Surgical Strikes

Evidence of my former life as a sictom writer can be seen tonight, June 25, at 6 pm on the Lifetime network, when 50% of my lifetime “Written by” screen credits flash by in a matter of seconds. The residual check that this yields should not quite cover the cost of iPhone I plan to purchase this summer. But it’ll sure help.

Hi, all. You like how I made a big production about not abandoning the blog, then proceeded to abandon the blog? I need to get the older brother from Little Miss Sunshine to slap me around in a church. I’VE ABANDONED MY BLOG! I’VE ABANDONED MY BLOG! Sorry, There Will Be Blood is on heavy rotation on some cable channel, and the result is Meaghan and I talking like Daniel Day Lewis a lot. Crap movie, but one of the most memorable performances I can remember. I’M AN OIL MAN. I DRINK YOUR MILKSHAKE. ET CETERA.

So perhaps you saw this Urban Blah comic addressing the concept of breakfast nachos. It was based on a true story, in which I recommended to my nerdy ex-rommate that he make nachos and eat them for breakfast. But this past weekend, I found myself with extra nacho-making materials and decided to make real breakfast nachos. And they were awesome. So at the risk of horning in on the food blogospshere (especially the nacho-friendly regions) here’s what I did, presented in semi-entertaining fashion:

1. Preheat the oven to 342 degrees. This is a vaguely arbitrary number, and truth be told, I only do it because I have a digital oven and I like to occasionally stick it to the base-5 patriarchy. But you just want it hottish, no higher than 350.
2. Spread some tortilla chips on a plate and add cheese. I’ve found one of the keys to successful nacho-making is more cheese than you’d expect. For now, though, you’re just trying to get a base layer of cholesterol. Incidentally, I prefer Tostitos restaurant-style chips and pre-shredded sharp cheddar. I find the Mexi-blends not sharp enough, and lowfat is not acceptable. I prefer unnaturally yellow to white, and the Whole Food shreddah cheddah is bad. Really, there are times when my localvore food politics take the day, but those are generally not the days I’m making nachos.
3. While the nachos cook just enough to mostly melt the cheese, scramble some eggs (I did three) and make sure they’re a little underdone. I like my scrambled eggs runny in general, but it’s more important here because you’ll…
4. Take out the nacho plate and add the eggs at random points all around. Shake on some salsa all around. Add more cheese. Wait, my ellipsis was premature. It would go here as you…
5. Stick the plate back in the oven and cook until it’s all melty.
6. I eat my nachos dipped in plain yogurt, which is not only better for you than sour cream, it’s tastier to my pallette. Also, you can eat tons of it and not feel guilty unless your mom was an acidophoius bacteria. So yogurt, sour cream, nothing — eat it however you like that doesn’t kill your mom.

I tried to convince Meaghan to join me for breakfast nachos but she turned up her nose in favor of juicing swiss chard or some nonsense. Then I made the first ever batch and she lusted after them. When she ate one, she apologized for ever doubting me. Really, there’s no reason these shouldn’t be good — it’s sort of huevos rancheros with crispy tortillas or nachos with scrambled eggs. And I’ve never met a scrambled egg that couldn’t be improved by cheese. (Salsa is not as universal, but it also usually works.)

Feel free to make these, just understand that I require a 10% commission. So after they’ve cooled, please put 10% of your nachos in an envelope and send them to me, care of Watson J. Dog, who will almost certainly eat them before I get a chance to.

Dear Surgical Strikes:

I’ve been a fool. Won’t you please take me back?

I can’t believe I took you for granted. You who’s always loved me, who’s always been there for me. Yes, I fell hard for Twitter, with her 140-character booty and the curvy promise of thousands of followers. I let myself be seduced by her new media potential, by being the next big paradigm-shifting thing. But it turned out she was just a bunch of self-promoters, in-jokes, and celebrity marketers. And I got on board too late.

I thought I could jam my general-interest humor writing into a baseball site looking to be more than just a baseball site. And I can, but the moronic commentariat that’s mostly steered clear of this site is in full force over at Bugs & Cranks. The second I diverge from strict baseball analysis, someone’s quick to call me A SUPREME DOUCHE BAG, or worse, A DOUCHE BAG SUPREME. Which I think is the same a douchebag, except with sour cream.

No complaints about anything related to The Urban Blah. I’m gonna keep hittin’ that.

But you, my precious blog, my sweet and wonderful and non-judgmental blog who’s older than my marriage, who still knows how to please me when I need it. How could I ever have forsaken you like this? I’ve pushed you away again and again, sure there was something better out there. But there really isn’t, not for where I’m at. I know I talked tough and made it sound like I really, really was shutting it down this time. (I even posted it on facebook!) But I can’t not have you. I still have long sideburns, I listen to music from artists who are no longer alive, I don’t watch Simpsons reruns later than 2002. I’m okay with keeping the personal blog.

I can’t promise how often I’ll update you. But… I wanna be with you. I’ll never leave you again! You know, until I do.

Your eternal slave,
dantobindantobin

When I started this blog in late 2003, I had no outlet. I was, in effect, an apprentice sitcom writer, but what that meant in reality is I mostly sat around and listened to other people write aloud, and occasionally got the chance to speak. Everything was funneled through the showrunner (i.e. the head writer, except with more power). And even when making suggestions, I really had to pick my spots. Getting my words out into the world was not easily done.

My wife announced she was going to start a blog. “Oh, I’ve heard of those,” I said. “I’ll help you set it up.” As I did that, I decided to set one up for myself, too, just to see what it was like. But I instantly took to it. At long last, here was my outlet! Unchecked! Unfiltered! About anything I wanted, whenever I wanted! And by golly, people started reading it! People I didn’t even know! I wrote almost 4000 posts. I got invited onto The O’Reilly Factor. I took Surgical Strikes seriously.

Now it’s 2009, and outlets are not my problem. When I have something to say, I can make it a Facebook status update, or put it on Twitter, or tie it into baseball for Bugs & Cranks, or craft it into a comic for The Urban Blah. These all serve unique purposes. So what purpose does Surgical Strikes serve any more? I’ve never been one to update people on my life via my blog. I started it because I needed a place to write. Well, now I have several. This place? This place is dead anyway.

So that’s why I titled this post from a lyric to one of my least favorite Beatles songs. This is goodbye for Surgical Strikes, but not for Dan Tobin stringing words together on the interwebs. I’m not hanging up my hat, just shifting to a new hat-rack. And it’s got several prongs:

• My great love right now is The Urban Blah webcomic, which is “mine” in the way Lennon/McCartney songs belonged to John or Paul (at least until that White Album separation thing, and I don’t think Lovisa and I have any plans to go to India; maybe an Indian buffet halfway between Boston and Winnipeg?). The comic’s updated every Mon-Wed-Fri and I’m really excited about how every single one of them has turned out.
• The bulk of my writing-writing is probably going to be at Bugs & Cranks. It’s a baseball site, but in the redesign that launched on Opening Day, the focus is more on the writer than the team. So I’ll be writing about the Red Sox, about baseball, and about a lot of the hodgepodge of topics that used to land here.
• For long-term fans who miss the short-posts blog tapas style I effected for my early days, follow me on Twitter. After all, with a limit of 140 characters, isn’t that whole site just extreme surgical striking?
• And if you actually know me as a human being, or if you just want to see pictures of me making stupid faces, look me up on facebook. I update something there just about daily.

As for here, this isn’t like the other times I’ve closed up shop. I used to think blogging was a bad habit that I needed to break. Now I see it wasn’t blogging that was the problem, it was directionless writing. So I’m keeping at it, and continuing my output, just trying to focus a little more. I’m even still blogging, just not here. Given my activity in the last few months, this is a little like Curt Schilling announcing his retirement a year and a half after his last major league game. But still. Thanks for reading me here, and I hope you’ll read me there.

One repercussion of the Key West Literary Seminar was that I started diversifying my reading list. I’ve started with Elizabeth Gaffney’s Metropolis, and the description didn’t pique my curiosity, nor did the author’s biography or performance in panel discussions. But when it was her turn to do a reading, the book seemed interesting, and I’m halfway through and loving it it. Watching a few Lost reruns I realized my interest in that show is only in what happens next; I’m dying to know what happens next in Metropolis, but I’m also enjoying the journey on every page. Glad to have discovered a book I never would have.

The seminar was also fun because we got to hang around some big names — Russell Banks and Joyce Carol Oates were always wandering around, and I waited for a drink behind William Kennedy, Pulitzer Prize winner and author of The Modern Library’s 92nd best book of the 20th century. Key West resident Judy Blume wasn’t part of the seminar this year (the theme was historical fiction) but she’s on the board and likes to party. I’m sure she sees people my age and thinks, “Yeah, you’ve read my shit.” And I have read her shit. It wasn’t quite as formative for me as some kids (possibly because I read Are You There God? instead of Then Again Maybe I Won’t; I thought a period was a report card and kept wondering why she was making such a big deal about not getting her grades.) but she’s still a legend.

All the authors were wandering around dinners and cocktail receptions, and if I wanted to be able to say, “Hey, I just talked to a Booker Prize winner!” I certainly could have. But I think it was the day I forced Buddy Hackett to shake my hand just so I could say I’d shaken Buddy Hackett’s hand that made me realize it’s just not my thing. I guess living in LA gave me a different view of celebrity, namely to let them shop in peace when you see them in efrozen food aisle at Ralph’s. That said, I thought it was pretty awesome when my father-in-law told Judy Blume where the plates for the buffet were.

In other news, it’s Monday, which means a new Urban Blah! If you havn’t checked out the new awesome comic strip I’ve created with the brilliant illustrator Lovisa Loiselle, I urge you to do so. Today’s strip is the perfect antidote for a case of the Mondays. And the previous five will tickle you, too. Guaranteed or your money back!

Today we must pick ourselves up, brush ourselves off, and begin again the work of remaking Dan Tobin.

Okay, I would never really compare myself and my own personal challenges to those now facing America, or to the transcendent moment of Obama’s inauguration. No, my search for career satisfaction is much, much bigger than either of those, and CNN’s best political team on television will be glad to confirm this. But I found our new Prexy’s speech yesterday predictably brilliant and expectedly inspirational. Ho-hum. I mean seriously, enough with the sublime oratory already! We get it, you’re a political genius, and we’ve got to sit through 4-8 more years of this unbelievable awesomeness. You want a cookie?

So yes, a lot to love in that speech, so many right notes, so much evocative language, and a really clever reframing of the issues that lie ahead. On a personal note, the passage I paraphrased (stole) above resonated with me in particular. I’ve been licking my wounds and biding my time for all too long, and now I’m ready… for change. Yes I can. Yes I can!

Sorry. I’m just still so proud of myself for not crying once yesterday. In fact, I haven’t cried since our celebratory dinner the Friday after the election, when I tried to thank Meaghan for pushing us to volunteer for Obama, and she kept it together while I choked back sobs at the restaurant. Today I kept it together, and I expect to keep that going for a while, barring a very nasty toe-stubbing incident.

But the whole point of this post is not to wax poetic about our brand new funky president. No, like I said, this is about something much bigger than Barack Obama, bigger than America, bigger than life itself. It’s about reinventing myself through my latest act of self-promotion:

Illustrated by the wonderful and talented Lovisa Loiselle, once known ’round the blogosphere as Tot (of Totcetera fame), and written by your friendly neighborhood dantobin, it’s a webcomic. What’s a webcomic? A comic strip on the web, silly. But what’s this webcomic? Well, if you’ve been reading here over any of the past 3952 posts, the voice should be pretty familiar. In fact, a few of the comics have been ripped straight from the headlines of this very blog! It’s my standard-issue quiet, deadpan humor, about life, work, and spilling coffee on yourself. But it comes to life in a new and exciting ways courtesy of Lovisa’s really visionary illustrating. The collaboration has wildly exceeded my hopes, and it’s only getting better as we find our way though the Blah world.

So please, I urge you to check out The Urban Blah. We’ve got four up to start, and we’ll be updating every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Some in black-and-white, some in full-scale Technicolor. Bookmark it, link us (we’ll link you back), tell your friends, visit constantly… and enjoy!

From: Prexy43 [Bush]
To: LiberalJerkwad [Tobin]
Subject: outta here

OMG, can you believe we’re almost done? Class of ‘09, baby! We made it!

Yeah, I’m pretty stoked to graduate tomorrow. There were times I really didn’t think I was gonna make it. I mean, that Abu Grab-ass stuff that I totally never knew about? Sheesh! And those memos about– oh, right, that won’t come out until I’m lying on a beach collecting twenty percent. The best choice was making Mr. Cheney the ultimate insurance policy — impeach both of us or risk him reorganizing the republic into the First Galactic Empire.

But we made it. Seniors rule!

First thing up, I’m going home to Texas, chop me some wood, look into this Viagra thing Dole’s been pushing, maybe getone of those Wii games. New season of Lost starts Wednesday. I can try my hand at fantasy baseball for once. And last but not least, I’m going to take up drinking again. Laura says I’m too old to get back on the coke and she’s probably right, but I damn well earned my whiskey. Keeping America safe from everything except two measly airplanes and one stinkin’ hurricane? I’m naming my transition team as Jack Daniels, Johnny Walker, and the St. Pauli Girl. End of story.

If I actually believed all these “don’t let the door hit you on your way out” send-offs I’ve been getting, I’d be sad to leave. But Mr. Rove and I agreed they’re probably jealous because they wanted to be president themselves. Or they’re communists and hippies, and when have I ever listened to the Democraps? I know history’s going to realize I was a pimp. And if not, who cares? I’ll be humping Cowboys cheerleaders in heaven by then.

Nah, the last eight years have been the tits, the absolute tits. As I leave the presidency, I’ll take away some great memories. Mr. Cheney shooting that geezer. My 90% approval rating after The Big Oopsie. That awesome Vince Young win in the Rose Bowl. A couple of huge fish I caught. And who could forget Homecoming?

I told Obama he could call me about anything any time, unless the Cowboys were in the middle of a drive, and I mean that. I’m sure he’ll do fine. I mean, one thing I learned about being president is how they mostly just answer to the vice president. So I hope Joe Biden’s ready!

All right, dude. I’ve still got to take down my posters and pack up my lava lamp. But after that, I AM OUTTA HERE!!!!!!

Smell you later!

-W

I feel no guilt about enjoying warm weather in January. Logging on from down here in Key West, I’ve been gloating to anyone who’ll listen about my days in shorts and flip-flops, about dinners outside and needing to apply sunblock before a bike ride. Yes, I know the RealFeel temperature is -2 back in Boston right now. That’s why I fled to Key West.

I feel okay about this because in less than a week, my newly freed toes will be reimprisoned in hefty boots, and my shins will only see light during showers. I feel okay enjoying this warm weather because it’s just a temporary respite. The time to truly hate me was when I lived in LA. “Oh, more snow? Well, it’s 70 here… sucks to be you!” At the time I thought I’d earned the right to be annoying by suffering through two decades of Boston winters. But no, you can safely add that to list of reasons I was more hateful when I lived in California. When we were discussing last night why Boston people are such jerks we determined it probably wasn’t the weather… but it sure didn’t help.

Tonight the ostensible purpose of our trip begins, as the Key West Literary Seminar opens with, what else, an open bar. Soon our days will be filled by readings by and discussions between authors I meant to get around to reading or feel foolish about not having heard of. My reading went off the rails at the end of last year when I tried cramming for the seminar and discovered that my reading goes a lot more slowly when someone else is picking the books for me. Still, Meaghan went last year and described it as most inspirational. I could use some inspiration about now. Also, I like the idea of boozing it up with Joyce Carol Oates.

In my own semi-inspirational news, the quietly touted Big Secret Project X is steam-rolling toward toward a launch date of next Wednesday. Yes, just as the excitement of Obama’s inauguration starts to wane, fun and excitement will be there to excite and funnize you. Until then, I have a few more games of darts at the Green Parrot left in me, and many more Sunset Ales that are not yet in me, but soon will be placed there, albeit temporarily.

One of my coworkers got her five year-old son a Wii for Xmas, and he got so frustrated by how he much he was stiniking at his baseball game that he started to cry. I’ve been stinking at my baseball game, too, but I’m not crying. No when I can keep adjusting the difficulty down and down and down until I’m competitive with your average eight year-old.

Playing as the Red Sox. I lost to the A’s 12-0 in each of the first two games, but I screwed up the save fuction and lost the second game to the alternate universe full of documents you forgot to save when the computer crashed. After adjusting the difficulty down, I proceed to lose 23-17, which was a great improvement. But I screwed up the save again and lost it. My third attempt was my best yet — I took an 8-5 lead into the 9th and proceeded to give up 4 runs and lose the game on a walkoff. This one stuck, and I celebrated the loss by adjusting the difficulty down even further. After six games, my team is now 1-3. All told, this is not so bad.

I’d told Meaghan I’m bad at video games, but she didn’t understand until she saw my Luigi bumping into turtles and jumping into holes. “Really, you never beat Super Mario Brothers?” she’d asked in disbelief. Then she saw my play and understood. I was always better at Zelda, where you can have as many guys as it takes — and I have six pieces of Triforce to back me up. (Currently stuck on Level 7; luckily I can cheat via Google instead of the Ninendo 900-number.)

In sporting news from the real world, I’m sure glad I didn’t go public with my prediction of a Manning vs Manning  Super Bowl.

Normally, I wouldn’t have set foot in the store, but my mother-in-law gave me a gift card to Brooks Brothers. And I have to admit, the shirts are pretty nice. No, the Country Club Collection isn’t quite right for the owner of the domain name 365dumps.com, but a certain selection of their non-iron dress shirts are pretty sharp. I’m trying to dress like a grownup, and now that I’m out of the sitcom biz, that means actually dressing like a grownup. If it wasn’t for the prices, I could get used to letting these Brooks Brothers dress me. Although I’d probably have to order online. Because the store… well, it was straight up Brooks Brothers.

Upstairs, I saw a youngish woman checking a text message on her phone who was instantly admonished by a guy in horn-rims and bowtie: “The phone? Really? That’s about five demerits.” I hadn’t heard that word since middle school, when the precursor to detention was a “demerit.” Five? That would have been two detentions and halfway to another. I guess those Brooks Brothers really don’t like their employees checking their phones!

And seeing the other clientele, I saw why: downstairs, a short man was yelling about where he should arrange for the shirts he’d been custom ordering for years. It was unclear why he was so angry, and I suspect he was used to people snapping to attention when he spoke. After all, before sales and gift cards, the cheap shirts were 80 bucks a pop. Guys who cough up the kind scratch the custom jobbies must go for and still don’t look sharp… well, those guys expect to be treated a certain way.

Me, I expected to be treated like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. I’m dressing better these days, but I’m sure they knew I wasn’t a regular well before I pulled out the gift card. But rather than shun us, they tried to indoctrinate us, giving us free men and women’s Brooks Brothers scents. Later, over beers and fries down the street at Charley’s, Meaghan applied hers and started laughing hysterically. “I smell like the moms at my middle school!” Mine was deemed more palatable, so I guess now if I’m going to scent myself, I’ll be able to decide whether it’s a Marc Jacobs day or a Brooks Brothers day. Frankly, I’m having trouble envisioning much of 2009 being either.

The only real major life change since I last updated here regularly is that the wife and I were able to say what so many gentiles said to me coming back from winter break in sixth grade: We got Nintendo for Christmas! It’s kind of a big deal — the last time I had an up to date video game system was the Nintendo Entertainment system. I lost interest in it by high school but it had already been lapped by the Sega Genesis anyway. I went to college before the Playstation reconfigured the gaming landscape, so except for the ironic return of Atari 2600 every few years, this is the first time I’ve really had video games around in twenty years. Good lord I feel old.

And I guess when you’ve been out of touch this long, it’s hard to change; so far we’ve spent most of our Wii time playing old NES games. Super Mario Brothers for Meaghan, Punch Out!!! and the Legend of Zelda for me. We downloaded these the first night we had the machine and can only defend the amount we’ve played them by saying that we’ve had colds! We’ve been sick! That’s why I have five pieces of Triforce and the magic sword. I imagine I’ll lose interest in these games the exact same way I did in the late 80s, but by then the baseball game I just ordered through half.com should be here. And maybe I can ask for Guitar Hero for my birthday.

I resisted for a long time, thinking it was wipe out any last hopes of me being productive. But now I’m realizing that it’s cut into my web-surfing/TV time. And now that the election is over and I don’t need to keep refreshing Talking Points Memo every five minutes, it’s probably okay for me to shift my attention toward guiding a video game baseball team to victory.

My goodness gracious, I will never ever ever get tired of that joke. It only works one day a year — when Meaghan woke up, I informed her she hadn’t walked the dog all year — so I try to max it out as best as I can. I tried it on the other end (”I’m done cooking pasta for the year”) but it just didn’t have that same satisfaction as announcing that was the best lunch I’ve had all year.

2008 was, to quote one of my ex-bosses describing the first Wallflowers album, a stinking loaf of shit. So far 2009 has been okay, although the cold I developed on Xmas hasn’t quite yet run its course. (I’ve been sick all year!) But I’m generally optimistic that things will look up this year. Among other things, we’re only a few weeks away from entering a truly different world on Jan. 20. I spent a chunk of my early 2009 reading the remarkable Vanity Fair oral history of the Bush administration, which contains tidbits like a former staffer referring to the president as “Sarah Palin-like” and Rumsfeld explaining on Sept. 11 that they’d have to bomb Iraq to prove America’s might — Afghanistan just didn’t have enough targets. Incredibly depressing to see all the scandals of the Bush years laid out chronologically, but it has the happy ending of knowing the new guy is not going to wave off intelligence briefings becausse he’s “not a big reader.” History will judge these eight years much more harshly than we can possibly understand right now.

(For a funnier, much shorter rundown of the Bush horrors, Tom Tomorrow again delivers.)

On to housekeeping: you wouldn’t know by looking at it, but we’re at new web hosting. For the nerds: some script kept flipping out and maxing up resources for the whole server. Each time I assumed it had to do with spambots preying on Wordpress vulnerabilities, but now I think it was something else. Anyway, it happened one too many times and I got a nice email from my hosting site saying, “See ya round like a donut.” So I spent a few days reassembling things (minus the script that I suspect was the problem; we’ll see) and here we are. Rebuilding some of the non-blog pages will be an early task for MMIX.

In news that more directly affects YOU, the beloved reader, one of my new years resolutions is to write every single day. This has been my resolution a few times (including last year) and we all know how well people keep these things. But hey, it’s Jan 1, a day for optimism and a clean start. So, here we go.

I’ve owned my new winter coat for about a month, but didn’t really feel like it was mine until I spilled coffee on it this morning.

The girl I had my first date with in 1988 tracked me down on facebook and, in subsequent conversation, revealed she didn’t actually know it was a date until nearly ten years later. Maybe now she understands why I was weird to her at my bar mitzvah.

When I went to write another facebook to let her know she’d been promoted to first0date status, I discovered she’d defriended me! With a bit of investigation, I learned she’d deleted her facebook account altogether… but not before complaining in a status update about being sick of pretending people weren’t hateful to her just because they were her online “friends.” She might not have meant me, but I did kinda dump her, so maybe she did. Sure, the furthest we ever went was me making a half-assed attempt to put my arm around her during an in-theater viewing of Look Who’s Talking, Too. But nobody likes to be dumped 17 years ago. I’m sure it was me.

Then last night, one of the high school friends who does not find me hateful posted several embarrassing photos of me from when I was 14, plus a photo from my senior prom in which I’m wearing a blue tux and bowling shoes. Somehow in the context of facebook, I can finally see why nobody thought I was as cool as I thought I was. That’s because I wasn’t cool. It’s not visible in the photo, but this was from the era when I had one long sideburn, one very short sideburn. You can try to forget your dorky past, or you can have 415 facebook friends. Apparently it’s either/or.

My other fascinating blast from the past was another old friend from my preteen years: my beloved Swiss army knife. I’m not exactly sure when I got it, but my scouting career ended in 1986, so I know it predates junior high. I remember poring over the LL Bean catalog, salivating over various knives, trying to decide which combination of tools would best fit my lifestyle. I decided I could begrudgingly live without a fish scaler, but not without a saw. Anyway, last night as I spent nearly an hour fitting our new Xmas tree into our old Xmas tress stand, I needed a way to remove some small branch stumps that were mucking things up. Lo and behold, after more than 20 years, I finally did something with the saw other than open it and fantasize about all the stuff I was going to saw.

And yes, I had a bar mitzvah and now I have a tree. I make no apologies.

* * *

As for Big Secret Project X, previously alluded to in this space, it’s been pushed to the start of 2009. So it gives me even more time to try to irrationally get your hopes up.

They’re not TPS reports, but given my relationship with them, they might as well be.

(Real posts eventually. Big Secret Project X to be revealed as soon as Monday.)

Today, while listening to the song “Motörhead” by the band Motörhead off the album Motörhead, I thought of the song “Bo Diddley” by Bo Diddley off Bo Diddley. After some hard thinking, I came up with “Black Sabbath” by Black Sabbath off Black Sabbath. There are lots of song-album double-ups, and even a few band-song ones. But the other song-band-album trifectas I could think of lacked the purity of A=B=C as above:

- “(Them from) The Monkees” by the Monkees off The Monkees
- “In a Big Country” by Big Country off the greatest hits album In a Big Country
- “Bob Dylan’s Dream” and “Bob Dylan’s Blues” by Bob Dylan off The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan
- countless other Bo Diddley permutations

Others?

Haven’t been able to compose a fully formed blog post in a few days, so here are a few half-baked ones:

• The two hallmarks of Dan 7.0 are 1) more sweater vests, and 2) tighter trousers. Not like 1980s glam metal tight, but not as baggy as I’ve been rockin’ for a long time. It also meant a slimmer-fitting pea coat for winter, which is nice but won’t fit accomodate both gloves in the pocket. So I now clip them together and let one dangle. Will this mean I don’t lose my gloves or that I just finally lose both instead of just the one? Stay tuned!
• Slow work day? Well, I just spent 10 minutes watching of people puking on Youtube. It started out innocently after a blog entry on Brent Scowcroft led me to search for footage of George HW Bush puking on the Japanese prime minister. Soon enough, I got here.
• A guy working at my local independent bookstore was wearing a shirt that said “Read Joyce.” He recommended I start with The Dubliners, and when I confessed I had Ulysses on my shelf but was intimidated by it, he said, “It’s just a book, it’s not going to hurt you.” I hope my retelling doesn’t make that sound snarky because it was actually delivered in a kind and reassuring way. So just a reminder this holiday season to buy local. And if you’re looking for books in Cambridge, shop at Porter Square Books.
• As for my non-Joyce reading, I got through 150 pages of Inifnite Jest last summer and the first four essays in Consider the Lobster this week and now, at the risk of speaking ill of the dead, I can safely say I’m good on David Foster Wallace. He was clearly incredibly smart and talented. I just find his stylistic choices  insufferable; the footnote thing reminds me too much of the guy I knew in LA whose “thing” it was to wear mismatched socks all the time.
• That said, his death is still very sad. DFW, not the sock guy. Sock guy’s doing fine.
• Got a mysterious email last night asking me to audition for a role on a popular Disney channel show. Turns out the email was meant for someone else. But for one brief moment, I really thought I was on the verge of becoming the next Mr. Belding. Ten years ago, maybe I could have been Screech…

A month or two ago, we had an extra squash and I decided to invent a soup. By some odd miracle, it turned out pretty delicious. I’m not usually one for sharing recipes on this blog — not because I feel they’re proprietary, just boring. But this month’s Simple Nourishtment newsletter contained a recipe that looked slightly similar to mine, and it inspired me to share this with the world. But since I find recipe posts not always the most scintillating, I’m going to try to jazz it up with an in-your-face attitude and jokes. I’m typing this out with no confidence that I can actually deliver squash jokes. But I guess we’ll find out in a minute.

1. Cut a squash in half, scoop out the seeds and set aside to accidentally burn while toasting later. Put the two pieces of squash in a pyrex dish and roast at 450 for, like, an hour or so. I did acorn squash face up and butternut squash face down. Basically cook it until it’s soft when you stab it with a fork. Just cook the shit out of it. If you can find squash without shit to be cooked out, that might save you some time. (See? Squash jokes are hard.)
2. Cut up a couple carrots, dice some ginger, add enough vegetable stock to cover, preferably homemade. I make my stock by saving vegetable scraps — carrot peels, onion skins, lettuce nubs, broccoli pantsuits, etc — and boiling with a peppercorn or two until the water seems brothy. It’s much better than store-bought, and costs you nothing but time. Simmer the carrots and ginger until everything’s squishy. Does using the word “squishy” in a recipe count as a joke? What if I use “squashy” later?
3. Scoop out the squash and put in food processor or blender. Add the carrots, ginger, and stock, blend until smooth. If it’s too thick, add more stock. If you’re too thick, try night classes. Dear god, is this what Henny Yougman’s cooking blog would look like?
4. Return everything to the pot, heat until it seems hot enough for soup. If it gets too thin, boil it down. If it gets too thick, add more stock. If it gets too squashy, order a pizza. (Take my soup — please!) Add salt, pepper, and a dab of butter. Season until it tastes awesome.
5. Eat it up.
6. Crap it out.
7. The end

Okay, I’m pretty sure I’m ready for the Food Network.

• A piece explaining why the four Harvard freshman douches at the Pats-Jets game were so douchey, and why it reminded me my much I have trust-funders eager to “drop the H-bomb.” Abandoned because most Harvard kids are actually harmless and because I didn’t want to be too much of a jerk.
• Revisiting a bad experience with a blogger who was total biatch after Kerry lost, patting myself on the back for not rubbing her nose in it this year, then rubbing her nose in it. Abandoned because I don’t like starting fights with bloggers, even with realy bad bloggers who also happen to be mouth-breathing look-at-me! types. And also because of the hypocrisy of the false high road. (NB: hypocrisy of false high road still achieved!)
• A note that Antonin Scalia on 60 Minutes reminded me of Wallace Shawn. Abandoned because I couldn’t find a Princess Bride photo that looked enough like Scalia to prove my point.
• A Youtube of a very wonderful childhood PSA that Meaghan discovered was actually Boston-specific. Abandoned because I had designs on starting a Boston-themed group blog and thought this would be a perfect post. But despite purchasing a domain name (and nearly $20 worth of web hosting!) I abandoned the blog idea, or at least indefinitely delayed it. I’ll post the YouTube here soon.
• A piece wondering what it meant that people suddenly felt comfortable talking to me about “ebonics” and “Chinamen.” Abandoned because I couldn’t wrangle a thesis. And because we elected Obama president and therefore ended racism. (Right?)
• A long-standing half-written post that I feel like one day I can clean up and submit to McSweeney’s, although the longer it sits there, the more certain I become it won’t be accepted if and I ever touch it. Which I don’t.

In other news, I’m now semi-obsessed with the nerdy and hilarious xkcd, as my friends are learning via email each time I come across one that applies to them. Highly recommended — and be sure to hover your cursor over it for a bonus popup message!

Hello, ladies, Dan Tobin here. How are you? Good, I hope. Well, I’m writing to ask you a small favor. As we progress through fall and into winter, you’ll no doubt be striving to insulate yourself from the cold. Jacket, gloves, scarf, hats. All very nice, all very useful. But when you get inside where it’s toasty warm, I have one request:

Keep the scarf on.

It’s a small request, but an important one. And everybody wins: you stay toasty and I get to see you wearing a scarf. With the shortened daylight hours and the cold weather sapping our spirits, seeings the pretty ladies of Boston wearing scarves indoors brings a ray of light to an otherwise dreary winter. So do me this favor and grant the world a simple act of maximum cuteness. In return, I will give you a nice smile and possibly a pie.

Yours truly,
Dan Tobin