Anchower, I know. Up to my proverbial ass in day job alligators this week. But, A) Gawker follows the Cod's suit in calling bullshit on fake artisanal, though they do not pick up on the Cod's fautisanal coinage. Elsewhere, the Times has a puzzling article that says the bobos are tired like Lilly Von Schtupp of "vintage" and "artisanal" items. However, in both cases, what the Inigo Montoya said. (And speaking of people not knowing what a word means, click image at left.) It is a good trick. Folks get tired of mass marketed crap, food or furnishings, seek alternatives. Then, The Man gloms on, does a few Darjeeling Express tweaks for Anthropologie or Pottery Barn, saturates/fatigues market, announces that folks are tired of "vintage" (although not in the sense of an old object w/ a provenance story that connects it to the owner) or "artisanal" (although not in the sense of having been produced by, you know, an artisan), and announces a return to your regularly scheduled mass-marketed crap.
It is, actually, a variation on the water that Bruni hauls for the man here. Let's call it jade 'n' trade. Somewhere, someone rethinks the mode and scale and production of a consumer good -- sofa pillows, or coffee, or whatever. Then, you can get your handcrafted, shade-grown, whatever it is. It's better than what you were getting from Starbucks or Target. You can maybe feel a little better about fewer Chinese toddlers participating in its production. And then suddenly, Bruni, or Rush, or that twerp from the jeans commercials, tells you that you can't get a plan cup of coffee any more, what with the baristae chasing you down the street, cloroforming you, and pouring estate-grown, shade-harvested Tanzanian Peaberry down your throat. (See also, hipster as enemy of late capitalism, tk.) Cue fake nostalgia for the good old days when America Ran on Dunkin, and repudiation of commodity produced with marginally more social concern.
When and as, time permits, watch for the Cod to go ham on a particularly revolting twist on fautisanal.
Well, sure. There are a lot of cable channels with a lot of food programming, and a lot of folks have phones with cameras, so it's not that hard to do. The Cod stands with Bruni in imagining a world where there is less chance of seeing Gordon Ramsay when you turn on the TV. But then Bruni palms the pea and moves the shell around:
Romera sounds like an incredibly pretentious and overpriced restaurant. If I were shooting a remake of Coogan's Bluff, I'd use it as a illustration of the way that NYC sometimes tolerates/supports/embraces pretentious follies. But there is a difference between ill-concieved restaurants with avant-garde ambitions, and caring about where your food comes from. Tossing off discussion of where your steak or your coffee comes from as if it were tableside blather at Romera is nonsense. Bruni is either foolish or disingenous if he uses Romera as an example of the kind of thing that inevitably happens if you ask questions about what you're eating.
*I'm not sure if this is sloppy writing or sloppy thinking, but usually the idiom "rabbit hole" implies that you would be better off on the surface, rather than that there is some ideal depth in the rabbit hole. So, for Bruni, the whole organic thing is a crock?
And Guiteau Monday rolls right along, with the GOP Frontrunner(!)* donning a white robe(!)** and singing a parody of John Lennon's "Imagine" that simultaneously pisses on the laudable yet mawkish sentiment of that song, and in its delivery suggests Stepin' Fetchit doing a Paul Robeson impression.
*The GOP is so desperate not to have a Black president that they will stop at nothing, including electing another Black president?
**Historically, not a popular look among African Americans.
Making inmate butter consumption non-compulsory shows a lack of support for the state dairy industry? The Cod hearts butter, and has no time for margarine, but, for the moment, The Cod swims the street as a free fish. It's not as if we're carrying a torch for Amnesty International, but, just maybe, compelling inmates to eat more of something the state produces that might not be good for them, is, you know sketchy.
That said, there are some folks who are verry interested in commiting a crime in Wisconsin all of a sudden. Thanks to Penny Pascal, tearing it up on the Tumblrs, BTW, for the Peerless Photoshopping:
Men, if you happen to find yourself at one of the 25 manliest restaurants in America, and a) order a pink gin b) split a salad with your date c) order quiche and d) zinfandel, and e) suck off a busboy in the walk-in, it would be my pleasure to buy you dessert. You don't need to be Judy Butler to understand that gender is a performance, and you don't need to be Naiomi Wolf to get that there's money to be made in selling props for the performance. But the props can become a prison, and just now, there's a bit more of lite beers and for fuck's sweet sake, diet soft drinks pushing manliness than the Cod would like to see.
Anton Ego, it ain't, but certainly "illuminative." Aziz Ansari is reliably hilarious, and it's a fun project for two young and attractive folks to wear nice clothes and eat nice food and generate funny words and funny pictures. To take a page from grumpydudebro, it would be interesting to see them go to places that have not recently gotten smooches from Sifton (Roberta's, Torrisi), or Momofuku (Momofuku).
Even with trying to avoid getting submerged in 9/11 remembrances, the Cod has noticed that the anniversary seems to trigger a kind of narcissism in just about everyone who has addressed the subject this week in ink or pixel. Find a 9/11 remembrance that has a sentence that is not, syntacically "On that beautiful September morning, I...."
When I have the energy to think aobut it, I'm struck by how different the world was ten years ago. Social media did not exist. You actually had to be in the same place with other people for the kind of catharsis that social media provides. I was reminded of this, as it happens, by social media in the form of a post from FOC BK:
The Gurgling Cod did not exist. The blueberry iMac where I labored over the first draft of the fourth chapter of a dissertation could get online if you dragged the modem over and plugged in the long phone cord. So, no documentation. A lucky search on the NYT turns up the receipt:
It's intense. Have not made it in some time -- the last time was Election Night, 2004, after driving 45 min one way to get the Gruyere, so I fear it may be unlucky. That said, if you find yourself in need of some comfort today, you can do worse than a frisbee golf-putter sized disc of bacon, potatoes and cheeese. Thanks to BK/TWM for the reminder.