Whole Foods Midnight Marathon

My dad once almost beat a Whole Foods employee into submission because the store lacked Hershey's chocolate syrup and Coca-Cola. That said, despite liking their cheese selection greatly, I feel pretty similarly about the entire Whole Foods operation. I like Velveeta, Jim Beam, and Wonder Bread on occasion. And I really like paying less for groceries.

But I can take Whole Foods with a grain of salt. I realize that moral superiority isn't really dictated by where you shop for groceries. So Whole Foods Midnight Madness in Denver was quite a humorous event for me.

"Midnight Madness," a term usually used to refer to college basketball programs' first practice of the year, means that Whole Foods puts a very few items on sale-- and on sale at Whole Foods is still pricier than Wal-Mart's everyday low prices (especially if they have that creepy yellow smiley face near the price.) Shrimp for $7 a pound? Insanity. Blocks of Parmigiano Reggiano cheese for $5? These prices, from what I could discern, made the yuppies of Cherry Creek as excited as if they'd received a new fixed-speed bicycle from Barack Obama for Christmas (or Eid?)

As we arrived at Whole Foods around 11:15 in the PM, we quickly realized that there was not an entire spot in the entire parking lot. Wait, were we mistakenly at a Subaru dealership? No. It was really Whole Foods, replete with Subaru Outbacks and their yuppie drivers. Oh my god, a Prius. The employees bowed to the owner as he entered the store. Thinking that Whole Foods' customers might be a bit less aggressive than Wal-Mart's customers, I quickly realized that a $4 pack of wheat naan could turn even the greenest soccer mom into a crazed discount hunter. Here's a picture of me getting a great deal on naan.

After an extended search for a parking spot, we entered the store to cheering employees announcing the midnight madness specials on the overhead speaker. Hip-hop music between the announcements calmed people's nerves about being a white person in an all-white grocery store. Soccer moms in pajamas ran around the aisles like teens at a slumber party high on soda flavored with all-natural coarse cane sugar.

I realized that the amount of self-congratulatory and hipster-ish quotes being thrown around would put my memory on overload (although that happens during most simple sentences to me). So I decided, luckily, to write down some of the quotes as I anticipated that this could be a blog-worthy event. I'll just throw these quotes out now with a lil' bit of commentary.

"Honey, are we out of naan at home?" I mean, why would you limit your naan consumption to home? Most families of four need at least twelve loaves of naan each week. Plus if you keep a stash in the car, you could eat twenty loaves of naan easily.

(on the overheard speaker): "The OJ special is in the PRODUCE section and not in the NATURAL JUICE section." This caused an absolute tide of yuppies to shift directions and I'm pretty sure someone got hurt in the ensuing rush for $3.99 half-gallons of OJ.

"Oh my god, I can't believe we biked here honey! We are having SO MUCH FUN." Couples' high-five. By the size and irony of the guy's moustache, and her awkward-looking blue leggings, I could tell they were some of the first people on their block to see Modest Mouse live in concert at a small venue. (Cheers to Christian's blog Stuff White People Like for informing this last hipster-inspired commentary).

Tatooed employee: "Free samples, bro! Rice nog!"

RetiredJK: "Is it ORGANIC?"

TE: "Sorry it's not, bro, but it's all natural and really tasty!"

RJK: (Disgusted look) Later broski.

Fifty-something: "EXCUSE ME, you're cutting in the seafood line!!!

Sixty-something: "I'm in the OLIVE LINE!"

Employee with multiple facial piercings: "Free samples! Pizza! No gluten! No rye! No wheat!" Ummm... at some point I feel like Whole Foods sells people the emperor's new clothes and that there's not actually anything in the box. Maybe some olive oil or something. But I'll bet buying it still feels really good inside.

A couple other funny things I noticed. One is that chicks at Whole Foods really like to wear their hair like Princess Leia from Star Wars. I also have never even fathomed that so many fifty-somethings knew how to send text messages. I really wondered who these folks were texting at midnight, given that my parents go to sleep two to three hours prior most nights. Probably their friends in Japan or something multicultural like that.

At the checkout, I really had to fight the desire to buy a Northern Italian cooking magazine, because seriously who would even eat Southern Italian food? Philistines. The uncultured. I say this as I eat a late-night crab enchilada with nacho cheese. But seriously, the string trio playing 90's pop hits (jazz-style) was blocking my access to baguettes. I'm pretty sure they played "I Want It That Way" by N'Sync on their viola and stuff. The layout of the store was very poor because I need two baguettes a day.

But as I left with my naan and block of Parmesan cheese, one of their dreadlocked employees handed me a free sample of peppermint soy beverage. ORGANIC. And if it wasn't the best peppermint soy beverage I've ever had then my name is not JK and I'm not retired. Whole Foods, holla! P.S. My dad would have totally kicked that employee's arse.

Do You Really Want to Hear About the Morgans?

Hello my dear blogettes. I hope this Christmas season finds you well and prosperous, and that you can find it in your heart to share some of that prosperity with me during my blogathon. It starts now and ends after this blog but may continue for another day or two depending on the motivation level in a post-Christmas world.

So, as you may have guessed, this blog deals with a certain recently released rom-com (for the uninducted this stands for romantic comedy) featuring SJP (Sarah Jessica Parker) as Meryl Morgan and Hugh Grant as Paul Morgan. A quick summary of the movie in my good friend Dave's words: "He's been stumbling through life as a charmingly befuddled d-bag... She's a horse-faced slut... But together they unexpectedly find the recipe for love..."



The movie doesn't even start before the laughs begin. A preview for the Jennifer Aniston action rom-com "The Bounty Hunter" precedes the movie, and I predict these two movies will compete for post-season honors on rottentomatoes.com. As the movie begins, Paul is repeatedly calling Meryl's answering machine, leaving sweet but wordy and misguided messages with the clear intent of reuniting with his estranged wife. The reason they're estranged? Sometimes movies imitate life, and Paul has cheated on his wife (although not with a hooker in the back of a car).

The first major scene in the movie features Paul stalking his wife at a charity dinner. She is the keynote speaker despite having zero talent for public speaking. The topic of her speech? An ironically foreboding talk about the fight against breast cancer reaching a "turning point" and a "make-or-break" time in their organization's fight for a cure. Paul listens intently and, after the speech, is the most convincing, polite, British yes-man ever played on screen. He never actually disagrees with Meryl, whose over-the-top high-strung personality clashes horribly with his. Throughout the movie, they are far more believable as the antagonistic, seperated couple than they are as a married couple living together. One wonders if a straight-to-video release may have been more appropriate for the flick.

As the plot thickens, Paul and Meryl walk to her client's home only to see the client murdered by a knife in the back. Of course, the hit man feels it necessary to stick around for awhile and stare at the Morgans; conveniently, he sees a picture of her on the cover of a magazine on his getaway. After some fish-out-of water jokes about her attire and business dealings, they quickly enter the witness protection program and are whisked off to Wyoming.

The directors evidently put the movie on auto-pilot at this point, as we while away a half hour watching Paul and Meryl adapt to Wyoming life. Placed in horribly contrived situations, they experience all the things that all rural people do: eat wild game, shoot rifles, ride horses, milk cows, visit the rodeo, and, of course, share themselves with the wonderfully quaint townfolk. The ultimate irony of this portion of the film is that Meryl at one point claims to be "allergic" to horses... could this be a sly dig at SJP's horse-like appearance on the part of the producers? Probably not, as that joke would be a bit over their heads.

One of the few saving graces of this film is that it parodies city folk, especially those of you who live in NYC. The Morgans' inability to fathom rural life comes up throughout the movie, for example as Meryl struggles to find a non-cocktail dress outfit to bring with her to Wyoming. Later, Meryl asks Wilford Brimley to blow his smoke in another direction, and they get a rude awakening to living in a rural town. Straight out of an episode of South Park, he states "we don't take kindly to out-of-towners coming in to town and tellin' us what to do" to which Paul replies "I hope we can be friends" in the most beseeching, submissive tone he can muster. And he musters a submissive tone amazingly well.

The New-York centric point of view continues later, as Meryl recalls an episode involving "Jarlsberg cheese from Zabar's" while recalling an incident in which Paul tried to humanely trap a mouse rather than slaughtering it (Meryl, of course, is a member of PETA). The humour (note how I spelled it!) continues until the very end, when the hitman tracks them down at a rodeo. Meryl and Paul, in a scene that reminds of their newly repaired relationship, hide inside a rodeo clown outfit. A charmingly self-harming Paul overcomes his fear to douse himself in bear repellent while attempting to disable the hitman. Despite his clumsy but well-meaning attempt, the couple has clearly endeared themself to the community, and they respond by pulling several guns on the hitman and knocking him unconscious with a horseshoe.

Can a movie get zero stars? Was this written by a junior high school student? Could Meryl's personal assistant's performance overcome an awful script to compete for year-end honors? Will there be a worse movie this year? I don't know, but to quote the movie, "we don't take kindly to movies like this around here." I'm also pretty sure there was a high school couple giving each other hand jobs in the back of the theatre... I have no doubt they were far more romantic than any movie with Sarah Jessica Parker could ever be.

Casa Bonita: Part Deux

Yesterday, when I left off, we were en route from the serving area to the seating area: this was what we had come to see! Cliff divers, pirates, gorillas, Blackbart's cave, mariachis! We made a special request to the host for a cliffside seat, as I'm sure everyone does; despite being prepared with a $10 bribe, I felt a bit sheepish about bribing a host at what is, essentially, a children's restaurant. He stated that our seat would have "a waterfall view" which was, again, tangentially true. We walked around confused for awhile until a waitress took pity on us and found our seat (again, I'm not sure how she knew where out seat was, furthering my conviction that Casa Bonita employs some type of animatronics).

We met our server, who claimed his name was Juan. He assured us that we would have only the finest service and that, indeed, the chips and salsa and the sopapillas would be gratis. We had a flag on our table and he showed us how to employ the flag to our advantage; moving it from the down position to the up position would indicate that we were in need of something. But really, what I need is companionship. And more cliff divers. So I didn't raise the flag for awhile until I wanted a taco.

Speaking of the entertainment, it is scheduled every fifteen minutes. It mostly consists of cliff divers, mariachis, and some dog-and-pony (or shall I say pirate and gorilla) show which seemed less than authentic. However, I did get caught in the middle of a chase; after a bit of banter, the gorilla escaped from its pirate owner, sending them into wild goose-chase mode. I saw the gorilla run by me, and attempted to misdirect the pirate when he asked which way the gorilla went. "Behind you!" I said. But this did not fool the wily pirate, who seemed to be no stranger to chasing large primates through Casa Bonita.

Sopapillas. While I could write about these for awhile, given they they are fried, free, and all-you-can-eat (hint, hint: bring a gallon bag with you and take some home!) I got a priceless photo that really sums up the sopapilla experience at Casa Bonita:


Finally, the check came. While charging me for their horrendous food seemed cheap of them, I had faced the facts that the only way to dine and dash would be via Blackbart's Cave and an emergency exit. Besides, they had provided us with two pitchers of beer and two margaritas (for the ladies) which was worth something, right? Well, it wasn't worth $17 for a pitcher of Coors Light. Which brings me to one of my major tips which I may or may not summarize depending on fate at the end of this blog. I don't think I can come out and say that you should do something illegal, because that's like yelling fire in a crowded theatre or spreading lies deliberately in a written manner (libel). So I'll say it in another language: Ooyay ustmay ingbray askflay.

Blackbart's Cave! Known to me only from South Park, this was a pretty sweet place to get back at kids for cutting in line... I mean it's dark and if the kid is as tall as my knees, how was I supposed to see him? I was focusing on the pirates. And going as slow as possible to block all the kids behind me. This is the treasure of Blackbart, it's crazy it's been out there this whole time just sitting there and no one has tried to take it.

Casa Bonita: Parte Uno

Casa Bonita. The words evoke a feeling of hominess, like your family will always take care of you. I wouldn't say the reality of the place quite lives up to its name, because from the odd buffet-style dining, to the amusement parkesque atmosphere of the place, Casa Bonita did not quite match my expectations. (Note: If you have not seen the South Park episode you really should prior to reading the rest of this. I believe it is Season 7 episode 10 or so. We viewed it practically en route to the restaurant.)

First off, let me remind you that Casa Bonita is first and foremost A RESTAURANT; this is confirmed by the fact that they won't let you in without buying an overpriced plate of nacho cheese with various (but surprisingly few given the number of combinations algebraically possible) portions of chicken, beef, and starch that didn't pass for a tortilla. I'm pretty sure they've cut costs by eliminating vegetables and real cheese from the menu.

But all these facts were available to me prior to visiting and yet I went. As you all may know, I am not always insistent on five-star food; I have, to my knowledge, never been within a mile of a Michelin-rated eatery. In fact, I am once in awhile willing to eat this very Tex-mex fodder that I've been describing. I once ate a taco al pastor reheated and filled with broccoli beef. My legend lives on, as so far I've never met anyone who tried this same thing.

That said, CASA BONITA IS AN UNMITIGATED FAILURE. And, moreoever, that said, thus, there is alot of science that I will write about below but you have just read the summary of my feelings on this strange place.

Here's the play-by-play. We arrived about seven PM armed with a "Survivor's Guide to Casa Bonita" provided so thoughtfully by Craig. We entered the castle-like structure to an entryway so small it may have been a bodega; we were immediately herded through turnstiles in a line of many shelters, twists and turns. I didn't realize until later that these were intended to confuse prospective diners as to their wait time.

And what you don't see until the last minute is that there are young ladies posing as hostesses who are actually waiting to take your order on a secret computer. So when you get to the front of this line and actually think you're about to be seated, you are forced to come up with an order while all the other hungry, pissed-off parents are wondering what's taking so long, not knowing that THEY TOO will be similarly confused, continuing a decades-long cycle of confusion perpetuated by the Casa Bonita MGMT.

OK. So we're still trying to order. Everything, strangely, is lined up in two columns: BEEF and CHICKEN. And the only menu is on the far wall. And alcohol is hidden behind some little kid. The "hostesas," which we'll pretend means hostesses in Spanish, seem to have the art of dodging questions down pat. Here's a sample of our convo, evidently she is communicating on a higher plane than I am:

RJK: "So do I have to order beer here or can I order from the table?"

Hostesa: "I can take your order for beer here."

RJK: "How do I get more of the all-you-can-comer platter?"

Hostesa: "You can get more of anything on your platter."

RJK: "How much are pitchers of beer?"

Hostesa: "I'm not sure, you pay your server at the end." (This was a truly great answer, as I would have without a doubt choked her if she had told me the answer which will be revealed later.)

I felt as though I might be speaking with a Fem-bot. We all sympathized with any parents in line; thoroughly frustrated as a group of reasonably intelligent twenty-somethings, we could not collectively imagine doing this with a five-year-old. Weekly.

Thoroughly mystified, we turned a corner to find that there was another line in which to wait. The end of this one held our food, though, so there was some promise of seating and sustinence ahead. Oddly, every platter being presented at the communal serving area looked to be the same even, perfectly molten, orange hue of cheap nacho cheese (we're not even talking about good nacho cheese here). Luckily, they came carefully marked by party, and on request the lady would magically discriminate YOUR plate of nacho cheese from THE TUBBY KID'S plate of nacho cheese.

Speaking of the tubby kid, I had my eye peeled for any budding Eric Cartmans. And I found one almost immediately when he slapped his brother. Attempting to get a photo with or of this child became my biggest wish for awhile. I really wanted to see this kid eat, a privilege which I was denied by the dismissive host. And yes, I know you're wondering, this kid was super-tubby.

Tomorrow, check back for the dining experience, the secrets of Blackbart's Cave, and a sweet picture of sopapillas and me.

Crazy Rock Lady Acts the Fool.

In my last posting regarding the crazy rock lady (c. 3 months ago), I had assumed that all our tensionsfrom our minor run-in had boiled over and receded long since. How nieve I was, nieve enough to forget the umlaut over both of those words. It seems that the rock lady holds on to our scuffle like it was a epic battle of minds and rocks, although I don't quite remember it as being that significant. Anyway, here's how the most recent As The Valley Turns goes.


I was working my normal Friday afternoon shift. All was well in the Centennial Valley. I was about halfway through my shift, watching some Cash Cab on the TV and listening to Elton John on the j-box. A customer unfamiliar to me, but evidently well known by others in the bar, walked in with a possible husband. They sat and had one or two beers when someone called on the bar phone, "is Michelle* there?" (*means the real names have been altered) I called out for Michelle, and the new woman responded. She chatted on the phone for a few seconds before handing it back to me.

Soon after, I heard them saying, "Jan is coming." Jan happens to be crazy rock lady, but I didn't think much of it given the remoteness of the incident in both time and space. I figured she'd matured alot since the incidenct and wouldn't give it any thought, and we'd bury the hatchet over a can of Busch beer or something. But upon her arrival, the hatchet was not buried, dude.

She sat down at the end of the bar next to a friend of mine and greeted all in the party of four. She kind of ignored me as I think she sensed the power of the beard and the likelihood that, in a minute, she could speak with Mohammed. I asked her kindly what she'd have, and she responded that she would enjoy a Busch can and a shot of peppermint Schappsteria (she didn't actually say that, I just added it for effect). As soon as I turned my back to get her drink, I overheard her asking her neighbor, "Is that Mohammed?"She immediately ran out of the bar into the grill area and never returned.

So now the weird part starts. First, she sent someone from the grill into the bar to pick up her two drinks and deliver them into the grill for her. Next, she sent someone else to pay for her drinks, tipping me $1! Soon after, she sent the same messenger with a hand-written note to meet her at the other bar/restaurant option in town. After her friends complained about the childishness of all this and refused to go to the other location, she left.

Soon after, she called to speak with the members of her party, disguising her voice when I answered. When they took their time finishing their drinks and complaining further about the immaturity of this fifty-something woman, she had another person call and then pass the phone to her after speaking with me.

So I submit to you, reader, that this level of subterfuge, vidictiveness, and immaturity have seldom been reached by someone past the age of 14. I have realized that the rules in this conflict are different: there are no rules. And no limits. So I must radically change my thinking about this whole deal. I need to be on my guard at all times. Turf wars are on.

In unrelated news, my toilet froze and cracked, so soon you will have the update on how the JK-fixed toilet works.

The Hitchhiker's Guide to Wyoming

I guess you could call it a bucket list, but I don't. Sometimes you do things and later realize that you've just checked an item off the life checklist, like when I saw Vanilla Ice in person and he poured elk's blood (read: Jager) into my mouf. And another one of those moments happened to me a couple days ago. I was attempting to reach a lake two miles off the main road, which closes for the year due to snow. As I neared the gate, I turned off toward Brooklyn Lake because I had heard a rumor that the dirt road was plowed the two miles back to the lake, which would allow me to park and access several good fishing lakes in the area.

As soon as I turned off the road, I knew that my plan was woefully awful as the road was not near plowed. Trying to maneuver around a parked snow plow, I felt my right front wheel fall off into a small snow-covered ditch. Stuck, I was. And nine miles from any type of civilization. And out of cell phone range. And at the end of a dead-end, snowed-in highway by which very few people pass. And without a shovel. And without a heavy coat. I approached a lodge I knew in the area, but it was empty. I decided to walk a mile downhill to another lodge that advertised it was open "year-round", which was totally untrue. So, knowing that I had no cell service and there was no one likely to be around for miles, I did what any normal person would do: cried. Cried before I decided to hitchhike, yeah!

It only took about ten minutes for a vehicle to drive near. I realized that this could be my last shot for hours, so I decided to not wait by the side of the road with my thumb out like a bum. Instead, I decided to stand in the road in front of their car waving my arms like a crazy bum. I wished to Allah I had shaved my beard that morning in anticipation of looking good while I attempted to hitchhike, but this did not happen Inshallah. Allah did smile on me when they stopped, mostly because they had nowhere to go except through me. Luckily, they were college students up for an afternoon sled, and not the murderous organ-thieving type of college student that picks up hitchhikers.

Right now I'm preparing for dinner, and I know you wonder what's on my menu given the limited cooking and cleaning capabilities I possess. Well, today it's chicken noodle soup followed by a salad with chicken. I recently got a free life insurance policy (from some actuary who clearly hadn't done their homework on me) and I'm trying to overdose on chicken so my family can reap the benefits... the benefits of being a close relative of the first person in the world to OD on chicken.

You may be wondering what I do most of the day now that the parents are gone, I have a steady two-day-a-week job, and I have no water. Well, I listen to the 80's song "Almost Paradise" alot and dream that I'm Kevin Bacon in Footloose, which is probably my favorite 80's movie. I whip up some vinaigrette once in awhile. I spend silly amounts of time reading news and books, most recently Friday Night Lights, which was pretty similar to my high school football experience albeit at an urban private school to which we wore ties and grey pants. Ultimately, I spend alot of the day chopping and moving wood, starting fires, handwashing dishes, cooking,and generally doing things that modern conveniences have long since rendered obsolete. So be thankful for these conveniences. And send me money.

Medieval Times

Usually there would be no stories to tell from a Vegas trip, but here's a child and family friendly one that you can show the kids. Know to most people as "Medieval Times" from the movie Cable Guy, we visited a similar show at the hotel Excalibur called "Tournament of Kings". For the uninitiated, it features legions of horsemen, midgets, overweight king-types, and fair maidens putting on a chivalrous display cum melodramatic performance, frequently exhorting the audience to sip from their chalices of $10 wine with a loud "Huzzah!" (which means "quaff your expensive wine, tourists!" in Gaelic).

So we met at the grand hotel, Excalibur, at the planned time. We took our seats in the Russian section (they seat people in sections led by your fictional "king;" ours happened to be Russian even though I pled with the host to seat us elsewhere. We opted for the prix fixe menu, which is mandatory for buying a seat to watch the tournament. This menu has been in existence, unchanged, for nineteen years as far as I can tell. The luxurious courses began at once. Tomato soup, which one of my friends promised would be the finest part of our dinner, was served in a not-very-medieval-looking plastic bowl. It was indeed good, although for all I know it could be straight from a Campbell's can. Then, the magnum opus of the meal:

You see the offending meal above, and believe me, this is one of the more appetizing pictures of it I was able to find on the World Wide Web. Soggy broccoli, lighted cooked potato sticks, delicately seasoned yet cardboardy cornish game hen, and some pieces of bread round out the entree course. The meal made us long for the days of junior and high school cafeteria food (especially Macho Nachos, and BBQ Rib). But enough about the food: the tourney hath begun!

These are the eight kings of our tourney. They hail from Sweden, Norway, Russia, Iceland, and maybe Spain and some other countries in Europe that really hadn't formed by Arthurian times. The historical acumen of the writers of this show is stunningly poor. But anyway, I was tipped off by someone in the audience that the Russian king would cheat to win the joust (even though I wish he would have said "earmuffs" prior to ruining my enjoyment of the night). I engaged him in conversation, telling him that, based on prior experience with Russians, I had assumed some acts of subterfuge from my king. I also expect his children to dote on him as he lays dying and they harass the doctors and nurses, but I digress...

As the tournament started, there was some half-ass trumpeting going on and some amateur-looking pyrotechnics. I also noted that, less children with their parents, we were the only people under forty in the audience. I ALSO began to note a serious lack of pre-gaming on our part, which became far more obvious as the tourney dragged on and I fell asleep as per usual. But from the part I was awake, I remember that there was a lot of prancing, in fact there were about twenty guys and ten gals whose job was simply to prance around the ring engaging in gymnastic feats. There were a full ten drummers, moonlighting from their day jobs as eighties' hair band backup drummers.

And then there were the eight kings. We all agreed that these guys were moonlighting prior to the night showing of "Thunder From Down Under" as they seemed to be a little too ripped for a medieval king. There was some jousting via horses, some swordplay, a mystical Dragon King who appeared in a puff of fire and fought everyone at once. It all came dangerously close to small children several times and I'm just glad no one got hurt. I slept through the ending, which I assume included some type of moralistic lesson from the time of kings, and I'm glad I missed that part.