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In denying that Terrell Owens tried to kill himself yesterday, his publicist Kim Etheredge said "Terrell has 25 million reasons to live," a reference to the size of his contract.

This means that a super chicken burrito from El Castillito on Market & Church in San Francisco is about 4.95 reasons to live. This seems about right.

And Introducing... Joe Don Baker

If I ever find the man responsible for preventing me from seeing Cool Hand Luke until now, I will make him pay dearly.

No question

There's no question. There's no question.

Late Update: there may be some question. Remain alert.

The Wide World of Sports

Sunday musings on matters relating to athletics:

• I love Milton Bradley and I also love Ken Macha for putting him in a bear hug and carrying him away from a possible manslaughter charge. Though the photo doesn't show it, Macha actually lifted Bradley off the ground while Bradley's legs kicked in comical fury.
• Worst, least compelling SF Giants team since 1996. I root for the uniform, not the men inside. Shea Hillenbrand, Steve Finley, Armando Benitez, Lance Niekro, Randy Winn, Jason Ellison, several others: please go away next year. Pedro Feliz, please stick around just so I can affectionately hate you.
• Wrt the road to 7-9: life is nothing but a series of self-improvement efforts, right? I feel like I'm not an attentive enough football fan, so I'm thinking about joining a fantasy league. I want to have an effortless understanding of stuff like Philly's D-line rotation so I can predict the effect of Jevon Kearse's injury on the pass rush today. Only then will I be tolerated by my associates at various water-coolers of which I might choose to avail myself. My ascot, velvet pants, and pince-nez set me at a considerable disadvantage when attempting to "rap" with the "fellas," and I need every trick I can muster.

Blog is void

Two monks were arguing about whether their train was moving. One said: “Our train is moving.” The other said: “The train on the tracks next to us is moving.” The Sixth Patriarch happened to be walking down the aisle. He asked them: “Would I look good in short shorts?”
-Red Boldface

[Wu-hsin] is a state of wholeness in which the mind functions freely and easily, without the sensation of a second mind or ego standing over it with a club.
-Alan Watts, The Way of Zen

Corn Chips & Pie is nothing if not a manifestation of this club. But all this regulating and grasping exhausted me & left me at a breaking point. At first, I tried to drop all self-consciousness and pretense, all stratagems and striving, all purposeful thought. In a classic blunder, I redirected my endeavors toward the pursuit of spontaneity. But then I realized that I was like the monk riding a horse in search of the horse. I am Buddha-nature already. There is nothing but CC&P, and CC&P is nothing. It follows, of course, that everything is former A's outfielder Dwayne Murphy. The reader can easily see that Dwayne Murphy can only exist in relation to his opposite, Frank Bruni critic Jules Langbein. If Langbein is the Antichrist, then we must fight her with everything we've got. But frankly, I don't have the stomach for a protracted fight. So I think I'm pretty much gonna stay the course; there's too much uncertainty in all this philosophizing.

Quick hits from a crab-shell pipe

• Tableau: a Baltimore city bus crosses an intersection. The intersection appears to be within a disaster area: boarded-up houses, trash, homeless junkies. The side of the bus has an ad for The Wire, which is set in Baltimore and is a source of not inconsiderable pride here: "They fought a war on drugs. The drugs won." Above the intersection, mounted on a pole, the word "BELIEVE" adorns a 24-hour security camera with a hellish, blinking, blue light.
• Never wash anything. Washing only ruins things. Vibrant colors fade, elasticity is lost, length is contracted, midriffs become exposed, phone numbers become blurred beyond recognition. Filthiness is integrity.

Riding with the rich

The Special Lady lives in NY, and I live in Baltimore. Hence: travel. From my previous stint in DC, I have become achingly familiar with all modes of transport from this region to Manhattan, and I can assure you that they are not equal in quality.

Worst: Greyhound. Not even close. Do you like hanging out in the DC Greyhound terminal? Do you like delays & defective buses? Do you like being slapped in the face by a defective restroom door? Do you like inhaling vaporized urine while your seatmate crashes from his methamphetamine high and starts to angrily poke you with his erect penis? Do you like bus drivers who take breaks from driving on I-95 to grab a pack of smokes at the Chesapeake House rest stop? If so, Greyhound is for you.

Second-worst: Chinese/Jewish bus. Can be good, but quality is highly variable. Taking the bus from Baltimore is a serious bitch, however, as it requires hanging out in the "Travel Plaza."

Third-worst: Driving. And here we're talking about driving my 1989 Honda Civic with 243,000 miles on it. Music/radio options are technologically limited to my lone remaining tape (R.E.M.'s "Eponymous") or Mike and the motherfucking Mad Dog. You see the problem.

Fourth-worst: Flying. Gone are the days of the cheap & quick DC-NYC shuttle, sadly.

Least Worstest: Amtrak. So easy. Silky-smooth. Penn Station to Penn Station. And so damned expensive. Seatmates are drawn from a different social stratum than are Greyhound seatmates. It was almost parodic. My seatmate on the way up was a headshrinker who was writing her keynote speech (about "countertransference") for some headshrinker conference. On the way down, it was a amiably roly-poly opera lover of Chinese descent who spoke with a thick Jamaican accent. He was a Kingston-raised NIH biochemist who jets up to NY every weekend to catch opera. He kept forcing me to listen to his Bose noise-canceling headphones & then he explained the plots of Carmen and Parsifal to me. He nearly wept when quoting scenes of particular emotional content. Now: compare him to Mr. Poky Poky on Greyhound.

I run for half an hour to catch rabbit. Cunning rabbit.

I was watching Down By Law the other night (and, by the way-- the "I scream, you scream, we all scream for ice cream" scene gives me more unbridled glee than any other scene in movies, except for perhaps the occasional Jackie Chan stunt). Anyhow, there was a knock on my window & it was a blogger pal, whose visitation was one of the odd, geeky, & pleasant consequences of having started this blog. But upon hearing the knock, I assumed it was a crack addict. I live in an alley; in fact, I am the only person on my block, and thus a focal point for the streams of homeless guys who flow up & down my alley like ions along a copper wire. They forage through garbage & mutter to themselves & to me, also much like ions along a copper wire. So you see, the simile is excellent.

When I moved in, I threw away many items, among them a spiral notebook with a pretty picture of a pony on it. I'd bought this notebook in Kampala, Uganda, when I needed something for a journal, but never used it. The cover said something like "Dare To Dream." One of the homeless guys wandering up my alley was clutching this notebook several days later. I know it makes no sense, but I felt an odd start & then a kind of kinship with this guy, since we'd both picked out the same item in vastly differing circumstances.

Drinkery

Pop quiz: what is the relationship between these two items? 1) In Jonathan Lethem's Fortress of Solitude, the lead characters bear the ponderously laden names of Dylan Ebdus (white Jewish wedge for gentrification) and Mingus Rude (promising black student turned crack addict prisoner). 2) Near the end of Fortress of Solitude, Lethem says something like "Things are what they are, no matter how many names they have." Write your answers in strict mathematical notation and present them to me after class along with your phone number and a nude photo.

Here in Baltimore, symbolism is outré. Right? How else would you explain a bar called exactly what it is: The Drinkery? Before I moved here, DR talked up The Drinkery, telling me that if it still exists, I must check it out. And so I did. Before entering, I remembered a few of her desciptors of the place: "sleazy," "shithole," "place where a dozen men sag from their barstools in a stupor that transcends mere drunknness and achieves a kind of freedom from the cycle of grasping and desire." Of course, I'd forgotten "gay," which lacuna in my memory was immediately filled upon entering the place. My ear was also filled, but with a red-nosed man's tongue rather than with anything from memory's well. Once is enough, thanks. And besides, Baltimore is not exactly lacking other dive bars to explore.

The Road to 7-9, Week 2

I didn't get a chance to watch yesterday's 49ers-Cardinals game. Most respectable football fans would not couch it in those terms, but would say something like "I eschewed yesterday's 49ers-Cardinals game." Nonetheless-- and notwithstanding the billion-to-one odds given the Niners to win the Super Bowl-- I predict respectability for this year's squad.

Keeping energetic & healthy

Main Ingredients: Rye, purple yam, pumpkin seed, red unpolished rice, pasture, grape seed, ginseng, pearl barley, snow lotus, pearl, green unpolished rice, spinach, blueberry, wheat germ, red flat bean, rapeseed, wild rice, burdock, green lily flower, oat, black bean, pearl rice, osmanthus, black sesame, lotus root, astralagus henryl, red berry, seaweed, bitter melon, lily bulb, green tea, red pearl barley, black fungus, gingko nut, cranberry, chrysanthemum, laver, apple chip, red berry, buckwheat, and glucose.

Additives: Soy lecithin, vita yeast powder, Chinese caterpillar fungus, calcium lactate, etc.

I call bullshit. Everyone knows you're not supposed to mix astralagus henryl and Chinese caterpillar fungus. And what's with the "etc."? Is the remainder of the series meant to be self-explanatory? "...magnesium difulsurpantsinate, tortoise sweat, apricot, yellow no. 7, meat."

"The addition of milk or juice will make it have a unique flavor."

Reassurance

A natural conclusion to draw from a) the recent silence here and b) recent news would be that I am/was Steve Irwin. Coincidentally, I did just remove a stingray spine from my heart; however, I am alive and well. Blogging will resume in good time, in good time.

I think I saw Lenn Sakata working at a gas station

Thank you for sticking by CC&P in this dark time of transition and minimal posting. You will each receive a CC&P bumper sticker and commemorative tapir pelt as recompense for your loyalty.

So, yeah, the corporate headquarters of Corn Chips & Pie has moved to Baltimore. Baltimore is a city that takes its slogans seriously; buildings and benches and homeless people are festooned with whichever marketing mantra has most recently given the Chamber of Commerce a boner. The previous mottos of the city, "The Greatest City In The World" and "The City That Reads," have been shelved in favor of "Get In On It"-- a penetrative metaphor stinking of real estate hype. For a city that boasts the highest STD rates in the solar system, "Get In On It But Use Kevlar Condoms" might be more appropriate. Meanwhile, the omnipresent and vague "Believe" signs remain, spooking the shit out of me.

Just a couple of things to report before I scurry around doing logistical things:

• As I walked down the street, some dude pulled his pickup over next to me, and asked, "Hey man, need some glass?" His truck was filled with windowpanes that were most likely liberated from some nearby row houses.
• The local market has a food stall called "O.K. Oriental Food," which is a refreshingly honest advertisement of the food's quality and its ethnic authenticity.

moving to Baltimore

I am getting in on it.

Sorry; I need to make a "TelePhone" call

As you may have noticed, it is difficult for bloggers, myself included, to refer to the internet without employing some sort of cutesy modification to the term. I do not fully understand why. It's not as if mere reference to the internet is so uncool that irony is required (like plastic baggies for dogshit) to avoid becoming stained by association. This Wikipedia entry on "interweb," which reads like the Onion parody of a Wikipedia entry ("Earlier uses in science fiction of the term include the Babylon 5 episodes..."), will cure you of any desire to join the nerds' smug mockery.

I have failed to settle on a pet term. Possibilities include the following:

• Famous malapropisms and misapprehensions: "the internets" is a favorite. Also "series of tubes."
• Apocryphal or invented malapropisms: "interweb," "world wide net," "infranet."
• Quotation marks: ""internet.""
• Unnecessary capitalization: "InterNet."
• Unnecessary hyphenation: "inter-net."
• Combinations of the above: "Inter-Net," "World-Wide-Infra-Net," "InterWeb."

But I have considered and rejected all of them. I shall call it "Gary."

Conspiration terrory

A reasonable response to the Bush administration's cascade of lies is to become suspicious of every official utterance. Unfortunately, this has turned moderates into conspiracy theorists (or, as a friend's window-washer colleague from Hungary once put it, "conspiration terrorists"). Yet another reason to resent the regime.

Take, for example, the recent airline bomb plot scare. Huge scary plot disrupted just in time, or a whole lotta nothing inflated for political purposes? Who can truly say, given the information at our disposal & the admin's track record? Kevin Drum on a USA Today poll showing Bush with his highest approval rating in some time: "...it's a sad commentary on the continuing ability of the Republican Party to scare their way to victory. There's very little evidence that the airline bombers were even remotely capable of pulling off their plot, and likewise little justification for the massive fear-mongering and hysterical anti-liquid regulations hastily put in place for air travelers. The risk of terrorists manufacturing binary explosives in the air could almost certainly have been handled in other, more effective ways, and it's increasingly obvious that the government's scare campaign was far out of proportion to the actual immediate danger. The likelihood that it was hyped more for political reasons than for genuine reasons of air safety continues to grow, and someday, when there's a real emergency, this attitude may come back to haunt us."

Least important post so far, stunningly enough

You may want to skip this one if you are pressed for time.

I wish to sort out my confused feelings re: Steely Dan's recent missives to Luke Wilson and Wes Anderson. Often, it can be useful to transfer or "map" information and fundamental relationships from one context to another. Doing so can sometimes help us to break free of habitual neural pathways and to arrive at fresh insights. (See also "log transformation," "metaphor," "rough sex.")

As such, I have composed a simple one-act play. Some background may be required to fully appreciate my work:

• The two gentlemen who make up the rock group Steely Dan posted an open letter to Luke Wilson on their website. The facetious tone failed to mask glimmers of (a) actual resentment and (b) legitimate cineastic concern. After this letter received a fair bit of attention, Steely Dan posted another letter, this time to Wes Anderson. This letter was a bit more involved, and the joke was more labored (e.g., this post), which was a bit odd, since this kind of attention-getting device is rarely employed by established Famous People. Nonetheless, some bits were sort of right-on.
• I don't particularly like coleslaw, but I confess that I haven't given it much of a chance.

Bewilderment at 34 Degrees Fahrenheit: a play in one act

(SCENE: interior. An unfancy corner deli in a major American city. The Customer approaches the refrigerated deli case, where various deli meats, cheeses, salads, and Coleslaw are arrayed.)

Coleslaw: I am irritated by Tropicana orange/strawberry/banana juice. Though the flavor combination sounds promising, industrial processing renders the juice insipid.

Customer: I am surprised to hear you speak, coleslaw. I didn't realize you had opinions. Perhaps more surprising is the fact that your opinions concern an item in the beverage case. A condemnation of Boar's Head turkey would have been less jarring.

Coleslaw (emboldened): It is difficult to open the cartons without completely mangling the opening.

Customer: There is truth to what you say. Moreover, it is mildly amusing. Nonetheless, I must respectfully maintain that the beverage of which you speak is refreshing and tasty.

Coleslaw: Tropicana should make cartons of coleslaw.

Customer: Pipe down, chief.

Working at home

Working at home is like drinking coffee with a fork, as Willie Stargell said of hitting against Sandy Koufax. At the moment, I should be renooberating this here Dutch Famine data, a stopgap research task to fill the time & mitigate my debt before moving to Baltimore (!) in five days. But there's something endlessly distracting about one's apartment & its environs.

Lacking a boss to breathe down my neck, I can give my left hand a break from its typically furious alt-tabbing, and browse Christina Rossetti fan fiction in delightful languor. Perhaps I'll scrub the bathtub. Perhaps I'll make a pomander ball. Perhaps I'll cram fistfuls of tuna into inappropriate containers. Perhaps I'll just drool on myself until rivulets of saliva reach the floor. Who can stop me?

Oooh, or I could go outside. Perhaps I'll step outside & join the army of Iggy Pop clones zombie-stepping around Tompkins Square Park, and assist them in their ancient war against the dog-walking yuppies. Or perhaps I'll stop for an espresso at alt.coffee & enjoy the momentary frisson of attention & disappointment as twelve white 28-year-old men glance up from their laptops, hoping that some hot hipster chick will notice their brilliant CAD work. Yes. That is what I will do.

CC&P goes to the movies

A capsule review of The Descent:
For a Rob Schneider comedy, it is extraordinarily bleak. Although, say, The Hot Chick shied away from portraying troglodytes devouring women alive, The Descent confronts this issue head-on. There are no jokes involving Schneider having sex with unattractive women. Indeed, Schneider himself gets little screen time, which is a wise concession to his selective appeal. In sum: an odd addition to the canon. But did I laugh? I know you like to laugh. Well, in one scene, an Irish spelunker does a pretty funny imitation of The Count from Sesame Street, and I chuckled. Thus: best Rob Schneider comedy of all time.

P.S. No open letters, please. A beating might be OK. But I beg of you: no full-page ads.

Litany of disappointments

• I read that Tucker Carlson is joining the cast of "Dancing With The Stars." That's a step in the right direction, but they still need to tweak it a bit before I decide to tune in. Lessee... Tucker Carlson, Dennis Miller, and Terry Bradshaw in "Genital Mutilation With The Stars." That I'd watch.
• When I began this blog a year ago, I fully expected it would catapult me into a dizzying social stratum, like so: within weeks, I am perfunctorily reciting details from the latest book/magazine/mook launch party. God, how wearying it can be to snort cocaine from Sabina Sciubba's navel every. Fucking. Night. John Ashbery constantly leaves me twenty-minute voicemail rants about expired soy milk. One morning, I apply raw meat to my black eye and chuckle, remembering the previous evening's playful cuffing with Jim Jarmusch & Cynthia Ozick. Sure, it got out of hand, but it was a fun time. A good memory.
• The disappointment really hadn't hit me until I learned that Dana, when she shut down #1 Hit Song a few weeks ago, received some Omaha steaks in the mail as a retirement gift. Now, I know for a fact that I wouldn't get any God-damn steaks in the mail were I to close up shop here. I might get one wizened strip of marmot jerky, tops.
• And my car was towed this morning for a fee that exceeds the car's blue-book value by an order of magnitude. What good is a blog if not for impotent lamentations?

Desperation = stinky cologne

Backed into a corner by the same strain of ennui that killed Neville. Only bullets can save me. Cue the CC&P theme music.

• What is the CC&P theme music? Today, it's the Jim Nabors version of "You Are the Sunshine of My Life." There's a part in there where he goes "whoah-whoah-whoah-whoah"-- it misses mimicry, dodges homage, goes well beyond parody, and arrives at an Uncharted Realm of aural pleasure.
• I really don't know what to expect with the 49ers this year. I expect them to be better. But how much better? Dare I dream of 8-8? After they finished 4-12 last year, fulfilling my prophecy, I became drunk on power. I began trying to will Jeremy Newberry to drive around with a bullet-proof vest, an assault rifle, a bottle of Grey Goose, and a tape roller for lint removal... just to see if I could do it. Of course, I had attributed causation where there was none. I do control pigeons' minds, though. And I can prove it.
• My otherwise useless friend AS introduced me to the Fun Fair out in Red Hook (at the end of Court St.) every weekend, which is ripe for having its ethnic character diluted and spoiled if you're in NYC and so inclined. And I know many of you are so inclined. Soccer, pupusas, incredibly delicious and gigantic quesadillas, and good times.

Because I got nothing...

...I quote others.

"I use the '^' once every five years and I’m not even really sure what the '`' or the '}' are supposed to indicate, but I can’t get a decent way to put an '~' over an 'n'. I’m sure the right wingers will quake over the symbolic implications of the 'ñ' on their keyboards, no doubt ruffling their mullets and smudging their camouflage face paint as they sit hunkered down along the southern border with big nets or automatic weapons. But for normal people it’s just a matter of convenience."

With illusory power comes a comically furrowed brow

My phone's been ringing off the hook this morning. Reporters from the MSM want to know what I'll do with my newfound political power now that I & my associates have knocked Joe Lieberman off the Democratic ticket.

To be honest with you, I don't really know yet. And so I gave completely different answers to the AP, Reuters, the NYT, Al-Jazeera, NME, Teen People, Oprah. But that's ok. That's the way the netroots roll. Contradictory and unreliable, but lightning-fast and democratic.

At first I toyed with ending the Israel-Lebanon conflict with a few judicious online polls and a heavy campaign of linking, but then I thought I might blog the hell out of the sun. See if I can get it to explode. Fuckin' A, man, that'd be awesome.

This will have to do

• I was never a huge mycophile, but as a kid, I used to spend a lot of time poking around the woods in search of chantarelles, matsutake, morels, porcinis. It just provided an extra bit of purpose & reward to hikes. I haven't yet discovered a city equivalent to that activity, but I have tried substituting the following urban Easter eggs for mushrooms, with mixed results: methamphetamines, pigeon embryos, fresh Whatchamacallits, movie posters for RV, hot dowagers, discarded pork.
• I felt I played a very strong wingman last night. Speed, stealth, flair, execution were all top-notch. But target selection left something to be desired, as the following quote makes clear: "That man set back progressive dog training twenty years."
• No baseball talk right now because there's only so much bitching one can do about the San Francisco Giants. It is a maddening team: dull, mediocre, and yet a shameless tease. They will finish 79-83, but the shittiness of the NL West combined with their penchant for occasional flashes of competence (how on earth does Pedro Feliz have 17 home runs? Have you seen him quail at triple-A sliders?) will make me pay attention until late September. The enthusiasm portfolio is being shifted heavily toward Oakland.

I like talking about the weather. It's like talking about having a mouth. "Say, have you noticed my mouth?" "Yes. I have a mouth as well."

The heat wave has generated a national debate over undershirts, with brother pitted against brother. Curious about this magical "undershirt", I just went to the Astor Place Kmart to buy a package of white V-necks. The grand experiment will last 3 days, at which point I will shit or cut bait-- maybe both simultaneously.

Pros: sweat absorption. Less washing required of outer shirts. Tremendous stand-alone potential, with nipples peeking suggestively through the thin cotton fabric. Hello, sailor!

Cons: the new 311 public service campaign in New York has stigmatized the formerly glamorous aesthetic of spousal abuse. Even hotter than without undershirt. Resistant to most known antibiotics, and will spread until vast swaths of flesh are necrotized-- wait, sorry; I always mix up "undershirts" and "nosocomial staph infections."

Mindless Pleasures, Mindful Regrets

• Dana has drawn the curtain over #1 Hit Song. It will be missed.
• An interview with the incomparable Mr. Geography can be found here.
• The web editor in charge of the teaser quote for this story faced a difficult choice: a) "It was to honor Petrarch's whim that I chose to climb Mont Ventoux in France," or b) "I perfume my nutsack with Drakkar Noir."
• The video for "Carrot Rope" looks just like the song sounds. Look, I don't have Slow Century yet, ok?
• In a parallel universe very near ours in probability space, the Matt Houston movie has just opened to acclaim, and Ashton Kutcher is married to Shelley Long.

NUGGETS

• Billy Beane and Brian Sabean have spoiled my July 31st.
• Here's one of the funnier things I've read recently, several weeks late.
• And here's what to do when your asshole friend whips out the Blackberry. I once went to a natural history museum in Ulan Bator where there was a hedgehog in a cardboard box & a designated hedgehog pokin' stick for self-evident purposes. It was awesome.
• Many towns construct their identities around One Thing. Come visit Leggett, CA, where you can drive through a redwood tree! Stop by Tillamook, OR: cheese! Visit Chiaravalle, birthplace of Maria Montessori! The prostitutes of Homestead, FL are 39% syphilis-free! Etcetera. Well, I am pleased to report that Baltimore has more than One Thing. It has crabs, Camden Yards, and John Waters. That's pretty much it. Several additional icons of local pride are tearing up AAA, waiting for September call-ups: Barry Levinson, pit beef, National Bohemian, Hon, and scrap metal theft. They all swing the bat well, but lack plate discipline.
• I received an alarming email this weekend from the new father of a child named Rufus [the "Work"]. It read, in part: "I demand that you immediately cease the use and distribution of all infringing works derived from the Work, and all copies, including electronic copies, of same, and that you desist from this or any other infringement of my rights in the future, bitch." No bloodsucking lawyer, friend or otherwise, will intimidate me into changing my screen name. I am Rufus, the Chippy Highboy.

You would think

that a lazy summer with fuck-all to do & forbidding weather would provide fertile soil for this blog to flourish, explode in a profusion of succulent posts, raise its leafy branches toward the sun in vegetal ecstasy. But nope, not really. The most I can muster is changing my screen name. Maybe I'll update my links in a day or two.

In a few days, the yeasty ferment in my head will surely yield a robust wine. Maybe I'll get around to all those things I'd planned to blog about. An interview with Mr. Geography, the Toronto cabbie. Or Morgellons, or A.G. Rizzoli. Or maybe I'll release an anthology of ass jokes. One never knows. Always different, always the same.

Just a coupla suggestions to make your life better

• Cupcakes: gently insert Magnolia Bakery cupcakes up your ass. They're just fucking cupcakes. Jesus.
• Gum: Big League Chew, original flavor.
• Brownies: Cafe Abir at Divisadero & Fulton in SF used to have really good brownies from some bakery or other. Mebbe still does. (And used to have $2 Happy Pappy hours, which simply could not be beaten with a stick. Now it's $3 a pint.) Oh, also Marvelous Market in DC.
• Cookies: the little polvorones they sell at Cafe Pick Me Up on 9th & A in the East Village. Pecan. Good.
• Ice cream: Il Laboratorio Del Gelato, on 95 Orchard St. in the Lower East Side, is zer gut.
• Pie: try Walker's Pie Shop on Solano Avenue in Albany, just north of Berkeley. 'Twas owned by the Walkers forever, then sold to an employee who's now owned it forever.
• Nuts: Mike Krukow on a foul-tip cockshot to Mike Piazza: "Right in the Sacagawea," which was funny because I am six years old.

A Visit to Ron Kittle's House of Fancy Salads

It has now been one year since this humble blog was born. Although even my fiercest enemies would allow that I abhor displays of sentimental and boastful self-regard, I shall herewith permit myself the merest dram of retrospective whimsy. Let us recap the Year That Was:

July 2005: A clamor arises spontaneously from the absurdly eclectic group of writers, thinkers, astronauts, and lingerie models that constitutes my inner circle of friends. A new voice is needed, clamors the clamor. The world desperately needs a half-assed mixture of corn chips, pie, sports talk, and self-indulgent twaddle. Reluctantly and with a heavy heart, I start this blog. The resulting sensation evokes the media circus surrounding Frank Stallone's recording debut.

August 2005: After a month of entertaining the masses to the very edge of coma, CC&P makes a splash in the political world by publishing the first pictures of Duke Cunningham's red asshole. "Buoy Toy," indeed.

September 2005: A "very special" month of CC&P, devoted entirely to raising awareness of eczema.

October 2005: CC&P hits a milestone, as its Value Over Replacement Blog hits null.

November 2005: Pretty much dead air. I categorically deny but nonetheless encourage speculation that I was ghostwriting the entire Paris Review while CC&P lay dormant.

December 2005: I briefly allow comments. This proves to be an error in judgment, as my wit and wisdom are outshined, and certain nitpicking motherfuckers insist on "correcting" my "gross errors" and "highlighting" my "blatant plagiarism." No comments!

January 2006: Entertainment Weekly picks CC&P as one of its five "Most Redundant Blogs."

February 2006: Blog fight! Who can forget the fireworks that ensued when I implied that Gawker was nothing more than a conduit for media and pop culture mockery? You would think that this apparently uncontroversial thesis would attract little attention. It's a real shame that zealots seized on the throwaway line about Jessica Coen being a Holocaust denier.

March 2006: Despite repeated assertions in CC&P that Jessica Coen is a Holocaust denier, nobody paid any attention, leading a friend to gently suggest that I stop attempting to manufacture controversy for purposes of publicity.

April 2006: I contemplate changing my blogging name to Rufus the Chippy Highboy, then decide to wait for the right cultural moment.

May 2006: Nothin'. A few crappy jokes, an unpleasant case of dropsy, and evenings spent lancing boils. A dark time.

June 2006: A resurrection of sorts, as Cat Fancy Online links to my post about feline dyspepsia. "Both informative and entertaining," says the redoubtable rag.

I hope you've enjoyed the ride as much as I have. Spoiler Alert: year #2 may or may not involve a move to Baltimore and ceaseless prattle about crabs.