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What I’m Cooking, Drinking, And Watching This Weekend
by Dave
What I’m Cooking
Been a minute, folks. I had to diversify my newsletter writing portfolio in the previous weeks, but we’re back to the staple. Since I missed Monday’s show with a post-beach upper respiratory ailment and did not get to recap my Weekend In Fun, I have decided to rank my top three (3) dinners in Port Aransas, Texas.
Dylan’s Coal Oven Pizzeria: Sausage and Pepperoni Pizza- This was the last night of the trip, and we were not about to wrangle an exhausted toddler and an unpredictable baby to another restaurant. We played our card, and frankly, we were impressed. This spot was located nearby in the Cinnamon Shores South Truman Show beach community. A LOT of V. Vines and boat shoes, and shockingly good beach town ‘za. I recommend.
Red’s: Fried Black Marlin Tacos- This was my first meal in Port A. Red’s is the outdoor bar and grill at the beach community we stayed at. I give the tacos a solid B. I don’t have a sophisticated enough palette to tell you whether the actual Marlin was high quality, but I can say that the fry job was sufficient. When I’m critiquing fried anything, I’m looking for limited bites that feature only batter. I need a little protein in the bite to make me feel like less of a goblin for ordering something deep-fried. That obviously changes if I’m hungover, because then I’ll actively seek out those crispy fried empty bites. But I wasn’t, and those tacos were respectable. Added points for the guy playing covers on a lap steel guitar. His rendition of “Badfish” deserved more buzz from the crowd.
Black Marlin: Fish and Chips- This is the nicest restaurant in the resort and located next to the aforementioned Red’s. But, uh, it’s the exact same menu as its outdoor neighbor. It’s just indoors and dimly lit. There’s a cool bar in there, and you don’t have to fend off flies with a table fan. Three-year-olds fucking love fly fans by the way. But I was expecting a little variety. Naturally, I went for the fried item again, and it was fine. Probably B- territory.
This weekend will be all about rest and convenience. Nothing crazy. I don’t want to go out, I don’t want to spend money, and I really don’t want to be glued to the smoker. Smoked chicken? That’s most definitely happening. I could get feisty on Sunday and take a run at some pork ribs, but I simply refuse to commit to that right now.
What I’m Drinking
Well, there are five Red Stripes in my fridge leftover from Port A. We’ve got the Chicago trip next week, so I will absolutely be taking it easy this weekend. A recovery of sorts. I’ll allow myself to polish off the leftover stripes, but the liquor cabinet is staying closed. I have to get my gut prepped for the cicada malort shots.
What I’m Watching
This is the weekend I start Love Island UK. Will is probably all caught up by now, and here I am with zero episodes under my belt. If I’m going to follow Maya Jama on Instagram, I at least need to attempt to watch the show. Other than that, I think it’s time to give the Glen Powell romcom a spin. Hitman. That’s not typically my style, but I just watched Glen Powell in his 2016 never discussed role in Everybody Wants Some!, and I’m becoming a fan. I’ll have a full review of that on Monday’s episode of Circling Back. I have some TAKES.
My Predictions For Next Weekend’s Chicago Meet-Up
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The boys of Washed Media arrive in Chicago the morning of next Friday, June 28. We’ll head straight to our River North hotel, drop our bags, and prepare for the action-packed weekend ahead.
Our first stop is the Mugsy store on Armitage at 5:00 for a happy hour, where you’ll get 20% off the world’s most comfortable jeans AND you’ll get to shake hands with everyone’s favorite podcaster, Dave Ruff. There will also be some ice cold bronsons waiting for you.
On the following night, we’ll be at Sluggers in Wrigleyville at 6:00 for the meet-up. Come through and say hello if you’re in town.
Many things could happen on this trip, but the aforementioned are the only events I know will happen. As for the rest, below are my predictions. Since we’ll get more in depth and expand on these next week on the pod, I’ll keep it short for now.
I’m disappointed, once again, by Chicago-style deep dish pizza.
Our first ever out of town meet-up was in Chicago in 2017. We were told to try Lou Malnati’s, so we did. It wasn’t good. I can get past having to place your order hours in advance for deep dish ‘za, but with all that effort and all that waiting, it should be good. And Lou Malnati’s was just okay. Be honest with yourself, though, even bad pizza is okay. It was fiiiiine.
I’m going to give Chicago one last chance to win me over on their signature pizza style. Randy, former Chicago resident, is taking the reins here. He’s picking the spot. It better deliver, but I obviously have my doubts.
I fall in love with summertime in Chicago.
Austin is a fun city with a lot to offer, but from mid-June to October, you basically can’t go outside unless it’s to swim. Oppressively hot. Miserable.
I’ve only been to Chicago in the fall, which I loved, but everything you hear is how it’s perfect in the summer so my expectations are sky high.
I complain numerous times about the Cubs not being in town next weekend.
In 2017, we caught one of the last regular season games at Wrigley Field. Without question, it was my favorite ballpark I’ve ever visited. Old school, classic, iconic baseball environment with the legendary ivy. It was perfect. The weather was also perfect, Kyle Schwarber hit a bomb that hasn’t landed yet, and the vibes were immaculate.
I was absolutely crushed to learn that the Cubs will be in Milwaukee next weekend.
We don’t make our Friday night dinner reservation.
Dave is in charge of reservations. I haven’t paid much attention to where he booked for Friday night after the Mugsy happy hour because I have serious doubts we actually make it. We’ll be a few drinks deep by 7:00 and someone, probably me, will pitch grabbing a quick Chicago dog in lieu of whichever steak house or Spanish tapas establishment at which we’re currently booked.
We’ll have a big Saturday ahead of us and will need our night nights.
I’m not able to move on from Sluggers adding a rogue apostrophe in their new sign.
It’s a great looking sign and obviously I’m a sucker for anything baseball themed, but HOW does this happen? You’d think someone, anyone, from whoever conceptualized this design to the graphic designer to the person who actually painted the fucking thing would realize that the plural form of “piano” is simply “pianos.” I won’t be able to let it go.
I hit in the batting cages and play Golden Tee at Sluggers.
Sluggers has both of these things. This bar was tailored for me, despite its grammatical shortcomings.
Brett br*cks his fit Saturday.
The Process
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The following is a work of fiction inspired by a recent Circling Back discussion (and subsequent Reddit thread) about airports and the various weird behaviors we have while flying. Nothing below is intended to be read in my voice.
I have a process. While you may think you have a process, just know your process is nothing like mine.
Upon waking up, I remove my sleep mask and silence my Japanese alarm clock. My travel days are centered around three pillars: Efficiency, cleanliness, and physicality. These themes don’t simply dictate my actions; they corse through my veins.
With my feet firmly planted on the ground, I rise from my California King and unroll my yoga mat. On days like today where I won’t be able to visit Equinox, I go for a rigid but brief flow to stretch and open up my mind — Dolphin Pose, Warrior III, Side Plank, Half-Moon Pose, Wheel Pose. Students of yoga will recognize these as Ardha Pincha Mayurasana, Virabhadrasana III, Vasisthasana, Ardha Chandrasana, and Urdhva Dhanurasana.
While this feels invigorating in the moment, nothing will compare to the feeling of being limber as I sit down in my seat. Typically, commercial airlines have varying seats despite running regular routes with similar planes. My reality is knowing that I can only control what I can control. In this case, that’s my body.
Upon cooling down, I take an ice cold shower to lower my body temperature. Despite our business trip accommodations including a two-night stint at Le Palais de Cristal, one knows that you can never trust hotel shampoo and conditioner. I wash and condition my hair for what will be the last time until I return home. This is extremely intentional.
My bags have been packed for twelve hours. A carry-on suitcase containing my casual clothing, shoes, accessories, and valuables. A garment bag for my linens, suits, and sport coats. My luggage matches. It clicks together so I don’t need to carry anything at any time. It’s also wildly expensive.
Increased demand, driver shortages, and c-suite errors have caused Uber prices to the airport to skyrocket. While the price itself doesn’t bother me, I simply can’t give my money to a company that has Pierre-Dimitri in their c-suite. He will forever be my mortal enemy after spilling a glass of Barolo on my The Row dress shirt in The Hamptons, 2019. Aside from how tacky it is to drink Barolo while the sun is up, Pierre-Dimitri insulted the wine I brought for dinner just minutes prior.
$39 per day for parking at an GP airport is highway robbery but it’s the price I’m willing to pay to not have to shove myself into a tram to the Uber lot upon my return. As I drive my car to the airport — leaving exactly two hours before my flight takes off — I recount everything I’ve packed in my carry-on.
A full change of clothes in case I’m sat next to a feeding baby. Two pairs of headphones — one noise-cancelling over-ear and one wired Apple pair because girls go wild for them these days. I will wear these at the pool in between meetings. My dopp kit. The three As: Advil, Adderall, Antacids. A book that I will simply never read. A journal I will pretend to write in at our meetings. Phone and computer chargers. A bag of nuts from Whole Foods as I can never trust airport food again after flying to New Zealand in 2021.
Parking my car in the lot closest to security, I put sunglasses on. These will not leave my face until TSA requests that I remove them while checking my ID. I keep them on for two very specific reasons: to seem unapproachable and to look at travelers while sparing them of my judgment. As I walk past the TSA agent, I look at the security lines.
The elderly. Slow.
Families. Slower.
I position myself behind a woman between 30 and 33 years old. She wears a business suit and has all Tumi luggage. She’s been here before. She will be my lead blocker.
I arrive at the gate with time to spare. A brief meditation helps me calm myself and removes the wants and needs for coffee and food from my mind. Watching people drink 32-ounce coffees as they board makes me want to change my seat assignment to the bathroom itself.
As they call the boarding groups, I find myself in a state of zen knowing that my method is far superior to the others. One by one, the cattle herd to the gate and find there way into the slaughterhouse. I, myself, will remain seated until just before they shut the door. For I, too, am nothing but livestock at this point. But at least I’m not sitting in an aisle seat with crotches and fannies breezing by my face as I struggle to access the wifi.
I have boarded for my final destination.
This is the process.
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