Last Thursday , D ran up to me as soon as he walked in the door from school and excitedly asked me, “Uncle Sean, Guess what?”
I, of course, answered, “What?”
He proudly told me how he had come up with a bread recipe and that we had to try it. He’s been around for my making rolls and no-knead baguettes (which I sillily did not document), and in those moments, I’ve tried to impress upon him that bread is really really difficult to fuck up. I’ve also made sure to tell him that there’s a difference between making the bread one wants to make and the bread one may get without having a plan for taste and texture. He’s been told that yeast eats sugar and farts out gas that makes dough rise. He’s eight; I don’t expect exact memories of my droning on to be instantly accessible to him, but as long as I get the ideas in his head they can sprout over time and experience. I said, “Well, let’s see it!” While he fished it out of his pocket, I asked, “What’s the recipe for?”
“Chocolate chip bread!” he told me proudly.
“OOOOOH! That sounds yummy!” I said, which it did.
I should have been more explicit about the “really really difficult to fuck up” part. God love this kid, he was trying to get into my world by showing some creativity and initiative, but, God love him again, the recipe was not going to work since it was comprised of three ingredients: 2 cups of yeast, 1 cup of flour and a bag of chocolate chips.
So, dilemma: how do I suggest corrections without dashing his ideas and squashing his innovative spirit?
Gently.
“So,” I started obliquely, “that’s a lot of yeast.”
He was pleased with his measurements. “I want it to be puffy and soft. Melt-in-your-mouth soft.”
“Do you know how much yeast is usually used in a bread recipe?” I asked.
“A lot!” he countered.
I felt bad about what I was about to do, but it had to be done. “Actually, it’s not a lot.” I took a yeast packet form my bread bowl and showed it to him. “This is about two teaspoons of yeast and it’s enough to make a loaf of bread. Two cups of this will make…” I did a quick calculation, “…close to fifty loaves of bread.”
“Fifty?!?” D was flabbergasted.
“Yeah! So, two cups of yeast is a bit too much.”
“Oh,” he said disappointedly, then asked, “What about the chocolate chips?”
“What about them?”
“Are there too many?”
“Sweetheart,” I said with all honesty, “there is no such thing as too many chocolate chips!” He brightened considerably and I wanted to show him that his idea could work even if not as written down on paper. “And I love that you’re being creative and thinking about food you want to make. We can still make chocolate chip bread this weekend if you’re up for it.”
“Sure!” he declared.
And we did.
I couldn’t find a choclate chip bread recipe as such, so I modified a raisin bread recipe as follows:
* 1 package active dry yeast
* 1/4 c. warm water
* 1/2 tsp. sugar
Activate the yeast by pouring it into the water and sugar. In about 10 minutes it’ll be foamy and ready to use.
* 1 pint sour cream
* 1/4 cup soft butter
* 1/4 cup sugar
* 1 1/2 teaspoons salt
Heat the sour cream until it has melted. Add the other ingredients and stir to mix. Keep over a low flame, but if it looks like the mixture is about to simmer or even steaming too much, turn off the heat and let it cool down. The temperature should be warm such that you could drink the mixture without any discomfort.
* 2 eggs, beaten
Add to the yeast mixture and stir.
Pour the sour cream mixture into a mixer with a paddle. Turn the mixer on low then pour in the yeast mixture. Let the ingredients combine.
* 4 cups all-purpose flour (next time I will use bread flour, maybe mixed with rice flour for greater softness)
I did not use all of this, but you might. I added the flour in one-cup increments three times, then in half-cup increments until the dough was no longer sticky. Switch to a dough hook and allow to knead for 5 minutes.
* one bag chocolate chips
Add in the last few seconds of kneading. Turn the mixer off as soon as they are well incorporated.
Remove the dough from the hook and placed in a buttered bowl. cover and allow to rise to double its size.
It was here that we went to see The Avengers (which was pretty good except for the whole “Loki is being evil by sitting in a cell on the SHIELD helicarrier doing literally nothing ZOMG the fiend!” and the blah blah blah middle parts and the chemically cold relationship between Black Widow and Hawkeye), and when we returned, D and I punched down the dough and then formed it into two balls and placed them on a buttered baking sheet, splitting the tops. D went to bed, so I was on my own after that, waiting an hour for the balls to double in size.
While waiting for the oven to heat to 375°, I mixed
* 1 egg
* 2 TBsp milk
for an egg wash. This combination apparently has a medium brownness and shiny, which was perfect for this bread.
The balls were baked for 25 minutes and they were gorgeous, as you can see from the pictures. Sadly, I wasn’t around this morning when D woke up (I was at work for 6 AM), but my brother reported that the bread was well received. I toasted myself two slices when I got home, buttered them and MMMMMMMMMMMM! So good!
D has some great ideas. I hope he keeps going with them.
Yes, I did custom make this at The LEGO Store.
Have any LULZ for Charles? Send them may way and I’ll post them. Download the blank picture here.
UPDATE: From Mark “Doc” Rogaski, the last word in kids’ birthday parties.
UPDATE THE SECOND: A warning about going with strangers from my brother.
Mom’s birthday and Holy Week coincided this year, so on the day that my nephew portrayed Jesus in his school’s live-action Stations of the Cross, we took Mom out to dinner at our preferred Chinese eatery, the Golden Wok. I should say that even given that this was the “holiest week of the year”, we often discuss theology around D. So much so that it’s more than likely he’s going to be ruined for private school by sixth grade, perhaps sooner, if we keep up the way we do. He loves the Jesus stories, which is good if they’re taken in their pure form. He’s been told a healthy smattering of the Infancy Gospel of Thomas, and knows the Harrowing of Hell.
He also likes the Percy Jackson series. So during a discussion of the pagan roots of Easter, D piped up with the question, “Wait. Where do the Greek gods fit in?”
I said, “Well, it depends on what you believe. There’s a word for that, though: monolatrism.”
D’s eye went wide and he asked, “What does that mean?”
“It means worshiping one god while recognizing the existence of other gods. You should totally ask your teacher about that during your next theology class,” I said, smiling.
Dominic clutched invisible pearls and keened dramatically, “What of momolatrism, Miss Stankovisch? What of other gods?!?”
“Then you can ask her about theodicy.”
But it was decided to table that discussion for another time. Our dumplings had arrived.
Dear Zan and Fraser,
Earlier this week, a review of Class Comics’ gay erotic comic The Initiation #2 went live on Prism Comics. And for his efforts, reviewer Adam Hoak was subject to ad hominem attacks by the creator and his fans, and a public admonition from you, Zan. I am deeply distraught that two highly esteemed and public gay comic book creators and publishers would allow, and indeed, encourage, such bullying of a fellow gay comics reader, anger over the review or no.
Adam’s review is not complimentary, to be sure. But did it require you, Fraser, to, in your own words, “purposefully [keep] our dismay and ire focused on the review and reviewer rather than on Prism publishing it” (emphasis mine), to the point where you assumed his his “hate-on” for Class Comics (not knowing whether this was truly the case), and then targeted him by picking and publishing out-of-context quotes from Adam’s Faacebook to show his bias, and indeed, his lack of ability to be a good reviewer because “[h]is self titled ‘expertise’ is being a smart-ass”? Further, you publicly “like” the comments that call Adam a “fat ass” and claim that he has “a small penis”, doing nothing to keep the dialogue open and the rhetoric respectful. Yes, it’s your Facebook, but is this the image you want to project, one of a thin-skinned bully, a name-caller?
Fraser, you also say, “It seems that this is about the third time that we’ve had reviews published at Prism Comics where the writer is more interested in being witty than fairly reviewing the comics.” However, you do not mention the positive reviews here, here, here, here, and here. I was unable to find three unfair reviews, but it would seem that one bad review in six is a pretty good ratio.
When you, Zan, join the conversation, you say that Fraser’s critique of the review is spot-on.
However, the only critique is that it is somehow “biased” and “not objective” (when perhaps as a newbie to erotic comics, though surely not one to porn or comic books themselves, he could actually be described as “objective” since he has no preconceived notions about the genre). The rest of the posting is an indictment against Adam Hoak as a person and what could possibly motivate him to write a critical review. Zan, you yourself say that “Prism Comics’ mission has always been one of support for LGBT comics, creators and readers.” How supportive of an LGBT reader was Prism when the unfounded and personal attacks above began to fly? And there is not just tacit approval of the mocking, but by liking an image, however playfully intended the image may have been, you actively approve of this behavior:
As the publisher of the gay-affirming, anti-bullying The Power Within, do you place an age limit on when bullying is somewhat acceptable? Or only when it’s convenient? Profitable? When you advocate for others to speak out in defense of the underdog, your silence -indeed, your participation- was deafening.
Further, you say that,”[Prism is] not a watchdog organization and [doesn't] call out homophobia or misdeeds by anti-gay creators or publishers.” However, in 2008, you took GLAAD to task on the Prism site for their nomination of Garth Ennis’ The Boys, saying that they had possibly been punk’d.
Which is neither here nor there, but does show that Prism can be inconsistent with the enforcement of its objectives, and forgiving as well.
The kerfuffle ended, essentially, when Robert said that it was time to move on.
However, there has been no public apology for fanning the flames against Adam. There was no discussion with the reviewer to ask him about his perspective on the comic and what actually motivated him to write critically about The Initiation before lambasting him in public. Is this how your company handles PR, through mocking and innuendo? What a missed opportunity to open dialogue with someone who didn’t start out a fan but could have been brought around?
I am very disappointed to see that neither of you, Zan and Robert, have yet made a public apology to Adam, though you were very public in your excoriation of him. Until such a time when an apology is made, I cannot in good conscience recommend either of your organizations to anyone, and will discontinue my association with both.
Sincerely,
Sean
Wonder Woman #7
Perhaps when Grant Morrison gives the world his take on The Amazon Princess, I’ll come back to the tribe, but as of this issue, I’m dropping Wonder Woman. Brian Azarello’s rebuilding of the soft rebooted Diana is so far afield from what I’ve enjoyed for years about her character, the series would be better off being called something else. “Maxima” comes to mind. I completely understand that in order to get new readers, the Uppers at DC (I’m going to trademark “DCUppers” tomorrow) ordered new approaches to mouldering characters and stories, but I believe there is a thick, black line between “fresh” and “just fucking with someone”. I remember the final issue of the pre-reboot series showed Diana as part of a family, being happy, grounded and looking forward to whatever the future was going to bring. It was a beautiful moment after a year of seeing Diana in an alternate reality where she was one her own and far from a home she never knew. It gave me confidence that the DCnU would be good to her.
We will probably never see that Diana again.
And it’s not the superficial trappings of the book that I dislike. Mostly. I still think Diana’s costume is a lumpy mess and, frankly, chokers take inches off of people’s necks and make them look like hunchbacks.
Left: Gorgeous. Right: Quasimodo. ^
I have, however, enjoyed the new look of the gods and goddesses. Mostly. Hades-as-candelabra is just laughable; though in this issue (#7; a reminder since we’re a bit off-point) Hephaestus is quite amazing.
No, it’s the down-to-the-DNA changes that have made this iteration of Diana unreadable to me. She lacks charm and grace and purpose. Not having been given an origin story yet (Wonder Woman’s; we know Diana’s), I don’t know why she’s in the world except to sulk and have family issues. She’s not an Ambassador of Love. She’s not here to put an end to war. Truth isn’t anywhere on the same continent as her (as Hephaestus noted, rather wryly). She’s a warrior, yes, but I’m not convinced justice is on her mind, though she’s such a background character in her own stories, it’s difficult to say what she’s thinking at all. Except that it’s usually family-centric, but in a Falcon Crest way.
In this issue, Diana solicits Hephaestus to forge weapons to bargain with Hades for the release of Zola who is carrying her half-sister (another of Zeus’ cast-offs). He reveals to Diana that his helpers are all of Amazonian descent. Hephaestus fosters them and teaches them art. Better than being drowned at the hands of their mothers, he says unarguably. Apparently, every thirty years or so, the Amazons go out to sea, board ships and literally fuck the life force out of any hapless sailors they find. Seriously. Girl babies are kept, and the boys are traded to Hephaestus for weapons. One has to wonder why they need so many weapons since they live on an undetectable island. Or do they? If Amazons can get off (heh heh), can men get on? Is that what the weapons are for? If there have been skirmishes between cultures before, it hasn’t been explained yet how Diana arrived on Man’s World five years ago without there being a record somewhere of an island populated only by women. In any case, how did Diana not know her people come equipped with soul-sucking Vaginas of Doom? Is she younger than 30 years old? Has she been kept chaste or ignorant of her traditions, and why? Also, the implications that over 3,000 years, one can assume at least 100 excursions, is that they may possibly not be immortal. Otherwise, I imagine the island would be overrun by now. Diana, for some reason, decides that Hephaestus is a monster for his charity and so ties him up and beats the snot out of him in order to free her brothers from captivity. They are not grateful. In fact, they beg Diana -a stranger who has high-handedly decided she knows what is best for them without so much as a “by your leave”- to release Hephaestus, whom they know loves and cares for them. Who is this Diana?
Back on point: Soul-sucking Vaginas of Doom.
I don’t even know what to make of that except that I have to stop reading this book. I can’t pay for a story I find so disagreeable. That’s what AMC’s Walking Dead is for: wallowing in terrible, terrible storytelling for free.
Happy Birthday, Diana. Wherever you are.
GRADE: D
UPDATE: It’s been pointed out to me that the Amazons probably put their sex-worn sailors to the sword and don’t actually have Stormbringer-like kaslopises. Kaslopes? In any case, the line in the issue about the sailors’ lives being “drained away” doesn’t convey hacking and slitting that should accompany the in-panel swords. Text/image disconnect. Still, I like my idea of spirit-drinking snappers better.
P.S. The person who called his comic book review “I am Trayvon Martin” without a word about the tragedy anywhere in the text (not that it belongs there in the first place) should have his judgement center turned on.
Thankfully deleted now.
One of my duties as uncle is to expose my nephew to as many interesting and new things as possible. However, I get sick on roller coasters and would probably die halfway down a bungee jump, my major contribution to his life is going to be teaching him how to cook. My brother’s kitchen repertoire is pretty limited and since I believe teaching someone how to cook is an invaluable life skill, I take advantage of every weekend he’s around to try a different recipe that I’ve been hanging onto (or one that I already know pretty well if my motivation is off). This weekend, we made crème brûlée.
Crème brûlée is one of those scary desserts that people avoid making because people believe that a single misstep in preparation can lead to every container of milk in a mile radius going instantly rancid. Or something like that. I imagine that only soufflés cause more terror for the home chef. While I may tackle soufflés at a later date (yes, I am scared of making them wrong; also, I don’t have soufflé dishes), I can tell you to calm down and make crème brûlée whenever you have a chance because it’s so easy if you’re careful.
Like most recipes, there are innumerable variations on how many egg yolks to use, what temperature the over should be at, how long the bake should be, and even what kind of dairy to use. Paula Deen’s recipe calls for 11 egg yolks but yields eight ramekins of the dessert! I went with a very basic recipe and the results were delicious. What I needed was:
2 c. cream
1/2 tsp. vanilla
6 egg yolks
1/2 c. sugar
So far, so good, right?
The cream was heated until just before simmering. In other words, it should be hot, but not boiling hot. If the cream boils, the chances or curdling the eggs goes up. Should this happen, turn the heat off and let the cream cool for a few minutes.
Meanwhile, my nephew and I cracked and separated six eggs. The yolks went into the Kitchenaid with the sugar, and then blended until light-colored and fluffy.
The next step is what causes people agida: tempering. Tempering is adding a hot liquid to eggs at a slow enough pace to being the temperature of the eggs up without scrambling them. I whisked the egg and sugar mixture at the same time as I drizzled the hot cream in a little as at time. If I had to guess, it was a 1/4 c. per drizzle. The tricky part is balancing the pan and the bowl without losing the pour/whisk cadence.
Voila, custard!
Then into a 350° oven in a ban marie (hot water surrounding the ramekins -ok, coffee cups; the ramekins I have are pathetically shallow- to protect the custard from cooking too quickly on the outside, resulting in a hybrid pudding/omelette that would unsettle H. R. Geiger. I baked the crème for 50 minutes until the center was firm but wobbly. It could take up to 60 minutes.
The cups were removed from the oven, placed on the counter until cool enough to go into the refrigerator for an hour. I’ve read that overnight is better, but I can’t imagine waiting that long.
Then the brûléeing! Sugar is sprinkled across the top of the custard and torched till it caramelizes. Even my nephew got a whirl with the torch!
Stupidly, I did not get a shot of the final product, which was delicious. I did however, get a picture of dinner that ngiht: stuffed pork chops with peas and homemade pierogies. My brother said the custard could have used another hour in the fridge to cool off more, but he’s a saint. I only play one on the Internet and don’t like waiting for dessert.
Next time: chocolate!
The Tudors…
and Millennium…
…the conversation would go like this.
HR REP: Hello! I’m calling from ACME Useful Shit and Sundries. ********** put you down as a reference for a job with us. Do you have a few minutes to talk with me?
ME (staggered): Uh. Sure.
HR REP: What can you tell me about **********’s performance?
ME: …
HR REP: Are you still there?
ME: Yes! Uhm, ********** never stuck anyone in the gut with a homemade shiv.
HR REP: I see. And his work habits?
ME: He dressed smartly and never stank of body odor.
HR REP: Anything else?
ME: I only saw him pick his nose one, and I’m 95% certain he washed his hands before touching food.
HR REP: …
ME: Anything else?
HR REP: No. I think that about covers it. Thank you for your time.
ME: No, thank you.
SHANE (to RANDALL): “Less talkin’, more walkin’.”
ME: “Shane, hunney, I’ve been sayin’ that for weeks now.”
Action Comics #7
Two issues ago, before a Superman from the future arrived with his BFFs from a more distant future, The Legion of Super-Heroes, to awaken his space-creche, Clark Kent (barely yet Superman) saw Metropolis ripped out of its bedrock by some mysterious extraterrestrial power. The story resumes in this issue with Clark hurtling himself into space to save a city that only a few hours earlier believed him to be a threat greater than gay abortionist pitbulls buying run-down brownstones in their neighborhoods and driving up property taxes. Reaching the alien craft, Clark, who is so vulnerable and earnest as Rags Morales portrays him, finds the Collection, samples of long-dead worlds stored like seeds in the Arctic, or more accurately, extinct butterflies under glass. Brainiac slowly reveals both himself and Clark as his minions defend the Collection.
Unlike most of the other titles of the New 52, Action Comics peeks into the “compressed time” of the events that preceded the moment when the Old DCU ceased to exist and the new one began. Exploring the early years of Clark Kent in Metropolis, Action Comics has been like a balm after the transvaginal ultrasound that was “Smallville”. This nascent Superman is a hero in all ways he can be. Given a sadistic choice by Brainiac -pick one to rescue for free, Metropolis or Kandor- Superman does what he always does: he picks both. “All these people are under my protection, you got that?” he tells Brainiac. “Every living thing!” It’s a beautiful moment of almost fan-fic levels of drama conjoined with purple dialogue only comic books can get away with. Goosebumps.
Then, dammit, he dons the invulnerable armor of lordly Krypton and like that he’s no longer this
but this
Thinking about it, it makes complete sense that Morrison would delve into stories that take place in the Nevertime of DCnU’s Last Thursday since he’s all about the Bulk and Hypertime and the Quantum Centipede. Which gives him literally years of potential stories to tell. The image of a t-shirt, jeans and boots Superman -this “Superman in the Raw”- was so exciting to me because there was history to be mined. Mysteries to solve. A childhood to remember. Parents to mourn. So, why does it feel like he’s rushing Clark off to be the soulless “So… what can you do?” mannequin of LJ? My one complaint about Matt Wagner’s Madame Xanadu was the speed with which eras fell away and the possibly wonderful stories were missed. My teeth are gritted, hoping that won’t be the case here. GMO, if you’re reading, slow your roll!
Otherwise, this is my runaway favorite title of the DCnU, followed closely by Batgirl and… uh, nothing.
Grade: A
Avengers: The Children’s Crusade #9
Disappointing.
What is it about big bald black men that makes writers want to put them in a scene for all of a moment and not let them say a single word? Yes, I’m looking at you, writers of “The Walking Dead” and your shabby treatment of T-Dog this whole season, but I’m also looking at you, Alan Heinberg, and your mysterious, silent bald black man on page 14 of the final issue of Children’s Crusade. Worse, who the hell is he? Yeah, it’s probably my fault for not remembering the exact disposition of the hundred or so characters at the end of the last issue three or so months ago. However, having moved past the “Heinberg will be late for his own death and set into motion a series of catastrophic grudge kills to balance things out in the Universe” meme that I just made up a second ago, let me tell you why this was a disappointing issue: there was no balance, something that Heinberg usually excels at, yet is noticeably absent this issue.
From #1, this series has been an ensemble story. Every character -and there are dozens- has had equal chance to speak up, get slapped around, slap others around, and otherwise participate in the action of the plot. Not this month. This month, plots fall away like dandruff flakes. Characters are unusually silent. Emotional transactions feel cold and stilted. In these last few pages of this series everyone -moments before ready to kill anyone who stood in their way- is simply talked down off the curtains. Even moments after murdering the Vision for no real good reason, Iron Lad gets called “Son” by Captain America, and then is allowed to walk into the timestream to become Kang the Conqueror. Cyclops’ final words to Wanda are Jewish Grandmother-y levels of guilt-laying. Cyclops’ greatest weapon is guilt? Who knew? Nu? Somehow, Heinberg’s ensemble is left mute as if there were nothing left to say or do in the aftermath of Doctor Doom becoming a sorcerer, Stature being killed, the Vision being melted into slag, and Wanda promising to restore mutantkind. Even the reasons for the Young Avengers disassembling are weak tea. Heinberg phoned this issue in, and it’s stupefying he did so or was allowed to do so.
Of course, there was Billy and Teddy’s first on-panel kiss to celebrate.
But it felt like a bone tossed to the readers, an apology for a terrible last chapter. It’s… sleeping on the wet spot after several hours of athletic sex.
At least the art was stellar as usual. So, well done, Jim Cheung!
Grade: D+
Some of my best recipe experiments are done at work. Nothing too extreme (OK, maybe the poached eggs over fried parmesan pollenta with a beef ragu was a bit too sophisticated for a group which thinks that relish and cheese on hot dogs is a step too far), but after a last year of cooking almost daily for a household of staff and clients I’ve discovered that I’m a much better cook than I was when I cooked intermittently for myself alone. I’m also discovering that I love sauces. They are complex and interesting and can be made from just about anything one has laying around the kitchen (if one is willing to get radical). I hadn’t thought much of sauciers in the past, but they intrigue me now. It probably started a few weeks back when a contestant on Top Chef served a “gastrique” with… I believe it was fish -and by the way, I’m I the only one who thought that this season’s Sarah Grueneberg suffered from Borderline Personality Disorder?- and, it being a term I hadn’t heard before, I went to Google and found how easy and versatile a gastrique is.
This, I thought, is something I have to try immediately. And so I did. My first was to make a tomato gastr… you know what? Let me back up for a minute. A gastrique (and I’m already getting worried about how many times I’ve used this word) is a syrup made from vinegar, sugar and some kind of fruit. Simple right? To the best of my reading there is no real recipe except that the amount of sugar may vary depending on what kind of dish the gastrique will be used on. Now, think about how many kinds of vinegar there are – white, apple cider, red white, champagne, et al. (I’ve even considered using the leftover brine from my pickled jalepenos) – times how many sugars – white, brown, raw, honey, molasses, beet, et al. – times fruits in the world. Holy. Infinite. Variety. Jump to the end: I made the best spaghetti sauce I’d made in my life.
Tonight’s dinner was pot roast (two for the price of one at Giant Eagle!), which I made the other night at work with probably the best gravy I’ve made in my life. I’ve always thought I was competent at gravies. No. It was self-deception. I have so much more to learn. What happened on my stove today was amazing, and it was confirmed by the honest looks of… shock on my brother’s and nephew’s faces. I can probably never make another half-assed meal again (not that I ever did before. Intentionally). Here’s what I did to make the gravy for the pot roast:
I rubbed salt, pepper, garlic powder and flour all over the pot roast before frying both side in hot olive oil. The roast was then transferred to my crock pot where a bed of celery and onion waited. The pan -the bottom of which was oil and crispy meaty bits- was returned to the flame, and I poured in white vinegar (maybe a cup and a half), balsamic vinegar (maybe a tablespoon), sugar (maybe 1/3 cup), and beef broth. Yeah, there’s supposed to be fruit, but I let go of that and aimed for more of a savory beef syrup. I scraped the bottom with a spatula and let the mixture simmer and reduce. Next, I added potatoes, carrots and a bit of beef broth to the crock pot. When the gastrique was sufficiently thick (a spoon dragged through the syrup leaves a trail for a second, but not so thick that it looks like caramel), I poured it into the crock pot, and let everything cook for about eight hours.
The gravy was made from a cup of the beef juices (at the end of cooking) and 1/4 cup of flour whisked together with some fresh-sliced garlic, salt, cracked pepper and a dash of soy sauce, then cooked over a medium flame for a few minutes until the mixture started to boil and thicken. I poured and additional 2 1/2 cups of the beef juices slowly into the flour mixture, taking time to let it thicken before adding more. Simple, right? The gravy had all the deep meaty flavors a gravy should have, but there was this wonderful, clean bite to it that was completely unexpected and wonderful. At the end, there was a subtle sweetness that wasn’t sugar, but beef. Beef syrup, right? Totally amazing.
I cannot wait to experiment more!
SHANE: “I though we were going further.”
RICK: “We are. 18 miles out.”
SHANE: “So why’d we stop?”
RICK: “I wanted to talk.”
ME: “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!”
Jesus, these people have more feelings to express than Slutty Talkhouse.
Goal: To examine moment when change was possible, but declined.
What to do: 1. Think of a time when you (or a character) made a negative decision: chose not to do something, go somewhere, not to act in a certain way.
2. Write it down precisely: where were you (or your character), what were you wearing, what did you say and do?
Alice LaPlante, I have gone with you on this journey to the Land of the Written Word for three chapters, but here in Chapter Four -where the hero of the story should begin to see the dark storm clouds of approaching conflict on the not-to-distant horizon- I find my conflict is with you. Here is sit in black socks that have been on my feet so long the bottoms are hard and shiny like Grandpa’s slippers, and a yellow jock strap, thankfully clean since no one likes rotten crotch, cursing you and your E.D.-the-moment-after-I-finish-sewing-this-poppet husband to spin off your axes and languish like the timeline in which I unhesitatingly replied “YES!” to your existential writing assignment as detailed above. For in the end, Dear Lady of the Book, my defiant “No!” flies at you like sneeze spray torpedoed from the puggish nose of Andrea Bocelli; I will not accept your invitation to change!
The salty bouquet of Fritos wafts across my laptop, heralding my dog’s arrival. One can almost sense the drool. Sudden and somewhat moist weight on my thigh draws my attention, and I see he is resting his alligator-sized head on my lap as if to say, “Give ‘er hell, Dad!” Oh, dear Hogan, it is given.
HE: “I saw your Mom last night and she was all, ‘Uh..uh… uh! Oh, yeah! More!’”
ME: “Weird, I saw your Mom last night eclipsing the moon because she’s a hideous troll.”
HE: “… That doesn’t make sense.”
ME: “Neither does your Mom. She doesn’t make change for nickles, either.”
HE (becoming a sensitive, hot-house flower): “OK, you’d better stop.”
ME: “That’s what I told your Mom cuz I didn’t want any of her diseases.”
HE: “I’m serious. This isn’t funny.”
ME: “That’s what I told your Mom when we aborted you.”
HE: “I’m 5′ tall; you’re 6’1″. Who cares if you’re 11 inches taller? come on! It’ll be fun!”
ME (thinking): “I hope we have sex tonight because there will be no second date.”
SHE: “Oh that Adele is just wonderful. Her voice! Ohhh, she sings just like a black.”
ME: “What. the actual. fuck?”
What I like most about this post is the I called the image above “Madge’s vadge”.
ME: I taught some co-workers “fuckery” today. They all loved it and said they were going to start using it.
BRO: How had they never hear “fuckery” before? How old are they?
ME: Our age. They’re sorta like Liz. You know, she’s on the Internet all the time IMing and playing games, but has no idea about Internet culture or how it works. It’s like going to the Apollo because they have your favorite beer on tap.
If anyone doubts that the religious, social and political climate in the United States has taken a turn towards the theocratic, you’re either not paying attention or you’re an idiot. Four Republcian presidential candidates were told by God to run for the highest governmental office in the land (hysterically enough to make one doubt the power or existence of an Omnipotent Divinity, all but one have vanished from the scene and he’s a few altos short of a choir (see below for his most recent vileness), and the remaining all have pledged their utmost to undo marriage equality, abortion, and porn. Catholic Churches, who take money from the public, are preaching that the government is engaging in religious oppression, when they are actually asking the Church to follow the law or stop sucking on the taxpayers’ teat. Some would rather cut services than have their beliefs sullied, which is respectable on one level, but on another, I know that priests eat lobster and shrimp (and I don’t mean just young boys’ toes), so cherry-picking which crass and irrelevant parts of the Bible are best to inflict on the 21st century is just hypocrisy at its most blatant.
None of that, however, approaches the eisegetical theocracy which Bishop Eddie Long envisions himself leading. Long is “Bishop” of the New Birth Missionary Baptist Church in Georgia, a megachurch that seats 10,000 God-botherers every Sunday (most interestingly, their “About Us” page reads like a financial statement and not an disclosure of their Christ-like works (I refuse to link to it)). He has also recently become famous for what many male religious authority figures famous for: boy-fucking. Yet for reasons I cannot fathom, bishop Long has not only been forgiven by his flock, but in a ceremony that both terrifies and nauseates, was also declared “King” by Rabbi Ralph Messer, who called Long “humble” (the almost-real hair tapestry on his head notwithstanding, one assumes) and also referred to the Torah mantle as a “foreskin”. If you have 15 minutes to kill, hate life, and think LSD is “meh”, watch and be prepared to have your mind blown:
If this looks only like a particularly vulgar piece of theatre to you, which it is, you’re missing the significance of being wrapped in the Torah and given the belt which binds the scroll: Eddie Long was just declared the Messiah. But what good has he done? What good to the world is he? And the answer is the same: “Nothing.” He has, however, stepped up the game of Race to Fundamentalism to a new and horrifying level. Presidential candidates (indeed, some Presidents, too) can only talk to God, but Long now is God. He has taken to himself the mantle and responsibility of Savior, and with a congregation of 250,000 to back that claim up (I assume the other 240,000 who were unable to get tickets to this performance are of fervor equal to those who were in attendance for this charlatan’s apotheosis), so where does that leave the other players on the board? Will Michelle Bachmann have to get Long on speed dial if she intends to keep her Christian cred? Will Long’s reign be a benign one or will his followers take to the streets to declare the return of Christ and cull away “non-believers”? Does lispy Tim Tebow have to pay Long royalties on every righteous touchdown? I see nothing good coming of this. But of late, I feel the same about any brand of theology: they will be the ruin of us all. Better to let something like The Second Coming happen -God dies and we’re left to our own devices and our own fates without anyone to shift blame towards- and forget about It on all levels. Whatever It might be, if It is, I cannot believe these people are Its Voice. I refuse to believe it. Is this the best It can muster as a representative? I hate these people. I hate them as they claim to speak for It. I hate them in Its Name. The idea of hating anyone makes me feel like I’ve failed as a human being, but these people push me past all endurance. Their crass, inhumane religion of sociopathy actually brings me to tears. I hear them and think, “Things would be so much better if we eradicated ourselves from the face of the planet!” They make me hate humanity.
And for that, they can go to Hell.
Then I think, “What if they do speak for It? What if their words are indeed an accurate expression of the Infinite’s Will and All?”
Well, then I will go to Hell. Willingly.
I haven’t been keeping up with my food documentation since a problematic… “thing” claimed an inordinate proportion of my psychic real estate. I am here today with a new recipe to try out and share with you, corporations and banks be damned.
This past Christmas I meant but didn’t get to making a pumpkin roll. Among all the other sweets and treats around the house, yet another pastry would have been gilding the lily and added even more holiday weight to my middle parts. But yesterday, I started craving waffles, and pumpkin waffles came to me for no reason I can account for. Unbidden, as it were. Then I began to think of a cream cheese filling and how wonderful that would be on a pumpkin waffle. And here we are.
Looking around for recipes, I found several (one at a blog dedicated solely to pumpkin waffles, sparsely populate, but there nonetheless), and settled on this one.
2 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
4 teaspoons baking powder
2 teaspoons ground cinnamon
1 teaspoon ground allspice
1 teaspoon ground ginger
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/4 cup packed brown sugar
1 cup canned pumpkin
2 cups milk
4 eggs, separated
1/4 cup butter, melted
The technique isn’t shocking: wet, dry, mix; stiff egg whites, fold. Even my nephew can do it (he got special dispensation form my brother to suspend homework duties to help me out in the kitchen).
The cream cheese topping, I think, is what makes the dish though my brother who passed on it says the waffles were perfectly fine sans. I upped the butter and reduced the sugar from a traditional filling for pumpkin roll thusly:
8 ounces cream cheese, softened
8 tablespoons butter, softened
1/4 cup powdered sugar
1/2 teaspoon Vanilla
Whipped.
Of course, there has to be meat. Two kinds.
I have a waffle iron that I got from my Mom when I was… probably 16. It’s the same kind my Grandma made waffles for me on (accompanied by Smith’s hot dogs). It got pulled off the shelf tonight as it is about every other month. It is the item to which I attach more sentimentality than anything else I own. Someday, there may be a very awkward conversation between my future ex-husband and myself about which means more to me: his ring or my waffle iron. Someday.
However, for now nothing was left but to plate and eat.
And it was goooooooooooooooooooooooooood! D told me, “I’m going to open a restaurant and the menu will have all the things you taught me to cook on them, and will say, ‘Recipes from my Uncle Sean!’” Awwwh!
My BFF and I used to have Saturday night Dinner & a Movie events about twice a month. For a while there, we we delving into film noir, partially because of our love for Bette Davis’ Dark Victory, but it was the Alamo Drafthouse‘s Mildred Pierce Pie Social that got us all a’dither for the bad gals and hapless dupes of the genre.
“Double Indemnity” was a classic less than five minutes after popping it into the DVD player. Beyond seeing Fed MacMurray, who is best known for his roles as the bland-but-caring Dad in “My Three Sons” and the eponymous role in The Absent-Minded Professor, doing his best up-hill acting as a guarded-but-horny insurance salesman and calling chicks “Baby”, meaty historical tidbits like his voice-over narration of an in-person call to a client in the Hollywood Hills saying that a house up there, “[p]robably set someone back $30,000″ make the film a priceless and gobsmacking watch.
Double Indemnity is also up to its black and white tuchas in paraprosdokians, sentences that end in unexpected and therefore funny ways. In a scene between MacMurray’s best friend and an insurance investigator, they quip:
Barton: Have you made up your mind?
Jackson: Mr. Keyes, I’m a Medford man – Medford, Oregon. Up in Medford, we take our time making up our minds.
Barton: Well, we’re not in Medford now, we’re in a hurry.
It’s difficult to watch a movie as brilliant as this one and not come away with a few good paraprosdokians of one’s own. After watching the climatic scene:
I commented, “Love means not getting off the second shot.” Yes, I am that witty. It’s why I get paid the mediocre bucks.
More paraprosdokians can be found here. I’ll bet you recognize several.
You know me; I like to shop locally and keep small businesses afloat rather than keep CEOs in vacation homes and andriod mistresses. I only ask that businesses be worthy of my support.
Monday was the last day for one of my staff members, Alex. Alex is a really good kid and a dedicated worker who with some more job and life experiences would be a benefit to any organization he worked for. I’d have liked to see him stay on for a while longer, but there was never a chance working in a group home could compete with his dream of going to the police academy coming true. When a staff member leaves, or if I owe someone for a favor, I go to International Bakery and get some sweetie to pass along -and let me say how fantastic the sweets at IB are; Magnolia Bakery isn’t worthy enough to flour IB’s cutting boards- because I find such treats always put the recipient more in debt to me than I was to them. Or they just, you know, think I was a good supervisor. Which I try to be. However, I was running late on my errands and didn’t have time to cross town to get to IB, and then remembered a bakery next to my favorite Chinese restaurant (Golden Wok, if you’re ever in Erie) and made my way there.
How a place with a name as adorable as Tasty Bakes could be run by such a shrew is going to take some cogitation on my part to answer.
As I approached the door, I saw the neon OPEN sign was not lit, but there were people inside. I hesitated for a moment, checked the hours posted on the door, and based on the information listed there, decided I could go in. The bell jangled and four people squished around a pub table that wouldn’t have seated one comfortably did nothing except keep talking. This was obviously a staff meeting. A woman with a squat forest green chef’s hat, a calculator and notepad positioned in front of her I could tell she was in charge because her energy felt like reins directing the room. She was also the only one not pressed against a wall or refrigerator. I can understand the idea of wanting a place for people to sit down and enjoy a scone (if they had scones, but I’ll get to that), but given the space restrictions, it would have either been an intimate scone or a lonely one.
There were no brownies. No blondies. No cupcakes. No fabulous fruit tarts. In fact, the whole display case was rather impoverished of selection – a few cookies, slices of cakes, and some sad cream puffs, like a housing development that boasted only a model and wide swaths of mud between one or two finished homes. Ultimately, nothing I wanted and not enough of any one product to present to Alex and the guys at the house and the rest of the staff. I reminded myself I was short on time and this was my only choice. I settled on the cream puffs, of which there were three.
In the time it took me to absorb all this information, no one had acknowledge my presence, whether to say, “Someone will be right with you!” or “I’m sorry, we’re closed right now.” The meeting continued apace and I floundered for an exit line. Stay and hope there would be a break or walk out an feel like an asshole? The feeling-like-an-asshole thing should not have been something I took upon myself since I was not behaving outside of acceptable social norms. In fact, I was being subjected to a mysterious, anti-customer silence which still boggles.
After two minutes of unwelcoming neglect, a man came form the back of the store and asked me if there was anything he could get me. I asked him if he had anymore cream puffs. He thought for a moments, then said, “Let me ask.” and walked over to interrupt the meeting. “Excuse me. Are there more cream puffs beside the ones on display?”
Without even looking at her employee, Ms. Chef’s Hat tersely replied, “Isn’t there a refrigerator you could be checking?”
And I left. I went to International Bakery, where I wanted to go in the first place, and accepted that I would be late. I knew, however, that the cupcakes I was buying would mitigate any possible complaints. Perhaps it’s endemic to Erie, where I hear most small business owners are either tertiary syphillis-levels of unreasonable or just straight up sociopaths, but I never encountered it in Austin (if indeed any business in Austin can be classified as “small”). How do businesses run as such survive? Things like this make me think I could run a business and do well at it. I just need to figure what that business would be: sandwich cart? Noodle bowl truck? Whatever it is, come support me! I swear I’ll at least make eye contact with you!
The offending profiterole
The early settlers of Erie, PA had little to worry about from the American Indians living there. By the time the French had declared the area their property, the Erie Peoples had already lost a war with the Iriquois Nation, its members killed or dispersed to find haven with neighboring tribes. Whatever remnants were left behind would have gone mostly unnoticed by the French, who busied themselves building forts and watchtowers to defend their landhold against the British in the, how I wish I were kidding, Beaver Fur War. When the War was over and a town started to grown from the settlement, marked, unmarked and disappeared graves of Native peoples gave way to factories and stores and houses and backyards and, of course, churches and bars. Locals joke that after killing someone in a bar fight, you can cross the street for absolution. The real punchline is that you’d most likely only have to cross the bar.
People without imagination nor humor often refer to “Eerie, PA” without knowing that the dead lay everywhere citizens step. Nor do they know that in the weeks after the Autumnal Equinox as nights grow longer and days grow colder how werewolves pass through the area on their way to winter haunts. People who unluckily meet the packs have to beg the Cousins for the lives and make bloody promises to keep their paths a secret. The oldest cemetery, in the center of town, embowers a crypt in which a vampire is said to sleep. It can easily be spotted by the tangle of spray-painted occult symbols (some of which are real) and scorch marks inflicted by a zealous believer that mar its marble walls. Ask locals about the tall man in the black overcoat who walks the road between Waterford and Edinboro, and they’ll tell you how he vanishes as soon as you drive past him. And though the gypsies have long since abandoned Erie and Axe Murder Hollow has been built over by developers, the druids are still around.
Number of siblings I have… 1
How many grandparents are still alive… 0
How many of my parents are still alive… 1
How many nephews I have… 1
How many dogs I’ve had… 2
How many cats I’ve had… 6
How many hamsters I’ve had… 3
Number of serious boyfriends I’ve had… 7
Average length of serious relationships… 9.1 months
Number of times I’ve been in love… 3
How many terabytes of porn I’ve downloaded in four years… 1.3
Number of times I’ve read The Mists of Avalon… 8
Number of times I’ve watched Zorro, the Gay Blade… 46
Number of times I’ve watched Emmet Otter’s Jug-band Christmas… 104
Number of times I’ve watched Forrest Gump… 1
Number of times I’ve watched American Beauty… 0
How many jobs I’ve had since age 15… 26
How many cities I’ve lived in… 8
How many states I’ve lived in… 6
How many places (houses, dorms, apartments) I’ve lived in… 21
How many countries I’ve visited… 7
How many languages I’m fluent in… 2
Additional languages I’ve been exposed to but am not fluent in… 4
How many video game systems I’ve owned… 5
Current Xbox gamer points… 3365
Apparently, when the Phoenix returns to the Marvel Universe this Spring, it will be targeting a character no one could have foreseen.
As the Phoenix Force continues its crash course towards Earth during the blockbuster comic event of the year, Avengers Vs. X-Men, Iron Fist learns that he has a shocking connection to the all-powerful embodiment of rebirth and destruction!
Iron Fist has a connection to the Phoenix? OK. Did he brush past her to get to the men’s room in a crowded discotheque once? Was he dipping his pen in the cosmic ink? Has… I can’t go on with this. Is there anyone in the Marvel Universe the Phoenix Force hasn’t tried to merge with? Because Iron Fist is just popcorn duds at the bottom of the bowl.
And remember, when you merge with a blowsy cosmic entity, you’re merging with every other person that cosmic entity has merged with. Dirty, dirty whore.
UPDATE: Oh! It’s the sash, isn’t it?
[Source]
My grandmother taught me… don’t doubt children who see things.
There was the stump of an apple tree in my grandparents’ backyard that was quite old and soft in the center. My brother and I -sometimes our cousins when they were visiting as well- would use it as a table or as a ersatz trampoline or a place to put our feet and count off who was It with rounds and rounds of King Sayer. In my mind, the stump was roughly the diameter of a redwood, knowing that it wasn’t in actuality any bigger than a large pizza. It had as many uses as we had ideas to task it with, then I got the idea to pick away the rotting center to make a fishbowl.
And that’s when things got scary.
As I was removing wood chips from the stump and tossing them to the ground, I uncovered part of something that -from what I could tell- looked like a toy bee, like the center spinner on a See n’ Say. I remember thinking, “How did a toy get in here? And who could have done it? Did they know I would find it? Is it for me? Oh, boy!” I started to sweep away the debris to get to the toy, but when I touched it -as plasticy shiny as it was, it was warm to my touch. And then it stirred and began to hum, buzzing like a real bee, but too large and too not natural. I waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaailed in that high-pitched screech that terrified five-year-old boys will later deny they can do when they turn seven. And ran in the house to my Grandma, who was struggling to get up from her place on the white living room couch. I threw my arms around Grandma’s waist and we toppled back to the couch. I blubbered out my story as best I could, but it was no more coherent than, “Something… *sniff* in the stump… it… it.. it BWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!”
My Grandma put her hands on my head and called out, “Mike! Michael!” My Grandpa came from upstairs. “Mike, get rid of that stump in the yard. Now!” He didn’t ask why or what I was crying about or anything. Grandma was in earnest He went down to his basement, got his axe, and destroyed the stump. I could see him chopping out the back from my Grandma’s lap. She had no reason to accept what I had said, had tried to say, but she did. She took action because she believed I was telling the truth and because she loved me. There’s really nothing in the world that matters so much to a child.
I’m a writer who doesn’t know how to write.
I still can’t fully explain the difference between Constructivism, Structuralism, and Post-modernism, and now – God, help me – there’s the New Sincerity to worry about.
I know how a story is supposed to go, and sometimes follow the “supposed to” too slavishly.
I have a better-than-average vocabulary, but often fall back on breezier words like “like”, “nuh-uh”, and “srsly”.
I can spot a theme in someone else’s work at 50 paces, but get lost exploring mine.
I think about my own writing a lot and how to improve, write more, write wider, but I don’t do much about it because I’m the only voice in my head and it’s hard to grow in an echo chamber.
I’ve been a lucky amateur so far, but if I ever want to be a better-than-Twilight writer (“better” in the literary sense, not in the financial success sense, however nice that would be), something had to happen.
And it did: I’m part of a writers’ group now, which may be the most difficult thing I’ve done in quite some time. My assignment from my peers, based on a writing sample is to “[w]rite about the things that you fear most. Be intimidated by the subject that you are writing about. Go outside of your comfort zone and explore the emotions/feelings/memories that you’ve maybe ignored or hidden.”
Right. That is so easy for me to do. Writers are all about putting themselves out there to be better writers. Nothing is hidden. Nothing is out-of-bounds. That’s me.
Ha. No, it’s not.
Let me tell you a story.
When I was a junior at IUP, I decided to spend the summer working at school rather than come home because I would be closer to my boyfriend at the time and we could spend the summer being in love and sickening our friends. The place I had been living was not available for the summer, and truth be told, I was going to leave anyway and find my first on-my-own apartment. Like any college town, Indiana had dozens of postings for summer sublets with the possibility of longer leases in the Fall. I pulled I don’t know how many tabs and left messages for all of them to have no one call me back. here’s what I said, “Hi! My name is Sean McGath and I’m calling about the room for rent. I can provide references if you need them, and I am going to tell you up front that I’m gay and have a boyfriend. I just want to be up front about that before we get too far into this process. I also want to tell you that we’re not screamers, so you’ll never know when we fuck. My number is XXX-XXXX. Thanks!”
Yes, I was that gay guy.
I am no longer that gay guy. I’m not even that guy anymore. By design. Yes, I was being honest and out there and truthful. But can you see where I went a step too far? I did, too. Not immediately, but eventually, the forthrightness and bluntness and words that would gush out of me like water from a firehose were crimped to a trickle. Now, I am demonstrative, not verbal. Putting actual feelings down on paper or across electrons is unseemly because it assumes that they are fit for the public to see or hear about and discuss. Or that anyone would even care to. I have probably lost a lot of dates because of this. Not for lack of trying. If you look at the post I made about a guy I have a crush on, it’s obvious I’m floundering to say something important and to say it right; the cracks in the crust that the words fall into to be dissolved in the lava below are huge and embarrassing.
Now I am compelled to write about me, which is something I have not wanted to do for a long time. And it’s going to suck. And my entries on this site are going to be wretched (maybe someone will even have the nerve to post and tell me so), but I’m going to do this for me. And my future millions. Which I’ll use to buy my family something pretty. But I’m not telling you what.
Yes, this is a late-in-coming post, but I can’t not share it with you even if Christmas is a month gone.
You’re no doubt looking at the picture above and wondering where you too can get a zombie cap just like the one pictured. You can’t. At least, not commercially. And just not yet. This was created by Season Crannell and Chris Dye for me to give to my nephew for Christmas. I wanted something unique to give him, something that I knew none of his other friends would have. I told them this idea I had for a cap that was both cute and horrifying (and warm, of course), and they delivered in a big way. I think it needs to be on Etsy and a million need to be sold.
It is a great gift for any holiday. And it is the perfect companion to a Zombie Meal Time t-shirt.
Talking to a friend today, he brought up this series of posts – my Adventures in Grindr. Without really hearing his question (I know there was one), I replied, “What adventures? Maybe if Erie were a bigger town there’d be adventures, but as it stands, I have yet to hook up through Grindr. Mostly I post about Grindr because I get ridiculous conversations I can blog about.” And to prove my point I offer you the above chat. Hi-lar-ee-ous, right? Do you think William realizes he’s got getting naked with me? Probably not. I know there are some straight people who are too stupid to breed, but there are some gay guys who are too stupid to bed.
That aside, I want to talk about my friend. He’s definitely not too stupid to bed. Probably too cute not to. He lives nowhere near me, and though we’ve tried to meet, it hasn’t happened yet for one reason or another (believe me, we’ve tried and are continuing to try). I suspect he’d be more than just some guy. And talking about sex in the way of random, casual partners with someone I like seems like a good idea. I obviously can’t back away from previous posts -nor should I, nor do I want to- like I told my friend, we all come with histories attached and I’d like to know his someday. I mean, not on the first date or anything, because that would be a little too much, and I’d like to know him in the present instead of digging into his past and maybe not liking what I see there because it reminds me of things I don’t like about my past.
Or something like that.
Penises.
Over the last few weeks, I’ve been corresponding with a gentleman who saw the Weird City Theatre production of my “Giants in Those Days” way back in July, 2010 (several times, apparently), which is kind of amazing because to the best of my understanding no one saw it (though I was told a fascinating rumor that Mary Jo Pehl came to a performance (I suspect she was probably alone in the auditorium)). One of his reasons for writing was to he ask me for a copy of the script, which I at first demurred to do because I more than anyone realize the raw nature of the script and the too-serious tact of the production, and while the horse has already jumped the fence (and more than likely dead from some Wildfire-like accident), but eventually sent him a DOC copy of. I also hinted that there was a hardback version of the script, but it was a one-shot deal I secured for myself so I could had a semi-permanent copy to eviscerate at my leisure. He asked if there were a way for him to get a copy as well, so I contacted Ka-Blam and it became available today.
As chance to experiment in live theatre, there has been no parallel. As a work of mine, there are some really excellent moments and characters that I love. As a classic for the ages, well… Going back to the above said evisceration, I’ve thoroughly gutted the play and have started re-writing Act One as more of a “Super Friends”-type show that will not only have educational PSAs and crafts, but high adventure, dangerous traps, clumsy kid sidekicks, Miss Dawna’s bukkake obsession and other more contemporary superheroic foibles. Act Three will probably stand as is. Maybe.
