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.
I was so flattered when, just the other night, the little green Jedi Master who stole my heart back in 1981 returned the favor by trying to steal into my pants. What a dream come true to bag a hero of such renown! Yeah, the age difference threw me for a second, but then I thought, “He could be one of those generous older men and if I play my cards right I can parley meaningless sex into a private pleasure asteroid of my own where I can build an exclusive (yet terribly cute) bed & breakfasts that caters to intergalactic movers and shakers who need some away time from the hassles of fighting an oppressive government and its instruments and agents of hegemony.” Ah, but his age was just the first drip in a cascade of worries that plague any potential hookup. Like most guys on Grindr, I worry about, you know, “satisfaction”. Sure, he’s hell against a Sith Lord, but can he use the force of his love to send me to this side of the galaxy and back? A Samson on the field, a Sleeping Beauty in the bedroom; it could happen. What about size? He’s like, 2’5″ or something, right? Then I remembered an expression in ASL:
And I decided to take the chance.
Press play. Don’t look away.
Did you manage to make it all the way through? How high had your shoulders crawled up the side of your head in a futile attempt to escape the horror? Were there tears? A sudden, jarring flashback to your high school piano recital when you stood up to bow and had an erection? Then, congratulations, you have just experienced “fremdschämen”, or “contact embarrassment”. Start committing this word to memory, because with all the mid-season replacement shows coming up, you’ll have a plethora of opportunities to whip it out and impress your friends with your fer’rin’ lenggage skills.
Also, Merlin return to SyFy this Friday.
How is it possible we have gone without this word in the English language for so long? Just last week I was wandering around the house eating old bits of cheese and floppy celery and frost-burnt waffles because I was in a funk. Who hasn’t had a bad day (or three) and turned to food to feel better?
Google Images: ruining diets since 2001
“Kummerspeck” (literally “grief bacon”, which is the coolest etymology next to disaster‘s) is the weight I have to work off that I gain during said funk while I still feel strongly about keeping my New Year’s resolutions. Thank you, Germany!
Tradition demands that pork and sauerkraut be had on New Year’s Day, and while not a fan of sauerkraut in its unadulterated form, I do love a good pork roast. Thanks to the helpful suggestions of some Facebook friends, I perforated the pig in thirty or so places and stuffed each well with a clove or two of garlic. The whole hog was then marinated overnight (I read that marinating up to three days is desirable, which I am truly curious about and will try the next time I don’t wait until the day before to make dinner) in chipotle and cider vinegar. Roasting started at 7:30 AM at 500° for thirty minutes and continued at 225° for 10 hours. The roast flaked apart when barley touched by a fork, and the crackling on top was crunchy crunchy.
Of course, I pulled out the pierogies I made earlier in the Fall for a side (Saint Joseph over a sawhorse, were they good!)…
…and sauerkraut simmered in beef broth for good luck and less gassiness.
I hope all your dinners this year will be delicious and plentiful, and may others be part of your bounty.
Justice League #4
Oh, sweet untouched Mary on assback, the testosterone! Still! Four issues in and just glancing at the cover gets me hard with visions of high school locker room posturing and towel snapping! I suppose there is something to be said about having reprehensible characters lead a story – it is what drove Married with Children to be so popular, to say nothing of 16 and Pregnant or It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia or Seinfeld. Or Glee, for that matter. But the characters should at least be intriguing, draw us in, and maybe pause for a moment to let us in on the adventure. But so far, this maiden arc of Justice League is the comic book equivalent of Rush Hour: lots of noise but not one inward glace or moment of calm, rational discussion.
Superman has become anti-establishment, but is he still a hero of the people? Morrison has Army General Lane coming to the realization that not only has he been manipulated into hating Superman by Lex Luthor, but also that superman is the only one who can save his daughter from being collected by Brainiac. Jump ahead to JL times and Superman still distrusts the government. It will be interesting to see how these stories are bridged.
Wonder Woman doesn’t know ice cream, but can tell when someone’s flesh has been fused to cybernetic armor.
Flash is the adult child of an alcoholic, and so far can sing one note.
Batman wants to be in charge. And while he’s always kept the Batman Family in line under his benevolent hegemony, I can’t see him wanting to wrangle strangers into working for him, especially when, as a Loner of the Night, he could just as easily walk away. Unless he’s just pissing up a rope to not lose face in front of the other males of the JL which is also not his style. He knows he’s better.
Aquaman is King of Atlantis and wants to be King of Total Strangers Whom He Just Met and also wears flashy jewelry. And still is just some guy who talks to fish. The trident is nice, though. Phallic. Like his glans-shaped belt buckle.
Green Lantern is still playing “What are Your Powers?” though we find out in an unguarded moment -of truth, misogyny, and paranoia- that his bravado is as blustery as March in Chicago. And, for me, GL is the new JL writ small. Geoff Johns has given us Ryan Reynolds’ version of GL, but without the self-confidence and understanding of what a hero is that Reynolds managed to tweak out of his character by the end of the movie. I’ve never found (classic) Hal Jordan’s GL to be all that interesting (outside of Darwyn Cooke’s The New Frontier) because he’s always been so noble and good. And boring. My knowledge is sketchy after that. I know he was Parallax for a while and then dead and then back again for Blackest Night. And as much as I liked BN, Hal’s story didn’t intrigue me as much as, for example, Mogo’s did. Needless to say, the prospect of a GL movie didn’t tantalize me at all. When I finally did see it (it was the nephew’s idea), I was surprised that the most important element of Hal’s being chosen as a Green Lantern -his innate courage- was dismissed in favor of him being a man-child womanizer. But then he evolved. And while it wasn’t perfect, I went along with it and found some enjoyment in that iteration.
And perhaps this evolution will come to the JL membership in future issues. This is, after all, a glimpse into the past when there was no JL and anti-hero sentiment was at an all-time high (which really makes one wonder what motivates Batman and Superman to don costumes and fight crime). Perhaps there will be time for character development later. Perhaps I’ll revisit around issue 12 when, no doubt, someone else will be writing this series.
Good help is so hard to find.
Grade: D
Justice League Dark #4
I really can’t believe Madame Xanadu was cancelled and an alternate John Constantine was created to get this title out on the market. Matt Wagner’s MX was an excellent tour-of-the-ages that connected the dots between a hero from a lost kingdom to the early Golden Age of superheroes, charming, creative and had an all too brief life. And while I’m not a die-hard Hellblazer reader, I know who Constantine is and the dew stories I’ve read were all top-notch. I just don’t see him as being part of a team for a long period of time, but that’s just me. But Justice League Dark… What perplexes me is that the title has all the elements I love in fiction writing – good characters (though I know very little about Shade, the Changing Man), magic (magic is always wonderful), underdogs trying to beat impossible odds (like The Mighty Ducks), groovy, psychedelic art with a rotoscope realism, a dense story that requires some thought to put it all together, but it all totals out to bad hash. I wish I knew why.
Grade: C+
Wonder Woman #4
I disagree with Azzarello and Chiang’s announcement that their run on Wonder Woman will be a horror story. There are no elements of horror that I recognize in the story beyond (stretching here) encounters with the supernatural, but I would call this “mythology” and not “horror”. Maybe I’m wrong. Feel free to say so. Which is not to say that I’m not enjoying the series because I am. It’s just not horror.
What I do read in the title is a pagan Wonder Woman. And there could be a fearful element in that. There is something terrifying about ancient religions (to be fair, there’s something terrifying about modern religions) and how far removed they are from the clean (read “sanitized”) places of worship people flock to these days. The last time I attended Mass, there was no awe in the pews. No reverence for Transubstantiation. No resigned dismay to ingesting the Body and Blood. No fear that God was present and maybe a little miffed about the horrible things done in Its name. Really, Church is for pussies, or at least people who would prefer to not think of the Infinite as something that would make them void their bowels when confronted by it. Pagans knew how to worship, and that was through fear-inspired servitude. Like the Amazons do. Azzarello and Chiang have stripped the marble and ruffle-y robes and Escher-esque architecture away from the Greek Gods and made them dirty, blood-covered brutes, which is horror of a sort, I suppose. It works. The Gods are to be feared. Ask Hippolyta. Oh, wait. You can’t.
While Diana is now a demi-goddess by heritage (and I have my own misgivings about what this does for Diana’s uniqueness since Zeus was the Johnny Appleseed of his day -except that instead of appleseeds he spread it was his godly sperm and instead of fertile land it was any woman within squirting distance), she doesn’t have a familial connection to the Gods, though she is obviously friends with Hermes. She could have been friends with Strife as well -Lord knows Strife was trying to get in Diana’s Good Books even after causing the deaths of who knows how many Amazons- but only ended up making another enemy. However, spending time with her new family brings Diana to the conclusion some people never learn: family is the people you go home to. Which brings us to the most frightful page of the issue.
Finally, while Chiang’s art is growing on me, his rendition of women in armor is still a visual stile. Diana in street clothes is lithe and powerful-looking almost like a dancer; Diana in costume is blocky and has Dot Marie Jones shoulders. She almost looks like Futura from “Metropolis”.
Even has the same fussy lines. Ah, well. A minor concern.
Grade: B+
Avengers: The Children’s Crusade #8
Yeah, yeah. Late again.
Yeah, yeah. Great writing.
Yeah, yeah. Fantastic art.
Now that all that is out of the way, let’s talk about absolution. A terribly Catholic notion, absolution is granted when a person is truly sorry for his or her sins and asks the Divine to wipe the slate clean and return one to a state of grace. It’s a step above the passive-aggressive bumper sticker theology of “Christians aren’t perfect, just forgiven,” because one has to be sorry for being an asshole and not just assume that belief in Jesus’ warm, loving forgiveness is enough.
Part of The Children’s Crusade is about the Scarlet Witch’s search for absolution, as an Avenger, as a mother, as a person. But not everyone is willing to give her that so easily; the X-Men and the Avengers are on the scene to … do … something (even Scott Summers isn’t sure (or is unwilling to explain himself) how Wanda should be punished for purging mutantkind from the human race), but they are all in agreement that punishment is required.
And then Wiccan -who has the greatest sense of family and love than any other character in the Marvel Universe outside of Jean Grey- rises to his mother’s defense (as she will not defend herself) and points out that The X-Men now keep company with Magneto and Emma Frost -murderers themselves- and that The Avengers themselves have ex-criminals in their ranks. It’s a beautiful scene because all the elements are there – the guilty whose conscience demands she atone for her sins, her accusers who are blind to their hypocrisy, and her defender who sees the world as a place where fairness and justice are attainable.
And then God -a Life Force imbued Victor von Doom- arrives to make everything OK.
Not really.
What he does, in fact, is destroy the Scarlet Witch’s need for absolution by saying that it was he who excised the X-factor from the human genome, not Wanda. And right out the window with the baby went the entire passion play that has been building from issue one. The Scarlet Witch is no longer a tragic figure who knows that her hamartia is due her, but merely a weak woman, used (in ways yet to be explained) by Doom (for reason yet to be explained). And the choice grates. Wanda was poised to be a great hero, and is now instead just as damaged and thoughtlessly reactionary as she was back in House of M.
And to distract readers from this terrible revelation, there are two almost-deaths.
Not my favorite chapter in this otherwise great (though needlessly protracted) mini-series.
Grade: C
Invincible #86
“[Humans]‘re assholes.” AAAH, Mr. Kirkman! What a talent for understatement you have! Let me correct that for you: “Everyone is an asshole.” Some people are just better at rationalizing it. (I’m looking at you, Allen and Roger.)
Grade: B
Raptor Jesus sends you his toothy blessings.
[via Scott McGrath]
A holiday tradition that I have never partaken in until Sprout decided that this is the way we were going to go this year is the gingerbread man. As such, I was faced with sorting through literally thousands of recipes that I had no way to verify or put together in my head. Not being a baker, I can’t look at a cookie recipe and say, “Yes, I know what this will do and it will taste wonderful!” The function and ratios of baking powder and baking soda still confuse the hell out of me. To circumvent possible disaster, I went with a Paula Deen recipe. According to Food Network Humor, she’s a soulless homunculous, a deep-fried fiend in brown butter sauce, but she seems to know her way around sugar and fat, so why not?
Not bad, overall. I think they need more zip, though. Maybe more ginger?
The icing, while delicious, was too difficult to squeeze out of a pastry bag. and by “difficult”, I mean “copiously dribbled like a longshoreman after a week of leave.” It did dry solid and shiny, though, which makes the cookies look great, but I need a different recipe by next year. Any advice?
There was an excellent restaurant in Erie ages ago where my family used to go at least twice a month for pub grub and bonding time: The Station Restaurant featuring Oscar’s Pub. The Station still exists, but as a dinner theatre (badly in need of new roofing and exterior paint), as does Oscar’s Pub, still managed/owned by the same guy from the 80′s (and they say diversification is good for business). However, neither of the current iterations offer the best item that graced the original Oscar’s menu: sauerkraut balls. I’ve asked around and no one outside of this area of the country has heard of them, let alone tried one. Trust me, though; they are delicious! They are, in essence, Reuben sandwiches that have been balled and deep fried. Served with a side of cocktail sauce, I could eat a few dozen on my own. And since I’m on a regional foods kick, making sauerkraut balls for the holidays seems like it would solve a lot of problems, the biggest one being not having sauerkraut balls.
I also have to mention a restaurant just down the road that has the best Reubens in Erie (voted, vetted, and personally experienced): McGarrey’s. They add a slice of cream cheese while grilling their sandwiches, so the inside has this gushy creaminess that is just spectacular. Of course, my sauerkraut balls would have to have cream cheese in them as well. When is dairy ever not an option?
I looked around the net, and there were so many variations on the recipe -I even found one in my Mom’s ancient Betty Crocker cookbook (called “Reuben Balls”)- that I decided to cannibalize from a few and see what happened. The texture of the balls that I remember was akin to a hush puppy, but not mealy as they can sometimes be, so I wanted to keep any breading/filler to a minimum. Here’s what I came up with:
32 oz. sauerkraut
beef stock
1 lb. corned beef
8 oz. cream cheese
1/2 cup breadcrumbs
salt and pepper
garlic powder
onion powder
2 eggs
additional flour, eggs, and breadcrumbs for breading
In order to infuse the balls with more beef flavor (yeah, yeah; I can see how that might read in a way that would make someone with a puerile mind think of an ejaculating penis), I simmered the sauerkraut in the beef stock for two hours, then drained away as much juice as I could with a colander and paper towels. The kraut shouldn’t be bone dry; a little moisture is fine. It just shouldn’t be swimming in jus. Cool until easy to handle with your hands.
Next, I chopped the corned beef and sauerkraut to a fine consistency. Since sauerkraut balls are an appetizer, the meat and veg inside shouldn’t be chunky. In other words: no big pieces!
I should probably stop here and say that this is not baking. Baking requires painstaking measurements and anal-retentive consistency to result in a final, edible product. Cooking is more fast and loose, but that being said, I still want my final product to have a certain texture and taste. Right now, I’m guessing about how the final product will turn out. Yeah, it’ll taste good (how could it not?), but is it the perfect replica of the snack I remember? We’ll see. Part of what I want to do with the blog (part of the blog; I’m supposed to be writing about writing) is to document what I do in the kitchen so I can learn from my mistakes and do better the next time.
The corned beef, sauerkraut and cream cheese were then put in a pot to allow the cheese to melt. The breadcrumbs and seasonings came next and the whole concoction was cooked for no more than 15 minutes (or long enough to develop a thickish consistency to the concoction plus a few minutes more to let all the tastes marry). The pot was removed from the heat and allowed to cool. When at room temperature, I added the eggs, then moved the pot to the refrigerator to set up.
I let the batter rest for about an hour until it was firm enough to shape into balls. Freezing may be another option if one is in a hurry.
The balls were then breaded (that is, floured, egged, then rolled in breadcrumbs), which I think is just fun.
Then fried.
Drained.
And enjoyed.
The overall product was good, but the texture was more like a croquette than a hush puppy. The center was very creamy, much moreso than I wanted it to be. Next time, I think an additional 1/2 cup of flour and more breadcrumbs may not go wrong. And, darn it, there was probably too much cream cheese. I also think the corned beef and sauerkraut should be sent through my food processor next time (sadly, my bowl and broken and the replacement didn’t allow the lid to sit in place, damn Hamilton Beach). Again, it was a croquette-y texture instead of a more homogeneous hush puppy. The taste, however, was well-layered. The normally pungent sauerkraut was nicely softened with the beef broth and contrasted well with the salty corned beef. Next time they’ll be better!
Anything anyone would like to add?
This is from my brother, who enjoys making up words that can be used in a dissertation. Damn his organized mind!
Para-operational Irony – From para [par-, prefix meaning "alongside, beyond, altered, contrary"], operation ["action, performance, work" from O.Fr. operacion, from L. operationem "a working, operation"; cf. Gk. dramatos "play, action, deed"]
The device of withholding from the spectator or audience items of information such that the spectator or audience are placed on a par with characters who are confused, bewildered, hoodwinked or perceptually hobbled.
Season 5 of House, M.D. sees the title character suffering from complex hallucinations, decreasing mental facility and increasing psychosomatic pain. The character struggles to diagnose himself and make sense of his disorders to no avail. The viewing audience is forced to make sense of directorial choices and cinematographic style–both radically different from previous seasons–amid ambiguous plot lines which leave the audience with a sense of discontinuity similar to that experienced by the series’ main character.
Adam4adam is a gay dating website much like some prostitute you just met on lower Peach Street is your girlfriend. Not to be crass, but beating around the bush (so to speak) does no one any good. It is similar to Grindr, which I’ve written about, but without all that handy portability. Most guys there prefer not to hit up by strangers with tired lines like “‘Sup?” or “UR hawt!” or “Pardon me, good sirrah. Might I steal a moment of your time to extend an invitation to my bedroom where I shall throw your legs up behind your ears and ravage your chocolate pucker till the morning light doth glow dimly on the horizon?”. No, no, it’s all about being real, or at least having a memorable opening line.
Which bring us to thkdk4u:
from his description, he possesses the one outstanding quality I look for in a guy: online pictures of his unit, which his ad informs me is not only formidable, but also wielded masterfully. I approached him in a way that I felt was humorous and slightly self-deprecating, having learned from io9 is a way to get people to like you. However, it looks like io9 may have been off the mark this time (click for the legible version):
Sadly (for both of us, I think), I probably won’t hear back from him. Unless I do. Come back for updates!
I didn’t start as a writer; I started as an English teacher, teaching Deaf kids how to read and write a language they had never heard and whose grammar drives native users to herpes outbreaks. Writing came because… well, first because I had been writing on and off for several years, and second because I had to – no sense in buying into the “those who can’t” stereotype.
The first question is always “What to write about?”.
Buffy the Vampire Slayer kept me from being very sad during grad school when I discovered the show after being dumped by a guy who had a really, really odd penis. His penis has nothing to do with my writing, but I throw it out there in case he reads my blog. He knows who he is. Ayway, what would an aspiring writer not like about tackling a Buffy episode? That was how I came up with What Are Friends For?. it’s old and dusty and would probably be a good 30 minute episode (if Buffy were still up and running. Tara, too.), but it was my first modern attempt to write.
Hope you find it amusing.
Eugene Delgaudio of Public Advocate of the United States -I offer this link only for completeness, not as a suggestion that you follow it, unless you want to sign up for his email newsletter, which is always entertaining and can be deleted easily even if the bafflement lingers- wants Catholics who live in fear of roving gangs of lesbians, glitter queens, and teh buttsecks to send him money to… do… something. Something Christian-y, I’m sure, like burning witches at the stake or compelling Jews to accept Christ into their greedy hearts. You know, what Jesus preached about, ideals that Catholics live by even today. Catholics who are apparently more gullible than my email reader (click for the big picture):
Joy Jervis over at Joe.My.God covers Eugene’s buffoonery much more in depth. Stop by and get a taste of the crazy!
Sorry for the long delay between posts. I’m especially disappointed because the momentum of my posting new material -even though this is supposed to be a blog about comic books and writing that has somehow become a food diary- had become a joy to me whereas in the past several months, it had been something of a dreadful obligation. Not that comic books and stories and writing are burdens to me, but when I write about food, I don’t have to be as clever or as exciting as I sometimes think I have to be when I’m pounding my head at my desk, hoping that just the right turn of phrase or astounding juxtaposition is going to appear on my screen through sheer force of will. When I write about food, I’m simply relating an experience in a way I want people to respond to, and maybe learn something from their responses.
The lesson to myself then is to treat all my writing this way: love it, but don’t become awed (and thereby stunned) by it. Every day can’t be the Feast of the Immaculate Conception.
As the Winter Holidays come closer, I become more expansive about food, almost to the point of parody. Last year, my brother, nephew and I baked and frosted about five dozen sugar cookies; I ordered… let’s say more than $100 of candies and petit fours from Figi’s (so worth it); plus a cheesecake, brownies, pie, and pierogies (which is the topic of today’s post). We were digging our way out of the sweets pile for months. I think the last of the cookies was eaten in February. I hope to be more restrained this year (especially with ridiculous closing costs on the house looming), but come December 12, I’m sure the house will be full of cookie tins and candy dishes.
Pierogies. Yum. I started making these a few years ago Thanksgiving with a friend of mine based on a recipe from his grandmother (so of course, we had to wear shmatas in honor of her). Old World chic aside, there were problems with our first outing. It took us hours to process the dough through a pasta maker, and because we didn’t know to set them in a well-floured tray many of the skins stuck and ripped apart. The final product was tasty, but overall wabi-sabi. I think we ate around 9 PM that year. And I think we were also stoned.
Subsequent productions took less time and had great results. Last year, however, I moved back to PA and had to find a new pierogie recipe (my friend’s grandmother’s was a closely guarded secret). After much research, this is the one I settled on. Here’s what I needed:
2 cups flour, plus extra for kneading and rolling dough
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 large egg
1/2 cup sour cream, plus extra to serve with the pierogi
1/4 cup butter, softened and cut into small pieces
I actually quadrupled the recipe (my Mom wanted a few dozen for herself since last year’s batch was so successful), and it scaled up perfectly. I ended up with around 130 pierogies.
Mixing is easy: dry meets wet under a dough hook for 5 to 7 minutes.
The recipe says that mixing is done when the dough loses most of its stickiness. Most being the most important word. If you handle the dough and leaves behind pasty islands on your hands, it’s too sticky. Keep kneading. If you handle the dough and it feels totally smooth, like a rubber ball, you’ve gone too far. Start over. The best consistency is somewhere in-between.
Refrigerate overnight (just to be sure).
I chose for my pierogie filling the traditional potato and cheese. I went with a sharp cheddar though farmer’s cheese is also excellent choice (however, since I use it in my holiday cheesecake, I don’t want to bore my family with too many similar flavors on their plates). Butter and cream are important (to me) to enrich the flavor of the potatoes. Plus, they’re for the holidays when everyone expects a little indulgence.
Not having a pasta maker and being something of a traditionalist, I’ve taken to rolling out the dough by hand. One thing I did learn about this recipe is that the dough has to be cold in order to be rolled out properly. The warmer it gets, the flakier it becomes, and flaky is not your friend. Cold seems to keep the dough elastic (seriously, this stuff is like gum) and easy to manipulate.
And then I started in with a round cookie cutter…
Of course, I cut the entire sheet out before moving on to the next step. I learned a long time ago (I was actually told by a woman named Marge) that similar jobs in the kitchen should be done all at once before moving onto the next step. Common sense, I know, but at that time I was still pretty stupid. Dough that was left at the end of making the rounds was balled up and put back in the fridge for subsequent rolling.
The it’s simply a matter of filling…
…folding…
and crimping.
Then the completed perogies are placed on a generously floured tray (about 1/4″ all the way across) to await bagging and freezing. I use a stolen Taco Cabana tray I found, but use whatever is available to you. If you’re wondering about all that flour, fret not! The excess will boil away when you’re ready to make them.
Voila!
I have not yet made any from this batch, but my Mom has, and she tells me they’re delicious. That may seem like she’s just being my Mom, but if they were horrible she just wouldn’t have said anything rather than lie to me. Silence = Disappointment.
Over the next dew weeks, I’ll be posting my other holiday baking efforts. Next up: saurkraut balls!
