Mondo Baltimore

Everyone needs some Mr. T on a big screen in their life

There are few things more irritating to me than bloggers who go long lengths of time without posting, and then come back to apologize incessantly.  The one thing that may irk me more are hypocrites  and tonight, I am both.  I'm so sorry.  I could make excuses about poor time management, about working too many jobs in too little time, about my toilet exploding like a fountain yesterday, but it doesn't change the fact that I have dropped the ball.

Hell, indeed, comes to Frogtown

In one of my other lives, I highlight events for the Baltimore Fishbowl.  Because of this, I am perpetually aware of the ongoings in the city, no matter how bizarre.  Let me tell you, though, that many of them are quite bizarre.  One of my favorite finds in scouring local calendars and creeping on people's Facebook events has been Mondo Baltimore.  On the first Thursday of each month, Mondo Baltimore commandeers the Wind Up Space and screens a particularly painful movie.  Since my discovery of this wonderful concept, they've shown "Cool as Ice," Vanilla Ice's "Rebel Without a Cause" 1991 remake, Mr. T's "Greatest Man in the World," and just last week I was lucky enough to catch the incredibly atrocious "Hell Comes to Frogtown."

There was much, "YOU'RE DRUNK MOM, GO HOME"

Not only are the movies so bad they're wonderful, the commentary is top-notch.  It's like a live version of MST3K with quality heckling and mocking.  Drinking game rules are placed around the bar, so you can follow along should you choose.  For $2, you get unlimited popcorn and are entered into the nightly raffle.  Gifts are often related to the movie, or are sometime just $25 to your bar tab.  Trust me, if you go just once, it will instantly become tradition.

Who Wore It Best? ... and other, far more important, things

The past week has been a whirlwind of activity.  Sadly, if you're here for an extensive(ish) write-up of something new to do in the city because you just moved here, I cannot do much for you beyond send you here.  You can thank me for the intro to the Fishbowl later.

While yesterday may have been Halloween, I spent it inside, working, and marathoning Freaks and Geeks on Netflix.  I celebrated Halloween (and my birthday!) last weekend, never once allowing myself the opportunity to sleep in.  That's for the youngins, right?  I spent Friday night setting up for and later attending (and judging phenomenal costumes) the Baltimore Bike Party's after-party (and after the party?  The hotel lobby) at Union Craft Brewery on Clipper Mill.

Saturday I went for another hike, this time to Loch Raven, with two friends and the dog.  Loch Raven was phenomenal, incredibly scenic, and the perfect fall hike to view the foliage before it all got ravaged off branches when Sandy came to town.  Little guy romped off his leash the entire five or six (purely a guesstimate here, as none of Loch Raven's trails are blazed or anything) mile hike, with only one near-submersion into the lake.  Success!

That night was another Halloween party, but at a friend's house in York, PA.  Sunday morning was the market (of course) and my birthday shindig where my wonderful friend provided me with gluten-free belgian waffle sundaes and great people came up/down/over/preposition for good times.

Then it was Hurricane time.  Sunday night, I hunkered down with the dog, Netflix, two random gallons of water, my parent's pilfered camping lantern, a constantly refreshing twitter feed, and every item in my kitchen that I could possibly remember existed, being thrown into a curry dish.  Mmmm... curried can opener.

This unnecessarily lengthy intro was to set the stage for what occurred.  After a busy, tiring weekend, Sandy came in and created the hype of Frankenstorm.  Baltimore shut down.  My office was closed (telecommuting!), public transit stopped running, my corner store pulled down its metal entry way blocking thing, ensuring that my wine stash was my wine stash, and there would be absolutely NO supplementing it.  Sandy was Serious.

Do you know what happens to people who spend entire days indoors, save for walking a dog in hurricane?  People who neurotically check their windows for leaks, with good reason, neurotically change the sopping towels on their windows, and engineer umbrellas to block the leaking rain from splashing onto you/your furniture/your electronics?  They go stir-crazy.  I worked, yes, but I also made scones.  And roasted my first chicken (with pomegrante seeds!  and help!  because nice people help you roast chickens in hurricanes!).  I also.... I also considered making a "Who Wore It Best?" for Bubba and I.

Yes.

I became that crazy woman who lives alone and has a creepy relationship with her pet.
That being said, you know you're curious.
"Who wore what best, MV?" you're asking.  "Why are you being so cryptic, MV?" you ask.  "No, I really don't care, MV.  Please stop," you implore.
Excellent questions.

I bring you two images:

Exhibit A

Exhibit B

Sound off in the comments on who makes a better hotdog, and don't let the presence of relish and extra toppings sway you one way or the other! I tried to make you folks a handy poll, but it kept linking to what I think is the equivalent of a Polish Etsy.

Finally, and arguably far more important than the fact that my dog and I both wore hot dog costumes this October, dear, amazing, witty and informative Baltimore Chop apparently nominated me for two Mobbies, or Maryland's Outstanding Blogs.  I am embarrassed because I don't do well with compliments flattered, and torn between urging you to vote daily for me or daily for the Chop.  (Lucky you!  You can vote for both!)  I really am so grateful for how much everyone in Baltimore has made me feel so very welcome in the past year, even the twitter and blogospheres.  For those of you who know me, I'm constantly talking up the Chop and how he helped me get acquainted to this city when I first relocated, and even more so, how he keeps me up to date on wonderful things each day.  Good 'ol buddy Clube can attest to this.

This really serves as a great incentive for me to keep better tabs on this little blog, and not go so long between updates.  I was so much better at being a consistent blogger when I was in AmeriCorps, so hopefully now I'll get myself back into the swing of things.  I'm still in shock that I'm up there with the likes of the Chop, City that Breeds, Charm City Cook, Pigtown Designs, the Fishbowl, etc etc.  Amazed, and again, flattered.  So, go!  Vote!

Camping at Assateague

A few months ago, I decided I wanted to go camping.  Not real backpacking, poop-in-the-woods camping, although I would love to do that if I could find a willing partner and a trusty frame pack.  What I had in mind was the camping of my youth - car camping. 

As a child, when most families would load up into their sporty Dodge Caravan with a tv in the ceiling to spend a weekend in a multi-roomed mansion at the Outer Banks with a pool and hot tub, my father would pile the five of us and the dog into our mid-80’s Taurus station wagon (lovingly referred to as “The Hearse” and later, “The Clunker”) and caravan us eight hours north to the Adirondacks for two weeks where we’d live out of those multi-room, multi-family tents and eat spam out of a cooler.  Our pool was the lake adjacent to our campsite, our hot tub the shallow area where our family beagle would pee out of fear of water.  It was all quite exotic.

I remember canoeing a lot, I remember hiking, and I remember sitting around picnic table, bored out of my mind, tired of playing the same three card games with my brother and sister hour after hour, day after day.  I remember being fairly miserable, but I remember it so very fondly.  Miserable in that way that most things are miserable when you’re a pre-teen, not legitimately miserable.

When I gchatted a dear friend a few weeks ago, “I wanna go camping,” this is precisely what I had in mind.  I wanted to store snacks in the trunk of a car, I wanted to tie a dog to a tree and watch them get stuck, I wanted to make marshmallow torches and I wanted a toilet with toilet paper within a decent vicinity.  My friend was game, and created the facebook event.

The other weekend, I took off a Friday from work and went camping in Assateague with two dear friends and Bubba.  I sang unnecessary car solos, which sadly did not include Phil Colins this time around, I snacked, and I generally was just presumably irritating to travel with. 

“Guys, guys I dropped my thimble!” 

“MV, why are you sewing in the car?”

“Otherwise I never will! Is my thimble under your seat?”

After reveling in the beauty of the Ranger’s Station, and Bubba claiming stake to a post by peeing on it, we were off to find our campsite.  Enroute, we had our first horse sighting, which led the three of us to simultaneously exclaim, “PONY!”  Fact: after three days, the horses become far less exciting and endearing.  We pitched our tent, and I set up my parents’ glorious 1981 camping stove while the fire was started by much more competent people than myself.  After a satisfying meal of brats and potatoes, we came to an unfortunate realization.  Camping in October, while assuredly rids you of the pesky Assateague mosquitos that everyone curses, is quite frigid at night.  As the sun went down, so did the mercury in our hypothetical thermometer (read: iPhone).  I was layered up, ready to fight the oncoming gusts of wind.  Soon, I looked at Bubba tied up to the tree, curled in a ball, shaking.  My maternal pet guilt kicked in, and I asked my friend if I could put Bubba in the car to fight off the wind until, at least, we went to sleep.

It got cold, the fire died out, and like on all good camping trips, we were in tent/sleeping bag by 9:30p or so.  I had fished the dog out of the car and had unsuccessfully tried to use his little sausage-shaped body for heat, and gave up when I received a swift back paw to the lower intestines.  I fitfully fell asleep with the wind threatening to collapse our cloth structure upon us and the dog pacing around nervously. 

I woke at first to the unmistakable sound of my dear little basset throwing up.  I fumbled for my glasses, and once on, I realized that clear vision does one no good in the dark.  I fumbled for my flashlight and by the time I illuminated the region where the noise was coming from, Bubba had gotten around to cleaning up his own mess.  Worried, confused and cold, I shut my eyes to try for sleep.

Within what seems like minutes, I heard a muffled thumping on the ground by my head.  I put my towel-sweatshirt-backpack-pile-turned-pillow over my head and willed myself to fall into a REM cycle.  Almost instantaneously, I heard the neighing.  Cute ponies, no more.  They had morphed into, as my friends would later call them, Nocturnal Hellspawn.  Jekyll and Hyde style, these seemingly peaceful and nonchalant creatures during the day become attention-whores and evil doers once night sets.  The thumping and neighing, in tandem with the high winds and nervous, whining dog, ensured a night of, at best, fitful sleep ahead of me.  

“Get back to nature!” I had told myself.  “You love the outdoors!” was my mantra.

I do love the outdoors, and I did need to get back to nature, but at the moment I wanted nothing more than a mattress and soundproof walls.

Eventually, my mind began wandering.  It was windy.  Did we put the tailgating chairs back in the car?  Would they blow into the tent and rip it, so the ponies could get in and eat my dog?  (While my mind was creating such logical hypotheticals, my friend later told me she feared we would all be trampled in our sleep. This is only implausible to me, because I don't think any of us were asleep.)  I could take it no more; I got up and left the tent to face the wind, the upright chairs, and the horses.

Keychain flashlight in hand, I spotted them.  The two chairs were next to the firepit, completely upright, threatening to be blown into my standing form.  Horses, from what I could see, were nowhere in sight. 

Luckily, I smelled it before I saw it.  Right in front of the tent, right below where my foot was hovering for my first step down, was the world’s largest, most hay-filled horse turd ever seen.  I stepped around it, feeling a little like Kim Possible, probably resembling something more like a drunken sorority girl on an icy sidewalk.  Once I got the chairs folded up and secured next to a tree, I got back into the tent for the remainder of the night’s terrible excuse for sleep.

I gave up once the sun began to greet the morn.  I informed Bubba that I had been cold and he had failed at his pet duties of keeping me toasty, and that now we were going to go for an early, cold walk before breakfast.

I’m not sure what time it was.  Perhaps six or seven.  The morning was beautiful, and even my grumpy, sleep-deprived self could not help but acknowledge the serenity of the sunrise over a calm bay.  Feeling a little more optimistic about life and the outdoors in general, we returned to the campsite so Bubba could enjoy his morning kibble.

I unlocked the car and searched.  I found the bag his food had been in, but it was empty.  I felt like a resident of Whoville on Christmas morning; the remnants of it were there, but not the goods themselves.  Except, while there is more to Christmas than gifts, but there isn’t more to a dog meal than kibble.  We had no one to join hands with around a tree and sing a festive song.  I was completely perplexed.  The food had been there last night when I fed him.  How did it disappear?  Did the horses somehow get into the car and JUST eat the bag of dog kibble, leaving the marshmallows, the sausages, the rice, the apples, the oatmeal?  At that hour, with as little sleep as I had had, that was the most logical explanation I could think of.  It also solidified my belief that the horses were in fact evil, and not to be trusted.  The signs in the bathrooms warning me of the dangers of wild horses and how they can bite you only further confirmed my suspicions.

When my two friends awoke, I brought up the Mystery of the Missing Kibble, equal parts concerned and excited about the prospect of Nancy Drewing it up on my camping trip.  I wanted to pin down the misfit pony and make him admit to his wrongdoings.  He’d talk.  Oh, he’d talk.

“Didn’t you put Bubba in the car last night?”

“Yeah, so?  It was cold.”

“Right.  But.  You put him right next to his kibble.”

“No, you’re not saying...”

“MV.  Bubba ate all his food for the weekend.”

“But.”

“You know I’m right.”

“But that’s six cups of dog food.”

“MV, he ate it all.”

I looked at him, tied to the tree, sitting up, tail thumping, making direct eye contact with me.  His tail was saying, “I’M OUTSIDE, THERE ARE LOTS OF SMELLS!  DID YOU SEE THAT MASSIVE HORSE TURD? I LIKE PEEING ON THINGS!” but his eyes were saying, “Silly human, now you’ll have to feed me your food.  This was my plan along.”

The rest of the weekend was lovely.  We kayaked, hiked, hunted wayward frisbees out of trees, made obscene amounts of food, ate shared meals out of a pot to avoid having extra dishes, played card games, and made Bubba potatoes and fried rice.  While I kayaked, my friend got to run after Bubba who was not okay with Lady-Who-Feeds-Me venturing off into the water on a piece of plastic.  This apparently ended in his cell phone getting run over.  I have good friends.

It was my first foray into camping on the Eastern Shore, and I do not expect it to be my last.  If you’re new to Bmore, go camping in Assateague!  I recommend the fall to avoid what I hear are horrific mosquitos, but bundle up, bring earplugs for when you sleep, and keep your pet’s food in an airtight, pet-tight container.  You also need to be okay with semi-hygienic circumstances, as the showers are circumspect and the bathrooms only have crappy hand sanitizer and no soap.  Definitely not a deal-breaker for me, but definitely a deal-breaker for some.

Happy camping!

Free Seafood

Every week at the Farmer’s Market, the Seafood Man stands proudly with his coolers full of the week’s catch, as he should, knowing fully well that he and the Mushroom Ladies have the hottest, priciest commodities at the market.  I stare at him longingly as I fork over $1 for a pound of kale and another $1 for two eggplants from other, more affordable vendors.  This is my price range at the market.  Sometimes I’ll splurge on berries or peaches, but generally I have a $3-per-item limit for myself, and seafood just doesn’t fit into my budget.  It kills me, a little bit, to pass his freshly caught crabs or see my friends buy tilapia for fish tacos later in the week, but I’ve prioritized an omelet and kettle korn over fish, yet again.

He always has a trivia question, which, if answered properly without the aid of a smartphone, generally wins one a lobster tail.  I glance at the question every week, hoping that one Sunday, I’ll just instinctively know the answer.  It’ll just come to me because, that week, I’d be destined to have lobster tail for dinner.

I go to this market every. Sunday.  Never have I guessed the question properly.  Most weeks I don’t even bother, while others I’ll stand in front of his table for a good five minutes and wrack my brain for memories of Seinfeld episodes or basic American History facts.  Perhaps my losing streak is a sign of why my trivia team did so poorly in its one week of existence.  

And then last Sunday, everything changed.  I was forcing my kale into my resuable bag, when I overheard, “Wait, so what’s the answer?”  

I looked up at the board before I looked up at the inquisitive soul.

“No, l know this one!  ...may I?”

I’m not aware of what I’m saying, my body’s just going with it.  My mind is hours ahead of me, already submerging my free lobster tail in large saucers of butter with a large glass of pinot grigio in the other hand.  What a lovely Sunday evening was in store.

The Seafood Man signals for me to answer, gesturing that he’s given me the floor, the opportunity to prove myself worthy of his trivia.  My Venezuelan roots have prepared me for this moment.  After 24 years, I was going to milk my heritage for a free lobster tail, and I internally acknowledged that it was some perverse form of affirmative action that I fully supported.

“Angel Falls.  The world’s highest waterfall is Angel Falls and it’s in Canima - the rainforest in Venezuela!”  I sputter it out quickly, as though if I don’t, I’ll forget that I’ve been to this massive waterfall.   He nods, but not enthusiastically.  He looks amused, but not in a Bob Barker “Let’s look at what you’ve just won!” kind of way.

I look back at the whiteboard where the question was scrawled hours before.

“What is the world’s highest waterfall and what country is it in?  Guess correctly and win a free … NOTHING.”

My heart sinks.

Affirmative action is a lie.

I will be eating kettle korn for dinner, if I can ration it to last until 6pm.

I won’t be buying that bottle of pinot grigio.  

I’ll submerge my sorrows in saucers of butter.

I’ll never win that lobster tail.

“It was too easy this week,”  Seafood Man lets me down gently.  “Everyone was getting it right and we ran out.”

I was shamed.  I quietly walked away, my head low, to buy four bell peppers for $1 - left to wonder what it would be like to one day be able to leave the Seafood Man with my head high, and a plastic bag full of aquatic goodness.

Until next week, I suppose.