REVIEWS: Double Down Sandwich from KFC

It’s common knowledge that KFC is without a doubt the worst fast food chain. Everyone knows this, even people who like KFC. I like KFC, especially when it’s paired with a Taco Bell. But it’s true, every way you slice it. Across the board, for a variety of ethical, environmental and health reasons, from vegans to those of us who consider lettuce on a McChicken a serving of vegetables, KFC is still the WORST.

So when I saw a window banner advertising the restaurant’s new Double Down sandwich, I was at once disgusted, curious, and not at all surprised. KFC has reached a dizzying, impressive new low. I knew they were onto something when last month, the restaurant unveiled their handheld boneless filet, which was a giant chicken strip served in a cardboard sleeve. The Double Down takes this idea light-years in the wrong direction. It consists of two pieces of bacon and two slices of Monterrey jack cheese artfully placed between TWO of these handheld fried chicken breasts. I couldn’t wait to try one.

The banner sported a slogan: “This product is so meaty, there’s no room for a bun.” I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been eating a BLT and thought, “You know, this would be a lot better without all these vegetables, and if this boring bread was greasy fried chicken.” In their own Neanderthal-with-a-deep-fryer kind of way, the folks at KFC have reinvented the wheel. And they put fucking bacon on it.

ESSAY: It Came From the VCR

I’ll admit: I have never downloaded a movie. And I probably never will. I have no ethical obligation to Hollywood’s bloated wallets. I just doubt I’ll ever upgrade my clunky laptop. So why bother? It doesn’t sound fun to me, downloading a movie. Going to the movies: that’s fun, kinda old-timey. Watching a movie: simple, direct, a close second. I’d feel like a robot to download one. And truth be told, I don’t have the patience to let a little green bar tick by at a snail’s pace so I can watch a shitty digital transfer of a probably lousy movie on a certainly outdated-by-now PC.

Saying this makes me feel old. Especially considering my generation relegated “ADD” to mood and brought “instant gratification” to everything. We were raised with movies in our homes and channel surfing in our hearts. Now we YouTube. Those kids, they grow up so fast.

Even with the HD-Blu-ray format war decided, movie collectors needn’t worry about reorganizing their shelves all over again. It’s become painfully obvious, after the diminishing interims between Betamax, Laserdisc, DVD and now, that we are programmed to forever be catching up with technology. There wouldn’t be an entertainment industry if we weren’t being bated, that golden carrot of progress dangling in front of our gawking faces.

REVIEWS: Neighborhood Adult Beverage Retailers

HURLEY'S DISCOUNT LIQUORS (Warren St. and Comm Ave.)

Nestled comfortably between a dry cleaners and a pretty good pizza place, Hurley's is staffed by a motley assortment of crusty old boneheads. Each of these guys has probably fixed up a 'Vette or been involved some sort of non-violent criminal racket at some point in their lives. The store stocks many out-of-season 12-packs (like Bah Humbug Xmas Ale) that were passed over for a reason, and sells them at ridiculous discounted prices. How can you say no to a seven-dollar suitcase of Point Amber Red Lager? Watch as the clever boys at Hurley's calculate the sales tax of your purchase right in front of you IN THEIR HEADS. Great place to get carded and/or say "shit" out loud and not feel bad about it. Popular spot for ethnic teenagers to loiter, trying to swindle a 40 off naive college kids. Price tags written in Sharpie on bright-colored construction paper add a lot to the atmosphere.

BLANCHARD'S (Harvard Ave. and Brighton Ave.)

Would-be "liquor superstore" on arguably the shittiest corner of arguably the shittiest neighborhood I am lucky enough to call home. Place has fluorescent lights and an announcer and feels more like a Wal-Mart with each passing forgettable weekend. The only thing missing are the grotesque elderly greeters and a complete disregard for corporate ethics. You're stuck with average-priced boozed sold by a typical staff of keg-carting zombies. There's your basic wood-floored wine area that just feels sad and out-of-place. Throw in the endless throng of bros, crusties, micks, Franks and Kimmies, and this place could drive a man to drink. Plus, I hear the owner beats dogs. No joke!

ESSAY: Everything Tastes Better with Bacon Grease

Read out loud for my family, Fall 2009:

We’ll all remember Mimi for many reasons, and I’m sure we all have our own. Whether what sticks with you is her humor, or her spirit, or the admirable hard-headedness she maintained like a full-time job, or the unparalleled devotion to her family that in fact was her life’s work, you have to admit: This is a whole lot of woman to fit into a few words, into a few hours of communal remembrance.

So let me quickly tell you a little of what I’ll remember. I’ll remember a strong-willed woman who never uttered a coarse word about anyone in her life. I’ll remember a parish celebrity who’d be waved down by dozens of admirers in the vestibule. I’ll remember a world traveler who took more pictures of food than buildings. I’ll remember a moviegoer who shamelessly shouted at characters on the screen and always ordered her popcorn with extra butter. I’ll remember the warm embrace that only a grandmother can provide.

ESSAY: Nighthawk at the Diner

Published in The Emerson Review, Spring 2009:


I broke up with my girlfriend of three years because I wanted more time to myself. This being the single worst reason a guy can give to a girl, I have to ask: What the hell was I thinking? No closure, easily rectified. For me, though, it was the most honest route. I didn't want to continue the relationship because I didn't want to be in one.

Sexually frustrated, creatively stifled, I was the rogue brown seed ready to pop out of the brittle peanut shell of our shared experience. I played solitaire unironically, went on bike rides without destinations. I caught up on my reading and got ahead on my drinking. I listened to nothing but Tom Waits and Hank Williams. Single friends having slurred their goodnights, my mind its most lucid at four a.m., I began frequenting the only establishment in Boston that would accept me at this hour, in this state.

It's called the South Street Diner, and it is magical. The cooks look like garbage men, the waitresses like buxom housewives on the run. Its mustached owner, Sol Sidell, carries a money clip and probably hides guns in his trunk. The eggs are yellow and runny. Slices of pie are served from a dirty glass case. Lover, where have you been all my life?

LINKS: Other Stuff I Have Written

Googling yourself has never been this depressing! Here's an incomplete list of some of my freelance work from the past few years.

Blast: Here's sand in your ears
Profile of the beer-swilling hosts of WFNX's The Sandbox. Their morning show was cancelled a few months after the publication of this article. I highly doubt the two events are related...

The Boston Phoenix: Punks find their inner Americana
Article from 2007 about why Against Me!'s label switch didn't matter (and still doesn't).

The Boston Phoenix: The Golden Age of Comics
I get schooled by an actual literary critic. Of comic books.

The Boston Phoenix: Foolproof Punk
Live review of Bouncing Souls, Lifetime, The Ergs!

The Boston Phoenix: Chaos, control
Live review of Melt Banana, Neptune, Doomriders.

The Boston Phoenix: Still waters
Live review of Great Lakes Swimmers.

REVIEWS: Thoughts on Films Watched For About an Hour on Cable the Other Week

A GOOD DEAL OF WEEKEND AT BERNIE’S II (1993, dir. Robert Klane)
Not since the brutal final half-hour of EVERY WHICH WAY BUT LOOSE has the absurdity of existence been placed under such a tragic narrative microscope to be observed, documented, disassembled, and discarded in a pale yellow receptacle for hazardous waste. In this challenging, richly detailed film of concealed motives and spooky voodoo stuff, two crummy lowlifes named Larry and Richard tote around their boss’s dead body in a quest for buried treasure. They also try—very unsuccessfully—to get laid. A lot. For like the entire movie. But then again, don’t we all? Because of a curse, sometimes the dead Bernie dances around when there’s music playing. He joins a conga line and becomes the life of the party, even beating the shit out of some muscle-headed jerk wad. At one point—don’t ask me how—Bernie the corpse has sex on the beach with a squeaky-voiced babe. What does that “say” about “us,” as “people”? While Larry and Richard look worried and botch every attempt at redemption, Bernie succeeds with ease. At long last, something on TV asks real questions, unlike Jeopardy! (which I understand provides the answers first), and myself (who doesn’t talk much anyway, but then again isn’t on TV).

Verdict: TRY AND PLAN TO CATCH IT because honestly, what else is there to do?


THE INTERMINABLE FIRST ACT OF THE FUGITIVE (1993, dir. Andrew Davis)
I watched the first half of this flick from the beginning, which was helpful in figuring out that the bearded lunatic who murders his own wife in the first five minutes is actually Indiana Jones. Naturally, no one would dare put Indy in the slammer, even for such a heinous crime as this. But they do anyway. He kicks Nazi butt on a prison bus and jumps out of the way of a cartoon train. Now he’s on the run, and the white guy from MEN IN BLACK drinks a lot of coffee and chases after him. To make matters worse for poor Indiana, no one will listen to his crazy story about a one-armed attacker trying to cover up a bio-medical conspiracy. Since we last saw him saving Old James Bond’s life with the Holy Grail, Indy must have spent a lot of time in Chinese opium dens cavorting with whores. Not only does he construct ludicrous stories, but he thinks he’s a doctor, and that he can fly. After he “survives” jumping off a dam, he reads documents and gets chased some more. This is when I turned the movie off because I was getting tired of watching ads for Mad Men.

Verdict: SIT ON IT FOR A BIT until it’s time for Women’s Figure Skating