THE REAL BREAKFAST OF CHAMPIONS.

I was emptying my spam folder on gmail and whatever tool they have to generate link options thought I might be interested in this:

http://www.recipesource.com/main-dishes/meat/pork/spam/00/rec0017.html

Yes, it's the SPAM breakfast burrito. And while my family was very middle-class growing up, having been raised on a healthy diet of Spaghettios, Hamburger Helper (it makes a great meal), fish sticks and hot dogs, we never got into SPAM. Not only that, but our non-SPAM lifestyle coupled with all the SPAM jokes left me with an unfair anti-SPAM feeling. So to be fair, I felt I should do some research. I found out that SPAM stands for "Spiced Ham."

"SPAM is a canned precooked meat product made by the Hormel Foods Corporation. The labeled ingredients in the variety of SPAM are chopped pork shoulder meat with ham meat added, salt, water, sugar, and sodium nitrite." "The ingredients are ground to a medium-coarse texture. Spices are then added to enhance the product's natural flavor. After the blending process is completed, the meat is mechanically filled into cans, sealed, and cooked in a retort oven."

Doesn't sound half bad. Why all of the negative press? To get a better frame of reference, I had to find out what another mystery meat was made from; a mystery meat that I've enjoyed from time to time.

"Bologna is a cooked, smoked sausage made of cured beef, pork, or a mixture of the two. A typical recipe for this sausage uses seasonings such as salt, sugar, pepper, and spices, plus a curing mixture that includes sodium nitrite to prevent botulism...large manufacturers may use almost any part of the carcass, including organ meats, trimmings, and end pieces from other meat processing...it's pureed so the machines can pour into casings. Like other sausages, bologna is covered in either a natural casing made from the gastrointestinal tracts of cattle, sheep, and hogs, or a synthetic casing made of collagen, fibrous materials, or even plastic. All bologna is cooked and smoked to pasteurize it, so it's ready to eat when you buy it."

Sounds like Bologna and SPAM have a lot in common. The main difference being that SPAM is cooked after it's in the can, while Bologna is cooked before it's packaged. A good reading of the book "The Jungle," by Upton Sinclair, would tell you that all processed meats should be avoided. But health standards have improved and based on experience I trust my processed meats. And I just remembered that hot dogs are made from similar questionable ingredients in the same puree, pour and cook manner as SPAM and bologna. And I love hot dogs.

The verdict: I'm going to give SPAM a try. I'll let you know.

THE OSCARS.

Last night, since it's been a few years, I went to a friends and watched the Oscars. Yes, I attended an Oscar party. No, I did not bring a manfriend (Clint was in LA, ha-ha, shut up). I wanted to give the Academy Awards another chance. There's so much hype and people get all excited about it, so I figured perhaps my belief that the Oscars were a self-serving load of bullshit propagated by Hollywood to make itself feel even more famous was wrong. Maybe they're entertaining and funny.

With an open mind, I nabbed a two-litre of Hawaiian Punch and trudged through the falling snowball snow to the home of our gracious host. There was a good crowd on hand and they were already well into their Oscar night (I didn't get there until around 9:30), complete with Oscar prediction sheets, caramel corn and sushi. Luckily, many of the folks in attendance were my friends, which allowed me to talk with people while the torturously slow and dull ceremony dragged on. It seems my previous feelings were correct: that little statue must be limber, because the Oscar sucks his own dick.

First, applause for choosing Ellen to host the show. While I've never been a huge fan, Ellen is second only to Oprah when it comes to female talk-showish hosts that women and gay guys are addicted to. She fell out of favor awhile ago when she came out, so Hollywood was saying "sorry Ellen, we think it's okay now, you can host our show." How very PC of the Academy. But from what I saw, she only did one funny thing, which was to give Scorsese a script. Which opened the door for Clint Eastwood to quip, “where’s my script? I saw you give one to Marty. Now my feelings are hurt.” Both funny moments.

But everything else was fairly awful. Mainly, the Academy's obsession with montages. The foreign film montage, the “people who died” montage, the “movie this bitch worked on” montage, the “how writers are portrayed in movies” montage. Enough already. You're Hollywood. You're telling me that for your biggest award show you can't come up with something more original than cutting together old footage to music? The only cool thing that they did was hire the acrobats from that car commercial to make shapes—notably the one for Little Miss Sunshine. The best part of the entire night was when some foreign lady referred to her Oscar as "this doll." That, my friends, is comedy.

Anyways, it turns out that I don't care that much about the Academy Awards after all. I care enough to read the list of who won for best picture, best actor, etc. But to sit for five hours and watch that jackass Chris Connelly interview people backstage? Nah. I think next year I'll sit at home and read a book. Or maybe I'll do some stretching and try to suck my dick instead of watching Hollywood suck its own.

SOMETIMES.

Oreo cookies and a glass of milk really hit the spot.

And that spot is my mouth, followed by my stomach and so on.

WHAT CAN BROWN DO FOR ME?

How about for starters, actually ringing my buzzer? I understand it's going to take five minutes out of your busy deliveryman day, but it would be great if Brown actually tried to deliver the package. Putting a sticker on my front door just doesn't cut it. On Brown's tracking site, it says they tried to deliver the package TWICE on the final day. Once, in the afternoon, when my roommate was home sick from work; so maybe he was sleeping. But then they say they tried again at 9pm? When all three roommates were home (that includes me)? Nah, I ain't buying it. No way. I was sitting in the living room, right next to the buzzer.

What else can Brown do? Well, since you're not actually going to deliver the package, at least write who it's for on the sticker. That way only one of us has to deal with with having to go to your super inconveniently located Customer Service warehouse. Three stickers, zero names on any. We could possibly have signed the stickers and asked to have it dropped in our lobby, but who signs? Do we just take turns trying? Do we write illegibly so he has to guess who signed it?

Now that we have to report to their warehouse, I've been trying to find out whom the package is actually for. You think this would be easy. But no, Brown seems to think no one would ever need to know this information. Their online tracking doesn't have a recipient name listed. Their phone-in tracking system, no name. Next step, try and call the Customer Service Warehouse center and find out who'll have the pleasure of humping over to the far west side in zero degree weather to get the package that they feebly tried to deliver. But can you find the phone number? Nope. Brown apparently only lists their UPS Stores online and on their site.

At this point, I'd like to fuck Brown in their brown ass and take a brown dump in their Brown mouth. I suppose my next step will be to call a UPS Store and see if they can give me the number to the inconvenient Customer Service Warehouse.

For a company that prides itself on convenience, this has been the worst delivery experience I've ever encountered.

What can Brown do for me? Nothing, apparently. I'll just do it all myself.

Helpful Math Lesson: UPS = awful.

A DOG IS LOOKING AT ME.

It's watching me through the window of the coffee shop I've adopted as my home office. And it asked me why I haven't been writing. When I replied that I didn't know, I didn't have anything to write about it said, "why don't you write about that man who yelled at his dog yesterday."

Okay.

Yesterday I was walking down the street in the extreme, bitter cold. I passed a man walking his Dalmatian, who had stopped and was drinking from a large puddle of garbage water. At first I thought it was disgusting, but then when I thought about it from the dog's point of view, I realized it was delicious for a dog. Water filled with all sorts of street and trash flavor. The man was trying to pull the dog away, but the dog wasn't having it. This caused the man to begin shouting at the dog.

"Will you come on! Come on! You can have all the water you want at home! If you're so thirsty you can drink water when we get home."

Yes, but not trash water.

THE FURY.

I've returned from my west coast hiatus relaxed, refreshed and excited to be back in the city. And then I left the airport to find that god has decided to punish me for my lethargy by making the world ridiculously cold. This, however, I took in stride. The cold is a chance to test your resolve. Leave the house, victory. Walk somewhere instead of taking a cab, victory. Lose your gloves and go barehanded, victory. It seemed that I was going to take my calm, California-made demeanor and run with it.

Until this morning. After sitting and waiting for 35 minutes to be interviewed for a job I only half-want, my interview was cancelled and rescheduled for tomorrow. Alright, annoying, but whatever. I left and walked to the subway (victory), where the machine refused to accept my Metrocard. Accepting my fate, I left that particular entrance and walked a block to the next entrance(victory), where a machine told me my card was "just used." No shit. Used unsuccessfully. Luckily, this entrance had a booth, where I could explain my situation to the MTA employee. He took my card, scanned it and said "it was just used five minutes ago." When I explained to him that yes, I had tried to use it, but the swipe machine was broken he explained, "well, looks like you'll have to wait ten minutes."

What?

I suggested, calmly, that he could just buzz me through the gate, since I have an unlimited pass. I've seen it done before. But no, he says, I would have to stand and wait. At this point I started to lose my temper and say things like, that's fucking ridiculous. I know you can buzz me through. This is absurd. You want me just to stand here? Yes, he said, that was the best solution. So for about two minutes I stood at the booth window, glaring at him while he helped other people. Then I realized that was stupid and childish. So I spent two dollars for a single use card and went home.

Welcome back to New York.