The Bruce Palma Report

While the world toils and turns and turtles are singing through plastic oceans of crap, I’ve decided my elbows are ugly. This is no small matter. I thought I was one of the most handsomest, fit and fly specimens of the human race. But now I’ve gone and found out my elbows are ugly. Not just ugly; but hideous. I looked in the bathroom mirror (after flossing and singing the national anthem backwards) and noticed these two red bony growths on my arms. Like bright red walunts. “What are these?!” I sang to myself in the mirror. My reflection said, “Those are your elbows…proud of yourself?” I said, “Hell no! These things are hideous.”  They were probably bright red from sitting at my desk six hours a day pondering the nature of the universe and carb-free cupcakes, hunched over with my elbows grinding into the fake wood. Digging in with my thoughts and cupcake dreams I must’ve pushed my elbows into the wood too hard and now they look like little ugly red stumps. Something out of a fairy t...

cheese glorious cheese damn you taste so good cheese glorious cheese how can i abide with such culinary bliss? such cheesly delights? i have been living in the land of cheese bathing in cheesy mystery   the vast untapped, resources of cheddar brie, Camembert, and Jack i have been investigating how each cheese tastes on various crackers it is a worthy endeavor, blessed by the highest priests of cheese in the land cheese glorious cheese damn you taste so good cheese glorious cheese how can i abide with such culinary bliss? such cheesly delights? the Swiss has holes, the cheddar is yellow or gold the brie oh, the brie, oh goddamn  the brie on any form of cracker available i have invested many years in pursuit of the knowledge of cheese the various ways in which cheese can be used in a myriad of dishes fondue  nachos  charcuterie  quesadilla  grilled and melted with sourdough toast and pickle juice pizza glorious pizza  what would pizza be without che...

“You can always learn something new,” as the saying goes. Well, I made the mistake this morning in Googling “are frogs dissected in schools.”  I’ve always wondered why kids in school have to be subjected to cutting open random dead things floating in formaldehyde. I also wanted to find out if kids were still cutting into dead animals in the pursuit of knowledge. What came up in my search was not a recipe for sauteed frog’s legs in butter sauce but this from the online Encyclopedia Brittanica:  About 75-80% of North American students will have dissected an animal by the time they graduate high school. An estimated 6 million – 12 million animals are dissected in American schools each year. While frogs are the most common animals for K-12 students to dissect, students also encounter fetal pigs, cats, rabbits, guinea pigs, rats, minks, birds, turtles, snakes, crayfish, perch, sea stars and earthworms as well as grasshoppers and other insects. Sometimes students dissect parts of an...

I recently saw an episode of the 80’s sitcom Alf . I didn’t know much about Alf, the show or the character, until seeing this episode. And to tell the truth, I fell asleep before the episode ended. I still don’t know much about Alf , the show or the character. If you can call Alf a character. He’s more like a used sock or talking wind scarf.  Or maybe a tiny caramel-colored elephant, baked and melted into a talking furry sock thing. I asked my wife, “What is this?” “It’s Alf ,” she said. “I know who Alf is,” I told her. “I just don’t understand the concept.” “He’s an alien,” my wife said.  “Didn’t you ever watch Alf ?” She was getting testy. It was late. I let it slide. “No,” I said calmly. “I know who Alf is. I’ve seen pictures. But what’s he doing eating dinner with some random family?” “I don’t know,” she said. “It’s just a show, relax…” She always tells me to relax when I get worked up over the smallest of things. And this was one of those moments. “I just don’t—” “Don’t,”...

I have tried to get up at 4 am every morning so I can crush my goals and feel like a productive member of society (just what society I want to help produce, I’m not sure) but I seem to want to sleep more and more. What I mean is, I keep hitting the snooze button on my phone as the alarm rings and tries to send me out of dreamland. I feel bad about this and a tad unworthy. I realize a person my age should be able to sleep as long as he damn well pleases. But somehow I feel as though I’ll be missing out on some juicy slice of success if I sleep later than I planned. I blame it on the books, coaches, experts and other fools who seem to know exactly how everyone else should live their lives, and have no problem charging buckets of ducats for it.  If I woke up in the morning (at the appointed time, my crush time), I don’t think the first thing on my mind would be how to tell the rest of humanity how they can wake up on time and make a million dollars if they just buy my book, watch my...

  We must talk about avocado toast. I don’t want to talk about avocado toast. There are plenty other things to talk about: war, famine, politics, pimples, popcorn or even a new set of tires. But I feel it’s my obligation as a connoisseur of all things food to warn you of the evils of buying avocado toast out in a restaurant or anywhere west of the equator or in Iceland.  A random sampling of over 20,000 restaurants shows avocado toast to be anywhere from $10 - $30, depending on what you’re wearing that day. If you do the math, a simple piece (or two) of avocado toast consisting of bread, avocado and possibly some form of seasoning (herb sprinkle, Celtic sea salt or free-range pepper, your choice, hold the mayo) should only cost no more than $5 bucks. Let’s calculate this together class. And don’t tell me your dog ate your homework. Avocado: 2-5 bucks. Full avocado. Most restaurant avocado toast only contains half an avocado. I measured it. Cheap, that’s what the restaurants ar...

  I have given up trying to lose whatever baby fat I have hanging under my ribcage in a pile of unwanted lard. I’m talking about my pot belly. I’m not sure if it’s as big as a potbellied stove. But it’s big enough. It looks unseemly. It just hangs there. Or rather it just rolls over my belt buckle in a pile of flesh. I’m sorry for being so graphic. But you know what I mean. I’m supposed to do something about it. Eat more steak, less carbs. Less cupcakes at midnight and more celery sticks. I’m supposed to do squats and burn my fat at some ridiculous heart rate achieved only by running on a treadmill in some overcrowded gym open 24 hours (except when they clean the bathrooms with foul smelling bleach). I’m supposed to do all this and more so I can have tight firm abs and look like some underwear model in some catalog just posing for the cameras and collecting their take-home pay which is probably way too much to offer some buffoon with a six-pack (not beer but belly or lack there...