, I let my guard down a little, figuring on that Friday, March 6, I’d escaped global paranoia.

One Last Airport

Well, at my check-in desk, the woman told me to stand against a wall when I spoke of having returned from Mongolia. She added she was joking. I didn’t like her joke. Thus, I returned to limit mentioning I was in Mongolia (which, at that time, had no COVID-19 cases).

As I waited in lines, I checked my phone to see Peace Corps friends announcing in our group chat they were home. Others had stickier situations. My Catholic friend, for example, got stranded overnight in Berlin, since his group, scheduled to fly through Frankfurt, rescheduled. My friend sent me beautiful photos from his Berlin outing. I felt glad.

After clearing security, I felt convenience being able to prop my foot on a bench to tie my boot. To elevate feet is a bit taboo in Mongolia. So, American culture has its conveniences.

Aboard the shuttle to my gate, I noticed the time and saw I’d reach by 6:30 a.m., not even boarding till 7:30. I could’ve had time to grab breakfast at the hotel. But, then I remembered today’s the second Friday of Lent. So, a fasting day. Perhaps God did me a favor having me miss breakfast, hehe...

American Culture

In the West, I get few bonus points for adhering to culture norms. Especially in the States, many unremarkably expect others to know how things work.

I felt this at a water fountain near my JFK gate. A woman stood sort of behind a man refilling his bottle, but she was a bit to the left side. So I asked her, "Are you filling up, too?" She replied yes pleasantly. So I waited to refill my bottle after her.

Americans expect each other to wait their turns. We assume people who arrive first should go first. If we're not sure, we might ask. On the flip side, in the East, usually the most urgent people go, even if they’re not first.

I also liked how people in Asia felt more amazed when I followed cultural norms, for they often didn’t expect foreigners to know them. I received more forgiveness, too, for my Asian faux pas, too.

(Bonus points if you remembered I couldn’t find a drinking fountain in Amsterdam’s airport, the day before!)

Ready for Takeoff

I returned to my waiting area seat. Amusingly, I noticed my Delta flight marked, ‘DL’—It had my name on it! I shared. Peace Corps staff liked my joke.

When my Peace Corps cohort first met last May, we’d asked each other where in the States we came from. Fast-forward nine months to a couple days ago in Mongolia’s capital for evacuation, and we’d asked the reverse: where we’d fly home. Many felt surprised I’d fly to Vegas, for they say I don’t seem I’d be from there. I usually just added it’s where my family lives. I think my Midwestern childhood shaped me enough to still consider myself more ‘from’ the Midwest. Still, Vegas is alright.

We boarded, and I, having settled in, found myself with my last flight home. Outside, I saw personnel defrosting the wing. I remembered Ulaanbaatar the day before. This time, chemicals weren’t green, just misty.

As our plane climbed, I paused, pondering how to mark the occasion of my Peace Corps journey’s last leg. And so, identity resurfaced as what I sought to reevaluate. Now, I take you one last time down evacuation memory lane.

World Window—Change

Barely a week earlier than New York was Thursday, Feb. 27, and I needed a break. The night before, we Peace Corps Mongolia Volunteers learned we’d leave and had to pack up as fast as feasible. So in my apartment I pushed the night through day, finally sleeping that afternoon after receiving notice I wouldn’t leave till the coming Sunday, March 1.

I paused later that evening, taking another break from packing. A Peace Corps cohort friend called me. We sometimes chatted on slower evenings to check in, given our shared interests in anthropology, history, religions and the like.

Well, we wound up chatting a cathartic two hours (which wasn’t too uncommon). Since her province was near the capital, Peace Corps would collect Volunteers from her site over a day before mine. So she’d already arrive and could fill me in after I make it. I felt seeing each other again so soon since December would feel weird but cool!

As we talked, I’d paced into my bedroom, habitually gazing out my window.

The sun was setting. I’d only two sunsets left before leaving this city I loved. I longed to savor these moments. As the call progressed, a dark night bloomed with faraway lights seeming star-like.

My window overlooked both a nearby hill to my ger district on the left and faraway hills of another get district toward the center. In my right periphery, I saw a smidge of downtown’s few tall apartments, beside the two-lane main road. Few cars passed afar now, for cops enforced people remain at home to mitigate Coronavirus’ spread if it reached Mongolia.

World Window—Acceptance

I realized while chatting with my Peace Corps friend, when I first arrived in this city, I felt lonelier. This quarantine revived my August 2019 feeling of knowing people are out there but not knowing where to see them. At that time, I didn’t know who they were or what they were like.

So now, I realized, I’d really integrated, after all.

Integration wasn’t how I expected—Peace Corps life rarely is.

I worried, when Peace Corps Mongolia placed me at a site that’s known Volunteers for generations, I could have to live up to predecessors’ standards. But rather, locals seemed more interested in knowing me for me. I found adventure in uncovering past cohorts through locals’ fond memories.

In my city, I met so many talented people with huge dreams. And they wanted me to be part of those dreams (or I already was). I hoped in the days following to fit the few goodbyes I could.

For, I’ve loved being a Volunteer. To live as a servant feels liberating. I live to serve, and the world meets my needs. In whatever jobs I take after Peace Corps, I want to serve.

My friend and I’d later meet again Monday afternoon, March 2, when she caught me up in the capital. We drained our bank accounts together that Wednesday. And on Thursday, March 5, we coincidentally sat i n the same row for our flights to Moscow and Berlin.

Easier Being Me Overseas

Cultures sure reveal subjectivities.

Before Peace Corps, many people I knew, including my parents, didn’t like much my abnormally great willingness to let my joy be joy and show my enthusiasm as it is. Indeed, many preferred I be less ‘that.’ As I grew older, I learned to stifle these more regularly. I considered if I was blessed with great joy, then praying for temperance can help me balance it.

To my amazement, many Mongolians found my tendencies endearing. I loved how in Mongolia, many enjoyed my idle rhythmic movements, calling them, “dancing,” versus my dad’s more patronizing label of, “swaying in the breeze.” (Even Mom once asked a doctor if I’d something wrong with me…) So Mongolians were kinder.

On Sunday, March 1, while my Peace Corps group evacuated to the capital and our car met up with the van, I felt overjoyed seeing again Peace Corps friends.

I know expressiveness has its time and place—I did public relations and communications. But in interpersonal life, when we’re freer to be ourselves, I try to be myself. And, while people in the West tended to view my actions as ‘childish,’ those in the East tended to view the same as ‘cute.’ Mongolians (and Chinese, too) more often enjoyed my visible and verbal elation toward our world’s wonders. I felt relieved from greater acceptance.

But, I felt touched, too, by a Peace Corps friend who asked me to give her a moment for sorrow when she needed it. To voice our needs, I feel, is among the most powerful and difficult tasks in our lives. When she had that courage, I respected her wishes and returned to humble masking. Outside, I still felt awed to bask in snowy hills we Peace Corps Volunteers had to leave behind.

My friend and I reconnected the next day, after getting time in the capital to understand our evacuation. She was my senior cohort friend I enjoyed dinner with Monday night, alongside the anthro. friend from my cohort.

From Nine Months—Mongolian?

Throughout Lunar New Year’s /Tsagaan Sar/, I confused local children when they opened their family’s doors to me. Their parents would explain I'm a Peace Corps Volunteer from America who speaks English, to which the children would apologize to me thinking I was Mongolian!

I didn’t mind. I figured this mostly came from children’s lack of meeting foreigners.

Fast-forward a few days later, and my friends gathered in my apartment to see me off Saturday night, Feb. 29. While they relaxed in my living room thankfully enjoying my snacks, they asked what I'd do in the States and how I felt. I admitted worries that American anti-Asian sentiments grew, considering Coronavirus’ source as China.

But my friends looked shocked and insisted, no I don't look Chinese, I just look American.

I mentally pushed back, knowing I look to most Americans Chinese (but at least Asian). Still, I felt debating whether Americans think I look American felt trivial. I just chuckled, accepting my friends’ positive vibes. If only more Americans were as inclusive as these Mongolians...

During my sunset hike later that night, my high schooler friend added something else:

"You look like a Mongolian person!"

Having summited and taken our selfies, I sat nonchalantly on a rock. I wore my face mask, hats and all, plus the sky-blue jacket my colleagues gifted me. My friend insisted I looked Mongolian. I had him photograph me so I could share it with the others. To my amazement, my FLEX alumnus friend agreed with the teen! I hadn’t done anything outside my norm, so I felt amused that my mannerisms made me seem Mongolian to Mongolians.

Nine months seems enough time to be born again.

Flying Mongolian

Aboard my MIAT Mongolian Airlines flight from Thursday, March 5, identity confusion extended.

The experience led me to ponder, one does not often aspire to be a foreigner. People yearn to belong, to integrate.

Here’s the first part. As the flight attendant came down the aisle, she addressed passengers in either Mongolian and English (and maybe Russian, too). But when she reached me, she spoke straight Mongolian! I felt surprised but went with it. I replied, "цай" /tsahy/ (tea), followed by "хамаагүй" /ha-mah-gwee/ (doesn't matter) when she inquired which kind.

I felt shocked how smooth that went, too. It reminded me of flights to and from China, when attendants would sometimes address me in Chinese and I’d reply likewise.

Still, the next few times the attendants addressed me, they continued speaking to me exclusively in Mongolian, even after they spoke English to my Caucasian Peace Corps Volunteer friend seated across my row.

Eventually I reckoned flight staff thought I was Mongolian because I wore a face mask like Mongolian passengers.

Before long, I felt a moment's impostor situation. Flight staff came back down the aisle to ask about drinks again, after serving meals. I'd my mask off.

I feared, this is it. They'll see me as the foreigner I am and stop speaking to me in Mongolian. Well, I felt moved while it lasted.

Then God surprised me! The attendant asked in Mongolian what I’d drink. She didn't quite hear me a moment, though. I flinched—I thought, oh, she can see my lips, she’ll know I’m inauthentic.

I trooped on anyway and tried again, "ус" /ohs/ (water). She heard, provided and continued on—And that was that.

I felt stunned.

Ultimately, I felt so content Mongolians assumed me for Mongolian. I guess that's the ultimate step of belonging—being believed to be like anyone else.

Never in high school would I have guessed that the civilization I loved so much might one day assume I too came from their great nation Chinggis Khaan made.

Flying Ambiguity

I later felt disappointed when a flight attendant responded, "Water?" in response to something I asked in Mongolian.

So I wondered what factors influenced with which language flight attendants addressed me.

I wondered if my Asian features made me seem Mongolian. Or maybe the sky blue jacket my colleagues gifted. I suspected once I hid my mask and stowed my extra cold-weather sweater that I took on the more "foreign" look. Perhaps my mannerisms influenced, too. Maybe when I read English language books, I seemed better to speak English with.

But I acknowledged even on Chinese airlines, attendants consistently inconsistently chose in which language to address me. So, achieving similar cultural ambiguity for seeming as Mongolian to Mongolians as I seemed Chinese to Chinese felt the best of both worlds!

Further, as our flight was leaving Moscow for Berlin, I noticed attendants asked me in English, "Please stow your luggage under the seat," but in Mongolian said, "Please turn off your phone."

Originally I wondered if maybe some just didn't know English? But I heard them speak it. Maybe speaking English just took more mental energy? I hypothesized at last they spoke English when they suspected I wouldn’t understand the Mongolian, otherwise addressing me in Mongolian.

On an amusing note, I noticed on the flight, “бүсээ” /büsehh/ meant “belt,” which sounded similar to the word “бүс,” which Peace Corps Mongolia translated as “region.” I felt comforted by this simple connection I made in trying to get the language.

But my language musings fell away once we touched down in Berlin and made the many farewells. I transferred from the Mongolian airline to a Dutch one. European cultures drew my attention. Then at last I reached America.

Discerning Aspirations

As I flew alone above the States, I felt the hollowness of having made my last goodbyes to amazing Peace Corps people.

When I get the call back to Mongolia, I’ll go. If I can’t, I’ll find a new path.

In the meantime, I accepted my first nine Mongolian months had passed. Moments later, I felt the vibes of my past flights from New York home to Vegas. I tended to see in-flight films back then.

With hours left till Vegas, I relaxed, taking up my ol’ habit searching for either Chinese films or English ones subtitled in Chinese. “Frozen II” had subtitles. I’d passed it on flights before, so I decided I’d give it a try.

Then I felt moved. Seeing Anna’s self-giving love and Elsa’s identity bound seeking their late mother, “Frozen II” catalyzed my new start in America. I actually cried from its climax. (So, see “Frozen II” ahead of the story I’ll write this May, if you fear spoilers.) I’ll return to this in time for Mother’s Day.

The End

For now, this marks the finale to my Mongolian start as a Peace Corps Volunteer. Having returned home Friday, March 6, 2020 to an America just waking up to COVID-19, I’ve been stateside exactly eight weeks now.

Less than 10 days after my return home, Peace Corps would make international headlines, and my life flared up that Lent. Then came Easter, life’s renewal.

So something’s next—sweeping us through both March and April, 2020—my Easter epilogue.

Till then, thank you for joining me. I hope you learned something from these 34 stories—They were at least entertaining, right? Well, thanks for humoring me anyway. I look forward to sharing with you how I’ve spent my American quarantine and the hope in life to come.

Love, Daniel <3

You can read more from me here at DanielLang.me :)

#Peace Corps #Mongolia #memoir #story #God #memoryLang #goodbyes #Tsagaan Sar #Lunar New Year #Lent #evacuation #Coronavirus #COVID-19 #winter #stress #friendship #identity #service #America #travel

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leepennino · 5 years

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The Sky Sucks

I must have been 5 or 6 years old, sitting outside on the sidewalk of my only childhood home. A pink house, that my mother and father - who tirelessly restored it called “MAUVE” and what the rest of our tiny town of 3,000 people in Momence, Illinois called “Embarassing”. We were an outsider family in this town of people who’s familial lineage ran so deep and they farmed all the land around us for all the years it’s been a farmtown. There were the Johnsons, the Gilberts, the Murrays and everyone else who was related to them. We were the Goodrich’s from Chicago and the only family we had, who we followed to Momence were the Gobervilles.

The Gobervilles literally lived on the other side of the tracks... 4 sets of railroad tracks that kept them far away from the rest of the town. All the houses on that side of town were pretty disheveled and most of the residents were unemployed. When we visited our cousins, in their dark dank house we felt like we were in a scary world very far from the christian farm town we had known. Kids literally ran around the streets without shoes and often had dirt on their clothes and faces, not because they hadn’t bathed but most yards on the East Side had no grass. This is the deepest part of the midwest where people actually somehow got southern accents and were pregnant by the age of 13.

As I sat on the sidewalk my dad popped out of the house and said “Mom says I have to go and take you for a haircut, let’s go.”

My mom thought of me as her little princess.. which, I know sounds really lame and someone growing up with that usually turns out equally as lame. When I was this age I still had my baby blonde hair that was barely ever cut, it hung long down to my butt and I had bright blue eyes. My mom was obsessed with me, always showering me with compliments and “you’re so pretty” “You’re my little angel” She was a bit obsessed with me, as all moms are I’m sure. But, my mom was especially in love- in a weird selfish way. I believed her words of “You’re my favorite, don’t tell anyone I said that” landed on me because I looked exactly like her. At an early age I knew this was probably not a cool thing to say to one child of three. And, anyway.. my brother and my sister were actually the coolest ones. I looked to them for everything, companionship, playtime, their cool clothes, my sister’s crimped hair, the way she danced to MTV and my brother’s room filled with black and blue toys instead of pink and flesh colored like mine. Jim and Julie had cool friends and even shared a pet iguana named Beavis. So, when I sat down in the salon chair, 6 year old Adi decided she needed a change, and something very ‘cool.’

Across from me in the salon were the normal posters, showing various styled and cut hair to inspire the customer to be brave and try something new. There were men with flat tops, shaved heads with all sorts of designs on the sides of their heads, lightning bolts, the Bull’s logo and zig zags. And there was one poster that really stood out. It was a large poster, a glamour shot of a woman on a deep black background. Small blips of light like lazers behind her. She looked at me with a confidence that said “ you can be this if you try” She had purple eyeshadow, very blue eyes and black eyeliner that accentuated them like a lioness. Her cheeks were airbrushed with glitter and a fade from coral to pink ending with white high on her cheekbones. And her hair, that’s what really won me over. It wasn’t long and soft and blonde like mine, it was dark, short and spikey. This woman was hot. She was sexy and she looked like a renegade. This woman was pretty much everything I currently was not, especially in my mom’s eyes. This woman on the poster could never be called a princess and I wanted to embody her look of dissident.

When the high-school aged hair dresser sat me down and draped a vinyl cape over me I knew what I was going to do.

“Just a trim, huh Dad?” She said looking to my dad for approval.

“Yeah.”

I slowly and confidentally kept my gaze to the poster lady’s eyes and squeeked out in my tiny voice “ No, I want that.” and pointed to the poster.

“Oh... what?” The hair dresser questioned.

“Dad, I want my hair like hers.” Pointing to the poster.

My dad walked over, kneeled next to me and put his head beside mine to make sure my gaze wasn’t looking at the poster directly next to it, an image of a small girl with ribbons in her hair.

He saw what I saw, the 30 something super model with lazers behind her. “Honey, are you sure?”

“Yes.”

So, the teen hair dresser lopped my hair off quicker than I thought possible. She kept me pointed away from the mirror, likely knowing I’d squeel to see my blonde locks disappearing. When she spun me around and I looked at myself I immediately knew I looked GOOD. I not only looked good, I looked hot and new and my blonde hair was surprisingly gone. The inch long hair was now only my brown roots, they had been awaiting this day and new era of cool rebellion.

My dad helped me up into his 1991 Ford Ranger and I rolled the window down to feel the summer breeze on my newfound neck and ears on the short ride home, down the town’s single main drag, Dixie Highway to our Mauve home on Maple St.

My dad brought me home to a puzzled and hysterical mother that didn’t know what to do with her daughter that now looked like her son. I felt pretty dumb.

Every few weeks we’d head up to Chicago an hour away from Momence going a full 60 miles an hour for 60 minutes to visit Grandma Dorothy. My grandma lived in a house that had zero rules or restrictions. We did and ate anything we wanted and we were often accompanied with the Goberville cousins, John, Tony and Robbie.

Dorothy had endless amounts of Fannie Mae candies, oreo cookies, ice cream and cases of RC Cola stacked on the steps to the basement. She aimed to keep us hydrated and happy with whatever we wanted. Dorothy isn’t the grandma to make home made meals and she had an extra freezer in the basement filled with Sam’s Club frozen Veggie Lasagna, Family sized Turtle Cheesecakes, Chicken Kievs and other easy to prepare meals and desserts for 6-10 people.

Back in Momence, my dad mowed the lawn, drank beer and sat on a new maroon leather couch while my mom cried and threw all of my lacy outgrown dresses in the trash. In Chicago, we were LIVING THE LIFE.

It was a standard 90 degree Midwestern summer day. Hotter than any other place on planet earth and the humidity made the tiny hairs on our faces drip with sweat. My grandfather, Sonzo, ran a small power washing business. So, while he was power washing semi-trucks needing a clean on their way across America, we kids would run the place and our grandma would read romantic novels. Grandpa’s equipment was always something we’d get into. He had large 500 gallon drums that served as pools for us kids in the summer. Pools that were strapped on the back of a pull-behind trailer, but they still were mini pools.

As we were splashing and playing my first-ever real life crush, Keith, the neighbor came by. He didn’t notice me and I didn’t really care until I realized he probably didn’t recognize me with my new haircut. I also realized I was not being babied in the way I normally was. The boys were treating me like a normal human, allowing me to splash and scream. They weren’t lifting me out of the pool as they generally would, they weren’t telling me to go inside and hang out with grandma on the couch. As I was putting two and two together I realized I was finally in! In the club, the club of being loud and crazy and filled with a summer’s rage that could not be stopped.

I kind of figured my new haircut had something to do with it all. I asked my brother “Hey, Jim, do I look like a boy” And he kind of shrugged me off and replied “Yeah, I guess so”. Oh my god.. I AM A BOY! I instantly remember taking off my shirt and I felt like I was one of them, splashing away bare chested and having the most fun I had ever had at grandma’s house. We played and played and I laughed and knew I would never be dismissed again thanks to the poster woman I was now a fierce kid that everyone accepted and loved.

As the sun began to set and the air grew colder we put the top back on the water drum and ran inside to grab as many fudgcicles we could eat. We sat in the backyard gobbling away the ice cream bars. I was so calm, happily I looked up at the sky and said with my new found confidence. “This Sucks!” Everything went silent. This seems like a simple word to be used by kids, but this was not what a 6 year old Adi Goodrich was supposed to say. The Gobervilles used that kind of language freely, but not us, not the Goodrichs. We were the good cousins that obeyed the adults and would never use poor language. I obviously had no idea what that word even meant looking up happily at the clouds. My brother shrieked as I said it. “ADI!” Scolding me like a parent would normally do. I was embarrassed and felt my coolness slowly disolving. Jon, Tony and Robbie began laughing and I felt my eyes instantly moisten. Trying to keep it together I dropped my head and became quiet. They all noticed my instant embarrassment and started making fun of me “Aw, Adi baby is cryyying” “Poor baby!” Jim, being the good brother he was put his arms around me and assured me it was okay “Adi, it’s okay, but you can’t say things like that.” And, I lost it.. I began weeping and I left my ice cream on the table and went inside to find Dorothy. I bursted through the door screaming and crying. She probably thought I was hurt saying “What’s wrong, what happened” I couldn’t obviously tell her “ I said a bad word and now I”m not a cool again” So I blurted out “they called me a boy!” and I continued to cry. “awwwww...Adi, it’s okay, I love your new haircut! It’s like mine! Don’t you think grandma is pretty? You look like me! You don’t look like a boy” She put her hands on my shoulders looked square at me and said “We just need to fix it up a bit.”

I’m assuming all good midwestern grandma’s are the same.. all having a handy salon ready in their bathroom. You could curl, dye, crimp, cut and style anyone at anytime you needed to without spending too much at the salon. So, my grandma placed a vinyl cap with tiny holes on my head and described ‘tipping’ to me. “It’s just a little bit of blonde pops, we’ll dye it and then we’ll curl it. Those boys are going to love your new hair.” She proceeded by using a tiny hook to pull out portions of my hair to dye. I sat for 45 minutes with a strong smell of chemicals eating away my new brown hair. After the dye set she permed my hair, more chemicals and more sitting in the bathroom. Dorothy smoked her long Viceroy cigarettes the entire time. She washed and dried my hair and styled it with a little mouse. I looked into the mirror with my grandma saying “Isn’t it cute, you look like Shirley Temple! Oh my god, you look just like her! You look adorable” I looked at my self in the mirror with horror and back to my grandma and realized that I didn’t look like Shirley Temple at all. What I looked like was a 65 year old Grandma Goberville with a puff on top of my head that was peppered with bits of bright blonde curls. I did not feel sexy or mysterious or cool, I felt like an old woman inside a 6 year old body. And I no longer felt like an honorary neighborhood kid in the boys club.

I smiled a tiny smile of embarrassment and remained silent as my proud grandma brought me down the carpeted stairs, into the cigarette smelling kitchen, pushing open the metal 1970′s era door, walking me down along the house, down the long sidewalk to the backyard where all the boys were lounging in the sun. I joined all my cousins and brother on the pavement and sat down quietly hoping they wouldn’t notice.. Jim said it looked nice and as soon as my grandma left my cousin Tony hit it perfectly with the most current 90′s pop culture reference. “Adi! You’re Boy Meets World!” AKA Ben Savage.

Back home to Momence, I arrived to an even more startled mother who said she was going to murder Dorothy and I felt a quivering guilt for my grandma’s untimely death. I went to bed feeling like a total loser and awoke to a dress hanging in my room.

“Put your dress on, Adi, it’s picture day today!” My mom added a bit of mouse that my grandma packed for me and I was off to school resembling Ms. Ostrow my elderly school teacher as I walked into the room. Somehow no one really cared about my new haircut and sat in front of the camera with my tiny smile, faking confidence.

My portrait is of a 6 year old girl looking a bit uncomfortable, nothing new for this age of school-portraits. I wore a denim dress with tiny red heart shaped buttons going down my chest. In that picture I can see myself dreaming of the day I’d swim in the water and look up at the sky happy as can be and say “this Sucks!”

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eminperu · 7 years

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I Came All the Way to Peru to Battle Midwestern Racists: The characters you meet as an American girl working at an English Pub in Peru

A lot has happened since my last post, so I’ll briefly give you the life updates and then get into my pub profiling.

1) My computer is fixed, and it was fixed FO FREE. Apparently some dust or something had gotten in it.

2) I have a new apartment! On Thursday, I moved into a cute little apartment in Barranco, the hipster district where I work. I’m living with a 28-year-old Peruvian girl and a nice, quiet, engineer dude that looks to be about the same age. My flat is on the third floor of a tall white building—actually, it IS the third floor. We have a little patio, an open kitchen/living room, and a little cat! Milagros, my roommate, is short and cute, with a couple flower and feather tattoos and long, straight black hair. She speaks some English and wants to practice even more, and she is by far one of the easiest people for me to communicate with in Peru. I got to drink with her friends last night and we had so much fun! Most of her friends are from university, seem to be some sort of engineers, and travel a lot for their jobs (so does she).

3) I finally started teaching online English! It’s actually so fun. The kids are adorable, the parents revere teachers, and it takes 0 planning time. To be fair, I did have to invest in a Mr. Potato Head and a creepy stuffed squirrel I found in a little tienda on the street. I actually really did miss teaching and am happy to get to interact with kids again, even at obscenely early hours of the morning and only via webcam. Fortunately, I am making American money while living in Peru, which is pretty much the best loophole I’ve come across.

4) I also worked every night at the pub last week. “Working” at Wick’s (honestly, I mostly just drink) has been a highlight of my time here, and has also introduced me to different Lima visitors every night. Though a much more… relaxed… service culture means less tips (boo), it also means much more time to chat with patrons. Hearing everyone’s stories not only helps me to practice my Spanish (sometimes—about 50% of the patrons speak English, and that number climbs to about 80% when you’re looking at those who choose to sit at the bar and shoot the shit with me). Here are some of the all-stars: - Retired British Air Force Pilot: RBAFP is definitely my favorite customer, and probably one of my favorite people. Unclear how I keep collecting elderly retired pilot friends (just kidding, it’s because my brother is in the Air Force and they all want to know him/be him). RBAFP comes in several times a week and can talk to just about anybody. He’s been divorced a couple times, is currently married to a hot Peruvian lady, and used to fly for Delta airlines. He loves to take the piss out of the other regulars—note my impeccable use of British slang—and I like to listen. Often times he’s accompanied by other pilots or air controllers, or a couple of times he’s come in with some young Columbian and Peruvian businessmen (that he may or may not have been trying to set me up with).

- Revolving Door of Finance Guys: I don’t know what it is, but a lot of investment bankers, finance, and IT guys show up at this pub. They sit at the bar, order a whiskey, and talk about what they do. RDFGs usually don suits and short-cropped hair. Quick to drop you their card, I like that I sometimes get to feel like a mover-and-shaker talking to these guys, like I could be making a connection I’ll need down the line. I talked with a guy who worked at some IT firm in DC who wanted to help me out with my grant proposal I’ve started writing, which was encouraging and exciting.

- Racist Midwesterner: Ugh. RM came in one of my first nights of work and I thought he was CUTE. He ended up leaving because we didn’t have the beer he wanted (cask ales kind of suck anyway) or a food special for the night. He came back a few nights later and proceeded to get pretty drunk at the bar. I was actually super excited: we had witty repertoire, he was planning on staying in Peru for the foreseeable future, he had really good teeth—let’s not judge my standards here. At some point in any conversation one has here, someone will ask your “coming to Peru” story. He came for Ayahuasca. Incidentally, he also is staying (eight months past his visa expiration) for Ayahuasca. Okay, probably another red flag. As I’m asking him about his experience, he tells me it’s not a drug, it’s not like any other drugs. I ask him what drugs he’s done to compare it to. At this point, I guess I’m showing my basic level of critical thinking and he does not like the challenge. You can see him pulling out his LIBERAL card and about to throw it down.

Somehow, he transitions to to gun control—maybe a conservative litmus test? He tells me if some “sketchy looking dudes” are coming at your jewelry store, you definitely have a right to shoot and kill them. Again, my bleeding heart can’t help but ask a thought-provoking question: What makes someone sketchy? [God, I’m so clearly pushing my beliefs so hard right now]. He replies, “When they are running around your store.. and they’re black.” [I don’t know what to type here, so please just imagine a picture of my face that I’m not tech-savvy enough to include on here]. Not just a red flag, a giant red matador flag in front of a bright red sunset sky. At this point, I begin to wonder if Socrates/Ben Franklin style of gentle prodding is not the answer. After gauging the stunned look on my face, he says, “Oh, I can tell you’re a humanitarian [read: not a racist]. Well I’m just being honest. Look at the statistics.” I can go on and on about how ridiculous he got and how much I really tried to keep my composure and listen before responding, but eventually he was just shouting at me. High(low)lights include, but are not limited to: “I’m not going to apologize for the white man,” “I already know what I believe, I’m set in it, I’m not going to change my mind,” “I would probably be in the same position if I was born in a black, poor, community but that’s not my problem.” My manager stepped in and told him he was a total twat and eventually he got uncomfortable and left, reportedly asking my manager afterwards if he had “been okay in there.” Jimmy replied, “Abso-fucking-lutely not. You were not okay. You were a racist and you were shouting at her for not being a racist.”

- Remotely Working Tech Guys: Graphic designers, software engineers, anyone who can do their job on the computer. In fact, RM was one of these remote software type guys. Generally speaking, thought, I like the other ones better. They come in almost nightly, ordering cask ales and being cheeky with the staff. RWTG can be schmoozers or a bit shy, but usually have an affinity for uppers and talking about whatever they’re currently working on. Getting paid American money here is really the way to go, so it makes sense that people who can work from their laptop choose to do so in Lima.

- Bill: Bill does a lot of cocaine and shouts and gets physically weird with dudes at the bar. A LOT of cocaine. And yells VERY loud. He might be American? He is definitely loud. I’ve heard he’s actually an okay guy, but I’ve also been generally successful at darting my eyes, slinking around, and generally avoiding engaging with him at all. Bill does not get an acronym. I think he also works in mining? Yeah, Peru has mines. Also cocaine. Do less cocaine, Bill.

- Fun Groups of Peruvian Youths: I like Peruvians. They drink, but they drink slowly and they love playing games (I’ve almost had to break up fights over Jenga). Generally, they are super friendly and low-key, and are patient with me if I have some Spanish translation issues. These groups are especially fun on football nights.

- Cool Barranco Lesbian Hipsters: Barranco is a v. hip neighborhood. While retaining some of the essential elements of Lima culture, Barranco’s streets have evolved into a collection cool art museums, quaint cafes, a microtheater, and who knows what else—like most good things, the treasures of Barranco are escondidos. We have several ladies who come into the bar pretty regularly and often play live music or talk about playing live music. They also tend to have trendy jobs as graphic designers/PR folks, as well as bit of their own drama that I’m definitely a little bit here for.

- Kitchen Staff: Okay, so they aren’t bar patrons but I love the boys who work in the kitchen. There are three of them from ages 20-25, they are Peruvian, adorable, and (2/3) speak impeccable English. Neither of them have had any formal schooling in English, which makes me feel like shit that they have been able to pick it up so quickly and I still spend 10-20% of my time with a dumbfounded look on my face when someone comes at me with Spanish. They teach me cool Spanish words to make me sound Peruvian (which I always confirm with Milagros to make sure I’m not saying dirty stuff), I get buzzed and flirt mercilessly with them in exchange.

Happies: Pretty much everything right now! I love my new room, it’s super close to the gorgeous beach and the swank downtown area (Miraflores). I’m finally getting used to waking up early to teach (prime hours are from 6am-9am) and have been trying to make what remains of my morning productive, instead of opting for a drooling, facedown Netflix nap. I’m exercising quite a bit (I’m too cheap to use Uber regularly and too lazy to figure out most busses, which means most places I go… I’m running! [if you didn’t get the Forrest Gump reference, gtfo]. I feel like my Spanish has improved a lot, especially when talking to someone I am familiar with. Feras is coming to visit me at the end of November and we’ve almost got our whole Cuzco/Machu Picchu trip booked! The Lima portion of our trip includes reservations at the NUMBER 8 RESTAURANT IN THE WORLD, which happens to be in Lima and Japanese-Peruvian fusion. Also, in all honesty, I need to explore the historical center/sites of Lima.

Scrappies: Meygan got robbed in a taxi yesterday! But, she also jumped out of the cab, chased the dude in flip-flops, punched him so he lost his balance, and recovered most of her stuff. Sploosh. Also, I am not getting VIP Kid bookings quite as consistently as I would like, which is causing me to continually recalibrate just how broke I am willing to be when/if I come home. Finally, traveling around South America is pretty expensive :(. Flights are not like in Europe or Asia.

Goals: I just applied to a freelance writing job, so I’m hoping that could pan out for some extra cash. It looks like it would mainly be blogging and videos, so right up my alley. I also responded to a family who reached out to me to be their kids’ personal tutor/nanny? They own communal living spaces in Madrid (and sometimes Thailand and France) and want to move to Stinson beach to put their three young kids in a small public school system that is demographically diverse, near an urban center, and open to parent involvement. Essentially, they want me to coparent with them, focusing specifically on their kids’ educational development. It could be really cool, it could be a cult. They’re looking for someone to start in January, though, so I’m not sure I’ll be ready to be stateside again by then.

Cry Count: 2 (I booked an Uber then ran out of phone credit on my way to work. I cried in the street and the taxi drivers took pity on me and gave me a good rate and a ride to work).

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spiceupyourkitchen-blog · 7 years

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Seltzer Power Ranking

A post like this has been years in the making.

Since I was a kid, I have been obsessed with seltzer. Call it sparkling water, call it club soda (yes I know that one has 10mg of sodium and is slightly different), call it fizzy water, call it carbonated water, whatever. I learned all of these terms when incredulous waiters would stammer, wondering why a little girl asked them for something random like “seltzer.”

I vaguely remember difficult co-workers the summer before college, when I worked as a camp counselor. “I only, like, drink seltzer if it’s a mixer!” my 16-year-old co-counselor unhelpfully chirped. Bless my innocence - I still didn’t know what a “mixer” was. She acted as if I had taken out a durian or opened up some Vegemite. Seltzer is not that niche, [name redacted].

Seltzer is something people who know me associate with me. My students have gotten me cases as a parting gift. Even they knew. There’s something refreshing about the crisp bubbles, a subversive reminder to your tastebuds that even water can be something special.

To rank all of the types of seltzer I’ve had in my life (list can be edited with additions BTW!), I’ve tried to standardize parts to best maintain an accurate comparison. My favorite seltzer flavor is lime, so I’m ranking lime seltzer, or whatever flavor comes close for such a brand. My criteria will be simply FLAVOR and CARBONATION, given a letter grade (#teacherproblems) for each.

Le’gggo.

10. DEAD LAST: SPINDRIFT

Each time I try Spindrift’s attempt at seltzer, I want to sigh and condescendingly say “Honey, you have a lot to learn.” Every one of its flavors tastes BIZARRE, and not in a cool way. Its cucumber flavor is disgusting. Thinking of it now makes me want to throw up. It tasted like a cucumber that’s been sitting at the back of your fridge and has started to get gummy. The carbonation is fair, though pretty quick to disappear. Spindrift thinks it can hop into the seltzer game, but it needs to taste a little more “crisper,” a little less “behind the Tupperware.”

FLAVOR: F--------

BUBBLES: C-

9. SAN PELLEGRINO

Apparently, San Pellegrino has “exceptional taste.” In what universe? Is our bar for exceptional so low? Even its flavors, which are harder to find for this brand (excluding Limonata, etc., as those are not seltzer) are rather bland. Flavor- and carbonation-wise, this is as robust as a light beige wall. The second you open it, the faintest “hsss” makes you think you’re getting promised carbonation. Well, it’s a trap. The few bubbles in here barely manifest themselves, and you’re left with flat water that is calling out for some form of added carbonation.

As I say in English, no. As the Italians say...also, no.

FLAVOR: F

BUBBLES: D-

8. PERRIER

Perrier is less available in restaurants, but tied with its Italian cousin above, it is one of those that people think I’ll enjoy when out to dinner. If the choice is SP or Perrier, I’ll stick with tap. Perrier is similarly boring. Its lemon (closest to lime?) flavor barely exists, though there’s a hint of it. When opened, a few bubbles remain, and the amount of carbonation drops significantly thereafter. A hint of flavor prevents a last-place finish, but meh. No wonder the French revolted.

FLAVOR: D

BUBBLES: D-

7. LA CROIX

Like, sure? I’ve been known to drink this at times when I’m #seltzerdesperate and there aren’t any other types. But it’s so overrated. La Croix has become a hipster obsession, which prompted me to be a bit hipster about a hipster taste - as in, I discovered it first! But once I got over such frustration, I realized that I was disappointed by how crappy its bubbles are. They barely exist! The flavor is OK, though. In fact, however natural La Croix claims to be (and probably is?), the lime flavor is cloying and doesn’t taste very real. Hence my confusion at how intensely La Croix merchandise has proliferated. WHY?

FLAVOR: C

BUBBLES: D+

6. POLAND SPRING

I’d never associated Poland Spring with anything revelatory, taste-wise. It was bottled water! It never tasted super fresh, but it never tasted gross (looking at you, Aquafina). I was ambivalent when I saw its carbonated version at the grocery store. But you know what? It’s pretty good. The carbonation is impressive, though a bit more short-lived than that of its counterparts. The lime flavor tastes very natural, but it’s a bit too tepid and muted for my tastes.

FLAVOR: B

BUBBLES: B-

Now, we’re getting to such high rankings where the grades mean less and my ~*~feelings mean more.

5. STORE BRAND/PEAPOD/STOP-AND-SHOP SELTZER

For some reason that is #unclear to me, Peapod seltzer is one-and-the-same as Stop-and-Shop seltzer, down to its logo. It reminds me of my grad school days in Rhode Island, where this midwesterner was puzzled by a grocery store called Stop-and-Shop. What are you shopping for?? There are so many types of things, so isn’t that name vague? Plus, in my head, it is called Stawp and Shawp due to the Griffin-tastic accents I associated with it.

This brand of seltzer is pretty good, though, I have to say. Its carbonation is strong and forceful, and though the flavor quality can be variable, its lime variety always packs a nice punch. It’s not as memorable, but it’s very good.

FLAVOR: B+

BUBBLES: B

4. SCHWEPPES

From ginger ale to club soda, Schweppes is pretty good with carbonation. I always find its bubbles to be intense in level, staying intact for a while after opening. The flavor is a bit hit-or-miss: Raspberry lime is just weird tasting. Still, its lime variety (for which I cannot find a small enough image) has more than just faint echoes of lime. The taste and the bubbles work together very well indeed.

FLAVOR: B+

BUBBLES: B

3. CANADA DRY

Following closely on the heels of Schweppes, just edging it out slightly, is Canada Dry, similarly known for its similar array of carbonated goodies. What is it with Canadian-named beverages worming their way into Americans’ hearts? Remember Clearly Canadian? #RIP

Canada Dry always delivers in the flavor department, with assertive flavors that never taste fake or “off.” Its bubbles are more intense and long-lasting than those of Schweppes, though both are good brands - we’re a long ways away from San Pellegrino and Perrier now! Canada Dry’s seltzer has zip, vigor, and moxie! If you drink it, you might also be at such a loss for words that you sound like a 1940s talent agent!

FLAVOR: A-

BUBBLES: A

2. DASANI

Growing up and playing sports (HAHA just kidding, I did debate), I could always use water to quench my thirst. Coke-affiliated Dasani and Pepsi-affiliated Aquafina both had a terrible reputation of, uh, crappiness. I wasn’t that enthused by the idea of Dasani sparkling water, then. Yummm, the faint taste of copper pipes!

Well I was super duper wrong. Dasani must’ve done something right with its seltzer: The bubbles are intense and don’t let up. The lime flavor is downright intense, waking up your tastebuds and telling them that maybe they should reconsider their preconceived notions about water backed by companies that usually specialize in teeth-rot. I will shill for Dasani ANY DAY OF THE WEEK FAM.

FLAVOR: A+

BUBBLES: A+

1. CANFIELD’S

Canfield’s is the OG of seltzer. You might not have thought that that is A Thing, but it is indeed A Thing. I opened a can of Canfield’s one day and left it in my car. Two hours later, I returned and drank a bit (#onlygodcanjudgeme). It was somehow still pretty carbonated. Canfield’s knows its bubbles. Its flavors are pretty strong, too, though they don’t slice through your tastebuds, giving the whole sip a sense of balance. Canfield’s is life and my perpetual favorite. Forget La Croix’s overexposed mediocrity - Canfield’s is the true undiscovered indie darling. Drink some now so you can feel special before people make earrings out of it.

FLAVOR: A+

BUBBLES: A+

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junker-town · 7 years

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6 NFL player restaurant concepts that would be better than AJ McCarron’s sushi place

Apparently Ajian is pretty good, but we’d like these more.

AJ McCarron’s sushi restaurant, Ajian, opened this week in Tuscaloosa, Ala. It’s a build-your-own sushi roll concept that includes classic sushi options like fresh strawberries and Flamin’ Hot Cheetos.

Ajian (which is a play on AJ’s name and the word “Asian,” get it?) is a fast casual restaurant like Chipotle or Subway, where diners get to pick exactly what they want in their roll and watch workers put it together it in real time. There are also pretty basic rolls, like a California roll or a shrimp tempura roll, that patrons can order.

But there’s also that whole Cheeto thing. And strawberries. And a topping called “bagel spice.” I don’t even know what bagel spice is, but I feel confident that it probably doesn’t belong on sushi.

Cardale Jones sounds about as impressed with McCarron’s new restaurant concept as I am.

Yea, we call that @eatfusian in Ohio.... about 7 years too late.... https://t.co/sNfQgy09jd

— Cardale Jones (@Cardale7_) August 8, 2017

McCarron fired back.

Asked @10AJMcCarron if he wanted to know what @Cardale7_ tweeted about his "Ajian" restaurant. He did. His response. #Buckeyes #CrimsonTide http://pic.twitter.com/72eZGaZWsZ

— Jeremy Rauch (@FOX19Jeremy) August 9, 2017

I love sushi. I’d put it in my top three favorite foods. And while I haven’t been to Ajian, my friend and former colleague Marq Burnett of SEC Country has. Burnett said it’s actually good. The ingredients are fresh, and even though he had a roll that combined strawberries and raw tuna, he liked it. Still, there’s no way in hell I’m going to a sushi place that serves a Flamin’ Hot Cheetos roll.

As a matter of fact, I can think of a few superior restaurant concepts that NFL players could pull off.

Blake Bortles - Papa Blake’s

Papa Blake’s is a pretty run-of-the-mill pizza place, but what sets it apart from others is the phenomenal specials. In honor of the owner and founder, Jaguars quarterback Blake Bortles, you can pick six toppings for each pizza at no extra charge.

And while some big chains offer a discount every time the local team wins, that’s not the case for Papa Blake’s. Jaguars fans can eat away their sorrows with a half-priced pizza every time Jacksonville loses. Your team might not get to .500 yet again, but at least you’ll get some cheaper pizzas out of it.

Jabrill Peppers - Pepper’s

Peppers went to school in Michigan and now he’s up in Cleveland with the Browns. What could be more Midwestern than a chain restaurant that strongly resembles Chili’s?

Instead of Chicken Crispers, Pepper’s has Chicken Crunchers. And instead of the trademarked Triple Dipper appetizer — which combines a choice of your three favorite appetizers — Pepper’s has the Triple Decker, which does the same thing but just stacks them on top of each other. Try the Go Blue corn chips with the Maize-o queso.

This spot, well, it would be good.

Eddie Lacy - Eddie Lacy’s All-You-Can-Eat China Food Buffet

Eddie Lacy has made it clear he loves “China food.” You know every dish on his buffet line is going to be delicious. Anyone who’s this passionate about Chinese food would certainly have high standards.

I keep craving china food

— Eddie Lacy (@Lil_Eazy_Ana_42) October 25, 2011

i want china food....A LOT OF IT

— Eddie Lacy (@Lil_Eazy_Ana_42) July 5, 2011

Craving China food.......AGAIN !!!!!!

— Eddie Lacy (@Lil_Eazy_Ana_42) April 29, 2012

And will they deliver? Oh, yes.

who wants to bring me some china food ?

— Eddie Lacy (@Lil_Eazy_Ana_42) January 27, 2012

Lacy may want to hold off on eating there regularly until his football days are over. He’s done such a great job of getting down to an ideal playing weight.

Tom Brady - TB12’s

Brady wants to play until he’s 45, but he’s also been busy on the side building his lifestyle brand. And if anything would be on brand for Brady, it would be a weird vegan restaurant that bears his name.

There’s no meat or gluten, there’s no dairy, and there’s no soy. There’s no coffee, and there damn sure aren’t any strawberries. But there is a lot of love that goes into every dish. Just kidding. That’s actually kale.

Jake Butt - Jake’s Butts

Broncos rookie tight end Jake Butt already has it made. His cheeky last name landed him a Charmin endorsement before he was even drafted. But Butt should take it one step further and propel his name and celebrity into a successful barbecue joint.

You see, there’s no better barbecued meat than a nice pork butt. There’s no doubt that Butt endured quite a bit of teasing as a kid because of his surname, so we’d be more than happy to see him profit off of it now.

Cardale Jones - Chipotle, without the lines

Clearly Jones and McCarron have a little bit of competition going on. It probably stems from their powerhouse alma maters — Ohio State and Bama.

McCarron patterned Ajian after restaurants like Chipotle, and you know who loves Chipotle? Well, everyone. But especially Cardale Jones.

But Cardale also knows how to make Chipotle even better.

Yep, that Chipotle line is always annoying as hell. It doesn’t matter what part of the country you’re in or what time of day you go. Chipotle needs fast passes. Good call, Cardale.

Chipotle needs the fast lane passes like Cedar Point lol but it's worth the wait http://pic.twitter.com/ciSWvds6PL

— Cardale Jones (@Cardale7_) April 22, 2015

Me too, buddy. How about 24-hour Chipotles?

Wish chipotle was open

— Cardale Jones (@Cardale7_) September 20, 2015

This is the truth. This is why Chipotle needs Cardale as much as Cardale obviously needs Chipotle.

Chipotle always help

— Cardale Jones (@Cardale7_) March 25, 2015

By all accounts, Ajian is a quality addition to Tuscaloosa. But any of these other restaurant concepts would be better — and none of them have Flamin’ Hot Cheetos sushi rolls.

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