Okay, I was just surfing teh intarwebs for some grocery values from my local purveyor of foodstuffs, and I came across an advertisement for BONELESS Pork Tenderloin.
Now, I know what you're saying: rintropy, boneless items are value-added products that don't require end-user fabrication! Naturally, these items are going to be sought by a time and value-conscious shopper!
And I say that you're wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrongity-wrong-wrong. How much more wrong could you be? The answer is none, none more wrong.
'Cause you know why? Wait for it. That's right! There is no such thing as a bone-in pork tenderloin. Or any other kind of tenderloin! The tenderloin hangs at the sirloin-end of the loin (which is to say the top-half of the animal encompassing 13 ribs and just before the hip--the sirloin is the hip side). It's got connective tissue at the ends, and there's a lot of silverskin on beef tenderloin, but there's no bones in it. There's no cartilege. Just meat; tasty meat.
I guess it's just another way that perception of a thing is influenced by what one is told rather than what is necessarily true. I suppose that's one of the problems with this whole "food" thing. There is really no consistent naming of things except in terms of generalities. You know, stuff like "chicken" and "beef". Beef isn't pork, and you can't have ground beef if it's got ground pork in it. The jews and muslims would get mad about the whole pork thing. Nevermind that they're going to hell for the whole shellfish thing.
On to other topics: The Nintendo DSi.
I'm not sure how excited I am about this. I'm not sure the utility of the the camera, and the limitations of the browser software seem to be pretty nintendo-centric, too. I mean, I'm not expecting an iphone or anything, but it's kinda shitty to have any internets browsing filtered through your console manufacturer. But I suppose that Nintendo is even worse than apple in its software non-competition department.
But that goes to what I see as the philosophy behind Nintendo. I think they've found their market niche in that they're not really selling the games--sure the games are what you're buying--but they're selling the Nintendo Experience. With both the Wii and the DS, you're getting an immersive interaction that's more visceral than just the remote-controlled twat you're pushing around on a handcart to get to the next boss-fight. Witness the EA spectacle that is Wii Monopoly. Now for most previous iterations of the famous Hasbro, some method of random number generator is present, but with the Wii, you get to shake the remote and it makes a little dice sound. Big fun in what many consider an onerous game and does much to ease the at-times glacial pace of the Parker Bros. classic.
In other news, I've switched to Dvorak, and now I type like shit while I try to re-learn muscle memory that's 20 years ingrained. Wish me luck.
Still alive, mostly.
Thinking about doing some writing. And by "thinking", I mean I've got something on the tip of my fingers. It'll take place in Chicago, and it'll have a grounding in the fantastic. I've been doing a bit of research, and I feel confident that I can carry it off well. I'm not sure the style, but it'll have a lot of twisted literary jokes and black humor.
Been considering doing a food blog. Not necessarily about cuisine, but more about technique and presentation. The idea of a title as "you're doing it wrong!" comes to mind. I think the thing I hate most about being a cook, and working/schooling in the industry is that you have to deal with people's expectations. There are these fuckers who watch every episode of Paula Deen or Rachel Ray or Alton Brown or Top Chef, and they have all these ideas and expectations about what "good food" is. Nevermind that they wouldn't know proper seasoning if it came up and poured salt in their eyes, and they think buying useless shit from Pampered Chef is a keen idea, even though they couldn't make a 1-egg mayonnaise by hand to save their lives. Don't even think of asking for a Holladaise, because they'd choke at the word "sabayon". I realize that there are modern equivalents to all the classical mother-sauces--creams, and demi-glaces, as well as beurres and I have a love-affair with brown butter, but all that's sorta beside the point. I've learned things from some great chefs that kinda need to go into the bits-and-pieces of the average American consumer. Tomatoes in winter? Are you fucking kidding me? When is the last time you've had a great tomato that wasn't from a home garden? These mealy, ethylene-ripened water balloons from Jewel can fuck right off. The stuff you get at the grocery store is useless and vulgar. These love-apples make me want to commit murder. There's no love in them at all. It's like a vegetable bathhouse; all consumption, no love.
Speaking of "love", I've also got a bug under my shirt that's probably going to be an essay as an unofficial extension to Neal Stephenson's "In the Beginning.." essay about Operating Systems. I've been dealing with some computer worries, and it's sorta brought my attention to things that are important to me with these bright little flat screens and blinky games that make noises and evaporate hours like booze through a still.
Oh, and for those of you who don't IM me regularly, I'm now sober for about 2 months. Haven't
had a drink been drunk since before Inauguration Day. I had wine at the end-of-term dinner, and I had drinks when I went out to a bar a couple weeks ago, but dinner was wine pairings, and I only had 3 drinks at the club over the 4 hours I was there (I got home about 400, and fell asleep around 5am after some makeouts).
I bought a new hoodie. It was $70, down from $140 at Belmont Army. It's got a little rainbow mickey mouse pin from Ray's trip to Disney World in February.
Here are some kitties. They are Ray's, not mine. Even though they seem to think they're mine, at times. Baby is the Himalayan--which is to say "siamese-looking persian", and Tyson is the grey one. I call them "hairball" and "the other one". They make me reconsider owning anything black.
And that's all I have for now. Questions? Call or write--everything's still the same.
So I'm sitting in a house in 9" of snow. The roads are relatively clear, and I'm really fucking bored because I have no money with which to do things, and most of my friends are busy with things like work. My mother just sits around and watches TV, and I'm about to chew off my arm from playing so much fucking DS (am v. bored).
Kinda want sex, too, even though I can't summon the will to have a wank. I feel like a teenager again.
My brother's truck had the window smashed in, and Xmas for my nieces evaporated while brother & his wife had dinner in Renton. There may be a full house here come xmas, because my mom has stuff for the girls to open under her fake little tree (green plastic watering can sold separately).
Just sent a text message to one of my oldest friends. I've known him for 20+ years. We're supposed to hang out or something. I also want to go visit my dad again, but he lives on a ski-jump. I suppose I could go to the library, or go hang out with Naarah, again. Anything would be better than listening to never-ending mind-numbing nonsense from fucking HGTV. Argh.
And I feel fat. This wouldn't be so bad if I had my lappy active and there was wireless internets because then I could bother some of you fuckers via AIM. While downloading pr0n.
Maybe I'll go out for another walk. That might be relaxing. I could go look at the gun store. Take some pictures (I've taken about 170, thus far). I'd upload them, but I think I explained my previous memory-card trouble. And daytime pictures would be more amusing. I just wish there was a park nearby.
We went to see Slumdog Millionaire, yesterday, and it's a really enjoyable film. I walked around the mall afterward, and I saw several cute boys, but all I could think was "fuck, rintropy, you're going to get arrested!" when I was able to silence the ever-present, "they'd never consent". Hee!
Um, so that's how my holiday away from home is going. How are you?
Okay, so I've been home for just under a week. Already going a little crazy.
Turns out that I left my lappy cable in Chicago--still plugged in to the wall. I also left a couple other things I would have liked to have, but I suppose it's not a big deal. I really don't think I'm going to take 600-some-odd photos, and if I do start to reach that upper limit, I'll just go out and buy another SD card because they're $20 for 2GB.
So what has rintropy done in the last few days? In no particular order:
- seen youngest & oldest nieces, as well as attended a visit to Santa.
- Met up with Christian, Carl, Erin, and Kali for game-day.
- Missed out on playing a really cool character concept while waiting for an opportune moment, since there was a friend-emergency.
- Met ceph for coffee in Wallingford.
- dragged ceph out to Discovery Park, because I hadn't been there in 10 years.
- found out from ceph that theinated is going to be in town for a bit after xmas, and put in a request for some kinda get-together with my favorite tiny glaciologist and lanky Australian geek.
- texted xaotica and got invited somewhere but never texted back (bad, bad, sketchy rintropy
- talked to Naarah for 90 minutes & promised a call back.
- talked to Doug for about half an hour & planned a photo safari for later this week, sometime.
- Had a weird conversation with my sister-in-law about getting together for some kinda party thing which may or may not involve consumption of controlled substances.
- went to visit my father & stepmother, and was interrupted in the journey by the fact that the hill they live on is covered in ice.
- so I walked down the hill covered in ice, and walked back up afterwards
So all-in-all, I haven't really done much, but time is sorta dragging. I could poke around for presents under the tree, but I really don't think there's anything interesting there. I still have to ask my dad for money, because I'm about as broke as it gets without actually being bankrupt.
I've also been offered my mom's car if I come back to the PNW after I'm done at Kendall. I'm not really excited about this because it's predicated on me living in Federal Way with her and while "free" is nice, it's also "living with my mom", which brings up several alarm bells that say "urrrrgh!" It'd be nice to have a car and/or drive, but I can't say that I'm terribly excited about the options involved there, since I'm rather fond of my somewhat independent existence in Chicago. I kinda like living in a place where I'm not monitored all the time.
And there's nothing here for me to cook. There's nothing even remotely resembling raw proteins, here. I have been considering doing a cake. I made fresh tortilla chips and a mango salsa on Saturday, and I managed to feed a teenage kid to the point where he wasn't interested in Pizza--a notable accomplishment, I am told. Seems said kid gained a reputation for devouring pizza until there wasn't any left for anyone else.
There's snow on the ground, here, and it seems that Chicago is worse, naturally. It's about 30° here, and I drove, yesterday, with only minor concerns about what was on the road--everything was dry and clear on the freeways and most of the side-streets I traveled. It wasn't until I got to Des Moines that things started to go kinda wonky between 200th and 212th.
So I was looking for the bit on my mom's computer where one could stick an SD card or memory stick, and I thought I found something that was behind a little hinged door on the front. Lo and behold, it was a 3.5" floppy drive. I was shocked. Can you even buy 3.5" disks, anymore? I'd need something like 1400 of them to equal the space available on my flash drive or SD card. So much for uploading pictures, I guess.
So anyway--in short (too late!)--I'm watching TV and being bored in Federal Way. I should try to get ahold of Steve, too. Maybe I'll work on that.
I rarely check my gmail accounts using the web client. I have Thunderbird configured to check all my email accounts, and I'm good with that. I suppose I could use Outlook to do it because I do actually have Outlook, but I've never really used Outlook, and Thunderbird is comfortable.
Thing is, that there's no real control for Thunderbird to delete messages (or I don't have it configured to do so) from Gmail when I've deleted them from Thunderbird. So I've got this email inbox on a web-client that's awful, and I'm sorta buried in all these messages that are "unread".
So I deleted them all.
In other news, I only left one thing behind--the power cord for my laptop. A new one is $75, and I'm not in the mood to pony up that kind of cash.
I've also called most of the people I'm in contact with. I still need to let some folks know I'm in town, but otherwise things are proceeding apace. Yay for keeping notes. I went through my old emails with a search filter using the 3 most common Seattle-area area codes, and that got me a lot of contact info, and a lot of weird shit, too. 253 is really popular in email bodies, for some reason. I dunno.
Anyway, that's my story. I didn't kill anyone in the airport.
More as the situation develops
I'm still at school, working on a paper that I have to turn in before I leave.
Nevermind that my flight takes off in 3 hours and I still have to get home, and I'd like to be at the airport by 1830, but I realize that that might not happen if I don't leave here in the next fifteen minutes.
I guess I should get to writing that paper.
Again: will be out of touch.
Seattle people txt me.
Shit, my cousin friended me on facebook. How odd! I'm kinda creeped out, but I still love her.
will resume paper, shortly. Can I do 2 pages in 15 minutes?
So, my livejournalers, I'm heading out of Chicagoland tomorrow at 1930 to arrive in Seattle at 2210, or thereabouts. I will be in Seattle from December 10 2008 to January 3 2009.
So, any of y'all (and I'm looking at ceph and xaotica, here) who wanna get together and make friendly-like are invited to call or text me at ( this numberCollapse ) in order to facilitate good times.
My internets connectivity will be sketchy at best--depending on whether or not I can pirate some neighbor's internets wifi. Otherwise, it'll all be library-time. Whee!
In the meantime, give me your phone number, even if you think I have it. I probably don't.
Can I get your digits, baby?
So, been having adventures. With other boys. Been having a lot of mostly-anonymous sex. 3 guys in the last week. I could do more, but I'm actually being picky.
Thing is, it's only making me hornier. I've been executing a "manual override" about 2-3 times per day--often in addition to any human contact I've been having.
In other news: skin is sloughing off my wrist. My previous reaction was true: my wrist is turning into one big scab. It's hella gross.
I made pumpkin soup for a thanksgiving dinner I didn't have. Ray brought home leftovers, and I've just put a leftover-based fritata (bottom layer = sweet potatoes, with ham*, sautee mushroom, onion, mixed pepper on top, followed by egg). I'm kinda wanting to make an aioli to go atop... or even better, a hollandaise, but I used the last of the eggs in the fritata (am I even spelling that right? I'm spelling it consistently, at least). We still have pumpkin soup. Ray was going to eat some, but he decided to chat all afternoon, instead, and neglected to go and pick up some bread from Bittersweet, because we have no bread for soup. The pumpkin soup is awesome, but it's a little on the grainy side because I don't have a chinois, which makes me sad. I believe I'll add a chinois to my amazon wish-list.
So, I've been sleeping diagonally, across the bed, with all my pillows in one corner, just sorta like some kind of comfy throne. This is going to piss off anyone I sleep (where sleep means actually "sleeping", and not some workplace-acceptable metaphor for sex) with.
And Tyson (the ghost-cat) and I are getting friendlier.
Now if you'll excuse me, I've got something else to do.
look at the pink parts. The pink parts are burned flesh. The less-pink parts are flesh that was unscathed.
This is a little more detailed. The bits with grey are blisters that have already burst or aspirated. The trouble with superficial burns is that the blisters are often weak and unable to hold fluid. This makes for moist, sticky, painful hot-spots.
||tallow 3 -- wrist
Tallow is funny. It's a 50/50 mixture of paraffin and fat. Fat is traditionally from an animal--or at least it has been--though it's easy enough to do with high-ratio vegetable shortening. Think of it as candle wax, only not used appropriately. More like dumped all over my hand.
The cool part is that this is going to make a bitchin scar when it's all over.
So I'm hoping that I can keep most of the burnt skin minus the six blisters that have already come and gone. The skin is tender and sore, and I realize that it's red for a reason (190° hot wax and fat dumped on my hand), but I'm kinda worried that the whole thing is going to turn into a great big open wound to crust up with scabbing (yeah, I'm sexy).
Oh, and: I'm now comfortably moved in to my apartment. Will take some photos of things not my scorched flesh, soon.
Move is complete. 7 Hours, total. Returned the truck at 10-something, after leaving the dolly at the new apartment.
Have been up since 4. Am fucking exhausted. Feet feel like they've been stuffed through a meat-grinder, and turned into a lovely terrine of the things I used to walk on.
My bed is erected, and now I'm warbanding on a local connection. Seems there was an error while moving Ray's stuff: he left his PC at the old place. Given the circumstances of his leaving, retrieval prospects look dim. He's got a laptop, but that'll be... I'm not sure the details, and at this point I really don't care.
Anyway, will be sketchy the next few days. You can always call or send a card to ( this addressCollapse )
Not that I don't love your comments and emails, but it's always fun to engage in multimedia interaction.
I really should get to bed. I have two exams tomorrow (today!).
Good night, cruel interwebs. My feet are being held for ransom, and I don't have the cash to free them. I hope they will be released safe and unharmed by the morning.
"Bought" a cell phone, this afternoon. Went with AT&T Wireless (formerly Cingular) because they cut the best deal. I say "bought", because I got the phone that was free. It's a Nokia something-something. They tried to sell me an iPhone. As sexy as they are, I passed because I don't have $200 for a goddamned iPhone.
For those who want to call, my phone number is ( behind this cutCollapse ).
So please call or text or something. There are some of you out there whom I really think should call or text, because I'd be amused to hear from you. I might be able to recognize who you are by the area code, but you should probably include whatever name I know you by, just in case--and so I know how to file you.
And if you think I have your number, you're probably wrong, unless you recently emailed it to me, because my last phone with all the good numbers shit the bed a few weeks back, and I only have Ray and patzilla in my current phone (which I'm going to chuck as soon as the battery dies... or I might save it, if I ever need a phone to call in a ransom or anything).
Anyway, I'm off to sign a lease. W00t!
So I'm reading about the proposed aid to US automakers, and I'm feeling a bit pissed off about it.
So the $700*109 originally meant to aid failing institutions such as banks and investment firms is now going to be partially re-directed to the manufacturing industry? I'm... incensed.
The whole thing about the bailout is that this whole thing kinda came out of left-field, and with a rapidity that has destroyed consumer confidence in this country for many years to come. The once vibrant housing market has now slowed to a senile crawl, and even the perennial service industry gains that have maybe not spurred economic growth, but have at least kept consumers happy with things like food, beverages, and entertainment have slowed to a crawl. And we didn't see the banks failing. We just sorta assumed they'd be there, and that nothing was wrong. Nevermind that the lack of transparency in operations is what brought all this nonsense on. And even having the limited access we do to the accounting info of investment banks and the regular mom-and-pop (is there still such a thing?) operations is sorta like owning your very own waterfall: yeah, it's interesting to look at, but you'll never know what's really going on. Having a picture of what banks are doing at any given moment is like photographing a UFO. Either it's a flying hubcap, or you're going to get probed. So long as there's an end-result of net positive gain for the investors, it may as well be a closed-box system where you stick in bricks and receive hamburgers on the other side. With all the layers of accounting obfuscation that go on with long-term pictures and accrual basis accounting systems that can show profit even if there's nothing actually coming in, it undermines some of the fundamental truths of business models used by the industry.
So back to what I was saying about Ford, GM, and Daimler-Chrysler (though I'm not sure that DC is on this list).
Granted the following statement is strictly my opinion, I'm going to use it as the foundation for an argument that's rather self-evident. To wit: there has not been a desireable American car manufactured in a decade. Where "desirable" means something that is aesthetically pleasing, reliable, efficient, and affordable. According to the WSJ, only 9 of the top 20 cars sold in the US are US makes, and most of those "top sellers" are commercial-use products like trucks (Ford F-series being number 1), so they don't really count since the imports don't really cover medium-duty commercial vehicles like pickup trucks were originally intended to be. I don't see why we should bail out companies that are locked into design and manufacturing paradigms that Japanese and European manufacturers moved on from 15 years ago. They're barely keeping up with efficiency standards, and the innovation levels in American cars are almost non-existant--and this from the country that brought the personal computer, the cellular telephone, and Hollywood. Like Neal Stephenson said, music, movies, microcode, and high-speed pizza delivery.
And then we come out with an electric car that was never fully developed, since SUVs were much more popular because of perceived safety issues (nevermind that they only create a false sense of security), and you can't make money selling something that doesn't make money right off the bat.
So why bail out the US automakers? They're victims of their own poor business models. Investing in non-modular factories, keeping employees undeveloped yet well-trained (thanks, UAW!), and keeping universal parts out of the mix (Think of transmissions: regular and auto, Large, Medium, and Small--how hard is this to figure out?). They're only really hanging on because they're tradition. Great Ford! You don't say. Now where's my fucking Soma?
In other news, after the great pustule debacle of 2008, I'm moving.
Not because of anything specific--or relating to cysts under my tattoo--except for money. Ray and I found a place that's about half a mile from where I'm presently located. Officially it's in Lakeview with a subset of Wrigleyville (the area surrounding Wrigley Field), and the rent is $1100, split between the two of us which makes for $550 each, and utilities of about $85 apiece for a total of $635 a month, which is about $100 less per month than I'm currently paying here. The bedroom is a little smaller, but the place will be less of a prison, since Ray and I will be actually inhabiting it as a team, rather than my current situation which is shaped by 13 years of Joe's momentum and arrangement of things to be "his way". It's not that he's not hospitable, but the truth is that even though I have a $1500 bed, I feel like a goddamned guest in my own home because it's never really been my home. I have full rights like German does, and like Joe does, but I don't feel welcome to use them or engage in any behaviors that I might do if I were in my own place or a place that was closer to my own. I don't cook (and I'm a culinary student--I do it quite fucking well, thank you), I don't invite people over, and I don't really even feel like I live here--it's just sorta the place where I keep all my stuff. And I'll be happier there. At least I've got good reason to believe that I'll be happier there.
Last order of business: I'm thinking of getting an actual cell phone plan instead of this whole pay-by-minute stuff. I figure I spend about $40 a month, and that's only because I only use the phone if I'm about to die. I figure that actually having airtime and such will allow me to--say--actually use my phone as some kind of social outlet and electronic communications device. Crazy-go-nuts, I tell you. Anyway, my credit is back to a point where I can actually obtain lines of service and such. I'm not sure, though, since it's been so long since I've actually had monthly payments & shit. So I humbly present my cell phone quiz:
I have used the following cellular service providers
Other Prepaid Wireless (I'll let you know)
Something not on this list (I'd love to inform you about my carrier!)
Which Cell/Mobile service provider would you recommend?
Other (I'll let you know!)
Text messaging is this important (log scale¹):
Mean: 5.83 Median: 6.5 Std. Dev 3.08
You want to text me?
Eh, it might be fun.
God, never, you freak!
Get an advanced (3G, or whatever they call shit like the google and iphones)
Yes, totally! They are teh awex0m3 and worth every penny!!!!1two!
They're very useful, but are pretty expensive to operate.
I've heard great things, but I don't own one.
I'm not really interested in them because...
Waste of money; just get a phone that calls and does basic texts, you elitist prick!
Any suggestions/recommendations for phones?
And so that's it. Maybe more later. ¹ for those of you not up on your math skillz, a log scale is like the richter scale, where every whole number is 10 to that number's power such that selecting 1 means it's a 10, and selecting a 10 means it's not as important as the aforementioned bailout, but it's still pretty fucking important.
Oh, god. That was really gross.
I mean really, really gross.
But I find it so fascinating at the same time. I wonder what it was.
Went out to vote, today. I heard something about an election, so I thought I'd see what's up.
Early voting has been open since the 13th, here in Chicago (and the rest of IL, but only Chicago counts). It's a pretty high-density population center, so it makes sense to have a steady stream of voters rather than lines snaking around corners like the release of some George Lucas atrocity.
The thing that surprised me most is that I had to wait in a 20 minute line to vote a week before the election. There were about 15 people ahead of me in line, and I didn't mind the wait, but I've never actually waited to vote. Not that I wouldn't wait, but that I've never had to wait. I felt like I was in some kind of 3rd world country, only with touchscreens instead of handwritten ballots.
And that line--that 20 minutes or so--made me proud. I'm sure that voter apathy isn't over, but this year it's just too important to cast that ballot. The economy is in the shitter, the nation's reputation needs scrubbing bubbles, and it's all being swirled around the bowl by two wars verging on three, now that we're doing cross-border raids into Syria.
A good friend said, "if you don't vote, you can't bitch." I voted, and I can bitch. I've taken responsibility for the electoral process in the last 4 presidential elections: Clinton, Gore, Kerry, and now Obama. Yeah, I'm a liberal. Big shock, there. I also suck cock and believe in ambitious recycling programs that include composting, cardboard recycling, and waste separation.
As to part 2 (yes there is a part 2), I saw the first snow of the season, today. It was just a few flakes, but that's a few too many. It's way too cold here, and weather underground has a low of 31° predicted for today. There's supposed to be snow showers in the next ten days or so, according to another weather site. I love Chicago, but I'll be glad to be rid of this interminably cold crap that apparently doesn't wait until winter is actually arrived.
I have class in an hour. I don't really want to go to class, but today is the last day in lab. Next week, I get class with the Scottish cutie. Have to remember that it's inappropriate to ask the instructor to quote Bond movies, or talk about heroin.
Had a bad dream last night.
I was visiting the (really weird and kinda scary) house of a very good friend who shall remain nameless. We were talking and having a good time in the kitchen, and talking about stuff and 'ness. He went to the washroom, and I started wandering around the house. I put a CD in the player while waiting, and I pushed play. I heard some things that I already knew, but wasn't supposed to hear--nothing really bad, but still humiliating to the speaker (not the friend, but still someone I consider a friend and also care a great deal about). I stopped the CD before the friend returned, and we talked a bit more.
Things got quiet. Dreams are weird. The kitchen was great, and tiled in shiny, shitty linoleum. Electric stove, nice U-shaped space with surrounding cabinets on a bar against the sink. It reminded me, somewhat, of where Friend used to live many moons ago.
Anyway, things in the dream were uncomfortable. Not physically, but... socially. Given that said friend is someone whom I've always managed to get along with--even when things were awkward (and not just because of me.... I've managed to keep to myself things that I've known and were hurtful to me for a long time--and they don't really matter, as far as I care). We had a falling out a few years back, and yet we still manage to be friends. We still give a shit about one another because we share a bond that goes beyond just mutual amusement and common human concern. We've been through *shit* together. It's too complex (and possibly incriminating) to explain, but I'm confident in saying that this friend is a friend that will last the test of time. This person is someone I will always be friends with, no matter how much we disagee because I respect this person without reservation. Serious platonic/filial love. Family. And I love the people around this person without reservation, as well--granted I've known some of them since they were 10 months out from "mitochondrial" (and now developing boobs).
So enough of my setup. Back to the dream. We were hanging out, and things got awkward and quiet. I was walking down to the stairs, and through the front door. There was a tree on the steps to the street (about 10m in elevation, 4m in run) which was bare of leaves. There's a fishing tacklebox on one of the branches. I knock it over, and my friend comes out of the front door and starts yelling at me. Really hurtful things because even if they're not true, they match with my perceptions of the truth. Actions, consequences, and faults. Basically nothing anyone wants to hear from a friend. It was an emotional evisceration.
I woke up shortly after the screaming (something the friend never does--and I mean never). It was about a half hour before my alarm. My interpretation of the dream has to do with past events that I've never discussed here. I also work with the idea that the toolbox or tacklebox or whatever is symbolic of something, but I don't know what.
The thing is that I can't remember if I knocked it over accidentally, or on purpose.
Another thing is: if the events that I assume contributed to this dream-state hadn't actually happened, I wouldn't be in the place where I am, now. I wouldn't be happy, I wouldn't be on my way to a successful career.
In analysis, I can't figure if this dream is really bad. On the other hand, it's making me think about who I am and what I've done.
Cowboy Bebop--only steampunk
Full Metal Alchemist--only more steampunk
Psychological, metaphysical horror--elements of steampunk optional
High-fantasy meets technology (there's probably an element of steampunk, here--think Space 1889 in 1912)
High-fantasy meets post-apocalyptic (terminator vs. full metal alchemist--maybe not so steampunk)
Diamond Age (or: A Young Lady's Illustrated Primer)--steampunk with nanotech!
My main ideas involve economic depression and high-technology relative to the perceived era. It could be 2112, and the world's financial markets have finally collapsed, making mercantilism once again viable. The oil has dried up, and sea levels have risen, making more deep-water ports available.
Suddenly, nuclear steamers are the most reliable form of trans-continental passage, but they still take days of travel--call it 5 from Europe to the US East coast (Florida is nice this time of year). Intercontinental transit is by electrical trains or airships (bullet trains are too expensive, and the agriculturalists are too strong a lobby after the dustings of 2080-2091). Traveling "green" has never been easier, with fuel-cell and electrical automobiles--nevermind that they can only get about 300 miles (yes, we're still using imperial units--what a bizarre people we are) before running out of power and the need to stop for a day to recharge.
That means you can get from Seattle to Chicago in about 4 days, and Seattle to LA in about 6--if you're driving. The repercussions would be lessened road traffic outside an 80 mile radius, the urbanization of suburbs, as well as improvements in public transportation, broadband communications, and locally-produced foodstuffs (the dustings of 2080-2091 were a big call to organic and sustainable food production).
Sure, there had to be some revisions of national policy. The Childbearing act of 2089 is still in force, even though it's 23 years out-of-date, and it's no longer necessary to "bring to justice" those families that can support more than two children. Plus, the malefication of 2091 (when many folks only wanted male children) is a worry for natural replication since simuterus production is still rather dodgy, and interuterine transplants are still on the dodgy side.
But sure, the Mars & Lunar colonies are doing well. Fresh produce from the Mars trans-liners is arriving regularly, now, and the Lunar revolt is almost quelled. The solar mirrors have achieved 4° C increase in mean temperature (from 2° last year) on the Martian surface, and the lawns are adding to total oxygen levels every day. In another 10 years, Martian colonists will be able to walk on the surface for at least an hour without protective equpment. The Canopy project is managing nicely, as well, so long as funding continues for the annual pollinations.
So yeah, this is where I'm at, creatively, as far as games are concerned. I think it'd be an interesting campaign, so long as one doesn't look at the science too roughly. And yeah, I'm a big steampunk freak. Bioplastic, advanced medical technologies, broadband communications--all with low-cost energies, but raw materials are inhibited resulting in a return to mercantile trading. The high-tech stuff comes from the moon, food comes from Mars, and people on this planet live at the sufferance of those two places in a tenuous power play.
Maybe I'll flesh it out a bit more, even if I can't actually run
I've got the feeling that my mouth is coated in a film of yuck, even after I've brushed my teeth twice.
I was reading le friends page, and I ended up writing an essay in a comment to theinated, because he was writing about adventures in cookery, and I like putting in my $0.05 ($0.06, Canadian). I kinda miss answering the culinary questions, and I've been thinking about putting up another opportunity to ask for those who want to ask.
Voting starts today, here in Chicago. Apparently, election day isn't quite so important, anymore, as it's now "election 2 weeks". Unsurprising, since WA is almost in a state of default absentee balloting.
I just signed up for a trial of a new investigational medicine for diabetes. I'm going in at 9am, next Monday for an initial screening. There's $400 in it, as well as free medicine. I'm not sure if it's a new insulin, or just some kind of insulin helper (not to be confused with hamburger helper). We'll see. Gotta remember to fast next Sunday.
I've been thinking about how foodies are destroying the art of cooking. First a definition: foodies are the people who will insist on single-tree extra-virgin olive oil, or some bizarre anise-flavored herb or spice from BFE, or those pooped coffee beans, and go to wine tastings and generally talk about the this-or-that of food, and how their opinions are right because some foam-swilling molecular gastronomist made an offhand mention of it in some magazine that's the Robb Report of food. Nevermind that these people are the armchair quarterbacks of gastronomy. They brag about their use of demi-glace, even though they've never made a real one--1/2 espagnole, 1/2 brown stock, reduce by half, and finish with madeira or sherry (i'm not going to provide a recipe for espagnole here), and generally fall under the "baffle with bullshit" conversational gambit. These are the type of people Anthony Bourdain often rails against when he's writing about haute cuisine.
I understand the need for haute cuisine, and I understand the desire for it. There's also a lot of money to be made in these joints, where the check average is often equal to a half-week's pay for the middle class. They're places you'll visit maybe once in your life or semi-annually. But these sophist foodies talk about stuff they don't understand and will totally miss a great meal.
Think about the city you live in. You've got your fast food chains, your Applebee's and TGI Fridays (flair!), maybe a couple mom & pop joints, possibly a really good restaurant that you'd dress up to go to. There are a few restaurants in the US that are inarguably some of the best in the world. Alinea, Trotter's, French Laundry, Moto, just to name a few. And yes, the food served there is awesome, outstanding, eating there makes your tastebuds roll over, smoke a cigarette, fall asleep, and wake up the next morning wondering why they're so tired but not in a bad way.
But even if you have blown balls of isomalt sugar filled with lemon vinaigrette, or some kind of freaky foam dusted with balsamic powder (which actually makes me want to try something--bordelaise cream foam dusted with balsamic powder--but I'm thinking about it from a flavor perspective), it's mostly empty if one doesn't understand the fundamentals of food, and the evolution of all these ideas.
I guess what I'm getting at is that the one and only necessary ingredient in every recipe is love. Which sounds kinda stupid, but it's the absolute truth. Whenever I'm in the kitchen--whether at work (most often), at school (usually), or at home (hah! I never cook at home!)--my single, solitary goal is to make someone happy with the results of my labor (and yes, I'm someone too). Whether it's just a simple hamburger from a series of plastic bags, or a my super-secret recipe for the Half-Hour Roast Chicken, my food is always good because it's made with love. I love the ingredients, I love the people who are going to eat it, and I love even the basic process of cleaning frisee or whipping up a honey-truffle vinaigrette. I love shaping terrines, I love seasoning & grilling meat, and I love hefting 150 pounds of bones into a 50 gallon stockpot, bringing it to a boil (don't watch--there's other stuff to do), skimming off the scum (yes, scum), and adding 20 pounds of mirepoix (and a bunch of other junk), and then coming back in 8 hours when the stock is done to strain it into 5 gallon buckets (there's about 6 or 7 of those per batch). I love what I do, I love the process by which it's done. I love taking the extra time and energy to make sure it's right the first time. I love the cuts and burns that I get all over my arms... well, maybe I don't love those, but I don't mind them all that much.
So jump on in to some little hole-in-the wall place, and see what they have to offer. Stop in to that little deli or chinese place or pizza joint or burrito place. See how they do things different. Find some little undiscovered treasure, next time the pangs of hunger begin to steer you toward a Carl's Jr. (though don't let it deflect you from In-N-Out, because that shit's too good to pass up). Be adventurous, pick something you've never tried.
It may well be the best thing you've ever eaten.
This morning I woke up way early--about 615. Before waking, I'd been having dreams that I was driving one of those big tour buses, and it was steel with brown trim. I wasn't really driving it, though, because most of the time I was facing backward (in the direction of travel) and talking to my dad & stepmom. I'd move the wheel, every so often with my bum, and I don't know who (or what) was on the accelerator, but we were driving along Crescent Lake in Washington. The biggest excitement of this dream was that I had to make a right turn onto Ventura Blvd, because we were going to the In-n-Out. Which is kinda weird, because I'm pretty sure there's no In-n-Out on Ventura.
The other dream I had started with me slamming chandeliers or mobiles in a doorway, but tying to be quiet about it. They were glass, but they wouldn't break. Maybe this one has something to do with unions.
Anyway, interpret as necessary. I'm off to get a soda.
But I don't want to. I'm not sure if I'm supposed to be there @ 1800 or 1830. I think it's in 120B, which is a first-floor lab kitchen, which means it's going to be chock-full of first-blockers until 1730 at the earliest--possibly 1800. Which makes sense for the whole 1830 start-time.
I was worried that I didn't have a toque (I think there's an accent on that, and it's the name for the silly hats we have to wear at school), but it turns out that it was under the cordwood of my apron rolls. So I don't have to buy one, and I really didn't even have to look.
I'm not sure what we're going to be doing, tonight, since we don't have recipes or anything, but I assume it's going to be a lot of Garde Manger work--cold apps, and the like.
The class is "Catering and Event Management", so it won't be anything different than what I've already done at work, but more putting it into an off-premise setting.
This has to be the most boring entry, ever. I guess I'd better put actual clothes on, as "comfortable terrycloth bathrobe with hood" is not an acceptable dress-standard for the kitchens at school. I haven't even taken the plastic off my jackets since I picked them up from the cleaners a few weeks back--nevermind that I dropped them off in the middle of May. Yeesh. I should also pack a whisk and my large offset.
Oh, and I got a ceramic paring knife. It's got an orange handle, and it's very sharp. I'd put it in my apron pocket, last night, and just kinda forgot about it. Just the motion from me moving it around allowed it to cut a corner out of the pocket along the seam, and poke the tip (which is rounded) out. At some point, I brushed my right hand along the blade, making a shallow, 3cm cut under my thumb. I didn't even feel it, but noticed the blood shortly after. Guess I gotta be more careful. Or worry that my tolerance for discomfort may be a little too high. I suppose I'll think more on that, later.
Time to put on clothes.
I'm laughing maniacally while reviewing my grades for "intermediate algebra"--a class I've previously received an "A" in while stoned to the gills in High School.
This stuff presents zero challenge, and all I need to do to pass is show up every week. I'm plenty familiar with the concepts of "distributive property" and "commutative property"... in fact, all of PEDMAS is my bitch.
Get into trigonometric functions, and I will truly pwn.
BTW: I'm done with my AAS at the end of Winter Quarter and will be returning to Seattle on a semi-permanent basis (i.e. at least a year).
Official email announcement goes out shortly... Monday, latest.
Nyah to the baccalaureate. In the industry, apparently, it means nothing.
I've got some shit to say, but I can't really collect my thoughts well enough to begin the writing process in any linear fashion. I get started writing something, then I'm like 12 paragraphs in, and I get distracted by hey shiny!
Turns out that one of my instructors at school did Thanksgiving for the Obamas, last year. She said they were terribly pleasant people, and that they were kind and courteous to her and her staff--while most hoighty-toighty, well-to-do folks having an in-home catered dinner are dismissive of the "hired help". I think this is awesome.
I'm currently training other interns. One is picking up quickly. The other is... needs... a lot of work. I'm not sure why he's scheduled solo, but we've got 15 covers on the books for tomorrow, and I'm in class until 10pm.
I went dancing on Saturday and met a really cool guy, B. We didn't do anything or hook up, but we sat on Belmont & Sheffield, drinking beers from the 24 hour liquor store and talked. We exchanged numbers. I may give him a call, tomorrow or Tuesday to see if he's interested in hanging out Weds or Friday.
Wednesday is the most beautiful day of the week. I love the name. Even in other languages--Mercredi, Miercoles--it's fun to say. German, however, is kind of the exception to this rule with Mittwoch--which means exactly what it sounds like.
I did something freaky to my right pinky finger last week, and I'm still paying the price for it. It was a total accident, but somehow I managed to shove my locker into the quick of the nail, separating the nail from its fleshy bed of what I've come to define as the single source of all human suffering.
I've been thinking about my ability to resist pain, lately. I'm not sure if it's good, bad, or indifferent. I can take a lot of punishment with little reaction. Yeah, I still curse and I feel the discomfort, but I don't feel anything about it. I generally don't feel inclined to give it much credence on a moment-to-moment level. I'm not saying I want to get waterboarded or anything. But I remember having done something "bad" when I was 7 or 8 years old, and my mother scheduled me for "the wooden spoon"--which didn't really bother me, and I was more upset at the inconvenience of being "in trouble" than that I was going to be physically assaulted. Anyway, I was coerced into a position for convenient spanking, and she set to me with the improvised paddle of one wooden spoon from the kitchen. I think this is probably where I first learned to roll my eyes. Anyway, after a dozen or so smacks, the spoon broke, and I immediately cracked up laughing. My mom started crying, and threw the handle of the spoon at me, calling upon our Holy Father by name in a request for guidance (read as: "Jesus Christ, what am I going to do with you?!").
I guess it's more that I can deal with discomfort. I don't take any real strange approach to it, but I recognize it for what it is: a condition that is temporary. I've often said that all problems are transitory (often spoken thus: are you burning? bleeding? dead? Then you don't have problems!), and I guess that's one of my root beliefs. No matter how maudlin I get, I still hold that truth to be self-evident. I know I'm smart and strong and capable, and I know my own limitations. I have an identity, and most of my choices are well-reasoned, even if they're sometimes wrong--and those ones are the ones that allow me to grow as a human being.
I got my hair cut today, which I suppose is now "yesterday" minus the fact that I have yet to go to bed. Technicalities are very inconvenient. My haircut was done by Drew at Chicago Male Salon, and as he was washing my hair, he asked if I wanted to have my eyebrows done, "for the price of on the house," which was kind of a cute thing to say, and I'd already told him that he could kinda do whatever so long as I'm cute when I walk out the door. I realized, at some recent point--the exact moment is unclear--that I really don't have any concept of what "attractive" is as far as "me" is concerned. I know what I find attractive in other people, but sometimes that isn't the most attractive thing to be applying to oneself. An example would be the 5'8", 225 pound guy in skinny jeans and a vintage Depeche Mode tshirt. Maybe it doesn't do it for the rest of us, but he probably thinks that he's the metrosexual shit. So now my hair is shorter than it's been since about 1998. Probably shorter. Oh, wait, no... I had that little run-in with a pair of clippers in February of 2000, where I found out that I've got a really odd-shaped skull after having a bit of psycho-freakout at Chris & Naarah's place at 924. But I guess it doesn't count since I didn't pay for it. Although I got a lot of freaky looks at work the next day since I shaved off basically everything that wasn't about 4 square inches (~25 square CM) of length at the front of my skull.
I want to go eat at The Gage, again. I want the poutine with elk ragout, and maybe not so much potato in the meal this time. Maybe I'll treat myself to lunch, tomorrow. Which I guess, by definition, is today.
So I was at work, today, and I was chatting with Angelique--the kinda kinky server--and we were talking about relationships and BDSM roles. Anyhow, I sorta went off on a tangent, afterwards, in a little unauthorized sit-down in the sneaky-spot. I got to thinking about a certain fellow who I know reads some of this shit, and whom I've expressed an interest in, despite his distant location, and whom I know to be discretely in the S category of the BDSM spectrum. And I imagined a very vivid scenario that involved some not-too-heavy bondage (wrists with rope), and a simple set of instructions: please me by pleasing yourself. Part of it is that I'd like a good show (particularly since there's an as-yet unpaid show-debt there, somewhere), and part of it is that it'd be fun to have the remote control in my brain. And while the bondage may be "light", the pressure wouldn't be. I know this gentle soul is not the most vibrant in the realm of interpersonal communication, so the second instruction would be for him to verbalize his wants and desires--not that he'd get them, of course... this is BDSM we're talking about. Mainly it circles around "put on a good show for me", and "you have no choice but to admit what you are, what you want, and how badly you want it". I could get a lot more detailed, but I wish to respect this fellow's relative anonymity, even though he knows who he is, and we both know what he wants. Sometimes it's the little things. But we're not talking about my penis any longer.
Anyway, it's 430, and I've got stuff to do before 3pm, and I've gotta be at class in 14 hours--give or take.
And I'm happy enough. I'm calm enough. And I'm still going to take over the world. Get your "get out of holocaust free" cards while you still can.
I think I'ma go out dancing, tonight. I haven't been since Mike & Leandro were here, last month--we went to Berlin.
I think going out tonight sounds like an awesome idea. I could use the fun.
Also may communicate a desire for makeouts. That could be fun, too.
And even if I don't go out (have to remember to hit an ATM on the way to/from work), I can still hope to send IMs to people.
Now where the fuck did I put my clogs? I had them on, last night. Maybe they're downstairs.
watched the debate last night. Ended up drinking anytime a candidate said "my plan". My reaction to the debates?
Well, let's pretend this country needs change. Let's pretend that there is at least one candidate who can bring this necessary and unspecific change.
Now let's pretend that in order to be elected, there must be some sort of excitement about the proposed change, and that we need to be excited about it.
Watching debates like last night's debate will not do this.
I want to see a debate that ends up like an episode of the Jerry Springer show.
I want to see Obama come out swinging. I want to see some fucking chairs thrown. He should be standing at the lectern like a revival preacher, shouting and preaching about the devil in McCain, how he's going to sodomize us all with debt and an unending war. He should throw a chair at McCain's head.
This is no time for restraint or civility. If Obama really wants it, he's gotta fight. I like the whole "high road" thing, but we're a nation that loves bitchy, catty behavior as seen on Reality Television. We've moved on from Roberts Rules of Order to arguments where the greatest wit is "oh no you di'n't". Why even bother subscribing to a high-minded school of behavior where everyone thinks you're a snob. Shit, I don't even argue anymore, because all argument is about belief in facts. One can never persuade beliefs away. Religion, politics, whatever you look at, people are going to have opinions, and they're going to cling tenaciously to those beliefs regardless of whatever "facts" are out there. So fuck talking and take a swing. It's not like McCain's playing nice--he's already started the swift-boating.
This is the first time in my voting life that I feel like I'm not voting for the "lesser of two evils". Then again, I've always voted Democratic. I guess I'm just a sucker for my constitutional rights.
rintropy (discussing appearance of new crouton recipe): It's not that they don't taste good--they do--but they just look so dirty, and nobody wants to put something dirty in their mouth.
Female Co-worker: Do you always make everything about sex?
rintropy: [Co-worker], the only way I could be more asexual is if I were to die. Which might not help, because then I'd be unable to fight off the necrophiliacs!
In other news, [new Sous-chef] still thinks I'm trying to make a play for [Attractive Latina Server]. While I admit that I'd throw one into her if it were to be consequence-free (she's on the Submissive
side of the scale, and thinks my quirky fetish for spandex is "hot"), she knows that I prefer other boys, and she's in a long-term relationship that doesn't include a codicil for banging pantry cooks (not that I've asked). And I can only think of a few people that I'd say, "yes", to in terms of sex, right now--and none of them are currently within reasonable reach.
I don't know where I put my libido, but it's quite obvious that I've been getting into a lasting relationship with Internet Pr0n for some time. I should just get a wedding band, engraved with the IP Address of xTube and be done with it.
In other news, I may need to drop out of school for a quarter. I'm not sure I can afford fall quarter, with the piling up of loans. Going to call family and see what I can do about things that don't involve selling souls or children into white slavery. Blah.
I want Dick's.
I also want Ivar's.
2 Deluxe, Fries, 2 ketchup, diet.
Full boat, extra chowder, hand of ketch and tartar, toss in a couple malts, too.
December is too far away.
I've had the hiccups all fucking day. My abdomen hurts. I want to rip out my diaphragm (ssh, you!) except that it would rather spoil any future plans for life that don't involve a respirator. Seriously, it's like being punched in the gut every fifteen seconds. Can totally do without this. I am wishing I had a bucket of flexeril.
Things at work are passable. Maton is gone, now, and school starts on the 24th. I get out of fall quarter on December 10 at the latest, though I'm likelier to be out by the 5th. I'd like to get a redeye or evening flight from Chicago to Seattle so I can have nearly a month at home. I know I'll be crazy by New Year's, but I miss my family. I miss being loved. And I'd like to spend some time with my Dad. I'd like to get a chance to get to Spokane, too, to visit Grandma whom I haven't seen in the last 15 years since she was in town for my highschool graduation. She's 80-something years old, and still living in the house I would visit regularly over the summers until age 9. My dad tells me she still maintains her garden in the front and back yards. I want to know if the swing is still hanging--nylon rope and foot-long 2x6 hanging from an iron pole hung from 2 trees by steel cable.
And I want to see my nieces, little Heather (who'll be in first grade), and Brayden, and the surly eldest, Ashley (who's got a great wit).
And of course my friends: Christian, Erin, Naarah, Karl, Carl, Devon, Kali, and all my T-town crew. Dev is starting his first year of college, and Kali just turned 14. She's probably got boobs, which will be really disturbing because I first met her in 1994, and I remember reading her (and her brother, Devon) bedtime stories. Redwall and Harry Potter for him, whatever I was handed for her. That's also where I got into trouble for reading bedtime stories in a "not for kids" voice. But it was the story of Charlie the dog and his blue ball. How could I not? Why would anyone search for blue balls? Dog or not.
I'm sad that I can't have lunch with Adam, again, since he's working his Ph.D. in San Francisco. But I'm hoping to be able to meet up with ceph for a visit to some vendor of highly-caffeinated beverages--or maybe Uwajimaya--in order to play catch-up for the last few years since my vacation of Los Angeles.
And, of course, I want to hook up with xaotica for dinner or drinks or some such nonsense. Maybe some hot-ass dancing--I'd totally be into dancing, since I don't do enough of that anymore.
When I'm in Seattle, though, I won't be hooking up with Nick, whom I haven't talked to since New Years Eve. We had sex a couple times while I was in Seattle, last, and it was just... sad. All he was doing was sitting in front of the TV, drinking and smoking. When I first saw him, I was so wall-clawingly horny I practically dragged him into the bedroom for a shag, and when it was over, I was just kinda sad because there was nothing to talk about. We could either do it again (limited supplies of personal lubricant made this unlikely), or we could go back to the living room to watch TV and smoke cigarettes. We ended up on the couch, and we held hands while he told me about movies I'd seen in the theatre prior to 1990. The next time was... it was stale. Same story, later at night, but it was just missing any passion. He was drunk and I was a little tipsy, and he was simply working on the fact that he's hung like a horse. My thoughts on big dicks: they're amusing for the first five minutes. But he was talking about things that are totally.... inappropriate to mention during sex. He was talking about how he could fuck anyone he wanted, and how I was "pretty good" enough to keep on fucking. And that I'd keep coming back because he was so good. I can't stand that kind of shit. And the sex was only "okay". I just wanted to get it over with.
And I want to cook when I'm in Seattle. I know I'm going to be conscripted for xmas dinner. I want to cook for my family in a sort of "iron chef" style--with a mystery protein or ingredient that I get upon showing up. The only problem in coordinating this would be the Mise: I'd need to have about 2 gallons of stock to cook for 20 people--or at least a half-gallon of Demi. Then there's the starch--about 2 pounds of rice, 2-3x that of potatoes, and at least 6# of veg, not including onions, celery, carrots, and lettuce.
I'm going to have to make sure that there's plenty of oil when I'm home, too. I want to work on my sweet potato fries. Ever since dinner at The Gage, I've been obsessing about their Poutine (Canada's answer to chili fries). I wonder if I'd be able to get up to Vancouver while I'm in town. I'd really like to see Vansterdam, again. It's been so long since I've been--nearly 10 years. Last time I went, I was 25, and I had a shitty hookup from a Yahoo! chatroom in Bellingham, so I went up to Vancouver to spend the night. You'd do the same if you met with a guy who's tagline was "I don't believe in Science".
I guess what I mean to say is that I'm kinda homesick. I feel kinda alone and I'm in this vast city full of people, and I only have a couple friends (hi, Ray!) who're local. I have no one to blame but myself, because I isolate myself from any remarkable human contact.
But how can you make contact when you have the hiccups? Jesus, please, someone kill me.
So, buyout tonight.
A Buyout is a party, where one [entity] (I want to say "person", but often that's the wrong word) has a large enough party that the restaurant can't seat other customers--or doesn't want other customers to be seated. Usually, it's a $15000+ deal.
Anyway, this deal requires very little staff because the menus are fixed and are served buffet-style, or there is a limited menu, and there's beverage service (passed wine and such), and all these details.
So we get to the part that's important. Talking with coworkers--specifically Margaret (who is no longer "cunt from hell", but rather my comrade and we giggle and laugh, yay!)--I discover that not only have the two fish-based coworkers quit, but Javi--my normal relief--has seriously cut his availability. So take my last entry (about 2 fish-guys quitting), and multiply it by the fact that the last guy who knew fish was fired tonight for getting in Bernie's grill over some cooked corn. Granted, there's a little more to it than that, but I'm seeing a serious increase in my hours. I did a few passes by chef's office and he was making many phone calls. Fish-guy 3 was rarely on fish, anymore, since he'd been moved to parties, but now there's no backup for Cracker as far as those are concerned.
There's no new schedule up for next week, but I'm guessing it's going to involve a lot of me, since Javi is now on 3 days a week, I've gotta train a new intern, and there's going to be no more fish guys next week (especially since Chino doesn't give a shit, and Fish-guy 3 was the one who started Chino on the job).
In other news, I vomited copious amounts of stuff, tonight. Must remember to take insulin no matter how late I get up and how quickly I need to get out the door. Also need to talk to someone about scheduling & stuff. Must also remind them that I start back to school in about 2 weeks.
I think this is one time we need to codify what "it's the industry" means.
We lay beside each other on the bed.
Our bodies are touching, but his mind is wrapped in tattered rags. His once-vibrant mind is now an intellectual mummy clad in the bandages of seventeen surgeries, and ten milligrams of morphine per hour. I suppose it doesn't matter, now that I know he's going to die, but even acceptance has its risks.
We had been living together for about a year, and dating for a year before that. He said he didn't want to move too quickly. He said we had all the time in the world to figure out what comes next. But I haven't had a conversation with him in the last month.
Sure, there are occasional flashes of the wit and silver tongue I fell for. He doesn't even notice that I'm laying in this tiny hospital bed with him. My limbs are tangled in an array of tubes and wires that monitor his breathing, oxygen levels, and heart-rate. They turn the beeping off. It's annoying, and something strictly for the movies and television dramas. Sometimes when I can't sleep, I'll lay there next to him and watch the waves of his heart and breathing draw themselves out in electrons on the screen on the other side of his bed.
I suppose I should start from the beginning. We had just celebrated our second anniversary with a trip to Paris.
Sorta playing with words, right now. Not really a good start, but a start, none the less. I feel that I'm on the cusp of writing something that's.... coherent.
Have an advancement opportunity at work. Or at least an opportunity for more hours. I can see this working in my favor however I decide to play it. I can either take more hours in my current position and let Javi switch to the hot-line on a more permanent level, or I can volunteer myself to move to the hot line. Given that guy-who's-quitting only does his current job part of the time, and that a classmate does school full-time, I'm sure I can get in on the seafood action. Same time, Javi does well on the line, and I pwn the pantry-line. There's a lot of stuff, there. I'll miss guy-who's-quitting, but I won't hesitate to take his job or more hours.
I think I'm going to pee, and then go to bed. I need to be up early(-ier) for work, because there's a buyout, and I have to be there to plate hors d'oeuvres.
So I'll leave it there, and maybe finish up later. Sometime I'm not interested in dreaming vividly about iPhones and arguments between my roommate and my boss.
This is the funniest fucking thing, ev4r:
I love Comedy Central.
It's been raining all day.
Had the day off, today, and I woke up at around 1pm.
After writing the whole Guitar Hero review, yesterday, and getting myself into a frenzy over the whole gaming thing, I've returned to my sore-thumbs roots by playing New Super Mario Bros. And now I'm forced to reckon with the fact that I'm shit at platformers. I have a hard time with the physics, it seems, since my little Italian plumber doesn't seem to fall fast enough.
And Thumby (I may take to calling him Face-Transplant Thumby, since it was shorn off 4 weeks ago) is getting pissed at me. And I'm thinking that lots of guys have names for their penises--Mr. Happy, Big Willie, Burger King Pants (Home of the Whopper), Pork Sword, or The Hammer--but I have a name for my left thumb. I'm proud to be an evolved creature.
Anyway, I went to dinner at school, tonight, and got a chance to catch up with Derris, who is a wonderful fellow--black guy in his 50s with adult kids all growed up, pursuing a Bachelor's in Culinary like me. He's good people. He keeps saying that we're going to go out to drinks when he gets "brave enough", because I'm the scariest white-boy ever.
I think I need to go downstairs and get some food. Maybe another grilled-cheese sandwich like last night. Hint to making a good grilled cheese? Good cheese, natch, and make sure you put some condiments on the sandwich--mayo, mustard, hot sauce, whatever. Otherwise you're just getting cheese and bread. And don't forget to season the damned thing, either. But the most important part of the construction is thinly-shaved cheese. Use your vegetable peeler. And of course: make it with Love. Love is the most important ingredient in any recipe.
Oooh, maybe a fried egg & grilled cheese. That sounds particularly tasty. I think I'll do that. Maybe with a slice of salami to go with.
Yeah, I'ma get my food on!
But I'm still bored, so send me an IM.