Review Avatar

Like many people in Arizona, I was beginning to wear my ignorance as a source of pride. As if I was in state of constant innocence and bliss, I knew nothing about Avatar. Oh sure, I knew that a bunch of blue-cat humanoids were involved, and that a scene involving cross-species coitus were to occur, but I tried to navigate the shoals of all things James Cameron with a sense of mental dexterity. After missing the proverbial boat several times (I was ditched on two occasions), I thought: Fuck it, I am not going to watch it. It was a state of blissful ignorance really. I didn’t have to engage in the prattle about 3D effects; nor, did I have to participate in the water cooler talk of a new found environmental evangelism. But one day, I bit the proverbial blue apple. I saw Avatar. Where many have commented about how Cameron was the founder of a new renaissance in movie making, I see something much more apocalyptic. My prediction, we are going to have more movies with cacophonous explosions and scenes that will assault our eyes. Our visceral reaction will be to watch agog as our senses are assaulted with CGI, but unfortunately Dear Reader, our souls will be unfed, because the characters and script are empty. As one of the last lines in Avatar ends with two star-crossed lovers mutter in a nauseating way “I see you.” It is most unfortunate because all we see is a blank fancy canvas.

I will try to reduce the story into three lines. Corporation wants ore on land that indigenous people lives on. People won’t leave, so corporation takes the land with violence. Flawed character becomes a messianic character and rallies the peoples; consequently defeating the venal corporations and ignorant military. If you think you have seen this script, well you have, think: Fern Gully, Pocahontas, Star Wars, Star Trek: Insurrection, Hero, Underworld, and X-Men. Instead of spending all this money in generating every brick and branch, Cameron should have spent some time in not plagiarizing Disney or every other summer blockbuster.

With a generic plot comes the dreaded generic-character. I hate stock characters, and Avatar is filled with them. We have the stern environmentalist who becomes the matron figure of the movie. There is the love interest that initially approaches the hero with open contempt, but ends with open loins. Let us not forget the craven corporate suit (played by Giovanni Ribisi out of all people) willing to kill for all who stands against him in his pursuit of a promotion. Cameron would be remiss to omit the Jesus figure. Oh, and let us not forget the real villain, an ignorant military general who is willing to destroy an entire civilization because he has some masculine desire to engage in cinematic masturbation.

What a villain he is, so evil – oh the horror - that he is drinking coffee when he blows up a tree. It is the villain I take most cause with. Oh sure, Cameron wants us to get mad at Dick Cheney, Rumsfeld et al. and we are suppose to leave the movie with a certain disgust over our involvement in the Middle East. But the problem with the villain, is that I don’t hate him – at all. In fact, I am just really annoyed. He is a loud-mouthed frat boy I would punch in the face, but I don’t hate him like I do other classic villains. Dear Reader, I posit, there are only two good archetypes for villains. One is the purely evil. And what I mean by this is essentially the Biblical sense. We are talking about Satan, or the Antichrist, some character that really exemplifies the destruction of not just what we believe in, but the obliteration of ourselves. Three years ago, Joe Morgenstern of the Wall Street Journal made an interesting point, not since the Exorcist have we had a real villain. He pointed out correctly that even Emperor Palpatine, and Sauron were not really evil, they just wanted to take over the world thinking their form of government was vastly superior. Now, I do take some cause with Morgenstern’s article, I thought Ralph Fiennes in Schindler’s List was evil enough. Regardless, the audience needs an evil character, because it makes the triumph of good all the more satisfying. A similar vein of the absolute evil archetype, is the “Entertaining Evil, the one we like more than the hero, such as Heath Ledger’s “Joker.” I concede that one could make an argument that the Joker is evil personified, but what makes him different than say Satan in the Exorcist is the level of entertainment the Batman villain provides. Nobody roots for Satan, but I know many who wanted to see the Joker kick Batman off the building in the end. The villain in Avatar, was neither, he might not have even been evil. If he entered my parent’s restaurant, I would tell him to leave. If the Joker came in, I would run.

The villain is exactly what is wrong with Avatar. The audience would be bombarded with scene after scene meant to make us awe in wonder. But where is the awe in the story telling? I fear that more movies are going to be like Avatar; just a bevy of fancy empty vessels. “I see you.” God, how I wish I didn’t see.

Grade: C-

Last weeks grade for Sex and The City 2 was a D.

Movie Review - Sex and the City 2

Sex and the City 2

Dear Reader, I rarely show enthusiasm for anything.  I like to blame it on my heritage and upbringing – because being stoic is considered a virtue.  But in all fairness, being stoic does not appeal to me; for example, if I was really a stoic, I would be even tempered.  No, I rarely show enthusiasm because I am afraid that once when the world learns of my excitement, the world – like a cruel lover, takes it away and sends me an invoice for the balance.  But even operating under such a paradigm, I had to admit, I was damn excited for Sex and the City.  So excited, that I even tried to corral legions of fans to a watching with me.  Like a lovesick teenager waiting in homeroom for her crush, I was eagerly anticipating the sexual exploits of Samantha, the Pollyanna chirps from Charlotte, the cosmopolitan insight of Carrie, and the bitchy but familiar vocal ejaculations of Miranda.  Well Dear Reader, none of that occurred.  All that waiting was all for naught: there was no “City,” for most of the movie inexplicably took place in Dubai; and there was no sex – any burning in one’s loins was replaced by a mild stirring in a teapot.  I wish, oh how I wish that this movie was taken away from me. 

I have two rules with movies: make me care, and the characters must be consistent.  The first rule is probably a universal rule between all moviegoers.  If you don’t care about the characters, you don’t care about the movie.  A recent example where I stared at the screen agog with adoration for its characters was Pixar’s “Up.”  The movie had me at its first fifteen minutes.  I was particularly invested in one character that had ten lines for a brief period.  When she exited the stage, I was an emotional wreck.  The dust and cobwebs that clogged my tear ducts were actually washed away.  My body was warm, my chest heaved in anticipation.  Please live.  Please.  "Up" made me love. 

On a more personal rule, and one that I am sure not everyone holds in high regard, is that the characters of a story must be consistent.  Now you think this would be a universal rule, but Dear Reader, please explain the inane popularity of “Will & Grace.”  Karen was usually the greedy harlot with very little redeeming quality, until the writers need a plot foil, and then she was as pious as Christ.  Or Will, the level headed attorney who always placed profession before romance.  Unlike Jack, Will was the stoic homosexual who could never get a date because of his social awkwardness.  Well, that is Will, until he consciously makes a bevy of poor professional decisions and seems to get a date betwixt every episode. 

These are my rules.  Oh sure there are other things, like my disdain for cookie-cutter plots (See anything Michael Bay), or illogical plot devices (See another Michael Bay movie, “Transformers.” Why the Decepticons should choose to engage in a war rather than just buy the glasses through Ebay still gives me conniptions).  But there are often times where I can disregard an inane story and still watch a movie with rapt eyes and captivated attention (See most Stephen Chow movies, especially “Kung Fu Hustle”).   My rules are simple, make me care, and respect my intelligence by being consistent.  Sex and the City 2 violate these two rules.

I just don’t care about characters' problems.  I don’t care if Miranda has a bitch boss.  I don’t care that Samantha is having menopause problems.  I don’t care about Charlotte’s children.  And I don’t care that Carrie is having buyer’s remorse.  But here is the rub, under a more skilled hand, I would have cared.  We have all been placed in those situations (maybe not menopause, but there are universal and parallel similarities that could be used as an example).  But the problem with this movie is that all those universal and weighty issues, are manifested within 2 minutes.  Miranda doesn’t like her new boss, so within the first 15 minutes of the movie – she quits.  Charlotte is having all these problems at home, so she goes to Dubai for a trip.  Nothing in the movie is fleshed out.  One may argue, if we were to engage in a detailed character exposition, the movie would last forever.  That may be the case, but “The Queen” starring Helen Mirren, which was essentially two hours of character exposition, never seemed to linger - and I was more familiar with Miranda than I was with Elizabeth!  More importantly, the argument that the movie would be too long is a specious one at that.  In 15 mins of “Up” I cared, why couldn’t I care about Carrie in two and a half hours?      

Yes, the writers could have fleshed out the lives of the girls we loved so much.  We haven’t heard from them in years.  But instead of catching up with dear friends at a coffee shop, the writers tried to give us sexual rendezvous between two horny homosexuals.  And what a fag’s wet dream this movie was.   Liza Minnelli inexplicably spent a good 5 minutes singing “All the Single Ladies” at a stereotypically gay (there were fucking swans!) wedding.  Five jokes were puzzlingly wasted on Samantha’s servant, an ever increasing effeminate one at that.  And the most gag inducing were the countless times men were enigmatically seen waving at the girls whenever the camera would pan out.  I understand the spirit of “Sex and the City.”  Its qualities naturally appeals to the gay aesthetic: Gucci, abs, bitchiness, and sisterhood.  But when you sacrifice the important things, when bitchy comments are sacrificed in lieu of what an adolescent homosexual would consider entertaining, we no longer have “Sex and the City;” we have “Queer as Folk.”        

And consistency – my God!  Carrie, mysteriously changes.  She doesn’t want to stay at home. She wants to maintain the “sparkle.”  Forget the fact that she selfishly wants Mr. Big to go to a party on a MONDAY night, she doesn’t even want to stay at home with him at all.  Forget Seasons 1-3, 5 and 7, where all she wanted was for him to spend the night.  Or what about Charlotte, who finally gets the children she wants, but then finds out it is kind of tough being a mother.  So what does she do?  She agrees, after 30 seconds of goading from the other girls and goes to ever woman-friendly Dubai.  The mythos was destroyed.  Sure there were nice clothes, and hot men, but the characters were no longer the characters I watched for a decade. This movie was a cancer, an irrevocable and terminal one at that. There was no Sex, there was no City;  just a bunch of teenage fags writing a script. 

My Thoughts on Being Sick

Dear Reader, I am sick. Not so sick where getting out of bed becomes an Odyssey, but sick enough to wipe out my calendar. Sick enough where all well thought out plans become null and void. Check cashed, funds withdrawn, sorry, you are not going to drop off dry cleaning, you are not going to workout, you will sit on the couch and get rid of this sickness. Like a bystander in the bleaches, you hope for the home team - white blood cells to wage war and defeat the cross team rivals. You can't do much.

I woke up several times in the early morning and I felt like shit. By 7:30, I knew I had to make a decision, do I call in sick, or do I just tough it out and go to work? The cogs were turning, and I thought to myself "I will make a decision while I take a piss."  It came out a dark yellow and smelled like the River Styx. I was going to vomit at that moment. I called in sick and went to bed.

Pets are interesting really. For hours my cats laid with me. Sometimes they would stick their noses in my face. The realistic part of me thinks they want me to get up, but the romantic side - well I like to think they want to know if I am ok. There is nobody else to really check up on me, just Frodo and Sam.

It is 2:30 and I am hungry. Which is ironic because I am also on a diet. I am beginning to rethink this diet. I mean I already have a 100 things on my proverbial plate, do I really need to diet. I get up from my stupor and look in my cabinet. I have a ton of Lipton Prepackaged Rice kits. Yesterday, when I was feeling well, God, it seemed like years ago, I ran a nutrition count on these things, apparently they have tons of sodium. Thinking I probably need more water in my system, I take a pass.  

I go through the shelves. I do this all the time really, the harder I look - maybe there is something I forgot that I purchased, maybe I will discover a little treasure trove of oil packed tuna or a tin of almonds. I come up with nothing, I have a can of tuna (packed in spring water) and a bunch of Lipton packets. I also have four avocados in my fridge, so I take two and decide to make myself some odd guacamole mixing it with the tuna.  Cutting avocados and removing the pit is not a difficult process. But try doing it when you are half awake, and mad at yourself for being sick. You can't do anything, you are just a spectator. Go team. I also remember some capers in the fridge, so I dump a spoonful of it into my mixture. Olive oil is good for you right? Tea spoon of it too. Mash away. It becomes this odd green bolus flecked with tuna.

I start eating. Like some unearthed vampire feasting on some intrepid archeologist, my hunger grew. As I simultaneously watched some History Channel special regarding the Battle of Jericho and spooned my concoction into my maw, my stream of consciousness woke up.


Avocados are good for you, I think that is what Alton Brown said. They also have a lot of fat. 


Tuna is good for you, protein and all that jazz. BTW, there is a lot of mercury.


This meal still cost you $3.00. If you ordered from the McDonald's Dollar Menu it would have been cheaper.


You can't stay sick. Healthcare is expensive.


Why am I sick. Rapists and murderers are not sick. Job was sick. Is this a test?


This is what it feels like to be sick. Strip away all the years of education, remove all the fancy books on your shelf, close the closet with all your suits - you are just a spectator. Sam and Frodo are watching, and you sleep.

The Scariest Thing in the World

Pistons and gears.

When applying the proper amount of pressure, a "Click" is heard echoing in the hall. The machine's last victim let out a horrifying wail, "It can't be!"

As I entered the cold and neglected alcove, I saw the dreaded machine.  The last victim was a husk of her former self. I started to lose my vision; it was beginning to be hazy, as if the machine's dark fingers were starting to cover my eyes. I got on.

"Click."

Its fingers repelled.

169 lbs.

So starts my diet.

Throwdown at Work

I have joined a diet challenge at work. I think the prize is a mani(pedi)cure. The person to lose the most percentage of weight, wins. Now I know this test is over and underinclusive, but I need to lose weight anyway - I have some advantages going into this contest, namely I am competing against three very skinny co-workers; hence, I can lose a lot more.  So when I am done with the postings about 30 bars, this is going to be a posting about my diet and what I consume.  Be warned.  I may sound very angry.

I joined Calorie Count, and since I weigh 165, I needed to think of a reasonable weight within two months that will seal my victory.  I decided that 150 lbs is most ideal: 1. I will be crazy sexy, 2. It will be a 10% loss.  In order to hit 150, I most consume 1,524 calories a day (assuming no exercise).  But since I workout this will cause a distortion in my optimal caloric intake.

If you have any suggestions, please let me know.

A Russian, a Korean, and a China Man Goes into a Restaurant.

San Soo Gab San
5251 N Western Ave
Chicago, IL 60625
(773) 334-1589

Dear Reader, I am sure that through my writings you are able to deduce that I approach disappointment with a certain amount of equanimity; I am perceived as the living embodiment of grace. But sometimes, I know, you need not file a dissent, I can have a temper. Depending on the situation, time, and person, what would be perceived as a mild injury can often be turned into an act of war. I am first to stipulate that this is my major character flaw, I internalize too much, every mistake is perceived as an affront to me. But running parallel to this is my recovery time. I may not forget, but I usually forgive quite easily. San Soo Gab Son injured me, and quickly it made reparations.

While milling about a bookstore, I received a most fortuitous message from Vladimir (aka Dr. Liarski) inquiring to my evening plans. Originally I was going to go home and eat a jar of peanut butter while read the Omnivore’s Dilemma. Scratch those plans I thought, Vladimir wants to hang out! But like a summer romance, happiness is often fleeting, Vladimir suggested we do Korean bbq. Back to peanut butter. I am not a fan of Korean bbq, mainly because it makes my clothes smell like meat. Every time I take a whiff of the cashmere in my closet, I go into a carnivorous frenzy.

“Are you paying for my dry cleaning?” I asked.

“No. Sam wants to go.”

“What? He just got back from Los Angeles. There is plenty of Korean food and bbqs over there? What, he didn’t get his fill of drive by shootings?”

“Nice. Attorney, he wants Korean.”

“Doctor – fine, we will eat where Sam wants. Where?”

“San Soo Gab San.”

“Where is that?”

“I don’t know, use your iPhone.”

“What, this is ludicrous. You not only named the place, but now you want me to research?”

“This is why you are single.”

“Bitch. Ok, what time?”

“How is 8:00?”

I choked, “Wait, it is 5:30 right now. You want me to wait two and a half hours?”

“Well Sam is coming from downtown. He is teaching a class.”

A Filet-O-Fish, and a BigMac later, I arrive at San Soo Gab San at 7:30. I arrived early for two reasons: I had nothing else to do, and it was Friday, so I assumed there would be a wait. Well there was no line, so I told a waitress that I would have a party of three. She told me to wait near the door. This was most mystical to me considering the number of open tables in the restaurant. So I waited, between 7:30 and 8:00 there was a mad rush of parties. At first other parties asked if I was waiting, but I told them to go ahead because I was still waiting. Well by the eighth party I was getting irritated, and I started to notice one thing, middle aged Korean women (and woe to the ones who date the balding white man for a green card – oh yes, this is one of those restaurants) did not even give me the courtesy of asking why I was loitering near the door. They just clutched their Louis Vuitton and made a beeline for the waitress.

My temper started to rise, I was getting pissed. I immediately called Dr. Liarski and Sam, but neither one of them picked up. I was incensed. TWELVE, a dozen parties have already been sat and I have not. And what was most galling was that I got the perception that tables with White Men were getting better service; the waitresses seemed to have no problem in sitting anyone who came from an imperialist heritage even though their party did not fully arrive. I was eying them jealously. They didn't even order and they were already feating on a bunch of small dishes. I was being discriminated against because I hailed from the same continent as they did! Dr. Liarski and Sam arrived 15-20 mins late, and they saw the look in my face.

Dr. Liarski approached me with one foot near the door “Ummm… hi.”

“Sam go talk to them, they are your people. Koreans hate the Chinese. I have been waiting here for almost an hour. A fucking hour! I should bill them.”

“You don’t have billable hours.”

“Fuck you Sam, go talk to them.”

“I am afraid of them.”

“What? My god, you are a fag.”

At that point I resembled an eggplant, but luckily within another five minutes - they sat us near the bathroom.

Without missing a beat Dr. Liarski suggested we order a Soju. I just looked down at the menu and continued brooding. Beef Short Rib. Marinated Beef Short Rib. Broiled Specially Marinated Beef. Marinated Beef. Broiled Beef. How many meet dishes could they make from same cut of meat? The menu would have been a statistician’s wet dream.

Since Sam is Korean, we made the tactical decision of making Sam order. Big mistake. Sam is a fucking genius. He is an English professor and is going to release his first book this August. And no, this is not some self-published pamphlet on Amazon, this involves a real publisher, Borders and Barnes and Nobles. I feel like a literary troglodyte when I sit next to Sam. But even with Newtonian like ingenuity and Herculean effort, Sam had trouble ordering. Apparently Sam was born in Latin America and his accent is not Korean enough for the waitress. Seeing that Sam is a sellout, the service got even worse!!!

“How is this possible? I waited an hour for this table and all I want is water. Why couldn’t you be conceived in a proper continent? Dr. Liarski, you are White, tell them I need water.”

Dr. Liarski raises his hand.

“Don’t do that. That is rude.”

“These people made you wait.”

“Flag away.”

Well Dear Reader, guess what, it still took minutes to get my water. It was like Sam’s accent was a taint on our table. We were forever marked with his Latin stain. The Soju came, but I couldn’t get any water. Sam told me to drink the alcohol. In fear of criminal and civil litigation I waved it away. I just wanted water.

As I sulked and the others talked about the others talked about life, the universe, science, religion, politics, shopping and men, all I wanted was decent service.

Blap!

I snapped my head to the table, the waitress brought over some banchan. For the uninitiated, banchan are the cold dishes served in Korean restaurants that accompany your meal. They come in various forms and textures. Most are actually quite disgusting, like marinated mung beans, and weird pickled seaweed, but some banchan are quite resplendent. There were eight dishes, what the hell! Why did the other tables get so much more banchan than we did. People who have not ordered, got more banchan than we did. Sam was in a dark mood, he was getting pissed too. Being the Russian Buddha of the table, Dr. Liarski just ate away, but a cancer was eating at the Asians. You can discriminate against us, but do not give us less food. It was time for me to act. I raised my hand.

Sam scanned the room and he immediately tried to intercept me, “No she is the worst one. Last time I was here, she was so mean to me.”

“Wait, she was mean to you, and you still want to come here?”

“I wanted Korean.”

“You only date white guys, don’t you take them out to Asian food all the time.”

I didn’t care if the woman was a shebeast, she was going to answer to me.  She spoke in almost perfect English, “Ok, ok. You dinner is coming out soon.”

Vladimir was watching this Kabuki theater with amusement. Sam tried to hide under the table.

“Oh that is ok. Don’t worry. I was just wondering if I could have more tofu.”

“Of course, but it will cost you $15.”

I started to flirt, “Oh don’t worry, please put it on his tab (pointing to Dr. Liarksi), the tofu is so good.”  I batted my eyelashes.

“I will be right back.”

Dr. Liarski dug Sam out of a mountain of coats.

“Well, she wasn’t that bad.”

Dr. Liarski responded, “I think she likes you.”

“Well naturally, history of my life.”

Another five minutes later, no kidding,  more than 20 plates hit our table – 2 of which were tofu.

Sam was flummoxed, “I don’t get it, you are Chinese, she should hate you the most.”

“It is my sunny disposition.” But that is the thing Dear Reader, my mood suddenly shifted. It was like a chorus had walked in and tried to sing above the noise of sizzling meat:

Mr. Blue Sky, please tell us why,
You had to hide away
For so long where did we go wrong.

Hey there Mr. Blue
We're so pleased to be with you
Look around see what you do,
Everybody smiles at you.

“Wait, why is there a sexy woman on the Soju bottle?”

Vladimir stared at me is disbelief “You just noticed that?”

“Sorry, I was in a bad mood. Hey, where is Dustin?”

“I told you he was sick. My God, don’t you listen?”

“I would have been listening if you were here on time.”

“This is why you are single.”

Cupcakes and My Budget

Phoebe’s Cupcakes

3327 North Broadway
Chicago, IL 60657
(773) 868-4000

I would like to thank Clinton Bissett and Jennifer Cameron in the editing of this particular entry. 

Dear Reader, you probably have noticed that I have been most languid in my blog postings as of late.  Initially I wanted to finish all of my “30 Blogs” prior to my 30th birthday; alas, I did not have the time, and I also have other writing/reading engagements on the side.  But I would like to reveal that I am about to finish my last 5 blogs shortly.  On a separate note, I have been trying to think of other subjects to tackle after my final 30^th blog.  Some ideas include: grilled cheese sandwiches, cheeseburgers, restaurants noted on the Food Network and Travel Channel, movie reviews and/or commentaries about books.

I have actually gone to Phoebe’s Cupcakes twice for this blog.  The first time I went, I thought it was called Phoebe’s Cupcakes [Cupcake Bar].  Well it is not called that.  Shit.  So I went a second time and actually sat at “the bar” and consumed my cupcake, and guess what Dear Reader, there have been many sacrifices in history and culture.  Melville was entranced with sacrifice and martyrdom.  Lincoln was “sacrificed” to preserve the union.  Syndey Carton engaged in self-sacrifice for his love.  And we are coming close to Easter, so we should not forget about a minor event regarding two planks of wood and a spear.   But Dear Reader, I too have engaged in sacrifice – I spent $5.60 at Phoebe’s to bring you this blog.  Love does spring eternal. 

Phoebe’s Cupcakes offers several different types of cupcakes.  But for some reason, probably attributed to an early onset of dementia, I ordered the same type of cupcake twice - “Salted Caramel.”  Now when I go back to a restaurant for a second time, I try to order an item I did not previously consume; thus, getting a broader picture of the kitchen.  I failed here.  I ordered the same cupcake twice.   In hindsight, and in defense of my forgetfulness, I tend to order interesting item on the menu, and Phoebe’s as much as it tries to dress up its carbohydrates in couture, provides relatively lackluster fare.  “Red Velvet” – boring!  “Tuxedo” – I can go to Starbucks and get an Americano with it for 10% off.  “Apple Crunch” – if I wanted a muffin, I would get one at Einstein’s.  So “Salted Caramel” it was – Parts One and Two.

(On a side note, Phoebe’s also offers a breakfast cupcake which is soaked in maple syrup and topped with ½ a strip of bacon.  I did not order this because I did not find this to be an adequate play on sweet and savory.  In fact there is no “savory” on the item.  Think about it, a strip of bacon does not make an item savory, it may make it salty and smoky, but that’s it.   A more interesting item would have been actually incorporating the bacon into the cupcake).

Now I want to dispel any insinuation that I loath Phoebe’s.  They make an adequate cupcake.  But that is the point, it is merely adequate.  The most noteworthy item of Phoebe’s is that its cupcakes are moist.  Like two reunited lovers in a Nicholas Sparks novel, the mere press of its flesh elicits so much sugary liquid that it verges on the grotesque.   Moist and sweet, that is all I can say about it, I left unsatisfied.

There was no cigarette afterwards.  But the point of culinary criticism where I must gnash my teeth is the light hand in the salt.  To wit I quote from Phoebe’s website “topped with Himalayan Rose Sea Salt.”  Now I am the first to stipulate, salts do taste differently.  Sea salt does taste differently than table salt, than kosher salt, than Hawaiian black sea salt.  But what is the point of calling it “Salted Caramel” when it is only the caramel you can taste.  In fact, as I look at the pictures, no matter how much I use Adobe and magnify, I can’t find anything red on the cupcake.  THERE IS NO SALT!  And if there is no quantifiable amount of salt, then what is the point of calling it “Salted”?  Now Dear Reader, I am not speaking in hyperbole but in fact, you are clearly a genius for finding me in this vast terrain as we know as blogspot - and you will likely argue “Eric, maybe the problem is that you have an inferior palate.”  I probably do; nay, I stipulate, my tongue is likely not as sharp as yours, - my taste buds are dull and ground to fleshy nubs that can not distinguish between “Mandarin Chicken,” “Orange Chicken,” and “General Tso’s Chicken,” but there was no discernable salt in these cupcakes.  This is not to say that caramel and salt are not interesting plays on food.  Some ice-cream parlors actually do it quite well.  Paciugo, Sapore di Napoli Pizzeria &; Gelateria (which is half a block down the street) does an excellent “Salted and Caramel Gelato.”  It is just that Phoebe’s fails on riding the bandwagon.  It is merely a “Caramel Cupcake.”

Returning to the $5.50 that I spent at Phoebe’s, my blood begins to boil.  Now a cupcake costs $2.50 – yes $2.50 – the price of a Venti Iced Americano – the Holy Grail which gives me life.  $2.50 for a cupcake, or lets face it, a glorified piece of cake molded into the form of something cute that we remember in our childhoods, and then charged a premium.  Is it worth it?  Well from tone and text of this blog you can probably gauge my answer, but let’s look to Microeconomics for the answer.

We all live with “Budget Constraints”.  With my income, I can buy a designated amount.  Since I have very little disposable income, I cannot take a vacation to Rome.  Since I have some disposable income I may be able to buy Final Fantasy.  Since I bought Bank of America stock right after TARP, I may have tons of income and I can buy whatever I like.  We all have a Budget Constraint, and most are modeled with two variables.  Based on my budget I can buy so much of X and so much of Y. 

Now once a month I volunteer for bringing dinner for Bible Study, and last month I actually purchased cupcakes at Jewel.  Now due to Google Analytics I have been able to somewhat customize my blogs to my readers: for those in California think of Ralph’s, for those in Dallas think of Kroger, and for those in Russia think of Pyatyorochka.  Jewel was selling 24 cupcakes for $5.99.  They are not wonderful cupcakes, they are quite dense, and the icing is quite sweet.  I admit Phoebe’s provides a superior product.  But in the most craven terms, one Phoebe Cupcake is equivalent to a dozen Jewel Cupcakes ((Two dozen for $6 vs. $2.75 (with sales tax at Phoebe’s) for each Salted Caramel)).  So assuming my income is $6.00 my Budget Constraint regarding cupcakes would look pretty much like this. 

Is it worth it?

Well we then have to go into the dreaded concept of “Utility.”  Now “Utility” is one of those things in economics that I find to be fascinating, but have very little application in real life because we can’t quantify it.  Utility is defined as the amount of satisfaction one derives from the consumption of a particular item.  That is problematic because I don’t know what it means.  My utility for artichokes is nearly infinite, but my utility for refried beans is next to nil.  In fact I have this obscene and irrational hatred of refried beans.  If they even come close to touching any of my food, I must turn it away.  There was at least one meal where I chose to disenfranchise people I was dining with in order to wean myself of those infernal mashed legumes.  As I sacrificed nearly $6.00 at Phoebe’s I would freely sacrifice relationships to get refried beans off my plate.  But guess what, the world is often appalling.  Some people – including my dearest friend Pauline seems to have an irrational hatred of artichokes rather than refried beans!  She would rather eat frijoles refritos than Gaia’s Holy Thistle.  She derives more utility from a can of Old El Paso then the tender green heart of an artichoke (which is fine for me because I do not want aggregate demand for artichokes to increase).  I wager that most people are not as extreme as either Pauline or myself.  Like moderates who disdain the Tea Partiers, but crosses the street when they see a Transsexual Eskimo, most people probably straddle the middle – “I am ok with refried beans, as I am ok with artichokes.”

Through the use of some calculus you can actually derive a graph of the interrelationship of artichokes and refried beans; or in the case at hand, Jewel Cupcakes and Phoebe’s.  Now Utility is comprised of many things, maybe people like to have a place to sit and chat with friends.  You would think that this would be a component of Utility in Phoebe’s not found in the supermarket’s.  Well guess what, Phoebe is small and cramped.  I guess there is something novel in saying that you purchased an “adult cupcake.”  Maybe the cashier at Jewel is cuter than the one at Phoebe’s.  Let’s hold all these variables aside.  I approach my caloric consumption with a certain clinical detachment.  It is the cupcake I am looking at. 

But alack, before I reveal the graphs regarding the interrelationship between my utility of cupcakes there is something else called indigestion.  Holding price aside, how many Jewel cupcakes must I consume before it equals one of Phoebe’s superior, but unsalty cupcakes?  Well as many as I can before I throw up.  They are not perfect substitutes I may add, 3 Jewel cupcakes may conceivably be equivalent to one at Phoebe's, but the threat of throwing up, infernal bowel movements and diabetes will perniciously require me to consume more Jewel cupcakes to receive the equivalent amount of enjoyment as a second Phoebe’s cupcake.  Hence, the slope in utility curves.

Well with the derivation of my utility I can then transpose it onto my budget constraint, and that will tell me my optimal consumption of Phoebe Cupcake’s to Jewel Cupcakes.  As I told my cousin before, the important point in economics is where lines and curves intersect. 

I guess Phoebe’s wasn’t such a ripoff after all.