Salade de Fruits Café

Saturday, December 20th, 2008

Salade de Fruits Café

1551 West 7th Avenue
Vancouver, British Columbia
tel. 604.714.5987

http://www.saladedefruits.com

Brunch served Saturdays from 10am to 2:30 p.m.

After several years of being undeservedly ridiculed and ostracized, The French finally seem to be regaining the respect that they’re due. The Iraq war turned out to be just as much of a clusterfuck as their leaders predicted while Michael Moore’s “Sicko” illuminated not only their fine medical system but also their admirable penchant for working as little as humanly possible. Hell, even their new president has contributed to this most recent chapter of the French Renaissance by extending the olive branch to the States and ditching his aging, wrinkly wife for an Italian nude model/pop-star/hottie. Formidable!!

As Freedom Toast disappears from menus and societies' collective consciousness, we at the Armada decided to celebrate by taking our own municipal trans-Atlantc flight down ot the Francophone Cultural Centre on 7th Ave. It is here amongst the free clinics and overpasses where you'll find Salade de Fruits, one of the city's hidden breakfast gems. Promoting authentic French food prepared and served by real-life French people, this small café is often overlooked due to its dismal location and exceedingly nondescript exterior. These trifles should not dissuade the avid brunch gourmet, however, as Salade de Fruits offers one of the most delectably affodable petite déjeuners in town.

The décor, as one would expect, is a hodgepodge of all things French. You like cheap souvenirs? Well, so does whoever owns this restaurant! The space ostensibly extends into the foyer of the Cultural Centre, making for a bit of an odd and occasionally drafty setup. During the summer, I’d recommend getting there early and snagging one of the South-facing patio seats. While exposure to direct sunlight rarely enhances breakfast dishes, it’s a safe bet that the average pasty Canadian face could benefit from a little UV.

As far as services goes, the wait staff is composed entirely of francophones and the quality of their attention varies tremendously depending on what language you speak. I’ll give you one guess as to which mother tongue will result in the more amiable server but hey, how authentic would a French dining experience be without the haughty attitude? Thankfully, our waitresses plunging décolletage adequately compensated for her shortcomings in the congeniality department.

My selection today, amongst the four Ouefs Benny aux choix, was the saumon fumé (smoked salmon). Now, most breakfast restaurants in Vancouver offer some variant of this “West Coast” classic benedict and S.de F. is no exception. The most notable distinguishing characteristics are their unique hollandaise and the replacement of the traditional (and in this case, blasphemous) English muffin base with a more delicate biscuit. At $7.99, you’d be hard pressed to find a benedict throughout the city offering more flavour for money.

Duckboy also anted up for a benny, his choice being the more traditional version comprising little more than ham and hollandaise. Although he lamented a first-bite vinegar tinge, he lauded the overall execution of this classic, going so far as to highlight the fluffiness of his egg whites. Oh, Duckboy. Whilst “my compliments to the fluffer” would serve as high praise in certain industries, those at the table were unanimous in our discouragement of his passing along this particular sentiment to the staff.

All of Salade de Fruits’ Bennies (and omelettes) come with their amazing version of seasoned home fries and a distinctive selection of accompanying breakfast meat. Ducky extolled the virtues of his spectacularly crispy bacon while the rest of the jury is still deliberating whether or not the lamb sausage was guilty of being too damn smoky.

Both visiting from their adopted countries, Toad and Lang-Dang opted for $7.99 omelettes of the ham/cheese/mushroom variety. Lang declared his meal to be excellent, specifically citing the smell and taste of the skillet’s pan-searing that had been infused into the eggs. Toad was complimentary overall but, being the international gastronome that he is, felt the brie could have used more of a nose. I tell you, this guy moves to Europe and all of a sudden he’s Jamie frickin’ Oliver. Ignoring this minor quibble, value for money was at the top of his list of many accolades.

Of course, for Salade de Fruits to offer food of this quality for this price, there must be a catch. Upon closer inspection, there are indeed several catches, all of which can be uncaught if one is willing to succumb to the very particular and very, very lazy nature of the French.

Apart from the afore-mentioned laissez-faire service, said catches are as follows; 1) Cash is the only acceptable method of payment and any attempts to remit via other means will be met with snide dismissal. 2) Coffee refills fall on the wrong side of free. This is a real pet peeve of mine as I feel it’s the one area where thrifty patrons such as myself can really exploit small business owners. 3) Brunch is served from 10:00am to 2:30pm ONLY on Saturdays. Evidently French people cannot be bothered to haul their Gallic asses out of bed before 10 am on any other day of the week. This leaves brunch-hungry diners with a very small window of opportunity.

Stereotypical nuances aside, I really enjoyed the breakfast offered up at Salade de Fruits and the rest of the Armada was in agreement. Reasonably priced French food of this calibre should the expectation rather than the example par excellence. Now, with countless breakfasting shores to plunder, I must attempt to conclude this review without resorting to a hackneyed “Bon Appétit.” Oh, goddamn it.

Dirty Johnny

Fets Pasta Bar and Grill

Saturday, January 3^rd, 2009

Fets Pasta Bar & Grill

1230 Commercial Drive
Vancouver, British Columbia
tel. 604.255.7771

Fets is a place we’d been meaning to hit up for years but for some inexplicable reason, let’s call it “sloth” for sake of argument, had just never gotten around to it. In an effort to placate some of the now suburbanite (and subordinate) members of the Armada, I suggested a more centrally located haunt. Despite the snowy conditions, we made our way down to the Drive and in doing so, were richly rewarded by one of our best breakfasting experiences in a long while.

Self-described “Pasta Bar” by night, the restaurant’s motif is decidedly pop culture, brandishing murals of the usual array of dead celebrities supplemented with a healthy dose of the Rolling Stones. Come on, is there anyone under 45 who still thinks the Stones in any way meet even the most liberal definition of cool? If you’re out there, we need to have a frank exchange of ideas as soon as possible. At any rate, the space itself is large, even drafty, but there are a lot of nooks and velvety couches to allow for a satisfyingly intimate meal with your own swarthy crew.

Our server, Veronique, was cut from the Armada’s type of cloth: attentive, patient and knowledgeable. She was also unabashedly hung-over but never let it interfere with her service or tableside manner. Coffee cups were refilled promptly but without prompting while upselling was soft, remorseful and only done to legitimately enhance the meal. Our wait time was reasonable and when the food did arrive, it took our combined Tetris skills to arrange and accommodate the vast array of plates and side dishes.

After inexcusably mistaking a likeness of Jimi Hendrix for Lionel Ritchie, Junior attacked his $11 chorizo hash with gusto. Rich in delicately fried onions and peppers, the hash was topped with two poached eggs and offered the choice of toast or, as a very enticing option, an English muffin. The meal was awarded top marks although he bemoaned the lack of a ‘certain sauciness’ that I suppose he’d come to expect from the likes of Milestones’ borderline inedible, barbeque-sauce soaked prime-rib hash. I personally appreciate a drier, crisper hash and prefer the option of adding any additional sauces myself.

J-llows, Junior’s long-suffering wife, is admittedly not the biggest breakfast fan, but enjoys the social aspect of the meal. Her choices tend to err on the side of conservatism and today was no exception with her selection of the $7 Full House. Both as simple and as easy as Jessica Simpson, this dish consisted of two free range eggs (done in the diner’s requested style), hash browns and toast. Every breakfast restaurant I’ve ever been to serves a variant of this meal and if you can’t get it right, you’re not going to get a lot of repeat business. Fets’ Full House was well-executed, attractively presented and would handily satisfy the less adventurous members of your party.

Ever the insatiable beast, M opted for the $12 Big Meal, comprising two eggs (any style), two pancakes, hash and a choice of ham, bacon or sausage. Like Leann Rimes, this sucker is all about value (Barenaked Ladies alert!!) as the gargantuan pancakes alone justify the pricetag. Available in a simple buttermilk or more flashy fruit-filled version, these ‘cakes were dense, delicious and dripping in syrup. Recommended for fans of both nitrates and carbohydrates.

As for my meal, well, it’s nearly impossible for me to say anything negative about something as innovative as a perogy hash. I have always deemed perogies to be one of Mother Nature’s perfect foods and the mere idea of utilizing them in a breakfast meal is immediately compelling. “How did they pull it off,” you ask? Imagine a deep dish of traditional Slavic dumplings, fried up with a spicy blend of peppers, onions and andouille sausages, then topped with a couple of medium-poached eggs. Perfection? Not until the masterfully upsold side of sour cream arrived to complete the ensemble. I ate voraciously and succumbed to a Ukrainian daydream, complete with cheap vodka, mail-order brides and good-time nuclear fallout.

Complaints? The general consensus amongst the group was that the eggs were somewhat overcooked and the single-slice-of-melon fruit garnish was underwhelming. The coffee was of the tolerable restaurant variety and the OJ looked and tasted like it had been cut with Sunny D, a definite negative for anyone not named Juno. I also really feel that if one is expected to shell out fourteen bones for a perogy hash, the price should damn well include the sour cream.

However, when faced with a great meal and overall fantastic experience, these were minor objections and all in attendance agreed that they’d return without hesitation. Hell, if they took down that grade seven, c-minus student’s, aluminum foil, blinking UFO science project hanging from the ceiling, I might even come back for dinner. ‘Til next time, never forget the most important meal of the day,

Dirty Johnny

My Non-Surgical Lobotomy

**Editor's Note - Once again my brother Paul has supplied me with content, compensating for my abject shiftlessness. I hope you enjoy. - Ryan**

I handed her two hundred dollars, slapped her ass and sent her on her way. She was worth every penny. I took a picture of the hotel room. Beer cans were strewn on the floor, ashtrays overflowed, white powder laced the coffee table and the bed sheets were satisfyingly disarrayed. This picture would serve as my final souvenir of my hedonistic ways. It was time to give up my life of debauchery. I needed to start planning my long term future. I’d recently perused various religious texts in search of posthumous solace. One religion appealed to me beyond all others: fundamentalist Mormonism.

I’d decided to become a FLDS Mormon for three important reasons: I wanted to let god take care of my problems; a harem of servile wives sounded appealing; and lastly I wanted to indulge my narcissism to the fullest. Though I will miss my vices and possibly my mind, I felt it was necessary to hedge my bets. Eternal damnation sounds like a real downer.

I’m tired of thinking for myself. Grappling with the modern zeitgeist of an ever changing world is hard work. Learning new concepts makes my brain hurt. Solving problems takes ingenuity and tenacity. I’ve seen the light. There is an easier way. I just have to shut off my brain, let my eyes glaze over, feel the drool accumulate in the corner of my mouth and give myself over to the power of prayer. Mormonism, like most religions, states that everything that happens is God’s design. Adopting this philosophy would mean I become immune to criticism and accountable for nothing. I can finally stop thinking and put myself in the church’s capable hands. I will be able to hide behind dogma and antiquated notions without ever again having to wrestle with complex scientific ideas like a heliocentric solar system. That always sounded like witch talk to me. The Christians should have burned that trouble-maker Galileo at the steak when they had the chance. From now on ‘God did it’ will serve as my all encompassing answer to every question. I wonder how I will keep my ears and mind insulated from common sense and rationale. Hopefully there’ll be a seminar. Instead of trying to fix my problems or think through a dilemma, I will simply drop to my knees and beg a celestial dictator to deal with them. Being a Mormon is going to be swell.

One aspect of fundamental Mormonism I’m eagerly anticipating is the bonanza of obedient wives I’m entitled to. The FLDS split from mainstream Mormonism in the early 1900s when plural marriage was renounced and practitioners of plural marriage were excommunicated. People probably have a very negative view of the quality of Mormon woman given the recent news coverage on the raid of the FLDS compound in Texas. People who watched the endless coverage on CNN may be put off by the unusually high number of FLDS women sporting the uni-brow, but I won’t be so easily dissuaded. While I agree that most of these women fall on the wrong side of homely, I hold out hope that I can mine a few diamonds in the rough.

The best part is that the religion demands the obedience and fidelity of its women. I won’t have to go through the hassle of being an interesting and thoughtful person to earn their loyalty and respect. I won’t have to be genuinely interested in them either nor will I have to suffer the indignation of treating them as equals. I will be able to keep them in line with threats of eternal damnation and excommunication. This is going to be keen.

Where Mormonism really sets itself apart from other religions is that it has gone that extra mile to appeal to the megalomaniac in everyone. Other religions offered perks that piqued my interest. For example, certain sects of Islam promise the bizarre and excessive benefit of seventy-two virgins upon death. That is mighty tempting, but I prefer a girl who’s been around the block a few times.

Becoming a Scientologist would give me the chance to rid myself of those pesky body thetans that were planted there by intergalactic warlord Xenu. While Xenu has been a thorn in my side for some time now, the advantage of ridding me of him and his inflicted maladies doesn’t compare to the impressive afterlife benefits package offered by the Mormon religion. In addition to the eternal bliss that is a staple of most religions, I will have the rare opportunity of becoming a god myself with dominion over my own personal planet. Yes, Mormons actually believe this. That is what ultimately sold me, though I often wonder if I’ll be required to pray to myself. That wily Joseph Smith truly knew how to buy loyalty and manipulate the masses. As God of my own planet, my first order of business will be to banish all the Mormons and import some strippers. Being a god is going to be super.

Mormonism isn’t for everyone. Though I relish the idea of becoming an empty-headed polygamist deity, it probably won’t appeal to some. Still, I would encourage everyone to seek out a religion or belief system that discourages independent thought, appeals to narcissism, peddles easy answers, coerces through fear, represses human sexuality, spits in the face of gender equality and holds superstition in higher esteem than reason. People should decide which combination of some or all of these appeals to them and chose their religion accordingly.

Whether it be Jesus, Moses, Zeus, Muhammad, L . Ron Hubbard, or the morning horoscope, people should have a messiah whose teachings they obey without question. Who needs a brain when insecure men in goofy hats can tell us exactly how we should live our lives. If everyone does his or her part we can forget about that bleak time known as The Age of Enlightenment and go back an ideal time where science, literature, art and women are kept under the thumb of religious dogma: where they belong.

Bond Rebooted: Take Two

Editor's note - Due to an eggregious lack of productivity over the last few months, I will be publishing a post by my brother, Paul, an aspiring Roger Ebert. Your feedback would be appreciated. - Ryan

After the embarrassment that was “Die Another Day”, the James Bond franchise was in serious need of retooling. The producers did exactly that, and I thought it was a success on every level. I really liked Casino Royale. The sequel, Quantum of Solace, is a huge letdown. It was nihilistic, relentless, and at times unintelligible. I was actually left feeling nostalgic for the old cheesy Bond films. If Roger Moore flew across the screen in jet pack, pursued by generic goons with spear guns, and dropped a pun about stuffing Christmas Jones, I would have stood up and applauded.

Attention, Modern Action Directors: Incomprehensible, quick-cut action scenes are the worst thing to happen to the action genre since Michael Bay. Hey, maybe he’s responsible for them. Probably not, but I’m going to blame him anyway. I really fucking hate Michael Bay.

Quantum of Solace has two impossible-to-follow sequences: the opening car chase and an on-foot pursuit. At no time did I have any grasp of what I was watching. If you revisit action movie benchmarks such as Die Hard, The Road Warrior, or Raiders of the Lost Ark, you’ll notice that all the action sequences are easy to follow and there’s little chance epileptics will be left convulsing in their seats. At no point is the audience left stupefied by perplexing scenarios.

In the spectacular climax of the Road Warrior, for instance, it’s easy to ascertain exactly what is happening and who is involved. You get a sense of proximity, you know how many vehicles there are, and you understand what is happening to whom. If I attempted to answer who, what, where? in Quantum of Solace’s opening sequence, the only response I could offer is a vapid stare.

Mark Forster was recruited to direct this movie. He’s purportedly an art house movie darling behind films such as “Finding Neverland” and “Monster’s Ball”. Perhaps he’s out of his element here, because I thought some of “Quantum of Solace” was ham-fisted hack work. The foot chase sequence was already totally unintelligible due to the quick cuts, and to make matters worse he intercut the scene with shots from a horse race. Oh I get it! It’s a chase! He employs a similar tactic in the opera house where a death within the opera itself parallels onscreen carnage. Clap, clap. Bravo! Maybe he thinks lowbrow movie goers need this juxtaposition to follow along. We don’t, but better direction would be nice.

There are also some really confusing plot points involving Bond’s friend/nemesis Mathis. Who was he working for ultimately? Why was he killed? (I know. That was a spoiler. Don’t worry the movie was spoiled long before I gave away plot details. It’s been out for three weeks anyway. Get your asses in gear, people). I don’t consider myself particularly obtuse, but a little clarity would have been appreciated.

I think Daniel Craig was a really good choice for James Bond. He’s looks appropriately menacing, athletic, and calculating-much closer to the character Ian Fleming created. Where’s the charm though? It’s not Daniel Craig’s fault; the script wasn’t good. Bond needs to be more than a stone-faced, relentless sociopath. No, he doesn’t need to be spouting ridiculous double entendres at every opportunity, but a little personality would really round out the character. Without it he just becomes Jason Bourne.

I can only recommend this movie to fans, who frankly have already seen it. For those who need a ranking system: I’ll give it a 2 out of 5. James Bond needed a retooling. I just hope they don’t take it too far and leave nothing left of the character that so many people know and love.

Paul Sykes will return in……His review of Slumdog Millionaire.

Tipping: Maybe it IS Just a City in China After All

While chatting with a friend at the beach the other day, the topic of our conversation turned from the usual subject matter of "which member of the Full House cast turned out the hottest?" (my vote goes to Jodie Sweetin, while he's a Stamos man) to that of cab fare gratuities. A rather heated debate ensued and relations cooled to the point of approaching Russian/Georgian proportions. It seems my friend, let's call him "Matt" was chagrined at the perceived duplicitousness of his previous evenings' cab-driver. Throughout the course of the ride, the driver regaled Matt with some hard-luck story about how difficult his life was i.e he had five kids to feed, was deeply in debt and had fallen victim to the infamous kidney thief in Korea, etc. Boohoo.

Once the ride ended and Matt had handed over his cash, the cabbie inquired as to whether or not he could keep the change. Believing the entire story to be little more than an effort to coerce him out of his hard-earned toonies, Matt steadfastly refused, preferring to "round up" by means of leaving the cabbie with the coinage and taking any bills. I couldn't weasel an exact number out of him but I suspect the final remittance was somewhere South of $2.

I've always been under the impression that the appropriate amount to tip a cab driver is somewhere in the 10% ballpark with that percentage being raised substantially if "The Company" is picking up the tab. Matt argued that, unlike waitressing , there was no accepted social norm regarding cab-driver gratuities in Canada and that eschewing the tip entirely was perfectly within the realm of culturally acceptable behaviour. Rounding up, in his estimation, was entirely sufficient, if not generous. I warned him that while it was of little concern to me whether he chose to tip or not, he did run the risk of not only the driver but fellow passengers regarding him as a cheapass.

Needless to say this did not go over well but I am willing to admit I could be way off base here. It was pointed out to me that cab-driving economics are nebulous at best. Conversely, leaving 15% at a Canadian restaurant seems to be the accepted social norm, this money is given with the knowledge that the waitress is not earning more than the minimum-wage standard of $8 per hour. But how much does a driver make? What portion of the fare actually goes to him and to what degree is he on the hook for the maintenance, the rising cost of fuel and the physio and drug-therapies necessary following the requisite violent muggings? For all anybody knows, these guys are making thousands a night and buying up Faberge Eggs by the dozen. Shouldn't their wage be payment enough?

In all seriousness, although I've little concern that these men (they're always men) are starving, I'm by no means convinced that Robin Leach is going to be contacting them about their champagne wishes and caviar dreams anytime soon. I think most people are unaware that a cab license in Vancouver costs over $400,000, a rather daunting sum for young, urban professionals, let alone for someone that has likely recently immigrated from a developing nation. I believe these men rely on their tips just as a waitress does and provide an equally, if not more, valuable service.

Seriously, how much talent does it really take some bimbo at Earl's to bring a table full of college kids some jalapeno poppers and tepid jug of "Rickard's Red?" My interactions with serving staff are frequently monosyllabic and my yam fries generally have more charisma. Good cabbies, on the other hand, actually display modicums of driving skill and are more than happy to chat your ear off about cricket and the enthralling political situation in their country of origin. In fairness to the Earl's girls, drivers very rarely giggle, brush your shoulder lightly and say "Oh, you..."

So at this point, I really need to turn it over to the reader(s). I'm interested in your proverbial two cents on your cabbie-tipping tendencies. Am I the classic fool, forever destined to be parted from his money or magnanimous humanitarian, able to empathize with the cab-driving everyschlub? Let's settle this raging debate once and for all, and more importantly, let's help the "differently employed" (i.e me) win twenty bones from my friend.

Dear Jesus, Will you Lend me a Hand?

Dear Jesus/Allah/Buddha, or any other less popular deity that may be reading,

Being all-knowing, I don't have to tell you that this is my first formal correspondence to you. I realize I haven't exactly been the most devout of followers, what with my tendency to deny your very existence(s) but desperate times call for desperate employment of cliches so please bear with me. I need to confess to whoever is reading that more-and-more frequently I find myself gripped by murderous urges. I fear that I am on the very brink of losing control over these ravenous, homicidal impulses.

What I ask for is simple; I seek the strength to not to choke to death the next guy I see walking out of the men's room without washing his hands. It's not that I don't think these clueless douchebags deserve to die, I absolutely do. It's just that, well, I'm really looking forward to the fall TV lineup and most Canadian correctional facilities don't provide convicted violent criminals with 'round-the-clock, intra-cell access to cable television. What I seek is the mental fortitude to channel my precious hatred towards something constructive, like simply spitting in their mouths or employing Hammurabi's code and slipping them the classic Stink Palm.

If you can't grant me the desired cerebral mastery, perhaps you could enlighten me as to how these complete fucking asshats lack the basic social awareness to realize that most people do not want to shake hands with their dicks. Or the last filthy skank they banged or the armada of genital parasites she deposited on their stinky pubes.

Failing all of this, perhaps you could use your divine influence and provide these shit-eating r-tards with the grade eight scientific education required to realize that one's cock and surrounding area (ballsack, chocolate piehole and much-maligned "taint") are a breeding ground for bacteria and viruses. They need to know that it doesn't necessarily matter that they had a shower this morning or last Tuesday, micro-organisms will grow where it's dark, moist and otherwise disgusting; specifically, their crotch.

I think they could also use a reminder that their time is far less important than they think it is and that the extra 15 seconds it takes to clean that pee of their hands is not going to prevent them from accomplishing anything meaningful. Unless they were going to commit suicide, in which case, maybe you should just let them be.

Thanks, God (or Gods), I really appreciate it. Oh, and while you're at it, would you mind giving flesh-eating disease to all those jackasses who nonchalantly touch their balls in social settings? Sweet.

Your new best friend,
Ryan

Olympic Fever is Making Me Sick

As the Olympic ceremonies get underway in Beijing and some guy I've never heard of bears the torch for Canada, I believe it would be topical to weigh in and deliver my version of "Olympic Fever." This is far from the typically witnessed conditions of blubbering emotion, rampant nationalism and irrational interest in sporting events that have been otherwise ignored for the past 1,444 days since the last games. No, the symptoms I'm experiencing are more along the lines of those caused by the Ebola virus; vomiting, diarrhea, generalized malaise, and internal bleeding.

While the question that all of society has been pondering over the last several months has been "Should so-and-so boycott the Olympics in communist China?" I find myself dwelling on an entirely different postulation; Am I the only person in the world who doesn't give a shit about the Olympics or their perceived political ramifications?

According to the media, I'm supposed to gain some sort of self-worth if someone born in New Brunswick stands on the podium with a shiny medal for fencing. I guess nothing says "National Pride" more than diverting funds from the arts, social programs, and battling climate change towards athletics and beating the snot out of underprivileged banana republics that can't afford the same luxury. Go, Canada, bring home the gold! Let's show Honduras who the Man is!

Additionally, I fail to comprehend how people with otherwise no affinity for women's archery, team dressage or men's 68kg, 700-metre indoor bobsleigh jump (sure, that one's not real...but it should be) can suddenly become captivated by the insufferably boring minutiae of these and other "sports." Don't try to persuade me you're a huge fan of the women's 400 metre individual medley throughout the year because it's about as convincing as Mary-Kate's claim to have had no involvement in Heath Ledger's death. I know you did it, Mary-Kate, you fame-mongering whore.

My one goal for these Olympics is this: to watch even less of the coverage than I did for the last Olympics in Greece. Scoff if you must but this is far from an easy feat when you consider that the longest uninterrupted viewing session I partook of in 2004 was about 90 seconds of Bjork's warbling 412-minute "We are the World"-style opening musical number.

With that in mind I aim to view, over the course of the entire games, less than one minute of actual footage, be it the opening/closing ceremonies, inevitable and ceaseless terrorist attack speculation or sporting events both live and "highlights." This excludes, of course, anything that might be considered a "blooper," ranging from painfully face-planting hurdlers to errant javelins through the skull (one can only hope).

With media coverage as intense as it is and moronic general populace banter at an all-time high, this will prove to be an extremely difficult undertaking. I feel I'm up to the challenge and, accordingly, have a few projects I'm willing to pursue as exciting alternatives to the tedium of the games. These include but are not limited to writing love poems to Glenn Beck, vacuuming the floor with my tongue, organizing my collection of self-bootlegged "Danger Bay" VHS tapes or dangling my scrotum inside a blender, hitting frappe and downing the resulting ball smoothie.

Wait, this just in, breaking news....Beijing is smoggy!! Enough already. You can glue your eyeballs to your Sony plasma screens for the next 15 days if you want. I'm going to hit the beach and bring home my own version of the bronze. I'm not even going to train.