Ricky'S Lunch Blog

So…yeah…my agent calls me during lunch yesterday. You know, the agent who’s representing my novel to the major New York publishing houses. Anyway, I fear I was a bit short with her. You see I made some lentil soup over night—14 hours in the crock pot mind you—and the lentils were surprisingly tough when I ate them for lunch. The recipe didn’t say anything about soaking them before hand. I blame myself. I should know better. How many times have I advised others to soak their lentils? How is it that the thought-leader disavows his own advice? The answer, I fear, is hubris.

When things don’t go my way I lash out at others.

I don’t care for the term “spot on.” Here, I’ll demonstrate it in a sentence: “Ricky, your rapid assessment of the shortcomings of today’s lunch was spot on.” See? Don’t you want to make fun of me as soon as I step out of the conference room to take this important call?

I haven’t blogged much lately because the Battle Ax and I are on a horrid diet. Recent lunches have been mind-numbing, repetitive, flatulence-inducing ordeals that make me want to climb out the bathroom window and run away from home each night after she tucks me in.

Today, however, I got some relief from this wretched status quo. I found a frozen Tupperware container in the ice box that held a serving of 15-bean soup I’d made some months ago. Technically it’S on our diet, especially if you don’t count the bacon and the ham hocks, so I was able to convince her to let me take it for lunch. I enjoyed it. I can only speculate how much better it would have been had there been 16 or 17 beans in it.

The younger, more clever version of Ricky would have attempted to close this entry with a sentence that included the words ‘spot on’, thereby completing the circle of irony, but I got nothing. Hell, our bathroom doesn’t even have a window in it. And we live on the third floor for christsake, so it’s stupid for me to think of that as a viable escape strategy.

I'm feeling the urge to blog about my lunch. It could happen any time now.

It's the unscripted nature of lunch evangelization that makes this endeavor so exciting. I'm delighted that you choose to share in this experience with me. It truly is a wonderful journey of lunch discovery that we're on together. I cherish your companionship.

I had fish tacos today. Two of them. No beans, no rice. Then I went to the expensive yuppie organic grocery store. I needed something called "tahini" for a recipe I’m making for dinner tonight.

I asked one of the unshaven long-haired gentlemen working in the expensive olives and cheese section. He showed me where this expensive tahini was, and then he launched into a long spiel on what tahini is, how they make it, and what it goes well in. I wasn’t listening though; I was second-guessing my decision to forgo the beans and rice. I thanked him and then realized he was hitting on me, attempting to impress with the depth of his tahini knowledge.

I like saying tahini now. Not as much as I like saying Del Scorcho, but quite a bit.

Then, on my way back to the office, I went to the gas station and put 3.12 gallons of gasoline into my motorcycle.

Can anyone recall a worse lunch blog entry? I’m not in a good place right now.

For lunch yesterday I went to my acupuncture appointment. First thing the crunchy acupuncture woman does—after she puts on the pan flute music—is take my pulse. Turns out for acupuncture purposes, you have three different pulses. She held both of my wrists for a few seconds, and a perplexed look crossed her face. She began to speak, but I cut her off, knowing where she was going.

“I had a lot of sugar this morning,” I confessed. “A Rice Krispies Treat and a glazed devil’s food cake donut.”

“Ahhhhh,” she said. “That would explain it.” Then she stuck a bunch of needles in my tummy to counteract the effect. I fell asleep and dreamed of crayons.

Afterward, I went across the parking lot and bought one of those pre-made supermarket salads. This one had slices of breaded chicken breast on it. Back at my desk, I drenched it in Freedom dressing. No matter—it sucked. I complemented it with a container of Styrofoam chicken soup. While I ate, I read about racism on the information super highway.

When I was done, I noticed my bottle of Freedom dressing had expired a week ago.

This is a good lunch blog entry. You can disagree, but I don't know if it will get you anywhere.

There’S a certain amount of machismo that is implied with thought-leadership. It’s 4 parts bravado and a cup-and-a-half of swagger chased with a flaming shot of rugged individualism.

Case in point: I hopped on my little 1994 BMW R100RT motorcycle and racked up 700 miles this weekend. Just the road, the roar of the engine, and a head full of lunch-related insights to ponder on the high dessert between Colorado and New Mexico. I would have tossed the Battle Ax on the back, but she had other plans. When she rides with me, I don’t introduce her as the Battle Ax; I introduce her as “my old lady.” Yeah.

Suck, suck, suck. That’s what this lunch blog posting does Ricky. It sucks.

Please don’t do this. Not now. I really feel like my creative process is coalescing, and I’m quite optimistic that this entry will finish strong. Everything is beginning to flow. Can’t you just feel it? I’m confident I can walk the talk. Please don’t go—not yet. That would devastate me.

On my way back yesterday I stopped at a Quiznos. Their menu has a lot of words on it and I get flustered trying to make sense of it as the post-pubescent behind the counter stares at me, waiting.

“That your motorcycle?” he asked. Usually when someone asks an annoying question like that, I take them out back by the dumpster and stomp them, but I was hungry so I ordered a turkey club and a Dr. Pepper instead.

Ever since I went to the food court at the mall a few weeks ago to work on that stupid summary of my stupid novel for that pompous, arrogant, no-taste New York literary agent, I’ve been returning weekly just for the Mediterranean food. I’ve never been to Mediterranean, but if this food is any indication, I bet it’S a wicked-awesome country to live in.

One of their traditional dishes is called sampler, which I thought was a fish of some kind, like a snapper, but I was wrong. Sampler is a totally unique dish that bares no resemblance to any lunch food this thought leader has ever analyzed. There’s something that looks like meat that comes off of a big meat cone. Then there’s these crusty balls, which I believe are carefully removed from some exotic animal that feeds only on saw dust. Then there’s these stubby little leafy cigars soaked in olive oil. Oh yeah---there’s also 3 different sauces that all look alike but taste different, one of which—I’m quite certain—is also secreted from the sawdust-eating beast. Figure 1, below, is my attempt to come to terms with all this.


Figure 1. Sampler is Ricky'S new favorite lunch food.

I have a navy blue blazer. I look terrific in it. Every real man should have one because they never go out of style, even with the dandruff. It’S like chicken. Can you recall a time when chicken wasn’t in?

I had chicken-intensive lunch yesterday. First I had 4 leftover pieces of Italian-fried chicken—2 drumsticks and 2 thighs. They didn’t have a coating. I just fried them in olive oil and butter with a few pressed garlic cloves. Then I had a cup of Styrofoam chicken soup. I enjoyed it so much I snapped a photo, as shown in Figure 1, below. I’d already finished the chicken pieces and was half way through the soup when the picture was taken. If you look hard you can see bones.

Now that I’ve reached the end of my blog entry, I’m having second thoughts about the blazer analogy. Doesn’t really make any sense at all.


Figure 1. Ricky celebrates chicken. He ate at his desk because the only thing he knows how to do is hit it out of the park.

I make a hell of a breakfast burrito. I just find whatever is left over in the fridge—mushrooms, asparagus, sliced rib-eye, maybe even a Kraft single or two—and mash it all up with scrambled eggs, and stuff it inside a couple of those fresh tortillas I blogged about a few years ago. The key is spooning in lots of red chile.

Oh…I’m sorry. I must be on the wrong page. Somehow I ended up on some putz’s lame breakfast blog, when what I was looking for was the pre-eminent bastion of lunch thought-leadership on the information super highway. My bad.

What’s wrong with you? Every time? You have to do this every time? I don’t mean to be preaching to a dead horse, but I won’t ask you again…

Anyway, on golf days like yesterday, I’ve gotten in the habit of making a few extra burritos in the morning to take out on the course with me so I don’t have to struggle and fuss with sloppy distracting lunch food. I ended up eating 5 or 6 eggs yesterday all tolled as a result, but I don’t care. I take those pills that the bald guys on TV talk about. Not the ones that help with the boners—the other ones that help with the cholesterol. Yeah, those. I like those.

I rode my bi-cycle to work today to affirm that I’m still fit and virile. It took me 2 hours to go the 26 up-hill miles. After I showered and settled in at my desk I became very tired, so I went into the handicap stall for what I thought would be a quick cat nap. Although I didn’t have to go, I dropped my trousers just to keep up appearances. It’s not like I got busted or anything, but I was in there for longer than I’d planned.

My point is that at lunch I could not stop rubbing my face. I’m not sure if that was because I was still tired or I’d picked up something from the toilet paper dispenser where my head was resting. The waitress said I looked like I could use some iced tea. She brought me a big glass along with a chicken caesar salad and a cup of vegetable beef soup. I read from my Kindle, scratched some more, and lingered long enough to down a second jumbo glass of tea.

I drilled the small hole for awhile today. Then I came back to the office and reheated that lamb and red chile soup I teased you with yesterday.

I didn’t want to get all moist and sweaty down there like I did that other time, so before I went to the golf course I changed out of my dungarees and into my seersucker Daisy Dukes, as shown in Figure 1. That did the trick. Everything stayed dry and comfortable, and you wouldn’t have been able to pick up my scent unless you squatted.



Figure 1. In Ricky’S world seersucker never goes out of style. The red arrow indicates the region that remained dry and comfortable as Ricky repeatedly drilled the small hole.

I can smell opportunity on the wind. It’S what separates the true lunch thought-leader from your garden-variety lunch practitioner.

Maybe you had developed and implemented a robust lunch plan. Maybe you ladled the slow-cooked lamb and red chile into your favorite Tupperware container and carefully secured the lid with two rubber bands so the fluid wouldn’t leak and soil your sparkly disco rave purse. Maybe you even brought the chopped cilantro and onions in separate zip-lock baggies to sprinkle on top. Maybe you were firing on all lunch cylinders when …

The youngster sales guys invited you to go to Del Taco with them.

I almost declined because they make fun of my shorts, which they refer to as my “Daisy Dukes.” I smile and laugh along with them as if I get the joke, but I don’t. Or maybe I do, but don’t think it’s funny.

Anyway, I came up with another excellent lunch innovation today: I used both Del Scorcho and Del Inferno on my tacos. Hell, don’t take my word for it—take a look at Figure 1.



Figure 1. Here we see Ricky innovating the lunch paradigm with both Del Scorcho and Del Inferno on a single taco. (Photo Credit: The hyperactive ADD-stricken young sales guy).

When we got back to the office I put my lamb in the fridge for tomorrow.

I went to the food court in the mall today for lunch and worked some more on that 2-page summary of my novel. I discussed this in my previous lunch blog entry. I’m already a day late in delivering it to the powerful New York literary agent. Oh yeah, and it’s already 6 pages long, and I haven’t even gotten to the part where the shootin’ starts. What a disaster. I’m doomed.

If you look at the picture in my previous lunch blog entry it will help you imagine what I had today. Instead of lemon cake, imagine a slice of Sicilian pizza. And instead of a scone, imagine a crappy house salad soaked in rank balsamic dressing. And instead of coffee imagine a Mr. Pibb. And instead of a pad, imagine a portable laptop-style personal computer. Other than that, everything is exactly the same.

I’ve asked you numerous times to stop calling me. We need to escalate this. Please transfer me to your supervisor.

A big-time New York literary agent contacted me out of the blue yesterday. Seven months ago I’d sent him the first few chapters of my excellent action-packed techno-thriller novel. He said he wanted to see the next 100 pages, and—here’s the tricky part—he wants to see a concise 2-page summary of the entire book, covering all the major characters and plot points. I never got around to writing one of those.

I promised I’d get everything to him by this Monday. So today at lunch I started working on the summary.

Guess where I went to work on it? Starbucks!

I was the pathetic poser in the coffee shop “working” on his novel. Sweet! I’ve never felt more like a cliché in my whole life, except for time I stalked my ex-girlfriend, although I didn’t think of her as my ex at the time. Still don’t, really. It was clear to me she was just confused and that if we could just talk in my van for a few minutes and maybe spend a long weekend together down in my basement she’d come to her senses and see that we were perfect for each other. Yeah, that was really cliché when I did all that.

Anyway, fancying myself a deep, quirky, misunderstood, eccentric author, I had a scone and some lemon cake for lunch, and I washed it all down with a cup of caffeinated Vienna roast (see Figure 1, below). I sighed loudly often so everyone waiting on line for coffee drinks could see that I was in the soul-wrenching throes of artistic creation.

What’s next? I’m going to stop shaving and buy an off-white wool turtle-neck from the Goodwill store.



Figure 1. The ideal lunch for the poser wanna-be author in your life. Note the vanilla frosting on the half eaten pretentious scone in the lower right-hand corner.

On the practice green at the golf course across the street, there’s an area set aside for the Small Hole Drill. This consists of a tiny cup, half the size of a regular golf hole (see figure 1). The directions on the placard suggest you start 1 foot from the hole; when you make two putts in a row, move back 1 foot and do it again. You repeat this until you make two putts in a row from 5 feet. It supposedly improves your short putting skills.


Figure 1. The small hole drill area of the practice green. Note the instruction placard in the upper right-hand corner.

Wow Ricky, even with that drama-filled photo, this blog posting sucks. I mean you’ve phoned in some crap before, but with that first paragraph you’ve taken tedium to a spectacular new level.

Oh…that’s rich. Tedium to a spectacular new level—Did you think of that all by yourself? You must be proud. You know damn well there’s a lunch component right around the corner, so stop fidgeting and let me finish.

A few weeks ago in the middle of a round, the individuals I golf with—calling them “friends” would be a bit a stretch—noticed that I was putting well from inside of 10 feet. I explained that I’d been doing the small-hole drill at lunch. After a brief pause, they started snickering and making off-color, infantile jokes, basically implying that I was a sodomite, and I've never even been to Australia. That upset me, and I didn’t play very well after that.

Anyway, at lunch today, I drilled the small hole for about 30 minutes. It felt great. Then I got a giant burrito and read my Kindle. Usually I get a cup of water with my giant burrito, but today I had a Dr.Pepper as a reward for doing such exceptional work this week. When I got back to the office I grabbed a handful of M&Ms from the Human Resources candy dish, also in recognition of my above average performance.