The 35th Precinct

I've started Sprache XII, but astonishingly, I've also soldiered on with my Flack/Stanhope cracknum opus, which truly is a magnum opus at this point, clocking in at fourteen thousand words at what might be the midpoint. It's nice to be so creatively fecund, but it's also exhausting, and I haven't seen my TV in a week. I'm determined to relax for the next few days and watch a little idiot box. Top Chef D.C. might be stultifyingly boring in comparison to other seasons, but it's still worth it to see Eric Ripert's amazing Shitty Food Face. "I am French, and therefore above it all, but this food makes even my bowels clench," his face says as he samples the swill before him, and his haughty affront is beautiful to behold.

And I'm still enamored of Haven, even if the purported mysteries are one-note cliches culled from Uncle Stevie's infamous oeuvre of psychic children and supernatural simpletons. The rapport between the main cast is lively and refreshing, and the growing friendship between Parker and Wuornos feels completely organic and not at all like a placeholder for the impending sexy tiems nao. I'm sure they'll botch that later, shoehorn in some angsty, three-way pinefest between Wuornos and Crawford, but for right now, the dynamic is utterly delicious.

I woke up this morning with heady plans to fic the day away, but I ended up watching eight hours of Top Chef on Bravo. I loathe reality shows because they're usually people with utter assholes bent on re-enacting Lord of the Flies with an appalling excess of street slang and obscenity. Everyone is busy trying to prove what a badass they are, and at the end of an hour, you wonder what about the human race is worth saving.

Chef features the same cast of self-obsessed assholes, but the central premise of food and cooking is more accessible and interesting to me than, say, who can make the most chic dress out of duct tape, a rubber doorstop, a nipple clamp, a begonia pot, and Uncle Herb's antique, Army-issue jock strap. Food is still subjective, but it has universal constants. The Who Farted In Church Face and an exclamation of, "This tastes like ass," is something everyone can understand. A Master's in culinary arts isn't necessary to follow along.

Alas, my favorite got the chiffonade before the final four, so now it's down to Lisa the Angry Lesbian, Bland Stephanie, and Unassuming Richard who, with his bewildering hatchet hair, reminds me of a punker Porky Pig. My money's on Richard, because Stephanie has all the flair of a wet Hufflepuff, and Lisa makes me want to bash her in the face with an iron skillet.

Roomie wants me to go out with him tomorrow. I can hardly contain my joy at the prospect of rejoining the seething herd of braindead humanity to brave a bus plaza under construction and ninety-six degree heat. But I know that if I balk, I'll treat myself to a rousing round of I Do Everything for You, and You Do Nothing for Me. You're a Cowardly Pussy Who Should Be Ashamed of Wanting to Feel Comfortable and Safe. So I'll probably shut up and go because my self-esteem has taking a pounding of late. Everything I do lately draws criticism, and I'm tired of living with guilt just for being me. He used to like me a long time ago, but now he only sees what I get wrong.

Maybe he'd be himself again if I weren't me, or maybe we just need a vacation from each other. Lord knows we haven't spent more than a night apart in nine years.

I just want to stop feeling like a breathing disappointment.