Salmon Tartare w/ Avocado Salad

IMG_1414While combing through my archives on an arctic April 10th (I hate you so damn hard, Ohio…) I came across a few gems I never got around to publishing (read: I’m an indolent ass), such as this beauty here! “Say hello to my little friend!”, quoth Tony Montana. Incidentally, I’m writing this at 12:45 AM on a Saturday night because I’m single and this is the kind of freedom and luxury my life affords, and Scarface running on Netflix in the background is an astoundingly shitty, non-compelling, overrated film that is leaving me… whatever the opposite of “enthralled” is… Really. Just the worst. I mean, how in the name of all sacred deities I don’t believe in is this movie so famous? Moreover, why am I subjecting myself to it again after watching it once over a decade ago and not enjoying it then? Who do I have to blame for this self-inflicted torture but myself, right? Anyway, for more on how much I hate this cinematic abortion, check out (no, this is not a real site… that I know of… I should definitely purchase the domain before someone else does, though…)  Anyway, at least I’m feeling relaxed, tranquil and fully satisfied after eating more today than should be allowed by law, or at the very least common decency and self-respect.

Here is an early director’s cut that never saw the light of day. If the theatrical version of the film were more like this, I probably wouldn’t be bitching quite as much:

(cough) …where were we… Ah, yes! This… thing I just happened to dig out of my phone… Ok, but forrealzies, it has a certain sexiness and polychromatic charm about it, right? The salmon was tossed with a bit of lime juice, zest, soy sauce, and served along that heaping pile of tomato, red pepper, avocado, onion and lime. Probably some cilantro in there as well, if I know myself like I think I do. The salad was honestly the best part, but put avocado on a plate of spaghetti and I’d probably eat it. The avocado, that is–not the spaghetti. Spaghetti is nothing but refined, glutenous carbs. Gross. Pass. 

Ok, so maybe the climax where Tony snorts that pile of blow the size of the mule that smuggled it into the country, then gets blasted down in a hail of gunfire is kinda cool… probably because he finally dies, then the credits roll… perhaps this calls for a third viewing another decade or so from now…

Oh, and listen to this! Netflix also suckered me into watching that truly abysmal Pee-Wee’s Big Vacation a few days ago! There’s 90 minutes I’ll never get back… I should sue those assholes for defamation of character at the mere suggestion that I would “really like it”… I only went against my best instincts because Pee-Wee’s Big Adventure was a hysterical, classic work of cinematic genius. So, I thought mayyyyyybe this won’t totally suck… God, was I wrong… Now, you want to see a great movie about coke that also has Paul Reubens, aka Pee-Wee? Blow. But, I fear I’ve already said to much, as I must save something for my grilled tuna post… IMG_1417

So what have we learned? Let’s review:

Scarface and new Pee-Wee movie- shit.

Avocado and Blow– the shit.

Pasta- feel like shit.



As the credits mercifully rolled on what was easily one of the most overrated snooze-fests of the 80s, Netflix suggested he now watch Training Day, predicting he would “love it” with a 5-star rating. As it turns out, he had already seen this title. Several times, in fact, but Netflix had no way of knowing this, of course. Netflix was only doing what it was programmed to do–keep the hits coming, and keep him from thinking too hard. 

Angling his eyes ever-so-slightly northeast to the clock on his laptop (he always told himself he opted for the “pro” model over the regular macbook because of the sleek, silver exterior and more robust interior, but the truth is, it was the simple word “pro” emblazoned across the stark white box that sold had sold him hook, line, and sinker, whether he knew it, or not), he instinctually told himself to quit pecking away at his deranged, nonsensical blog that only he could ever fully appreciate, and go to bed, seeing as how it was fast approaching 2:00 AM. Any logical being, therefore would have naturally retired. But, then… he was no “logical being”, and as that recalcitrant, reprobate region of his brain that always seemed to laugh hysterically and maniacally at the absurd, the random, and the inappropriate; the selfsame sector that ever bellowed “ENTERTAIN ME!!!” overrode the balanced, logic-seeking center, or what best passed for one in a brain addled and hobbled by years of reprehensible choices, both on a “real-life” scale and a lesser level of questionable movie choices, he looked at his calendar for the next day. Seeing nothing of greater consequence than a grocery list and an affirmation reiterating how strong and stalwart he was (as though he could ever forget), his body, seemingly of its own accord, sunk back into the couch amid his slumbering canids and gave Scarface 1-star rating because ‘0’ was not an option.


Twelve years hence, looking back to this fateful day after watching Scarface for the third, but not the final time, and ruing this decision more than ever as he reflected on similarly poor choices such as Pee-Wee’s Big Sex Offense, and the subsequent Pee-Wee’s Big Parole Hearing , hitting “PLAY” on Training Day was the one decision he would never regret. 

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