Two of my favorite people in the same video. This is truly awesome, and I wish I had seen it when I was a kid. I can't help but notice that Oscar seems less New York now than he does in the video here.
I am currently a stay-at-home dad, which means my two main missions in life since the last part of January have been getting my three-years-old daughter to consistently do two things I know she already knows how to do: control her evacuations and read. And yes, kind of in that order. The latter becomes untenable when the former slips out of control. The potty thing we've just about got down; daily activities are fostering the other.
One of those activities is a Sesame Street rip-off "Letter of the Day" thing, where say, we're on the letter G, so Abby goes around and finds stuff that starts with that letter. To keep her interested, I've also been letting her take pictures of it, and she's begun asking for the camera when we go out places. (Cayce & Amy, I may send you the girl for a month or two at some point.) All of that brings us to Old Fort Park last Saturday.
We're hanging out in the new-to-us park, and I'm flinging Max around on the swings and talking about the project he wants to build at home when I hear a tiny voice say, "SANTA!" and then the unmistakable flash click and artificial shutter sound of my Kodak. I know immediately what has happened, and so my first thought is, "Shit, how close is this guy?"
Far enough away not to have heard her. Abby doesn't zoom yet, so there's a lot of parking lot in the photo. Gotta give the girl props for catching her subject, though. I like the Sasquatch evidence quality of the photo, too. It was too funny not to share.
There is cooking, and then there are those with skill in the kitchen, those for whom the very act of picking up a vegetable is imbued with creative power, who wield the spatulas and wooden spoons of the cooktop with grace and force of will. And then there is the cooking of the Tang and Ming dynasties, passed down through centuries of discipline and practice; this is cooking artistry, food as a focused tool of nourishment, a weapon to fight the pangs of hunger within the flesh so that the spirit may be elevated; the cooking of the Shaolin and the Wudang, the 72 arts of technique and form - and for those who seek this path, there is - MY FIST COOKBOOK. Available for the first time in the Western world.
A lesser known monk of the temple of Li Shimin, My Fist is widely regarded as the preeminent chef of Kung Fu, having pioneered the Chop of One Thousand Simultaneous Blades, the Roux of Enlightened Sorrow, and the Reduction of Fast Lightning, among other techniques. Indeed, the My Fist name is so honored and respected that whatever chef comes to prominence within the temple of Kung Fu throughout the eons becomes known as My Fist. If you think that you have nothing to learn from My Fist, then think again. My Fist has much to teach anyone - and therein lies complete and utter mastery over the kitchen - culinary dominion can be found within these pages.
Some sample recipes include Jeet Kune Donuts, Pucong Pizza, Buffalo Wu-Wings, and the Stir Fry of Several Widowed Villages.
My Fist Cookbook, available from Squidbag Publishing, only $36 dollars.
I have always been of the less-than-popular opinion that people bumming for money were still people.
Whatever the hell happened to them, be it their fault or not, must have been pretty fucking bad, since they ended up on the street, asking for money. Unless they're of a pretty rarely resilient disposition, they're most likely walking around thinking, "this sucks." So, I figure a bum is someone a lot like me, but with worse luck. Because of this, I don't avert my eyes, and I often speak. I will, at bare minimum, acknowledge their existence. If I can afford to give them a little money, I do. I don't if I feel that I can, then I don't. I'm not a sucker, and I'm reluctant to be drawn into someone else's problems, but there's no reason not to help, especially when it requires little to no effort on my part.
I have grown quite weary of the obvious birth-to-the-present fabrication that goes: "Hey, man. My whole family's in town to see like, my cousin Ronnie? And our van, man, it just stopped, so you think you could help me out with some spare change? I just need $5.38 for a new fan belt." If they use the fan belt one, typically a broken fan belt is actually present, to add an element of authenticity. Now, while I am a sometime fan of street theater, I like to check the admission price before committing to the show. Additionally, this blatant lying is insulting to everyone in the equation: it wastes time, forces the liar to compromise the facts, and assumes I'm dumb enough to swallow raw crap.
What I wish is this: if you're in need of money, don't lie. Don't be the stupid fucker who puts up the "Won't Lie, It's for Beer" sign, just don't share all of your business. My good intentions and patience are locked in a constant battle with the parts of my brain that're just as likely to give you a cigar burn for lying.
(Please print this out and pass it to the next Fan Belt Guy you run into.)
It is a truism of American life that whenever anyone snaps and kills a bunch of people or one day suddenly perpetuates a violent act worthy of news coverage (and almost everything is deemed worthy in the 24-hour hamster wheel we call reporting now) that multiple people always come forward and say about the individual, "Well, we didn't see that coming." Like a lemming line of people volunteering to be stupid, or more likely, to shift the blame onto someone else by copping to being oblivious, rather than uncaring or self-centered.
No shit, next door neighbor. If you had, I wouldn't have read about it over my sugary-ass coffee. We'd have had some warning.
But probably not. In the cases where we do hear about it beforehand, often, nothing is done. If something is done, it is often representative of an gluteal fraction amounting to slightly less than half. Dahmer would have been caught early if cops had been more on the ball, some of these fuckers leave multiple manifestos and warnings, and if you're religious and live on a compound, you can get away with murder until a DA grows balls. Shit, the last time someone tried to blow up a plane, his dad warned us ahead of time. Even fucking Oswald gave notice. People know, if they pay attention to other people.
Which is not to say that a potential shitstorm whirling in someone's guts can't be passed off as simply societal indigestion for a long, long time. We The People have to swallow a lot of shit, some people more than others. A person can only take so much before they must force change, and some people miscalculate. Some people don't know where their breaking point is, really, and some others are subsumed by tsunami of troubles before they grab a decent breath. At that point, it all comes down to choices about wreaking change. You could go on & try to foist off a genocide because you got kicked out of art school and your testicles never really worked out like you hoped, but that would not be would most people would call a sane and rational response that serves the greatest number of people.
During tax season (which I wish had more Fudd) this story will get a lot of attention. It will be fed into our faces, and we will lap it up, because many of us are right there. We hurt, financially. I personally owe the IRS more than a grand this year, because last year my employer apparently screwed up. And it sucks. Many people are out of work, out of home, out of hope. The government sucks, and never does it suck more than when you're wading through arcane language, rules, structures, forms and regulations that seem like they're designed to squash independence.
Joe Stack turned his last act on this planet into a final "fuck you" to the US government, and may have killed some folks doing it. Apparently, he had reached a point where he thought that's all his life was worth. A little perspective, some help from his friends and neighbors, who knows? If there was a way to crash prop planes into office buildings and fix the tax codes, I might be able to get behind that. But there isn't. There's just us.
And if you're of a particular personality type, them. But that's a whole 'nother blog entry.
Two days ago now, some Nashvandals spray painted "Muslims Go Home" on the side of a mosque. It's being investigated as a hate crime, but I think we need a new category of crimes in the United States. I simply cannot fathom how we are now a decade into this millennium and no one has yet instituted stupidity crimes. If you commit a crime because you hate, then there are stiffer penalties enacted; I posit that the same should be true if you are a dumb motherfucker. "Ignorantia legis neminem excusat," or the Dumb Motherfucker Doctrine, dictates that ignorance of the law is no excuse for breaking it - I see no reason why ignorance of associative norms, societal rules & mores, the rich & complex nature of your fellows or the consequences of your actions shouldn't be held against you. Particularly if your great act against the objects or persons of your hate is to spray paint their house of worship. I freely admit, when I first saw this, my initial thought was, "At least it's not misspelled."
Getting into the nuts and bolts of the act, though - there's more than one stupidity factor at work on this thing. Just when you thought hating on Muslims was passe at best, there's the release of the aerial 9/11 photos yesterday. I know American Muslims must think "ah, shit" every time 9/11 gets brought back up, and I can only imagine how the photos inflamed whatever ignorant piece of shit painted their mosque. Additionally, Nashville news (specifically Channel 5, our CBS affiliate) has lately been frothing up some anti-Muslim sentiment running an expose on "Islamville," wherein they go in an investigate a Muslim commune here to see if it's training terrorist warriors for an eventual jihad. Ultimately, they found nothing, but that's not something you'd really notice from the graphics and promos.
And then, of course, there's the thing itself - "Go home?" Where? Mecca? Where is this mythical Muslim-producing place, spray paint guy? I guarantee you a couple of these people are from here. Or maybe that's what it meant: Stop worshiping Allah, and just go back home. I mean, I'm all for chewing out holy people, but not the ones minding their own damn business, and not with a method of communication usually reserved for proclaiming your love on an interstate overpass. At least blog your argument, tough guy.
So, yeah. Crimes of Stupidity. Happy Valentine's Day, America.
Tired of the stresses of irrigating your neck with the morning coffee while simultaneously trying to shove down a decent breakfast? Probably while you're also doing your make-up, straightening your tie, fixing your hair, texting, adjusting the radio and driving? It's a pain, am I right?
Worry no more, breakfast eater, because the frozen, ready-to-eat breakfast product that will Pop YOU Up When It Pops Up is here - CAFFLES!!! The newest product from Consumer FoodObjects, CAFFLES are pop-up toaster waffles with a full cup of coffee in each one! That's right, when you eat a CAFFLE, you're getting a boost of caffeine - a rich hazelnut Arabica roast, to be sure - and a full serving of Yellow #5, TBHQ, eggs, Palm Kernel Oil, Pyridoxine Hydrochloride, and many other essential breakfast ingredients. Seriously, who's got time to eat a good breakfast when CAFFLES are around, and will do just fine?
Available in the following flavors in the American market (exclusively) as of February 2010:
Buttermilk & Blueberry
Leary's Maple Nut Crunch
Cardboard, like most frozen waffle products, and
Latte for Work!
Further questions about CAFFLES can be addressed to the promotional products and public affairs wing of Consumer FoodObjects, or relayed to us via the comments section of this website. The only question left for you, the discerning breakfast consumer, is do you drink a CAFFLE or eat a CAFFLE? Dreat? CAFFLES, changing the verbs you use at breakfast!