This is a public plea to Sans le Nom AKA My Life in the Fast Lane. If you click on the link to the right in my blogroll , you'll notice it goes nowhere. Because Sans deleted her blog!
Why, Sans, why? Sure, blogging seems like spitting in the wind sometimes, especially if you don't have a lot of comments. And yes, it's incredibly solipsistic and ridiculous to think strangers want to hear your rantings and see pictures of you decorating a cake (see my post below!). But they do! And I do. I do! And who cares if anyone reads it anyway. It's all about process, man. Getting it down and getting it done. Letters and words and commas and thoughts and you are funny, dude, don't let anyone tell you otherwise. Hell, I'm getting all choked up just thinking about it.
Come back, Sans. Come back.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Thursday, October 29, 2009
What I learned from Hell House
Last night I went to Eternity House. Here's what I learned:
1. Satan wears tennis shoes and has a lisp.
2. Chili is evil because you never know what your step-dad might put in it.
3. Doing the locomotion is evil too.
4. Faulkner County Sheriff's vehicles are available for many events.
5. Chick-Fil-A is the fast food of the faithful.
6. If a pretty young woman rolls her eyes during Bible study, she will burn in hell for ETERNITY.
7. If you drink beer, you will burn in hell for ETERNITY.
8. You can burn in hell for ETERNITY for being a snot-nosed teenager!
9. ETERNITY is a very long time.
10. In heaven, angels lip-sync while dancing with their hands.
11. Heaven also has a cheap fountain and twinkly Christmas lights.
12. Hell is a pretty cool disco with black lights and neon colors and hot guys writhing in cages.
13. The good die young.
14. God is overly judgmental.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
How to make a gar-shaped cake
All Mark wanted for his birthday was a gar-shaped cake. Of course I had to make him one. Luckily our friend Eric was in town to help. He's biking around the country and only has one pair of pants, but with his shapely legs who needs 'em? He's starting a blog about his adventures called Me Cycle Long Time.
We decided on two 10-inch roll cakes for the body because gars are long and skinny. The cake part was pumpkin spice with a whipped cream and toffee filling. The first roll held together like a tight cigarette--the second broke, but then inspiration struck! This gar cake had been hooked--maybe by Mark--and the broken part was simply a battle wound.
After baking the roll cake, we made traditional chocolate cake for the head and tail. We approached the task like sculptors--the source material was like a giant piece of granite, and we simply cut away everything that wasn't gar. Here's Eric finding the tail:
While Eric took care of the tail, I concentrated on the head. Don't look for any significance in that division of labor. There is no insight into the characters in this narrative. It is all about the gar cake.
Next came the icing. I made the first batch, which accidentally became caramel. So Eric took up the task. First it was too thin. I consulted the Joy Of Cooking which said to beat watery icing in strong sunlight. Unfortunately it was overcast, so Eric just had to keep on beating that thing until it got stiff. He beat it for 25 minutes! I believe that's a record. It was also the occasion for many puns.
After putting the cake together came the fun part: Decorating!
The finished head:
The entire gar in all its glory.
It took us close to seven hours over two days to make this cake. But it was worth it. Look at Mark's smiling face!
We decided on two 10-inch roll cakes for the body because gars are long and skinny. The cake part was pumpkin spice with a whipped cream and toffee filling. The first roll held together like a tight cigarette--the second broke, but then inspiration struck! This gar cake had been hooked--maybe by Mark--and the broken part was simply a battle wound.
After baking the roll cake, we made traditional chocolate cake for the head and tail. We approached the task like sculptors--the source material was like a giant piece of granite, and we simply cut away everything that wasn't gar. Here's Eric finding the tail:
While Eric took care of the tail, I concentrated on the head. Don't look for any significance in that division of labor. There is no insight into the characters in this narrative. It is all about the gar cake.
Next came the icing. I made the first batch, which accidentally became caramel. So Eric took up the task. First it was too thin. I consulted the Joy Of Cooking which said to beat watery icing in strong sunlight. Unfortunately it was overcast, so Eric just had to keep on beating that thing until it got stiff. He beat it for 25 minutes! I believe that's a record. It was also the occasion for many puns.
After putting the cake together came the fun part: Decorating!
The finished head:
The entire gar in all its glory.
It took us close to seven hours over two days to make this cake. But it was worth it. Look at Mark's smiling face!
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Lost Canoe
We almost went Chris McCandless this weekend. We were that close to the wild.
Mark and I put the canoe in at Ed Gordon/Pt. Remove. It was an unfamiliar launch, but it smelled like dead fish and there were bait containers littering the ground. We paddled a mile or so up the creek. It was wide, deep and cold. That should have been our first clue something was wrong. This is Arkansas, where it's hot, shallow and narrow.
It soon became clear the whole area was flooded. After two miles, we couldn't distinguish the creek from the forest and started paddling through the trees. Branches and brambles scratched at our faces, spiders invaded the boat, logs and stumps blocked our path and there was nary a gar or turtle in sight. Still, we continued to put out jug lines, as evidenced by this pic.
We made our way through the forest over to a field of white flowers commonly known as marsh mallows, or so our friend Ben says. This is where I began to get scared. Because there was a monarch butterfly, a few of them actually, but one in particular that was evil. It was the way she attacked the flowers, like she deserved the nectar, like it was her due. That butterfly knew each flap of her wings affected people in China. We had to get out there.
So we paddled back. Only we didn't paddle back. We paddled until we were lost. Nature-it all looks the same. See what I mean?
The conversation went like this:
Does anything look familiar?
Do you remember this cypress?
I don't think we saw that gnarled log before. Did we?
Finally we heard a train--civilization--but we still had no idea where the launch was, so we parked the canoe and climbed up an embankment. At the top was the levee. So we walked. And we walked. Here's a picture of the path.
After an hour and a half trek around Fish Lake, we came out a private hunting club. Thankfully no one met us with guns, but there were duck blinds and deer blinds and duck decoys and three giant wire contraptions full of Busch Light cans. Only Busch Light! No other beer. A political statement, obviously.
We stealthed through the private property and hit the blacktop, then walked another few miles to a liquor store, where the clerk called the sheriff who drove us to our car. We rode in the back like criminals.
Later, in the comfort of our home, Mark found our path on Google Earth--we were way off. Because it was a maze of creeks in there, made more confusing by the flooding. We're lucky we didn't cannibalize each other in desperation.
The next day, again thanks to Google Earth, we drove on the levee and found the canoe.
We checked our jug lines and there was a catfish on one. We ate it for dinner, and in that small way, scored one for humans.
Mark and I put the canoe in at Ed Gordon/Pt. Remove. It was an unfamiliar launch, but it smelled like dead fish and there were bait containers littering the ground. We paddled a mile or so up the creek. It was wide, deep and cold. That should have been our first clue something was wrong. This is Arkansas, where it's hot, shallow and narrow.
It soon became clear the whole area was flooded. After two miles, we couldn't distinguish the creek from the forest and started paddling through the trees. Branches and brambles scratched at our faces, spiders invaded the boat, logs and stumps blocked our path and there was nary a gar or turtle in sight. Still, we continued to put out jug lines, as evidenced by this pic.
We made our way through the forest over to a field of white flowers commonly known as marsh mallows, or so our friend Ben says. This is where I began to get scared. Because there was a monarch butterfly, a few of them actually, but one in particular that was evil. It was the way she attacked the flowers, like she deserved the nectar, like it was her due. That butterfly knew each flap of her wings affected people in China. We had to get out there.
So we paddled back. Only we didn't paddle back. We paddled until we were lost. Nature-it all looks the same. See what I mean?
The conversation went like this:
Does anything look familiar?
Do you remember this cypress?
I don't think we saw that gnarled log before. Did we?
Finally we heard a train--civilization--but we still had no idea where the launch was, so we parked the canoe and climbed up an embankment. At the top was the levee. So we walked. And we walked. Here's a picture of the path.
After an hour and a half trek around Fish Lake, we came out a private hunting club. Thankfully no one met us with guns, but there were duck blinds and deer blinds and duck decoys and three giant wire contraptions full of Busch Light cans. Only Busch Light! No other beer. A political statement, obviously.
We stealthed through the private property and hit the blacktop, then walked another few miles to a liquor store, where the clerk called the sheriff who drove us to our car. We rode in the back like criminals.
Later, in the comfort of our home, Mark found our path on Google Earth--we were way off. Because it was a maze of creeks in there, made more confusing by the flooding. We're lucky we didn't cannibalize each other in desperation.
The next day, again thanks to Google Earth, we drove on the levee and found the canoe.
We checked our jug lines and there was a catfish on one. We ate it for dinner, and in that small way, scored one for humans.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Run!
I ran my first half-marathon on Sunday. My sister put me up to it, claiming that if I could run three miles a couple times a week, I could run 13.1 miles no problem. Think Cinderella's sisters here. Pure evil!
We ran the first two miles, then alternated running/walking the next eight, and ran the final three for the big finish. What got me were the fast walkers; they kept getting ahead of us, even though we ran over half the race. It's the tortoise and the hare. Their pace was steady--we passed them on the run, but they'd catch up when we walked. Slow and steady.
And here's the saddest thing: We were continually overtaken by an elderly power-walker wearing a t-shirt saying this: Double-lung transplant recipient.
I admire that woman. She is brave, strong and amazing. And she kicked our asses. I like to imagine that she received young, clean and pink lungs, while ours have seen some use. After all, both our parents smoked heavily when we were growing up. But that's justifying. I have to face facts: I was beaten in a race by a woman 20 years older than me who survived a double lung transplant. That's humbling.
After the race, I dragged my right leg around like it wasn't mine. Quasimodo. My groin, my hip flexor and my knee! Ouch. Curse you, sister!
We're doing another one in March.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Megan Wants A Murderer!
Watching reality TV dating shows should be a punishment in hell. The 25th circle reserved for cannibals or baby-shakers. The contestants are vain, shallow, superficial, greedy and stupid. They also lie.
And that's why I love them. I enjoy watching humanity at its absolute worst. I would call it a guilty pleasure, but Chuck Klosterman convinced me there is no such thing. Klosterman claims that calling something a guilty pleasure implies you would be engaged in a more valuable activity if you weren't watching Wipeout or reading People. Like, say, reading Kant or stopping global warming. I realized he was right and decided to own my interests. Now my only guilty pleasure is listening to Chuck Klosterman.
But recently a reality show contestant committed murder! One of the tools on Megan Wants A Millionaire, Ryan Jenkins, murdered his wife, pulling off her fingers and teeth, and stuffed her in a suitcase, which he then threw in a Dumpster. The woman had to be identified by the serial numbers on her implants. That's all she had that revealed who she was.
And that's why I love them. I enjoy watching humanity at its absolute worst. I would call it a guilty pleasure, but Chuck Klosterman convinced me there is no such thing. Klosterman claims that calling something a guilty pleasure implies you would be engaged in a more valuable activity if you weren't watching Wipeout or reading People. Like, say, reading Kant or stopping global warming. I realized he was right and decided to own my interests. Now my only guilty pleasure is listening to Chuck Klosterman.
But recently a reality show contestant committed murder! One of the tools on Megan Wants A Millionaire, Ryan Jenkins, murdered his wife, pulling off her fingers and teeth, and stuffed her in a suitcase, which he then threw in a Dumpster. The woman had to be identified by the serial numbers on her implants. That's all she had that revealed who she was.
I've seen Megan Wants a Millionaire. Megan, a blonde fond of bikinis, aspires to be a trophy wife. And tan. Megan is singularly boring; her delivery is a deadpan monotone sprinkled with Valley Girl giggles and, while she's pretty, she's not sexy. To paraphrase Barney Frank, Megan has all the brains of a table. In fact, her vapidity made the show difficult to watch, but I muddled through somehow. I considered it my duty.
Now the show is canceled. And the killer killed himself. I can't help but view the incident as a warning to all of us.
Now the show is canceled. And the killer killed himself. I can't help but view the incident as a warning to all of us.
Friends, the Apocalypse is coming. Lock your doors and windows. Turn off VH1 and spend your evenings working on string theory. Or knit someone a nice sweater.
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