Juniorbird.com

The _Top Chef_ of your dreams may involve outrageous ingredients, inspired chefs, and aggressive, coolly-confident characters; mine apparently involves chefs marooned in space. In my dream _Top Chef_, the contestants, Tom Colicchio, Padma Lakshmi, and me, were all sent out to a far-away planet, along with a shipful of miners and farmers and builders, to establish a new colony (Gail Simmons had her own ship and went back to Earth between episodes). The winning chef would be the head chef at a brand-new luxury resort on a distant continent; the losing chefs would all be sent off, together, to colonize another planet.
Our trip to the new planet only took a few months, although we were all jammed pretty well together in our small staterooms on the spaceship “Nell, from Battle Beyond the Stars”:http://www.scificool.com/images/2008/09/battle-beyond-the-stars-2.jpg. When we landed, we found a world of tangled jungle vines around ancient trees, with sunny clearings in between. The chefs were set up in one clearing, living in mobile home-like structures we’d brought along; a few clearings away, the construction workers had begun to build a city around the base of a giant tree. A third clearing was paved over so that Gail Simmons’s faster-than-light Space Shuttle could spirit her in and out quickly, so that she wouldn’t be stuck doing her own makeup and looking like she did in that Western challenge last week.
I stayed on Nell, making sure that any essential supplies — non-stick pans, foie gras, insect repellant — were sent down. Every time a chef was eliminated, I sent a shuttle down to get them, then set them up in an escape pod and shot the escape pod into orbit around our new planet. At the end of the season, I chained all of the escape pods together, hooked them to a shuttle, and sent them on a year-long trip to a new, remote planet — the planet of the chefs. I hoped they all got along, because they’d have no-one but each other to keep company out there! Although I did know we’d sent ahead all the materials and ingredients to build and open a number of lovely, fully-equipped restaurants there.

My gig was watching Jonah Hill. From a distance, that is; I was in hidden surveillance. He hung out at an intersection in the city, with a brownstone at one corner, an art deco skyscraper at the next, a small copse of bamboo — in which I’d encamped myself — opposite from the brownstone, and a white brick industrial building at the other. At the bottom floor of the skyscraper were the comic book store and sub shop Jonah liked to hang out at. He was talking to Seth Rogen, who stood on a black metal balcony on the second floor o the white brick industrial building. I couldn’t hear them but I could see the laughs. I could also see Seth startle, stand straight up, and point as the four ninjas swooped out of the shadows and snatched poor Jonah.
The black-suited ninja threw a big burlap bag over Jonah, slung the chubby bundle over his shoulder, and ran off down the street; Seth was yelling and pointing, but the pedestrians had cleared out, and he was complaining to nobody but the three remaining ninjas. Their muscled arms bulging in their sleeveless uniforms, red ninja ran into the first floor of Seth’s building, then came bursting out the French doors behind him, pushing him over the balcony railing into the waiting arms of yellow- and white-suited ninjas and their big burlap bag. Soon those three were carrying him off, slung over their shoulders like a log.
I knew it was time to make my move; the ninjas had gotten Jonah, but maybe Seth had key information on Jonah in his place. If I moved fast, I could grab that information before the ninjas had dealt with Seth and Jonah and get away scot-free. So I ran into the white brick building.
Inside, I climbed a wide stairway to the second floor, where Seth had a lovely wooden roll-top desk and green felt carpet, with a pile of newspapers in the corner. I slammed the door shut behind me, so that I couldn’t be seen, and grabbed a few important-looking envelopes from the roll-top desk. I found a take-out menu jammed between a few newspapers and put that in my inside jacket pocket as well; then it came time to find my way out. I couldn’t go through the front door, because the ninjas would see me if they’d come back, and then I’d be in a burlap bag too. So I ran up the narrow stairs in the back of Seth’s apartment.
The third floor of the white brick building was utilitarian and empty, a u-shape around the staircase, with a window on each side. In the back was a short, half-story spiral staircase leading to a blond wood door. Obviously, the ninjas would think of the door first, so I couldn’t escape through there; I checked the windows.
Both looked good. The first one — covered by metal louvers — led to a couple of chimneys, easily wide enough for a foothold and with many handholds as well. The second one led out to a sloped roof; with long strips of metal running horizontally along its red tiles. It would be easiest to climb out this second window and climb up the roof, past where I could easily be seen, but only if the metal was strong and would carry my weight. Otherwise, the roof was steep and three stories is a long way down.
I didn’t know if the ninjas were back, but I didn’t want to find out either. The blond wood door was worth checking, at least. I turned back to look at it; it had turned 90 degrees clockwise and now opened parallel with the ground.
The door downstairs slammed shut — the red, yellow, white, and black ninjas, maybe? — and suddenly this blond wood door opened, a blue light leaking out. A woman’s hand reached with it, in a purple, frilly sleeve; “come on!” her voice followed. I grabbed her hand and she pulled me in.

We were playing a three-way game of hockey — us, the Finnish national team, and the Swedish national team, that is. With only two ends to the ice, we’d switch one team out when enough goals were scored against them. Except those darned Swedes never seemed to get scored on — they had their strategy down, and Wayne Gretzky[1] in goal.
Their strategy was actually simple. See, there were three ways to score points:
* There were plastic bowls on the ice, dozens of them, that you could shoot just like a puck.
* There was a big pot of hot water in front of each goal, a couple of feet beyond the crease, with a ladle in it; and a big pot in each goal. You scored a point for each ladle of water you poured into the pot in the goal.
* In the water were boiled vegetables. You could throw those into the goal using the ladle, and got a point for each vegetable you threw into the goal — but first you had to get some water into the pot in the goal.
The crafty Swedes had a strategy that was keeping them un-scored on
* Every time Gretzky blocked a bowl, he came out and put that bowl into a pile of other bowls. There were enough bowl-piles just outside the crease that you couldn’t really shoot from far away, and, if you tried to skate in close with a bowl, a Swedish defenseman only had to plug the small gap between two bowl-piles and you couldn’t even get in to make a shot. If you skated in without a bowl, there were no lose bowls inside the piles, so you couldn’t shoot anything.
* Gretzky was physically standing in the pot, so he could easily block you if you tried to pour the water in.
So I came up with a strategy. I hid down in the corner of the rink, behind the goal, while our good players shot bowls into their bowl-piles, breaking up the bowl-piles. In seconds, the swarming Swedish defenders were re-building their piles, and Gretzky had climbed out of the pot and was busy policing the bowls that had gotten inside their crease. Suddenly, I dashed in, grabbed a dipperfull of water, and slid head-first into the goal, pouring the water in the pot as I did. As I scrambled to my feet, Gretzky ran into the goal and climbed back in the pot; but by then I was at the pot of boiling water. I fished out a vegetable with the dipper and whipped it at full speed, right into Gretzky, who wasn’t expecting a green onion to come his way. It hit him square in the chest, scoring a point. As he tried to pick it off, I flung a bright red rutabaga at him, and then another green onion, and then a carrot, scoring points all the while. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the Finns suiting up for their turn on the ice.
fn1. I’m fully aware that Wayne Gretzky is, in fact, Canadian. Apparently, my subconscious is not.

Michael Cera’s character runs cross-country; he’s counting on his coach to get him a college scholarship. It’s a good thing that his coach is having a big recruiting day for all the area cross-country standouts on Thursday — all the college scouts will be watching! Or at least that’s what Mikey[1] thinks, the coach is actually a charlatan. With that great slack-jawed look that Cera can do, Mikey discovers that he needs to fill the event with some kind of ringers, or the scouts will be pissed off and not give him a chance.
So Mikey recruits all the losers from the high school, fat curly-haired blond kid, little tiny Asian kid, big-toothed Jewish kid — all the teen movie stereotypes. And he even sews them uniforms, so that it looks like the area schools are represented at the recruiting day. And it goes great! Mikey runs well, and looks even better in comparison. Especially when the tiny Asian kid trips and falls face-first in the mud near the finish.[2]
Walking back to the locker room from the cross-country course, Mikey meets the new student, punk-rock Zoe, played by Ellen Page in a tartan miniskirt, combat boots, and lots of eye makeup. Again with the slack-jawed Cera look. They end up sitting underneath the fire escape — Mikey with mud streaked all over his legs and short cross-country shorts from the rainy, muddy course — while he tells her his dreams. AP History. Calculus. A+. College. She says: how about some fun! Then they kiss.
Days later, she’s taken him bowling. Same tartan miniskirt, more chains, especially on her leather jacket. She works at the bowling alley, it’s late, the place is closed, she sneaks him in. He babbles about bowling; she kisses him. She goes to get beers, while Mikey bowls; she comes back, beerless, naked, stands in the middle of the lane, tells him to get naked too. He does;[3] Zoe takes his virginity on the waxed wood of the lane.
The next day he gets the news. “Southern Arkansas”:http://www.saumag.edu/ wants him.[4] Mikey asks Zoe where she’s going — she’s staying. She’ll graduate but her grades are no good, maybe she’ll work at a coffeeshop or clothing store. “Oh, but should I stay?” asks Mikey. “No,” Zoe says, “go get ‘em.” So school ends, and off goes Mikey, to have fun at college!
fn1. My dream didn’t bother to name the character, so we’ll go with Mikey
fn2. In slow-mo
fn3. I think, does he get naked in _every_ movie? Do I _have_ to see his junk again? But I think I was just confusing him with “Chris Cooley’s big nude scene”:http://playingthefield.net/content/view/60/27/.
fn4. Which character do I identify with? Maybe the one who’s recruited for cross-country to the same school that looked into me?

Waiting in line to check out my new book, I realized I’d forgotten to bring back the overdue book that I owed. Checking in my pocket, I only had a few Mexican coins — two large five-peso coins, a small three-peso coin, two tiny two-peso coins, and a medum-sized one peso coin. She’d take them.
When I got to the front of the line, I held a slip of paper with a stamped-on bar code under a scanner; the red laser made an x over the stamp and the librarian read out the name of the book I wanted to check out as it appeared on her screen: “The Empire Strikes Back. Will that be all for you?” I replied yes — I knew that, in this library, she’d scan the request card for the book and the bearded, portly, black-t-shirted librarian standing behind her with the small basket would go back into the stacks and pull the requests of the last few customers.[1] “You have a $1 fine. Would you like to pay it?”[2] I said yes, and handed her one two-peso coin. “Thank you,” she said, and my debt was settled; then she gave some advice to the people in line behind me. “You know, these two-peso coins are great, use them to pay any police fines you get in Mexico. They’ll count them the same as a one-peso coin but the police will like you a lot better.”
I moved past the librarian’s checkout counter and waited for the portly librarian to return with my book. He came back in a few minutes, with a basket full of books. Paperbacks came off, then a couple of hardcovers, and my book at the bottom. But was it my book? It looked like a box with a great Star Wars-themed cover… and, opening it, it was an assembly-required Death Star playset, Stormtroopers included.
This was bad. I had to head for the airport to get on vacation in two hours. I still had to eat lunch — no time to walk anywhere, I’d have to drive somewhere — and I had to pack, and what was I to read on said vacation? The playset was cool — I could spend hours with it — but it wouldn’t do well on the beach.
fn1. Just like the late, unlamented “Best”:http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Best_Products
fn2. I do in fact owe the library about $0.40. Also, some asshole put a hold on the book I’m 1/3 done with. I think I have to give up on it; hold wars are futile for everyone involved. Can anybody recommend a good, sparely-written, Western?

We — that is, myself, the various madly-retreating “Spanish Nationalist”:http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Franquism troops with which I was traveling, and “Generalissimo Francisco Franco”:http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Franquism — were trudging through a lightly-forested area of gently rolling and quite verdant hills. The sky was clear and the sun bright, but we didn’t expect the three Republican fighters that appeared in the distance, charging towards us.
One fighter after the next dove quickly down, plummeting at a 45° angle as they strafed our disorganized company. I just stood there and watched, enjoying the view as the white planes, with their orange engine cowls and brown wingtips, spatted landing gear, and tails, zipped past[1].
The planes made five or six strafing passes without hurting anyone, when I began to worry about the Generalissimo[2]. The planes seemed to be approaching from the sun, so I told him to stand right behind a tree that itself stood between us and the sun. As we walked around the tree we saw that there were already 3 or 4 men of South Asian extraction standing there, watching the show in safety. Out of ideas, I suggested the Generalissimo stand a few feet behind those men. Then I walked into the trees to stand back and watch myself.
I was very surprised when the next plane zipped past, not from the sun behind me where I expected it but from my right, flying only 5 or 6 feet off the ground as it traveled down a natural avenue between the trees. Although the two machineguns in its wings sparkled, there was nobody in front of it to get hit; we were all to the side, watching the plane pass (in fact, to this time, nobody had been hurt in the attack).
The plane was so close that I knew I could shoot it down if I just had a gun. “A pity this is just a dream,” I thought, “because, were I really in this situation, I’d have something to shoot this guy with.” I straightened my thumb and pointer fingers and pointed them at the plane like a gun. “Pow, pow, pow” I said. Suddenly, there was a gun in my hand, and I shot the plane 10 times. I could see the holes in the matte white metal.
Then the dream rewound. “I couldn’t shoot the plane 10 times, my gun only has 9 rounds!”[3] The effect of the 10th bullet was magically erased. But, wounded, the plane bellied down into the deep, soft grass. “I’d better load another magazine in case I need to shoot the pilot.” I thought to myself, and so I did, dropping the empty magazine to my left.
Then Wesley Snipes got out of the plane. “Goddamn it, why did you have to go do that” he yelled at me, stern, all John Cutter from “Passenger 57″:http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0105104/-like. [4] “We had a great thing going here! We were going to make so much money on the movie. All you had to do was not mess[5] everything up.” He was walking up on me fast, and I didn’t like his attitude, so I shot him clear through, just above his heart[6].
fn1. For geeks like me, they looked like the “Ki-15″:http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mitsubishi_Ki-15 from the back of the wing forward and like the “I-16″:http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Polikarpov_I-16 from the back of the wing to the tail.
fn2. Can you think of anybody else with the actual title of Generalissimo besides Franco and Chiang Kai-Shek, two murderous anti-communists of the same era?
fn3. I was wrong; “the gun I imagined only holds 8 shots!”:http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/M1911
fn4. Always bet on black.
fn5. Yes, he did say “mess.” Dialogue isn’t my strength.
fn6. Strangely, I didn’t feel guilty for killing Wesley Snipes when I woke up. But being on Franco’s side? What’s up with that?