For cake's sake - my interview with Buddy Valastro, the Cake Boss

Cake is one of my favorite things in the world.
What's not to love about a perfect slice of cake smothered in a creamy butter cream?

It was with great pleasure I recently interviewed Buddy Valastro from TLC's hit show "Cake Boss" for this week's Weekender. I love the show so much, partly because Buddy and his family remind me so much of my Italian family, but also because I'm always fascinated how he can make such amazing cakes out of, well, cake. My favorite one by far is his Leaning Tower of Pisa cake he made for a wedding. It was absolutely stunning.

Read the interview here, and enjoy these three pictures of cake. Glorious, locally made cakes I recently had for my 33rd birthday.


{The fish-shaped cupcake cake from my coworkers.}


{The cake from my parents, it's a marble-cake purse with a red velvet hatbox, red velvet, of course, being my most favorite cake in the world. The "flowers" on the left are actually cupcakes, and there was a cake slicer in the shape of a shoe!}


{Side view, it's precious, yes?}

Books of 2010: "I Am Ozzy."

You may know Ozzy Osbourne for being Black Sabbath’s original vocalist, or maybe you know him from his successful solo career. Or perhaps your first thought is of him as one of the stars of the massively popular MTV reality show “The Osbournes.” But now people can know Osbourne as an author, thanks to his New York Times bestselling autobiography “I Am Ozzy.”

Co-written with Chris Ayres, “I Am Ozzy” recounts Osbourne’s life from his humble beginnings in Aston, England, to rock superstardom with and without Black Sabbath — and everything in between.

It was while working in a factory in Aston, and hating it, that Osbourne first heard The Beatles, and “a light went on in my head.” If those working-class kids could be in a band, “then maybe I could, too.”

Osbourne soon put up an ad in a record shop which led him to his Black Sabbath bandmates Tony Iommi, Geezer Butler and Bill Ward. The foursome eventually went on to become one of the most significant heavy metal bands ever, selling more than 15 million records in the United States alone until Osbourne’s firing in 1979 for his drinking, drug use and “slagging off the band in the press.”

“I’m a lunatic by nature,” Osbourne writes, and readers get to see just how true that statement is. The singer has done just about every drug under the sun — including when he drugged himself with Rohypnol, the date-rape drug, while on tour in Germany: “F--k me, this stuff is real! … Then I was trapped between the bed and the wall, unable to move or talk, for about five hours. So I can’t say I recommend it.”

Anyone who’s watched “The Osbournes” knows Osbourne was often incoherent and indecipherable, but that’s only added to the Prince of Darkness’ charm, a charm that’s carried over into the book full of rambling storytelling. It’s also chockablock of delicious British words and phrases, like “bee up his arse” to describe someone who’s upset.

Obviously, it’s easy to wonder just how much of his life the perpetual alcoholic/addict actually does remember, but a disclaimer in the beginning of the book sums it up best: “Other people’s memories of the stuff in this book might not be the same as mine. … What you read here is what dribbled out of the jelly I call my brain when I asked it for my life story. Nothing more, nothing less.” The tone is distinctly “Ozzy” and oftentimes laugh-out-loud funny — and oftentimes shocking. Forget Osbourne biting the head off a bat and a dove or relieving himself on The Alamo; they’re just the half of it. There’s the tragic plane crash that killed his guitarist Randy Rhoads, Osbourne’s attempted murder of his wife Sharon, scaring his children with drunken/doped-up antics, killing a whole flock of chickens, and so on.

While not as riveting a read as other rockers’ tomes, like Nikki Sixx’s “The Heroin Diaries,” “I Am Ozzy” is an amusing tale of the singer’s life of debauchery that he somehow miraculously survived, how Sharon ultimately saved his career — and saved him from himself, or tried to at least — and how he became a household name again to become “no longer famous for being a singer. I was famous for being that swearing bloke on the telly.”

Rating: W W W 1/2 (of 5 Ws)

* This review originally appeared in the Wednesday, March 17 issue of the Weekender with the headline "The madman writes"*

At my 14th Poison show ...

*Note: If you read my previous post about my eternal love for Poison, you will understand. If you did not, well, I went to my 14th Poison concert on Sunday, June 28 at the Toyota Pavilion at Montage Mountain in Scranton (or Moosic, if you will). We all have our own, how do you say, certain something, n'est-ce pas? What follows are the things that happened during that show, which also included openers Cheap Trick (who Poison followed) and Def Leppard).*

- I got to hear Def Leppard sound check "Hysteria" while people started lining up outside the gates.

- I got to go inside before the gates opened to hear and watch Def Leppard sound check "Two Steps Behind."

- While watching Def Leppard during said sound check, Poison bassist Bobby Dall got off a golf cart and walked right by me. I squealed internally.

- Went back outside to receive a backstage pass (pictured below) to meet Bobby because my editor interviewed him for the Weekender and was kind enough to let me tag along.


- Some random things I spotted before Cheap Trick went on: a guy in a long Cheap Trick jean jacket, a fanny pack with fringe and a skullet. And these were only the standouts. Imagine what else these Bambi brown eyes saw!

- After Poison's set, editor and I headed backstage, where we were told our passes were good until 9:15 p.m. and let into the backstage area without any sort of supervision. I promptly found a restroom to use because I was so excited I had to pee.

- Wandered around the buses and Def Leppard drummer Rick Allen walked by, to which editor said "Hey Rick" nonchalantly. We both squealed internally. Well, at least I did. Again.

- Poison guitarist C.C. DeVille walked past us. I said "Hi C.C." as nonchalantly as editor greeted Rick, like I see him in the hall at work every day. I squealed internally again.

- Editor and I wandered aimlessly around until we spotted an official looking dude in a Poison button-down shirt leading a few people to the dressing rooms area we saw C.C. disappear toward.

- We hang out behind them as C.C. comes out to greet them. He was wearing platform shoes and his hair was still all haphazard spiky, which all made him appear taller than he actually is.

- As we patiently wait our turn, we spot Def Leppard singer Joe Elliot and guitarist Vivian Campbell walking near their dressing rooms.

- When C.C. is done with those people, he looks at us briefly, walks back into his dressing room and slams the door. I say "Prick" internally.

- As we leave, the perpetually shirtless (and dare I say sexily ripped) Def Leppard guitarist Phil Collen wanders into the craft tent.

- We head toward said tent and find a very kind girl in a button-down Poison shirt who helps us find Bobby, who is with his 18-year-old son Zach and handler Rob.

- Editor tells Bobby his name and he immediately tells editor how much he enjoyed the article. Said he picked it up while walking past the Marquee Theater in Scranton from the hotel (they stayed at the Radisson Lackawanna, by the way).

- Editor introduces me and as Bobby shakes my hand, I blurt out “This is my 14th Poison show” and he laughs and wonders how many he’s been to.

- He was so friendly, appreciate and cool that he posed for this picture ...

... before asking another handler to lead him to Bret. (We heard from a very reliable source that Bret decided to show up to the show about half hour before it began. And that his bus pulled a trailer with his own image on it. This did not make me squeal internally. In fact, I daresay it made me like him a little less.)

- After Bobby left, we spoke to his son and Rob before heading back out into the crowd to catch Def Leppard's set.

What a fanflippingtastic way to celebrate such a momentous occasion!
Fin.

Creature of the night.

I am about six days into a horrid bout of insomnia.
This is the worst I think I've ever been.

Last night, like most nights, those red digits were my worst enemy.
I slept for maybe half an hour.

Never mind that that half hour included a dream that was sexual in nature with - and I feel ashamed to even relay this - the Dalai Lama, who for some reason was in a glass case.
It also involved one Katie Holmes.
(The insomnia must be eating my brain one cell at a time.)

I am sitting here without a thought in my head - like I've got nothing left, especially after the crazy high-pressure day at work today. Probably because I don't.

And to top it off, I am mad craving coffee ice cream for the second day in a row, a flavor I'm not particularly fond of.


What - and who - the hell am I turning into?

To Twitter or not to Twitter: A conundrum.

I make no qualms about being three months shy of my 32nd birthday.
I embrace it, actually, because I am in a place in my life I never thought I'd be, or be lucky enough to be.
But enough about that for right now ...

I get so much flack for not having a Facebook. Just the word Facebook makes me want to yell and/or break something.

Isn't it enough that I, in addition to my work blog (shameless plug No. 1: http://www.theweekender.com/blogs/mascali), have this blog, my beloved MySpace page (shameless plug No. 2: www.myspace.com/nikkimm) and my new LinkedIn page (shameless plug No. 3: http://www.linkedin.com/in/nikkimm33)??

Isn't it enough that I do those four things to be in contact with the outside world and work a job that relies on me having contact with said outside world an a daily - and sometimes hourly - basis?

I've been able to outrun the Facebook hounds (read: friends and coworkers), but then a little something called Twitter came along.

I really don't need it. I really don't want it. But that doesn't mean I'm not just a little tiny bit interested in it. It just seems so easy. And a little irreverent. And I really like its "Partridge Family"-esque bird logo.

I've heard people complain that Facebook is information overload, that people know what you are doing at every hour of the day.

But don't people know that info because ... that's ... what ... you ... tell ... them??

Part of me kind of feels like I am way to old for this stuff - all of it. But if people in the media didn't sway with the breeze, where would we be? I'll tell you: I'd be blogging on tree bark about that dang Gutenberg and his new-fangled movable type! Trees that don't bend in the wind, break.


It seems like Twitter is exactly the same way as Facebook - way too TMI - yet here I am creating an account.
My inquisitive nature got the best of me - there's the rub I guess.
Here's shameless plug No. 4: http://twitter.com/nikkimm33

But don't you dare try to strong-arm me onto Facebook because that branch just ain't budging.

"Someone call the Gendarmes!"

So we've established that yesterday, I was an absolute bear.

After feeling better after my tan, a good journal venting, and a nice toddy, I set off for bedfordshire.

Knowing I had to be up and out of the house unnaturally early this morning for an assignment, I had a restless night.

I was nervous that this would be the first time I'd miss my alarm, and was such a worrywarts I actually dreamed about missing my appointment!
(The dream involved a former coworker flying in from Florida to cover for me because I was sitting in my car trying to take pictures of wind turbines through the windshield. Uhh ... must have been the toddy ...)

So when my alarm did wake me up, I got up and got going and turned on my Sirius Satellite Radio - as I do immediately every morning.

What was the first song, you ask?
"Murders in the Rue Morgue" by one Iron Maiden.

Honestly, any day is automatically better when it's started with a little Maiden in the morning!

Loaded question.

From the moment I joined MySpace, I was addicted to surveys.
The addiction came naturally: I'm a nosy, inquisitive kinda girl, so I love reading other people's answers, and, likewise, love having people read mine.

I was so frequent a surveyor, that a coworker - who we will call "Tiffany" for shits and giggles - did nothing short of an intervention, so, as one of my 2007 resolutions, I resolved to keep surveys to a minimum.

Proudly, I have kept that vow now for nearly two years.
I still do some here and there, just to keep my public interested (JOKE!), so now it's an occasion when I post one, and not some eye-roll inducing occurrence.

Of course, when I see one posted from one of my favorite fellow survey junkies, I can't help reading it and I cannot tell a lie: I sometimes copy a survey, fill it completely out and then delete it without posting. This way, the addiction gets fed and I don't make anyone sick of me.

Tonight was one of those nights, and one question in particular stuck out.
"What would your one wish be?"
My immediately reply was what it always is: Unlimited wishes.

Of course, that struck me as something so completely selfish, but I refuse to change my answer.

- I'd wish that my upcoming Christmas present Uggs will miraculously find their way to my feet before my trip into the tundra that might be New York City tomorrow.
- I'd wish that my credit card would somehow pay itself off.
- I'd wish that the monster cover story I'm working on and mapping out in my head could telepathically be translated to the computer without typing.
- And I'd sure as hell wish that I was Heidi Klum's identical twin sister.

And then I'd wish that narcissistic wishes like that would be negated by the wishes I already have, and the ones that I pray for, such as:
- "I wish Mom and Dad would feel better."
- I'd wish that all my loved ones, like my brother, could have their own dreams come true.
- I'd wish that God wouldn't let kids get sick, hurt or worse.
- I'd wish that our world wasn't so far gone in regards to ignorance, strife and the mayhem that gets closer every day.

I'd wish a lot of things I guess, but mostly, I'd wish that, if all my wishes came true, I'd stick to paying them forward.

And then I'd wish to come up with a better term than "pay it forward" because the saying really just rubs me the wrong way.