The Conspiracy Theory Game

My favorite icebreaker game is one I came up with when I learned that Marion Cottilard 1. almost certainly had an affair with Brad Pitt and 2. is a 9/11 truther. The essence of the game is this: you have to self-assess the weirdest conspiracy theory you could earnestly believe and still be hooking up with the exact same people you could now. In this case, we know that MC is hot enough to believe something like that bonkers and still get with Sexiest Man Alive 1995 and 2000.

This game is very revealing and extremely entertaining. So, for example, I’m probably “grassy knoll” hot, but I’m probably not “chemtrails” hot. Kate Upton is “Jon Benet Ramsey and Katy Perry are one person” hot, but I don’t think that all Playboy models are. We are all attractive enough to believe the government controls the weather. No one is “vaccines are a hoax” hot.

Today, I want to come out of the closet with this new Huey Long truther. Check out this episode of Criminal and tell me I’m wrong. SHOW ME THE RECEIPTS.

 

Tea Party Tuesday: Profumo di Capri

It’s a national holiday here in Italy, and while I was promised a parade replete with marching bands and elderly veterans in feathered hats, the truth is, it’s raining and no one seems to want to go out.

I spent some time on the island of Capri recently (I’m publishing my guide to the area tomorrow!) and the whole place smells incredible; imagine your fantasy laundry detergent plus the base notes of you favorite aunt’s signature everyday perfume in the ’90s with just a dash of brine. Everything smells just like that. It’s enough to make you highly likely to buy ANYTHING labeled “smells somewhat like here.” My credit card statement will confirm this.

Right before I got on the ferry home, I was browsing a little tourist shop for some candied Capri lemon peels and noticed they were selling the island’s signature tea blend. Since I cannot resist coming home with a tiny sachet of tea, it came in a cute tin, and it said that was Capri-scented, I bought 50 grams.

When I got home, I popped open the (very cute) tin and took a whiff. It smells not at all like tea, but rather strongly of Lemon Pledge, a scent I associate strongly with a fear of disappointing my mom and low-stakes accomplishment. A meaningful connection, to be sure, but maybe not the best impression for a tea to make. I dumped out five grams to take a look, and it was not photogenic; the lemon peels aren’t very yellow, and the leaves themselves were unshapely.

I brewed it according to the instructions and…it tastes like Lemon Pledge (or what I imagine Lemon Pledge tastes like had my mother not repeatedly warned me not to drink cleaning products as a child).

Look, sometimes you buy a dud. If you’re in a country where no one really likes tea on an island where it’s always sunny in a tourist shop that traffics mostly in liquors and bon bons, you should expect you’re going to get sub-par tea. In retrospect, I should have heeded a few warnings: one, the importers for this tea are based in Ferrara. Two, the label didn’t tell me anything about the mysterious “té nero limone” so it really could have been anything. Three, the one piece of info on the can said something to the effect of “packaged for the XYZ Brothers’ Liquor Distributors.” The takeaway is that I’m an idiot.

Silver lining? I think I can salvage it as some Delta-style lemon-mint iced tea here in a few weeks when the weather turns around. Tell me of your tea fails, readers! Surely I cannot be the only one.

The Exact Wrong Thing to Discover Today

I’m elbow-deep in this week’s book, Emma Cline’s The Girls, and the Manson vibes in the novel + the creepy Lolita energy I’m getting off this means I’ve checked the locks on my house four times today and it’s broad daylight.

Book Club: The Sellout

When I was home for a wedding last month, I visited my favorite local bookstore, Carmichael’s, a couple times. We don’t have an English-language bookstore in my city in Italy (and my reading level in Italian is roughly that of a ten-year-old), so I luxuriated in a store full of things I could potentially actually read. I’m going to need everyone to stop writing books for the next six to ten years so I can catch up; there’s so much amazing stuff and somehow there’s always more. 

The guy behind the desk recommended three books for me to take home, one of which was The Sellout by Paul Beatty. “You like Josh Ferris, right?” I do, yes. “And you were into Confederacy of Dunces?” Sure was. “Already read the new Ta-Nehisi Coates?” Twice. “Great, here.”

I devoured The Sellout on the plane home, though I don’t know if I would describe my appetite for it as voracious. As you and the rest of the English-speaking world likely already know, The Sellout was the first book by an American to win the Man Booker, which should have warned me. Remains of the Day, A Brief History of Seven Killings, God of Small Thingsand The Blind Assassin are some of my other favorite winners, and they all fall squarely into the category of “things I am glad I read and agree are for sure outstanding art but made me want to die the whole time.”

PaulBeatty
Photo of the author holding The Sellout, courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.

Here’s the premise, and let me know when you start squirming:

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