Pittsburgh, PA

Heinz Hall, Valentine’s Day, Lots of dining out, Primanti Bros., LOTS OF CHOCOLATE

Minneapolis, MN

Lots of snow, cold.

Orpheum theater, OUTSTANDING audiences, Snow, Mall of America, Chopin building tagging, Snow


I was sick most of the week but did venture out a wee bit in between sneezing. 

Beautiful Kimmel Center, Mutter museum, Barbuzzo dinner, Di Bruno Bros., Birthday dinner, Liberty Bell selfie

Here’s the deal…

I got my hands on a small rice-cooker and a George Foreman and I am going hotel-cooking-crazy!

Here are way too many unnecessary pictures of food I’ve made in the past few days. 

Don’t worry…more to come…



I’m not much of a cook. When I say cook I mean it in the sense that one can whip up something palatable from scratch. My best friend actortraveltips, who is currently starring in the national tour of “Mamma Mia,” is a magician in the kitchen. (And also a bit of a whore as well.) She can whip up the most spectacular things with seeming effortlessness. Please follow her blog because it is great.

As for my culinary efforts, my meatloaf is okay, I have soft-boiled eggs down to a science, I can do respectable cupcakes if the recipe isn’t too complicated and my deviled eggs are always a 50/50 toss up. I think I could master a really delicious pasta dish (a salad or some variant) if I really took the time, but my creativity relies on my random spurts of energy so it’ll probably never happen.

But I can say with absolute confidence that I make delicious mashed potatoes. Even I am proud of them, and they are the one thing people ask me to bring during the holidays. Are they the best mashed potatoes in the world? Certainly not, but they are good. My recipe took years to perfect and I really do make them from scratch.

The turning point for me (when I really figured out how to perfect them) came from a recipe I discovered from noted diabetic and beloved racist Paula Deen. Though Ms. Deen has brought me to the point of vomiting twice in my life, I discovered that elements of her mashed potato recipe had some value.

I refuse to divulge my personal recipe, because it is the one thing I do well (in life) and it’s really the only reason most people like me. But I can tell you the two most important elements in the process: use 10 sticks of butter and make sure to scream the n-word repeatedly as the potatoes boil and when you are mashing them.

Don’t push us, we have this figured out

I can’t stop thinking about stubborn personal-routines.

The idea of setting patterns for ourselves, mental or physical solo-routines that we do, ironically enough, to keep our minds off of ourselves. Motions to keep us from examining, why we are in the situations we are in, the frightening idea that it could be because of our own decisions that we’ve landed here.

I’ve always loved lonely people. Introverts are where come the best conversations, the most gentle and intuitive lovers, unmatched art, literature, music, the funniest little kids. These are all people that no matter how well they fake extrovert-flag waving are just little loners, over-thinkers.

I’m writing a bunch of experiences, mostly from the fascinating, brilliant and terribly lonely figures in my own life. Some of my own bullshit, reasons I’ve stayed in things, reasons I’m not in things. Reasons I’m viciously codependent on myself.

Here’s the first of many moments. Moments of coming to a realization and maybe taking advantage. But, probably not.

Don’t let the cat out

The thought ran straight into his frontal lobe. Like a clumsy yet focused obese intruder, intent on blocking out any other neighboring brain-signals.

Yet he continued turning his wrist to the right. He had to stop.

The muscles in said forearm were on the cusp of their routine pushing preparation, tensing slightly, ready for full extension.

The motion caused his brain to lurch.

A familiar feeling at this point, one he challenged daily with olympian level endurance. All feelings of panic were transferred into an acceptance of his bodies’ sub-conscious alert systems.

He swallowed, he breathed a little of what was left out, a swift chug of open mouth air in and consciously allowed his wildly beating heart to continue in it’s excited state of ping pong ball puttering.

He didn’t realize his eyes were watering.

"There’s no cat"