Green Hell

New Contact Info

I'm changing the contact info even as I type, and I should've mentioned it earlier.

Mea culpa.

Send all correspondence to my wife's account: maggietwest@aim.com.

Bitching About Writing and Music

     I haven't posted in a while, as some of you may have noticed.
     It's not for lack of things to say (far from it, as a matter of fact), but I've been busy as hell for the past few months. In addition to everything else, Mags and I have expanded our sphere to include copy-editing and advertising. This is hardly what I imagined myself doing when I began writing seriously (neither was working for a newspaper -- ain't life full of surprises?), but it pays better than endless attempts to puke up the Great American Novel.
          Speaking of which…
     I don’t think I'm destined to be a novelist. In October I churned out 75,000 words (too many of which were articles, pronouns, and conjunctions), but the book became ever longer, with no end in sight. I'm still working on the project, but I need to decide where to take it. It's more-or- less a fantasy novel; for all that it's certain to infuriate the target audience.
      Barring Tolkien, Lewis, Dunsany, Zelazny, Vance, and a handful of others, I don't even like fantasy.  In the main, it's sappy, pretentious, clichéd and boring. 

    Yes, we get it. You have seven unpronounceable names.  Your ancestry includes beings who, while less than gods, are more than men.  You bear a sentient, aeons-old weapon that devours souls, communicates with you, and erases ATM fees from your bank's records whenever you will it.  You're physically unfit, mentally unstable, and your survival actually requires more exotic chemicals than I needed to endure high school. Moreover, your graduating class voted you "Most Likely to Have His Remains Added to the Reliquary in the Shrine of Our Lady of the Turd of Misery."      
     But despite your obvious failings, I'm supposed to believe that you defeat every foe who engages you, and that you get laid as often as cheap tile.
     What's that you say?
     Fuck me?
     Fuck me? Fuck YOU!
     I'm calling bullshit on you, "Special K!" Moreover, I'm calling bullshit on your sub-creator. You're not a hero! You're a Rockefeller, a Bush, an Obama, or an inbred Euro-nabob: Were you not born in a mansion, with a silver spoon in your mouth; you'd be living under a bridge on the Southside, with a crackhead gangbanger's dangler in place of the flatware. You are not a mighty man of renown. You are, quite frankly, a wanker.      

     Having said that, I'll add that I've written a few fantasy shorts in my time (more about 'em later), but I based them on Celtic, Norse, and Buddhist mythology rather than Dungeons and Dragons -- and most of the characters get laid without falling back upon non-human ancestors or magical trinkets . One offering, a short piece entitled Thorkill's Conquest, which I scribbled twenty years ago, actually doesn't suck, and will appear in another book -- as soon as I choose between the PG-13 and X-rated versions. I'll probably opt for the former, as the latter will likely enrage a few of my ex-girlfriends, and I don’t live that way anymore. (I can already imagine the phone ringing off the hook…"Disclaimer, my ass! Who else have you done it with in the funhouse at Myrtle Beach?" Or better still: "Listen, jerk-off! The only reason I put out was because you told me you were in the band. If I'd known you were just helping them set up their equipment…")
     Hey, the key to realism is writing what you know, n'est ce pas?
     The novel has been fun to write, as I decided to use the conventions of the genre as toilet paper from page one. There are no cutesy, pixie-ish beings as comic relief, no sentient weapons, no wise and powerful wizards, and no talking animals -- except for a wharf rat with Tourette's Syndrome.  Without giving too much away, it's equal parts Cannery Row and high fantasy. The working title (swiped from either Ben Jonson or Thomas Kyd -- I can't remember which) is Sons of Swords and Fortune; which, while describing the characters perfectly, is faggy and pretentious. I'll probably change it.
     Like Leiber's Fahfrd and the Grey Mouser, the protagonists are a pack of degenerates who'd be more at home among British football hooligans than at Arthur's Round Table. Although the standard disclaimer horseshit applies, some of their antics may or may not have been inspired by actual experiences with my drinking buddies (most of whom my wife and mother consider degenerates who'd be more at home among British football hooligans than… yadda yadda yadda…).
    
     Now that I've gotten ahead of myself, I suppose I should backtrack.  The publishing company is operational. Maggie and I have put it together a little at a time for the last three years. (If I ever write a work of nonfiction, it'll address the unnecessary red-tape and BS small businesses face in this country. "Free enterprise," my rosy, Irish ass…) Our debt-free status and determination to remain that way should explain the timeframe.
      As I have nothing but contempt and loathing for usurers, I was damned if I'd borrow illusionary money and pay a cabal of tapeworm conjurors interest thereupon. Our way required time and perseverance, but the company is all ours, and we're beholden to no one. We're incorporated, we have a license, we have an attorney, and we've even taken on an intern.
     Although being a reporter wasn't always fun, I'm grateful for my hitch with John Fredericks at the Beacon.  Insofar as publishing is concerned, it was an education.  
    
      Maggie is soliciting contributions for our first offering, an anthology to be released next spring. I'm editing the collection; and -- sweet, kind-hearted SOB that I am (and because saying "no" to one's spouse is unwise) -- contributing a piece under a pen name. I'm also assembling a collection of my own short fiction, to be released whenever I have enough material to justify charging ten bucks for it. In addition to the fantasy shorts I mentioned earlier, Bill and Dave will be lurking within the covers, as will McVann. I also mean to include a period piece set in Scotland -- but lest anyone bust my clackers for bandwagon- jumping, rest assured that my Scots have body-hair, use profanity, and commit murder for next-to-nothing. Except for a few mercenaries, there are no kilts or claymores to be found. My story takes place on the Borders, a few years before Jamie th' Saxt sent everyone packing for the Ulster Plantation.

     Self-pub entails certain risks and difficulties, but it affords me complete artistic (chuckle) freedom,  and there's no way I'll spend year or more, writing a book for ten or fifteen percent of the swag.  This way, once we get our costs back, everything goes to us. No risk of making agents, publishers, and other second-handers rich while we pick shite with the chickens.
          Unfortunately, the cookbook had to be shelved for the time being. The underlying idea was making gourmet meals from dirt-cheap imports. Due to the sagging dollar, though, said imports are no longer dirt-cheap.  For example, a four-ounce packet of black sesame seed, which cost $0.99 now costs $1.79. Even my favorite brands of noodles (Vifon, Indo-Mie, Nong Shim and Sapporo Ichiban) have increased in price. These developments necessitate revamping and updating the text.

     In other news, I hit a book sale this weekend and made out like a bandit. I picked up a hardcover copy of Pasternak's Dr. Zhivago for a dollar; a volume of Cicero's dialogues, Erasmus's Ten Colloquies, St. Thomas Aquinas's Treatise on Law, a book on colloquial Spanish, Glenn Greenwald's How Would a Patriot Act (One of the most important books of the last decade, in my not-so-humble opinion), and a stack of guitar magazines. (Whilst sorting through them, I exclaimed: "What the hell? Who slipped an issue of Fangoria into this pile?" The wife says: "That’s not the cast of The Hills Have Eyes, dear. That's My Chemical Romance." Sorry. That was mean.)
    
     This reminded me that four of my guitars needed restringing. My next stop was the local music store, wherein I did something incredibly stupid. One of the axes in question was a Höfner classical acoustic I've had for thirty years.  Like an idiot, I wasn't paying attention when I grabbed the pack of strings. Lazy, shiftless ne'er-d-well that I am, I'd meant to buy ball-ends. Instead, I picked up the traditional variety.  Not having played that particular axe in years, I couldn't, for the life of me, remember how to tie the damned things to bridge. Thank God for Google…
     Finally, a full hour later, I had it strung. Another hour later, I had it tuned. I took it into the kitchen and played a few bars of vaguely Flamenco-ish noodling for the wife, who, never having heard nylon strings up close, was pleasantly surprised to discover that she very much enjoys the sound of them.  I, to reiterate, did not very much enjoy changing them.
     "Dear," says I, "next time I put myself through this, feel free to poke me in the scrotum with a knitting needle."
     As she is not a neocon, and I am not a Muslim, she declined.
     I'm bitching about it (changing guitar strings --not my wife's fundamental decency) because complaining is what I do best, but I admit that the strings are wonderful. They're D'Addario Pro Arte silverwound, and the tone is incredible. Remember your first girlfriend? Remember the first time she said "yes" when you asked her for  -- well, you know? Well, these strings are that "yes." They sound that good.
    I also picked up a package of 80/20 Bronze for my Fender F-210 (a present from my stalwart, long-suffering comrade, Ronnie Watkins, on my thirty-something birthday) and two packs of XLs -- .009s for my brother's Höfner Jaguar-knockoff, and .010s for my SG.
     Whilst restringing the Fender, I hit another snag. The pegs in the bridge were old, and made of plastic. During the struggle to extract them, one broke. This necessitated yet another trip to the music store, and the purchase of multiple pegs in whichever colors were available.  When next you see a hippie/bikerish-looking guy playing an acoustic guitar, the bridge pegs of which induce cognitive dissonance or vivid hallucinations on sight; it's probably me.
     The 80/20s are very nice. Brighter (and, admittedly, a little tinnier) than the Phosphor Bronze I usually play, but they're growing on me -- kinda like jock itch. They’re light enough (.012s) to spare my dignity (I've been wimping out and playing electrics for the last few months), but just heavy enough to restore my calluses and finger strength. Ran through Ozzy Osbourne's "Diary of a Madman" as soon as I'd tuned them -- and rediscovered the meaning of the term "self-contempt." But I stuck with it, all the same.
    Two hours later, my fingertips felt as if I'd tried to pick Darth Vader's nose through his mask, but I made progress.  Picking up the electrics, by way of comparison, was rather like playing that pathetic "Guitar Hero" game.
      And speaking of electrics…     
      XL's aren't my favorite strings, but they're not at all bad -- and they're reasonably priced. Once upon a time, I only played Fender "Bullets," but I haven't seen them in years.  I tried Ernie Ball "Slinkies" during the late '80s or early '90s and found myself hoping for a chance to kick ol' Ernie right in the -- well, you get the picture. For the time being, I'll keep D'Addarios on my electrics.

     Not much to say about the SG. It's a stock, mid-'90s Epiphone. Looks nice, sounds nice, plays nice, and aside from the rinky-dink neck (which feels like balsa wood) I'm very fond of it.  
    
     The Jag knockoff is a different story.  During the autumn of '82, my late brother expressed an interest in playing -- probably my fault. Not entirely convinced of his sincerity, Da bought him an inexpensive German model (A Höfner 164, as nearly as I can tell) at the Heidelberg PX; reasoning that if Chris was serious, plying him with a better instrument would be a matter of course.
     Chris hated the guitar.  His disappointment upon opening the box was obvious, and I honestly wanted to be somewhere else, for my father's sake.  In retrospect, I don't think his feelings were hurt, but one can never tell.
     For my part, I didn't understand. I'd been nagging the old man for an electric guitar since the spring of '81, to no avail. As I'd have considered even a cheap PX or Sears-Roebuck model a Godsend, Christopher's ingratitude flabbergasted me.  
     In time, Daddy relented and bought me a midline classical acoustic for Christmas of '81 (with a stern warning that I'd damned-sight better enroll in a guitar class within the next two semesters). But one can't play heavy metal on nylon strings; all the more reason to marvel at my brother's uncouth reaction.

     My first electric was the payoff for working the 130^th Station Hospital Pharmacy as part of the DOD's Summer Hire program. Six weeks of fulltime blood, sweat, tears, hopes, and dreams (and of forsaking movies, the video arcade at Campbell Barracks, LP purchases, and the water park in Leimen -- all heroic sacrifices for a boy not quite fifteen) bought my first real axe.
     It was an Aria Pro II CS-350, and a case of love at first sight. Aqua blue and shaped like a lopsided, wasp-waisted SG, it had chrome hardware, two humbuckers, with separate tone and volume pots; a standard, three-position toggle for a selector, and coil taps. Best of all, it felt like a real guitar -- heavy, solid, and unyielding.
    One of the amber-colored tone knobs has long since become stripped, fallen off, and rolled into oblivion. My own perspiration has corroded much of the chrome plating, and several frets are worn nearly to the fingerboard. I've played, taught, composed, recorded, and moved on to other pursuits -- while never abandoning that teenage ambition of mine, or the instrument. However battered, it's still a part of me; so inseparably, it will be even when it ceases to exist. The bond transcends sentiment and attachment: when wood dry-rots and metal rusts, when the guitar disintegrates into oxidized flakes and termite-shit sawdust, it will be as heavy, solid, and unyielding as ever -- perhaps even more so.

        Hopefully, this explains my failure to understand my brother's fit of pique. He'd been given something for which I'd have killed -- and yet he stuck his nose up at it.
      "OK, so it ain't the best axe on earth. But it's a freakin' electric, dude! An' it didn't cost you one red cent! Shitfire! You can even use my amp whenever you want!"
     I didn't remind him that I'd begged for the amp, and gotten my wish -- the cheapest POS the PX had in stock. By then I'd already bought a guitar, so was one more year? Save my allowance, work another summer; and a better amp was as good as mine.  Another season; and I'd have an arsenal of stomp-boxes. One more; and I'd be back in the Land of the Big PX -- wherein innumerable apsaras of gainful employment supinated themselves, bared their hooters, spread their legs, and promised me a HiWatt, or at least a Crate for my trouble. Why hurry?

        Try as I might, I never managed to soften Chris's attitude towards his guitar. He regarded it with undisguised contempt, never touched it, and took up bass in '85. I can't remember him learning more than two songs on the guitar: "King of the Road" and "Black Sabbath." Bass was another matter. He picked up Thin Lizzy's "Renegade," Black Sabbath's "Black Sabbath," Deep Purple's "Love Child," and a few AC/DC tunes; but being a lazy, unmotivated bastard ("We should play more AC/DC. You don't have to move your fingers much, and it doesn’t matter how stoned you are…"), he shelved it and took up vocals when my friend, Jon, bought a Squier P-Bass knockoff. 
     Chris wasn't a good singer, but he wasn't a bad one, either. Despite his limited range and galling, Maryland accent, he could manage a Johnny Rotten-ish snarl; and never stooped to "Cookie Monster" bellowing. As fate would have it though, his muse eventually led him away from music, to the seedier end of Ponce de Leon Avenue. And if he was happier working construction and car-washes, and spending his earnings on booze and hookers, who was I to fault him? At the time, music was my life -- but it was only the soundtrack to his. He went his way, I went mine -- and gained an orphaned guitar in the process.
   
     In time, it became mine.
     Until I bought the Stratocaster, I was rather a ham-fisted player. This is to say that I routinely broke strings. It's also worth mentioning that I'm rough on equipment, period.

     "Uh, Dave, buddy? You're a damned good customer an' all, but I just gotta ask you one thing. How the f*** did you manage to melt three tubes?"
    "Awnknow. Mus' be the conditions inna g'rage."
     "You’re still playing in your f****in' garage?"
     "Not always. Sometimes I play in the basement -- and other people's garages. "

     "Otis was asking about you a couple o' weeks ago. Said he asked you to audition. I heard Charlie offered you a chance to jam onstage, too."
     "Yup."
     "Man, I don't get you. What are you? Just a total asshole?"
     "Nah. I'm more of a chickenshit. Now can you fix the f***in' amp, or what?"

     Christopher's guitar was a Godsend and, more importantly, a backup.  Granted, it didn't sound like the Aria, but it spared me the trouble of installing an entire set of new strings when I broke one.  Moreover, I really liked it.
     Until so-called "Alternative" became all the rage, no-one played anything that looked even remotely like a Jaguar. During the '80s, as a matter of fact, most of the big-hair bands preferred instruments that more resembled microorganisms one might catch in a Haitian brothel. Aside from a brief dalliance with Explorers, I always preferred the more traditional shapes: SGs, Strats, ESs, etc. (The sole exception to the rule is the Les Paul. It's blasphemy to say so, but I've never cared for them. To me, they play like hunks of flotsam, and they all sound alike. I'm far more partial to Stratocasters.)  
     Given my predilection for all things passé, the outdated look of my brother's guitar appealed to me -- and still does.  When next I jam with my cousin, I'll play it and have the wife shoot a few photos or a video clip. I'm sure to look like an art-fart, 90's grunge-rocker -- but I like it that way.
     As you can see from the photo below, the instrument has a no-frills, sunburst finish, two ultra-primitive single-coil pickups, one tone and one volume pot, and a mongrelized bridge and tailpiece. Crude though it may be, I love the sound.  The bridge pickup is a little tinny, but its counterpart in the neck position has a nice, fat "woman tone" that lends itself to blues-rock -- or to kicking back and mimicking Grand Funk Railroad. The bridge pickup's tinniness is easily overcome by fiddling with the tone settings on the amp and pedals, and it has a raw, jagged, punk sound that warms the cockles of my Grinchy li'l heart. Although it doesn't howl as fiercely as my hollowbody, it's quite capable of spitting out controllable feedback.  For a cheapie (and this is quite surprising, considering the instrument's relative lightness), the sustain is very nice, and the Cro Mag bridge makes adjusting the action a cinch.
    Best of all, it has 22 frets, and the cutaway is deep enough to allow access to all of them.  This enables me to cop the solo from Judas Priest's cover of "Diamonds and Rust" note-for-note, without going an octave lower -- or bending a string until it snaps.

    One man's trash is, indeed, another man's treasure.

                                                                 Höfner 164 (?)

 

 

Seasonal Grub: Uses for Leftover Pumpkin

     So you've just shut the kids (or the wife, if she's anything like mine) up by carving a Jack O' Latern for 'em. Now your entire kitchen is strewn with those slicker-than-owl-shit seeds, fibrous pumpkin guts, and the "sawdust" that results from using a carving kit rather than a good, old-fashioned knife.  You probably also have a substantial amount of pumpkin flesh from the cap, eyes, nose and mouth left over.
    The seeds you can roast and salt. They're tasty, nutritious, and widely believed to be good for the prostate. Unshelled, they're a good source of fiber. Moreover, in some cultures, they're a reputed aphrodisiac. (Not that I'd have any way of knowing. Being a 24-7 horndog as-is, I can't tell the difference. You could feed me two dozen oysters on the half-shell, a goatweed salad, and enough fly agaric to kill a horse, and I'd be no more -- or less -- a pervo than usual.)
     The guts and "sawdust"? You're on your own, chief. I'd recommend just leaving 'em, though. Eventually, someone will get sick of looking at 'em, and clean up the mess for you.
     The extra flesh, you can put to good use in the following  recipe:

"Bashed Neeps" Deluxe
3 potatoes
3 carrots or parnsips
2 small turnips or one medium rutabaga
I petrouchka (optional)
Leftover pumpkin from Jack O' Lantern
2 cups water
2t raw rice
2 cups chicken broth
2T brown sugar
2T butter
1 bay leaf
Salt
Pepper
Nutmeg
Pinch of cinnamon
Parsley (fresh or dried)

    Wash and peel, and cut root vegetables into 1" cubes. Pare skin from pumpkin chunks. And cut into 1" cubes.  
    Heat two cups salted water to boiling. Add rice and turnips. Parboil for five minutes. Drain, rinse, then discard rice. (This process leaches some of the bitterness from the turnips.)
     Heat two cups chicken broth to boiling. Add bay leaf, diced vegetables, and a pinch of salt. Return to boiling, cover, reduce heat, and let simmer until vegetables are tender, 30-40 minutes.
     Pour off stock and reserve. Discard  bay leaf. Puree vegetables with a querl or potato masher, adding stock if necessary.
     Stir in butter, pinch of cinnamon, and brown sugar until butter melts and sugar dissolves.
     Season to taste with salt, pepper and nutmeg. Garnish with parsley, and serve warm.

Mo' Betta Food

     Last Saturday, the wife and I found ourselves working different shifts. Hers being later (and more hectic, by far) than mine, preparing her a surprise dinner seemed an affectionate (if calculatedly so) gesture on my part.
    The menu  was simple: General Tso's chicken (he still ain't noticed that it's missin'), Szechuan cucumber relish, jade soup with crab, and plain steamed rice.
     None of the aforementioned dishes is especially exotic, and recipes for all are readily available in cookbooks and on the Internet. I mention them for one reason only: The marinade/coating for the General Tso's chicken consists of soy sauce, "yellow" rice wine, salt, white pepper, cornstarch and two egg whites. 
     This left me with two egg yolks and a quandary. Owing to my near-neurotic obsession with never letting anything go to waste, I simply had to find use for them.  Maggie and I batted a few ideas back and forth, and settled on using them for mayonnaise.
     With the exception of one incident last year, during which we tried to make wasabi mayonnaise and failed miserably (for some inexplicable reason, the oil and egg yolks refused to emulsify),  we've never had any trouble making specialty mayonnaises incorporating such oddball ingredients as minced capers, mashed anchovies, caviar or ikura; ground, smoked salmon, etc. This time, however, I wanted something a little different.
     Starting with a stock, "cooking school" recipe for aïoli, I modified it to suit my own tastes. My wife went gaga over it, and I hope you enjoy it, as well.

     You'll need:

2 egg yolks
¼ tsp salt
2 cloves garlic, finely minced
1 cup oil of your choice
1 or 2t vinegar, to taste (optional)
2t sugar
½- 1t ground chipotle
¼- ½ t Dijon mustard

     Using a mortar and pestle (improvise if necessary), combine garlic and salt, and mash to a paste. In a separate bowl, combine egg yolks, mustard, and a few drops of oil. With an eggbeater or electric cake mixer (lowest  setting -- just trust me) slowly whisk until mixture begins to thicken.  Add remaining oil in a thin trickle, whisking constantly.  When mayonnaise has reached the desired consistency (I like mine on the thick side, but some prefer it thinner); whisk in garlic paste, powdered chipotle, vinegar, and sugar. Add additional salt if necessary. Transfer to a covered container and refrigerate 2-3 hours to allow flavors to blend.
     The inclusion of two egg yolks and two cloves of garlic makes for a very creamy consistency and a bold, strong flavor.  Should you prefer a milder condiment, increase the amount of oil, or reduce the amount of garlic.  The cholesterol-conscious may omit one egg yolk, although the end product will be slightly thinner. Being a cheapskate (and hoping to compensate for the cholesterol in the yolks), I used a 50-50 mix of extra virgin olive oil and canola.
     As I'm fond of strongly flavored foods (my Bro, "J-Dawg," won't even hang out with me when I eat tapenade, taratoor b'sade, or certain curries -- the smell drives him up the wall) I use it as a dip crudités.  It also makes a wonderful spread for sandwiches (especially cold roast beef), and zesty dressing for salads -- especially potato salad, the essential starchiness of which compensates for the strong garlic flavor and aroma.

     Yesterday was Home-Improvement day.  My cousin needed a few extra bucks, while we needed some plumbing done. Call it serendipity...
     Tearing out and replacing a wall is child's play for Mags & Yours Truly, but we don't do plumbing.  I know my limitations, and for anything more complicated than replacing a faucet or toilet, I call the expert -- my cousin.  Naturally, we paid him for the service, but he cut us one hell of a deal. Moreover, he's family.  This being the case, we also plied him with two meals. My wife and mother made breakfast for him while I was at work, while I took care of dinner, which, on Sundays and holidays, we usually take between midday and 14:00.
     As on the day before, it wasn't a fancy meal, but it went over very well with everyone. Two of the items (pico de gallo and tortilla chips) were "stock" comestibles and merit little detailed treatment.

     Pico: char, peel, seed and chop two tomatoes and two Serrano chiles. Thinly slice 2-3 large scallions or chop one small, white onion. Mix, and add two minced cloves of garlic, 1-2 tablespoons of minced cilantro (depending on how much you like the stuff), a tablespoon or more of lime juice, and salt to taste. Refrigerate for at least an hour before serving.
     Tortilla chips: halve ten or more 6" corn tortillas (don't worry if they're slightly stale -- it makes no difference, as you'll be frying them) and cut each half into thirds. Heat ½" or more of oil to 350 in a skillet or wok.  Add tortilla wedges and fry until golden-brown, turning once. Remove with slotted spoon and drain on paper towels. Sprinkle with salt, if desired, and keep warm.  That's all there is to it.

    The next two took some work, and are therefore worth relating in detail. The end products were superb, though, and justified the time and effort.  The first, chile con queso, is another "stock" appetizer (i.e., any fool with a pulse can make it), but extra care results in a better tasting dish.
    I love chile con queso, but not the way certain benighted souls make it. Microwaving a lump of Velveeta and can of Ro-Tel tomatoes is strictly for slobs, and results in an inferior product. My way takes more time and effort, but I think you'll find that the end justifies the extra work.

2 jalapeño chiles, charred, peeled, seeded and minced.
1 large tomato, charred, peeled, seeded and chopped.
1 small onion, finely chopped
2t butter
½ t salt
dash pepper (optional)
½ cup milk or half-and half
2oz. each Chihuahua, Monterey jack, cheddar and American cheeses (use the real thing, not those disgusting pre-wrapped singles), cubed or shredded.

     In a saucepan, melt butter over very low heat. Do not allow to foam or brown. Add onion, increase heat slightly, and sauté until tender and translucent.  Add tomato and jalapenos, and cook 5+ minutes, until tomato releases liquid. Reduce heat to lowest setting and add cheeses, stirring constantly.  When cheeses begin to melt, add milk, increase heat slightly, and stir until smooth and blended. Serve warm with tortilla chips.

     Note: The choice of cheeses is a matter of personal taste. Using Chihuahua alone is more authentic. The addition of cheddar and/or American cheeses is a Tex-Mex practice -- but results in a very flavorful dish. Like most "stock" appetizers, this one readily lends itself to modification and experimentation. Serrano, poblano, or Anaheim chiles, for example, can be used in place of jalapeños. A little chorizo makes a nice addition, as do one or two tablespoons of beer or a teaspoon of tequila. Use your imagination, and let your taste buds be your guides.

     The main dish was that most venerable of mainstays, chile con carne.  My recipe is guaranteed to induce the dry heaves among purists, as it includes ground beef. The ratio of beef to beans, you'll notice, is an obvious concession to Anglo-Celtic palates. When making a truly authentic batch, the wife and I use cubed beef (we're not picky about the cut) and slow-cook it until it can be shredded with forks. We also soak and cook dried pinto beans the night before, doubling the listed amount. (Margarita considers kidney beans abomination, and an offense in the eyes of the Lord). In this case, though, time was of the essence. Although this is a "quick" recipe, the additional care in preparing the ingredients makes for a better dish. It isn't as good as chili cooked in the old-fashioned way (what is?), but it's much better than store-bought mixes, and infinitely superior to that canned horseshit.

2lbs ground beef, lean
2 onions, chopped
3 ancho chiles
1 mulato chile
1 guajillo or pasilla chile
2 cloves garlic, minced
2t smoked paprika
2t oregano
1T cumin seeds
½ cayenne or more, to taste (optional)
1 can chili beans or plain pintos
1 can diced tomatoes with jalapeños
1 can crushed tomatoes
½ cup beer
salt to taste

     Toast anchos, mulatos and guajillos or pasillas in ungreased skillet, over medium heat, until aromatic. Set aside, and toast cumin seeds until fragrant. Remove stems, seeds and veins from chiles, and crumble. In a spice grinder, combine chiles, paprika, cayenne (if desired), oregano and cumin. Reduce to a fine powder.
    Lightly grease a Dutch oven or stewpot. Heat to medium, and brown beef, stirring to prevent sticking. When beef is browned, drain, reserving 2T drippings. Return reserved drippings to pot and sauté onions over medium heat until tender and translucent. Reduce heat, add spice powder, and cook until aromatic, stirring constantly. If necessary, add additional drippings to prevent sticking and burning.  When onions are well coated, add beef and tomatoes. Stir until thoroughly mixed.
    Heat to boiling, and stir in beans and beer. Reduce heat, and simmer, covered, 45 minutes.
    
     Enjoy.

Brief Review

 Games People Play (Eric Berne, Ballantine, 1964, ISBN 345-24682-9-175)
 
      Like anything else in life (especially "moldy oldies'), Games… has both assets and liabilities. On the negative side: TA was in its infancy when the book was written; some of the material is dated; the inescapable, tireless fury of psychobabble lurks within; there is a certain mechanistic rigidity (the "cookie-cutter curse") to the approach; and much of it is gender-specific. (This apparent defect, however, is also an advantage. See below). On the positive side, Berne's method is both substantive and -- most importantly -- workable.
    
     This is to say that transactional analysis is a readily "weaponized" behavioral technology, with numerous offensive and defensive applications. Defensively, its primary useful applications are: 1.) Identifying one's own weakness, with a view towards disguising or (preferably) eliminating/remedying them; 2.) Learning to spot telltale behaviors in others; enabling one practice the adage "The first step in avoiding a trap is identifying it"; 3.) Deescalating conflict via the appropriate countermeasure(s).  

     Offensive applications are more numerous, and include the following:

     1.) Feigning certain "games," thereby throwing an enemy or unwary mark off-balance. An example of this application is employing a play that suggests the desire for recognition or approval when one's real motive is revenge. Heeding the "expert" advice, "He just wants attention. Ignore him and he'll go away," the mark does just that -- and takes his eye off the ball, creating an opening for "active payback."  A more sophisticated version consists of setting a paranoid mark on edge. Constitutionally incapable of ignoring a potential threat, he/she will pretend to ignore it, whilst quietly going bonkers. In this case, the "passive payback" consists of encouraging the fear and deriving satisfaction from the mark's antics (wasting time, energy, and money on needless security precautions; alienating friends, neighbors, and the authorities with incessant cries of "Wolf!" etc).

     2.) Knowingly setting oneself up as a "player" in a mark's game of choice -- but forearmed with an appropriate countermeasure. In short, bully busting via psychological "suicide bombing" -- minus the risk of actual suicide.

     There are many, many more, but as experience is the best teacher and nature the best laboratory, the reader should discover and practice them himself.  To the more astute (and less ham-fisted) reader, Games People Play  serves as piece of the "puzzle" of existence, drawing attention to patterns he/she may never have noticed. Although rooted in the mores and conventions of the mid-twentieth century; the book provides workable tips for productive, rewarding social interaction or, in today's dumbed-down, mealy-mouthed parlance: "better relationships."

     This brings us full circle, to one last "weaponized" application. Abandonment of traditional gender roles in Europe and North America is a localized phenomenon. The "anything goes" culture so prevalent in the West is budding "Sith's" playground, as men and women now play once-exclusive "games" with equal relish and equally debilitating results. As the exact roles of nature and nurture ("hard-wiring" vs. "conditioning") are still imperfectly understood and hotly debated, the en vogue free-for-all approach to gaming may actually undermine potential enemies of both sexes -- without providing compensatory strengths.
     "Study deeply upon this," as Musashi wrote.

News and Views

     Enough of the "memory lane" bullshit. Let's get back to my favorite topics -- doom and gloom. As some of you may have heard, Thailand has taken a severe pounding. Not only has the recent flooding caused devastating property damage, it's taken a toll on the rice crop. In and of itself, this wouldn't mean much -- except that it's not an isolated incident. Rice crops have also failed in Indonesia and China. Not only will this increase the price of rice, but of other grains as well.  Corn is already skyrocketing , and the "ripple effect" promises to be particularly unpleasant. Beyond crop failures, we mustn't forget the ongoing effects of the Gulf oil spill and the Fukushima disaster. Expect (contaminated) seafood to go through the roof, as well.

     As you can conclude from the climate map here, things aren't much better in this country. As you can see here, Texas is in a world of shit, and Georgia isn't far behind. Note that the latter state's three primary water sources, Lakes Allatoona, Lanier, and Hartwell, are approximately ten feet below normal.  Moving further west, you'll notice that Lubbock, Texas and Phoenix, Arizona have experienced massive dust storms this year. The photos of the Phoenix storm don't quite do it justice, but there's plenty of amateur video footage on Youtube. Am I the only one who's eerily reminded of the Dust Bowl days? You may quite rightly point out that Dust Bowl days were much worse -- but we didn’t have to worry about feeding 300,000,000 people in 1934.  
     If there's any good news, it's that someone has the right idea -- even if it's too little, too late. But why the hell do we have to build a desalinization plant in Mexico? Is the US running out of coastline?

     Although food and water are our most pressing concerns (a human being can survive only three days without water, nearly a month without food, but he can go for years without money -- and I know whereof I speak), the economy isn't doing very well either. There's a shock, right? Never mind that those of us with functioning brains saw the shitstorm coming when real estate took a nose-dive and dollar began sagging in '06-'07. 
    By '08, the talk radio propagandists were assuring us that the problem wasn't with the national economy, but rather with our "personal economies."  But what, pray tell, becomes of the national economy when all of its citizens' "personal economies" swirl down the pot? Just curious…
     OK, I'm a doomsayer and a crank, so take my opinions cum grano salis.  And tell our foreign friends that I'm full of shit, while you're at it. The country's fine. Recovery is nigh, and as soon as we elect the right president, everything will work itself out.

     And speaking of our foreign, friends, the "New World Order" is steaming right along in Europe, wherein the EU has decided to cut food aid to its "useless eaters." Isn't that cute? Ram sixty years of socialism down their throats, render them utterly incapable of caring for themselves -- and then pull the rug out from under 'em. 
     Am I the only one who's noticed the deafening silence from America's most rabid Europhile, Michael Moore?

     Moving back to our side of the pond, we find that American Academy of Pediatrics now recommends doping children as young as four into oblivion. And people thought I was an asshole for selling the occasional bag of weed to my fellow teenagers…

     News flash: The global elite are a bunch of fuckin' degenerates. The more I read about the scumbags, the less embarrassed I am over my own youthful indiscretions.

      News flash II: The mainstream media have blacked out Ron Paul yet again, just as in '08.

     I've saved the best for last. As you may have heard, Uncle Sugar has sent 100 Special Forces to Uganda. Just a small force of "advisors," naturally. Hmm. Sounds oddly familiar, doesn't it? Let's see, a couple of years before I was born, Kennedy and Johnson sent a small force of advisors to picturesque little country in Southeast Asia. By 1965, we were out of the advice business, and had 50,000 troops in the country.
      Now I'm not expecting or predicting another Vietnam. We're fighting two of those already. I do, however, think there's much more to this than meets the eye.  Unless you've been asleep for the past few years, you've noticed that China has taken quite an interest in Africa. More on the subject here, here, and here. We, on the other hand, have been lagging behind in that respect. So while the US has been investing in the PRC, they've been investing in Africa. The "Dark Continent," when last I checked, was quite a resource-rich place. Continued access to said resources may very well necessitate a military presence, as it did during the 19^th century. It may also necessitate "proxy wars" and other skullduggery. Watch this one closely.

I'm Out of Sorts, and My Johnson's in a Knot. Just Deal With It.

On Wasting Time    

      I've never understood the class reunion phenomenon. To me, it's mind-boggling. Why in God's name would I shell out a couple hundred bucks to rub shoulders with people I couldn't stand then, and whom I probably wouldn't like any better now?
      I've never attended a reunion, and I never intend to.  I hated high school with a white-hot passion, and that was on good days. Graduating was like getting out of the stir, and I never saw the sense in looking back or digging up unpleasant memories.
     The night I graduated, I said "Thank Christ I'll never have to see that pisshole again!", and then sneaked down the basement and split a sixpack of tallboys with my little brother.
     The only things I missed about school were getting my knob polished regularly (my girlfriend could suck a grapefruit through a garden hose), and the ready availability of C. sativa. In the former case, I was SOL for quite some time. Never mind how long -- it's rather embarrassing. (Oh, and why is it that one only discovers that so-and-so had a crush on him/her when it's too late to do anything about it? "Dude! You mean I coulda banged her? Why didn't somebody tell me?").  In the latter case, my brother kept me supplied with doobage during my freshman year of college.  Being 18, I'd buy skin mags, which he, in turn, would sell to underclassmen for a modest profit. He also plied me with regular tickets on the Hooterville Express. Capitalism at its finest.
     My twenty-five-year reunion took place last year, and when my wife asked if I was interested in going, I answered "Not just no, but hell no!"
     For starters, I (to the best of my knowledge) am the only member of the RHS class of '85 to have married a Mexican (although she's usually mistaken for an American Indian).  Mixed marriages aren't terribly common around here, and I don't like being gawked at. Secondly, I'm probably the only guy in my graduating class who, at the age of 44, still wears his hair halfway down to his ass. Have I mentioned that I don't like being gawked at?
     Last, but not least, I was working for a paper at the time. If anyone had found out, I'd have been expected to play shutterbug and piss away a page or two on smarmy photos and cutesy captions; and I was damned if I'd waste good column space on that kind of bullshit when there was real news to cover.  I don't do "human interest." I'm a muckraker, and that's that.
     My thirty-year reunion is in 2015 -- but at the rate we're going, the country will have collapsed by then. One less thing to worry about…

Stomp Boxes

     One of my favorite toys is a mid-'80s Boss Ph-1R phaser.  Now I'm not a big effects freak.  My setup consists of the aforementioned phaser, an early '90s DOD FX65 Stereo Chorus, a mid-90's Boss Metalzone distortion/overdrive, and a Boss DD5 Digital Delay. (I used a Crybaby wah for a few years, but when it went Tango Uniform, I never bothered replacing it.) This pedal, though, is sweet. It's a little noisy by modern standards, but like many older effects boxes, it has a certain je ne sais quoi, a truly "classic" sound, especially when I run the Strat through it. I was fucking around a few days ago, just "noodling" old Deep Purple and Rainbow tunes. "Mistreated" has always been a favorite of mine, so I gave it a try, and after a bit of knob-twiddling, came up with a tolerable approximation of Blackmore's sound. I understand that he used a flanger in the original version, but the phaser worked surprisingly well once I'd fiddled with the depth and rate. The funny thing is; although it's one of my favorite signal processors, it was also one of the cheapest. I picked it up in a pawnshop for ten or fifteen bucks.
     This isn't meant to be a commercial, but the Boss Metalzone is one of the best distortion pedals I've ever used. It's amazingly versatile, so much so; it can make even a "pig" practice amp sound like a stack. I used an Ibanez Tube Screamer from 1983 until 1995, and whereas I loved it, it just didn't have enough "oomph!" to drive smaller amps. This having been the case, I used it to augment my amp's "dirty" channel.  (I still have a ridiculously overpowered, 160-watt Peavey Roadmaster, but while it's great for home renovation  -- just turn it up to 10, slam out a few chords, and watch the sheetrock separate from the studs….  it's not what you'd call a practice amp.) The only problem was the amount of dancing I had to do. If I wanted good distortion, I had to use the "dirty" channel and the Tube Screamer. In order to switch to clean, I had to hit the amp's footswitch and the distortion unit simultaneously.  Not only was this a royal pain in the ass; balancing on my heels in order to execute the feat made me look like an epileptic going into a grand mal seizure.
     A few years ago, just out of sheer curiosity, I decided to run my bass through it. The axe is nothing fancy (an '85 Peavey Fury with one pickup, one volume pot and one tone pot), but the Metalzone made it sound like an armor division on the move; imagine a cross between any given Motorhead offering and Black Flag's "TV Party."
     I'm also quite keen on the DOD Stereo Chorus. In the old days, I arranged my pedals thusly: Wah, distortion, phaser, stereo chorus; and played through two amps -- a 65-watt Peavey Bandit and a 40-watt Peavey bass amp.  The aforementioned setup afforded me quite a tonal range, and I could very nearly approximate the sound of the live version of Rush's "A Passage to Bangkok." Played through the clean channel, with the "speed" control properly adjusted and just a touch of reverb, it duplicates the sound of Simon and Garfunkel's "America" almost perfectly.  
     The DD5 is another of my favorites. I purchased it right around the time I stopped smoking weed and indulging in other illicit pharmaceuticals -- which was probably for the better.  The DD5 features eleven different modes and five separate effects.  Exploring its capabilities literally took me days, and it's certainly not the kind of device you'd want falling into the hands of a guy who's out in the aethyr on peyote or 'shrooms. The mind boggles at the potential for abuse…
     Hell, I'm a good, old-fashioned Hillbilly/Irish boozer, and even I was sorely tempted to go into Pink Floyd/Hawkwind mode…  
     The "reverse" feature alone is worth the price of the unit -- and can actually lead to theta/delta brainwave activity, UFO sightings, and spontaneous ancestral-memory trips.

     A few months ago, my cousin, Eric, and I were jamming in my garage, and driving my neighbors up the wall. I was playing my SG, while he'd brought over a blue, vaguely-"Stratish"-looking axe, which, if I'm not mistaken, was an Ibanez. (To give you an idea of how stodgily conservative I am; I'll mention that to my mind, guitars fall into three categories: 1.) Fender; 2.) Gibson; 3.) Dubious, newfangled, heathen, commie shit.)
     He'd also brought an intriguing piece of equipment with him -- a multi-effect processor. Now I'll admit  to being suspicious of MEPs. Some of 'em are utter shite, while others are clearly the work of the Devil.
     Back in the '80s, my friend, Dan, had a very nice, rack-mounted processor which did damn-near everything but launch a first-strike against the Soviets. He also had a top-shelf axe (either a Zion or Paul Reed Smith) and -- if memory serves me correctly -- a 50-watt Marshall amp. I was on the outs with my Da at the time (neither of us took my brother's death very well), and had pretty much moved in with Dan. (The arrangement lasted for the summer, by the end of which we were ready to kill each other. A word to the wise: two intense personalities + one small apartment = recipe for disaster.) Being young, rebellious, and intemperate at the time; we often sat up long into the night, playing guitar, plotting world conquest, and quaffing gallons of Old English 800, Canadian Mist, and rotgut bourbon. As I've said, I'm suspicious of MEPs, but Dan's was intriguing, to say the least. During one of our late-night sessions of carousing/jamming we discovered a combination of settings that exactly duplicated Joe Walsh's sound on "The Confessor." Needless to say, I was favorably impressed, and regarded the device with a sort grudging approval.
    My cousin's rig is slightly different, in that it's a stomp-box on steroids rather than a rack-mounted unit. Delay, distortion, chorus, flanging/phasing, etc. all in one package -- and a package with which I'm comfortable, at that. This is to say that it's a modernized version of the old-timey pedal board.
     I might actually buy one…

Sex and the Single Redneck

     Pretense isn’t my forte. Neither is false modesty. I'm just psychopathic enough not to give a shit what anyone (including me) thinks of me; and I know myself far too well to bother with keeping up appearances. In my case, doing so is a fool's errand. I'm a thoroughgoing "squirrel," and I make no bones about it. I am, however, enough of a hypocrite to excuse my own eccentricities and excesses while roundly condemning others for theirs.
     The manic-depression doesn’t help, mind you. When I'm depressed, sex seems like a waste of time. Why bother with procreation when the end is obviously nigh, after all? When I'm hypomanic or experiencing a mixed episode, though, even the crack o' dawn ain't safe. It's called "hyper-sexuality," and, as the AFN public service announcements of yore assured us of VD: "It can happen to you, baby."
      Believe me -- the monk/libertine, Jekyll/Hyde schism is anything but fun. Moreover, there's no way to establish support groups for people like me. Any such undertaking is inherently counterproductive.  Why, I still remember my first "Pervos Anonymous" meeting.
     "Howdy! My name's Dave, and I'm a horndog!" says I.
     "Hi, Dave!" roars the crowd of ostensibly "recovering" nymphomaniacs.
     Footage of the ensuing orgy is still available on XHamster, if I'm not mistaken. The DeKalb County Police were so busy processing us; street crime rose to a ten-year high within a single week -- and for the first time in my life, I was actually glad that my daddy was a public defender.
     Having said that, I'll now confess to what, among perverts, is a perversion.
     I don’t go in for "talking dirty." Although I'm not averse to appreciation or encouragement (unless it's loud enough to disturb the neighbors), I'd rather not converse whilst TCOB. It's distracting, and there's no sense in spewing reams of hackneyed, Vivid Video dialogue when a simple whimper suffices. Squandered energy, folks. Besides, the more voluminous the squalls; the more likely she's faking. If she's covered with a sheen of sweat, and wrapping her legs around your midsection tightly enough to cause permanent, irreparable spinal and renal damage; you're on the right track.  Treat yourself to a cigar before you go in for dialysis and your next appointment with your chiropractor.  Otherwise, accept no substitutes.
     I mention this only because I was having the time of my life with an unforgivably attractive woman back in ninety-something -- when everything went to hell in a handbasket. This gal was just beautiful, period. Although we had little or nothing in common (she was Roman Catholic, I was a syncretistic train wreck; she was Cymric/Slavic, I was an Irish/Scottish/Norman thug; she was a stoner, I was a boozehound; she was liberal/moderate, I was hardcore libertarian, ad infinitum, ad nauseam), I was wildly attracted to her. She had lovely, finely chiseled, aquiline features; perfect teeth, a thick mane of umber hair; and sparkling, deep-brown eyes. We had one of our earliest dates under a full moon, and she was so enchanting; she took the very breath from my lungs. For a moment, I thought I'd scored one of the sidhe -- a fairy-tale princess.
     Fast-forward. We're hammering away in every conceivable position, when, at last, I -- well, you know.  No need to wax overly graphic.
     For my part, I was happy as a pig in shit.
     "Woo-hoo!" says I, yawning even as I did so. "I'm gonna have me a smoke an' catch me some rack time. Do I have to go to work tomorrow? Ah, wull. Feck it. I'm sure they'll call if I'm late."
     Enter buzkill/turn-off.
     "Damn! You come a lot!" exclaims my paramour. "I'm going to get a towel. Your kids are running down my leg."
     As you may have gathered, I'm hardly a Puritan, and was nothing of sort back then. Her remark, however, was so shocking, vulgar, and revolting; I was on the verge of cardiac arrest.
     "Fuck me dead!" says I. "Did I just hear what I think I heard?"
     As it happened, I had. I spent the next month listening to Hank Williams and Roy Acuff -- and reconciling myself with the fact that I was completely out of touch with the modern world.

G'night.

Books, Gardening, Politics, Food and Music

     I definitely struck the mother lode at the FCPL's used bookstore this morning.  I parted with a couple hours' pay and departed with:

Creating a New Civilization -- Alvin Toffler
Unexplained Facts: Enigmas and Curiosities -- Rupert T. Gould
Prisoners of Hate: The Cognitive Basis of Anger, Hostility and Violence -- Aaron T. Beck
Kinsmen & Clansmen -- R.W. Munro
Trails West --  National Geographic Society
Choosing, Planting, and Cultivating Herbs -- Philippa Back
Spirits of the Earth -- Bobby Lake-Thom
Stories from a Ming Collection -- trans. Cyril Birch
Cosmos and History: The Myth of the Eternal Return -- Mircea Eliade
The World We Have Lost: England Before the Industrial Age -- Peter Laslett
Simple Heuristics that Make Us Smart -- Gerd Gigerenzer, Peter M. Todd, &al.
A Background to Chinese Painting -- Soame Jenyns
Chuang Tzu: Genius of the Absurd -- Ed. Clae Waltham
Against the Stream: Critical Essays on Economics -- Gunnar Myrdal
What Kind of Nation: Thomas Jefferson, John Marshall, and the Epic Struggle to Create a United States -- James F. Simon
Museums and Women and Other Stories -- John Updike

     These should be enough to keep me out of trouble for a while. Hopefully I can say the same of the garden. Owing to an unprecedented drought and extremely high temperatures, the summer garden underperformed.  As I was counting on it, the impact was less severe than on other growers in the area.
      Of the fall crop: So far, so good. I put in quite a variety this year: spinach, chard, beets, carrots, various lettuces and cabbages, turnips, Western and Asian radishes, tatsoi, bok choy, mizuna, horenso, gai lan, saltwort,  misume, kale, collards, mustard, peas and fava beans. We also managed to reseed our ravaged lawn just before the rain hit on Tuesday, and we're keeping our fingers crossed.

     The rain, needless to say, was a welcome relief. The summer was bone-dry. I don't think we had more than two or three days of good, soaking precipitation all season. Frankly, it was one of the worst droughts I can remember.  Proving that the term "military intelligence" is an oxymoron, the COE waited until this week to announce that Lake Lanier is 10' below normal, and that we are, in fact, experiencing a drought. Thanks, guys. I never would have guessed…
     The complete absence of rainfall, however, did nothing to deter the brain trust known as the Roswell City Council from passing (drumroll…) a package of storm water initiatives. Example: generously offering to lower our rack-rent property taxes if we install barrels beneath our downspouts -- presumably to catch dust, bird shit and dead foliage. God knows, nothing else is flowing through 'em...

     And speaking of the council, the wife and I will be voting for Mike Nyden. We met Mike during our hitch with the Beacon, and he's one of the few local players who's favorably impressed us.  Admittedly, I'm a far meaner, more suspicious, and more hostile individual than my wife.
     She's willing to give everyone a chance, while I tend to go with my gut -- if I don’t like the vibe, I keep the source thereof at arm's length.  When it comes to political figures, I never take them at their word, and I automatically assume they're lying, no matter what they say. I'm also inherently biased against government in general, and local governments in particular. This is because in my experience, 90% of politicians are not merely liars, but evince every symptom associated with full-blown sociopaths.
      
     Moreover, like Jefferson, I believe that the government that governs best governs least. This is to say that dictating "acceptable" colors for my fucking shutters and doors is not the government's proper role. This being the case, I'm sick of the arrogance, heavy-handedness, and utter lack of accountability the City Council has thus far demonstrated. Whenever I feel the slightest inclination to cut 'em a bit of slack, I simply replay my recordings of previous council meetings. Their voices fairly ooze contempt for any peon with the temerity to question their policies. Were I not wearily familiar with disordered personalities, I'd have been shocked; and I'd imagine that anyone attending such a meeting for the first time left the building crossing himself and vowing never to return.

      Hopefully, you've gathered that favorably impressing me is a Herculean feat for any politico.  If so, you're absolutely right.

     To date, I've only met five local politicians I like, and even fewer whom I trust. At the top of both lists is Milton City Councilman Bill Lusk. In all the times we've spoken with him -- whether on the record or off -- he's never lied to us, fed us a bullshit lead, or sent us on a wild goose chase. Everything he's ever told has checked out -- but unless you've worked for a newspaper, you probably have no idea how rare such individuals are. Real leadership (as opposed to mere opportunism and self-aggrandizement) necessitates telling the truth -- however unpopular -- and acting accordingly.

     Mike seems to have been cast from the same mold. Although he's not yet an elected official, he's already taken active roles in issues that affect the entire city -- rather than just his subdivision. He was in the vanguard opposing the Fulton County School Board's latest redistricting scheme, and he's one of the few North Fultonites who understands fiscal conservatism rather than just paying it lip-service. I had several informal conversations with him long before he tossed his hat into the political ring, found myself agreeing with him to a degree that actually surprised me, and was overjoyed when he announced his candidacy. For these reasons, among others, I'm more than willing to give him a chance.

                                                                            ****

     In other news, I've heard a curious (but unsubstantiated) rumor that buying or borrowing William Cooper's classic Behold a Pale Horse is a quick ticket onto to the Gestapo's "terror watch" list. Hopefully, it's just a paranoid rumor. If true, though, the gubmint's hysterical overreaction suggests that Cooper was onto something.

                                                                           ****  
     Were it not so tragic; it would be hilarious. I am, of course, referring to the stage-managed "conflict" between the Teabaggers and the Occupy the County Landfill crowd.  Mouth-breathing simpletons on one side; and chanting, unbathed Lollapalooza rejects on the other. Aren't uninformed ideologues jes' a bundle o' joy? As my great-grandmother often said: "The things you see when you don't have your gun..."
     Once again, it's easy to laugh at their antics -- but only as one does at a tragicomedy. Do you suppose, for one second, that any of these would-be crusaders has actually checked his candidate of choice's voting record? Read the social pages to determine who he/she pals around with? Filled out an Open Records Request for his messiah's campaign disclosure records? Of course not.
     Who wants to discover that his two-fisted, ruggedly individualistic "conservative" myrmidon receives funds from the Save the Naugas Foundation; or that his touchy-feely, I-love-the-downtrodden "liberal" paladin has a reserved space in every parking garage on Wall Street? However loath I am to quote Anton LaVey, he hit the nail on the head when he opined that "Give us myth!" was humanity's collective battle cry.
     This, incidentally, is why we'll never see the end of the "pincer move," or of "good cop, bad cop." Both variations on the theme work consistently, as anyone from Hegel to your friendly, neighborhood hugger-mugger can attest.

                                                                           ****

     The problem: The wife and I wanted bean burritos, but afternoon traffic was so heavy; a trip to the supermarket would have run fifteen minutes each way.  Now when it comes to bean burritos, Maggie and I are like junkies -- we'll slit your throat from ear to ear to get a fix. We will not, however, sit in traffic for half an hour. Unfortunately, we only had two serranos, both of which were destined for the salsa. The solution: I substituted one Indian "elephant's trunk" chile when making the refried beans, and was delighted with the results. Here's the recipe:

3 or 4 cups cooked pinto beans (reserve cooking liquid)
1t salt (or to taste)
1+ cup cooking liquid
2T lard or olive oil
2 small onions, chopped and separated
2 cloves garlic, minced and separated
1 elephant's trunk chile, peeled but not seeded or deveined, minced
¾ t ground cumin
¾ t ground chipotle
pinch sugar
1 tomato, peeled, seeded and chopped (optional)

     Heat oil or lard in large skillet. Add one onion, one clove garlic and minced chile. Cook until onion is tender and translucent. Add 1 cup cooking liquid, salt, sugar, cumin, ground chipotle, second clove of garlic and second onion. Heat to boiling. Add beans one cup at a time and mash, moistening with cooking liquid as necessary.
     The recipe may seem a little spicy (in my opinion it isn't -- but that's just me), but with good reason. The beans are mealy to begin with, and when combined with sour cream, cheese, etc. and rolled up in a tortilla, their spiciness is less evident. Although my wife and mother aren't chile heads by any stretch of the imagination, they both enjoyed them. We served them with a fresh salsa made of two tomatoes (peeled, seeded and chopped), two serranos (similarly prepared), two small onions, two cloves of garlic, two tablespoons of minced cilantro, and the juice of one and a half limes, salted to our taste.    

                                                                         ****

     If you're anything like me, you spent your formative years hurling one guitar instruction manual after another at the wall in rage and frustration, cursing the author for a numbnuts. Let's face it: most beginning guitar books suck, and during the '70s and '80s, they were especially dreadful. Having learned to play years ago, I no longer need these wastes of money, saints be praised. My wife's grandson, on the other hand, has recently taken up the instrument. Unsurprisingly, though, his mother can't find anyone willing to teach a three-year-old.
    As with any skill, the earlier one begins training, the more proficient one becomes.  I don't expect Miller to become the next Eric Johnson overnight, but if he starts now, he'll have an edge when he's old enough to realize that the babes dig good guitarists. Providing him with this unfair advantage necessitated finding an instruction book that was both thorough and easily understood. As it happened, Dame Fortuna favored me with one of her bucktoothed, walleyed smiles a few weeks ago.
    Whilst hunting for a suitable text, I stumbled across an Australian offering entitled Progressive Rhythm Guitar, by Gary Turner and Brenton White (ISBN 0 959540 47 4). Although the title is self-explanatory, the book covers more than just rhythm playing. The chapters on scales, modes, and fingering patterns are admirably complete, especially for a beginner-level text. The exercises, while simple, are productive, well thought-out, and presented in both tablature and standard notation. Best of all, the book contains an instructional CD, allowing the prospective axeman to play along rather than rely upon a metronome.
     I hope the boy enjoys it, and I wish we'd had books of this caliber when I was younger. I'd have spent much less time noodling around in front of the stereo, learning to play by ear.

 

Fun With Fermented Cabbage

Like Rodney Dangerfield, sauerkraut don't get no respect. In this country, in particular, it's relegated to the lowly realm of hot dog toppings, or merely served as a garnish with bratwurst or kielbasa.

This is a crying shame, as the underappreciated vegetable is a delicacy in its own right, especially when cooked properly. High in fiber and vitamin C, sauerkraut can rightly be considered health food.  Its crisp, acidic piquancy also makes it the perfect accompaniment for meats and oilier poultry, such as duck and goose.

Like any food, though, sauerkraut is only as good as the cook who prepares it. Since most cooks, in my experience, prepare sauerkraut as well as nonagenarians do "the nasty," I don’t think I'm too far afield in assuming that most Americans have never tasted proper kraut. (And spare me the gory details of yer last muff-divin' session with yer Boshie girlfriend, smartass.) Even in this country's few remaining German restaurants, the finished product isn't up to snuff. (Hardly surprising, as Mexicans working for five bucks an hour and no benefits can't be expected to morph into Dieter fuckin' Müller  overnight, now can they?)

Now I'm a spoiled, insufferable food snob and I admit it. Six years in Germany ruined me, and I make no bones about it. They also convinced me that nobody knows kraut like a Kraut. Here then, is a method of preparation that could easily give the fussiest Hun, Austrian or Alsatian a permanent case of priapism. In case yer wantin' ta impress people an' make em' think yer every bit the globe-trottin', cosmopolitan li'l fuck, the German name fer this dish is Weinkraut. Lay that one one yer ol' lady next time ya want a blowjob…

 2lbs kraut
1 smoked ham hock
1 dozen black peppercorns
8 juniper berries
4 whole cloves
1 bay leaf
1 onion, diced
1 apple, diced
1 small potato, grated*
2T lard, bacon drippings, or rendered goose fat.
2t butter
¾ cup dry white wine
2 cups chicken broth
Pinch of sugar
Salt to taste

Simmer ham hock in chicken broth until meat separates from bone. Remove hock and do whatever ya please with it, ya sick freak. Reserve broth.

Squeeze excess liquid from sauerkraut, rinse in one change of water, and squeeze again. This should remove excess sourness. If not, rinse one more time. If it's still too sour, ya should probably stick to Hershey bars, ya sissy.

Over very low heat, melt butter in lard/goose fat/bacon drippings. DO NOT allow butter to brown. Add onion, increase heat gradually, and sauté until translucent. Add apple and kraut, stirring until well coated with hot fat. Stir in peppercorns, bay leaf, cloves, sugar, and juniper berries. Add wine, heat to boiling, and reduce to low. Cover and let braise for ten minutes.

Add just enough reserved broth to cover kraut. Stir in grated potato and heat to boiling. Reduce heat to low and simmer, covered, until kraut is tender, 30-40 minutes. Add salt to taste and serve hot.

*Keeping the grated potato in a bowl of ice water before adding it will prevent discoloration and leach excess starch.

Food for Men With Functioning Balls

If there's one thing that pisses me off to no end (admittedly, there are millions; but I like the phrase "If there's one thing…" -- it makes me appear more reasonable and equanimity-prone than I really am), it's having to make special requests when dining at Mexican, Thai, Indian, and Hunan/Szechuan restaurants. Not only do I feel every bit the whiny, prissy asshole when doing so; said requests inconvenience the already overworked kitchen staff. 

Sadly, I find myself doing so more and more. You see, Gentle Reader; when I order a hot dish, I expect it to be hot.  And if I don’t break a sweat whilst packin' that sucker away; it ain't hot enough. Like my late Granddaddy, who wouldn't even think of sitting down to a plate of kale, collards or turnip greens without a bottle of Tabasco sauce, I'm a "chile-head." As, however, those vicious slags, Urd, Verdande, and Skuld are inclined to weave wicked wyrd; I'm trapped in a yuppified, honkified, culinary Twilight Zone.

 Case in point: During our tenure at the Beacon, the wife and I investigated a claim that various and sundry agencies had treated Roswell's justly famed Moksha Indian Restaurant in a callous, high-handed fashion whilst constructing the Westside Parkway.  We interviewed the general manager, ran the story, and got a free lunch for our trouble.

Make no mistake: Moksha serves top-notch Sub-continental cuisine. For all that it caters to the mamby-pamby tastes of faux-cosmopolitan "BoBos," the fare ain't bad by a long shot. It's tasty -- and there's no denying it.  "Tasty" and "authentic," however, are not synonyms, as Mags and I discovered.

This brings us to another boring (if relevant) digression. My ball and chain "better half," one Margarita Rosita Rosario Santa Maria Santa Claus del Polo Nuerte Gonzalez y Ybarra y Ibanez y El Cid Matamoros  y Chingate y Turaluralu-Turlalurale Talamantes by name, is rather fond of Mexican food. Yeah I know -- there's a shock, right? Anyhoo, whilst grocery shopping one morning, she developed an acute craving for burritos de carnitas.  Now the neighborhood in which we shop is predominately Mexican, Korean and Vietnamese. The markets in that neck of the woods carry products the bigger chains won't touch with a ten-foot pole. They also sell them cheaply, as -- contrary to popular belief -- most recent immigrants aren't rolling in cash.  

While we were checking out, Mags asked the cashier if he could recommend a good Mexican restaurant. Unsurprisingly, he could and did. I won't divulge the name because I don’t want the place getting mobbed, but it's down on Buford Highway -- good sign #1. When we entered the dining room, I noticed that I was the only White guy there. As a matter of fact, except for a West African (judging by their accents) couple a few tables away, everyone was Mexican -- good sign #2. Upon receiving our order, we sat down and commenced to stuffin' our faces.  The burritos were fantastic, and exactly the way Mags likes them.  (And you should see her putting one together at home: beans, rice, meat, salsa, Mexican cream when we can get it -- or sour cream when we can't; the whole nine yards.  Moreover, she stuffs 'em so full; we practically have to use rubber bands to keep the tortillas closed.)  At the meal's conclusion, she pronounced the place "authentic" -- and I spent the next week learning to cook burritos de carnitas.

One of the most flattering things Mags has ever said to me is that my Mexican food tastes like her mother's.  If this is the case (and she's not just being a sweetie pie), it's because I usually cook from scratch, and I'm not afraid of spices. (Not to brag -- well, yeah, this is to brag -- I've actually done the matagringos bit in my time: flame-roasted habaneros dipped in salt and scarfed down hot off the grill. This brings us to the essence of my complaint.  Although Moksha is a fine restaurant, the food is considerably milder than the Indian fare I encountered in London when I was younger. And once again, it's not the fault of the restaurant -- they're simply catering to American tastes. Sadly,  though, many Indian cookbooks do likewise.  A notable exception to the rule is Khalid Aziz's Encyclopedia of Indian Cooking.  I like Aziz's book for several reasons, but most of all because he doesn't water down or wimpify the recipes.  If a given dish calls for a full teaspoon of cayenne and a few sliced green chiles, then so be it.

Over the last seventeen years, I've used The Encyclopedia of Indian Cooking as a textbook. By sampling different variations on the "staples," if you will, I've learned a great deal about different regional cuisines. (I've also learned that there are as many ways to prepare a typical Indian dish as there are Indian cooks.  This is to say that recipes vary from region to region, village to village, and even house to house. ) In that time, I've also experimented with and "tweaked" various recipes, altering the spice mixtures to suit my own tastes and needs.

What follows are a few of my own recipes. First and foremost, let me warn you that they're hot. Very hot.  They are, however, delicious. Anyone can toss a few Scotch Bonnets into a trough of slop and brag about the "heat" of the dish.  The following entrees and sides, though, are both hot and savory. Give 'em a try. If you like good spicy food, you won't be disappointed.

Dave's Badass, Guaranteed-to-Put-Hair-on-Yer-Chest Lentil Curry

1 cup dry lentils
3 cups water or broth
1 small potato, diced
2 carrots, diced
1 onion, minced
3 cloves garlic, minced
4 whole cardamoms
4 whole cloves
1 x 2" stick cinnamon
1" piece ginger root, minced
2 green chiles, sliced
1 tsp ground, roasted coriander
1 tsp ground, roasted cumin
1 bay leaf
1 tsp turmeric
1 tsp paprika
1 tsp black pepper
1 tsp cayenne pepper
½ tsp ground fenugreek
1 tsp salt
1 tbsp butter, ghee, or vegetable oil
1 tbsp sesame oil

Heat oils in Dutch oven or large saucepan. Add onion, garlic, ginger, carrot and potato. Saute over medium heat until onion is translucent. Add all spices (except salt and green chiles), sauté 1 minute. Add lentils and water or broth; stir well. Heat to boiling, then cover and reduce heat to lowest setting. Simmer until lentils are tender and liquid is absorbed, 35-40 minutes. Stir in salt and green chiles during last five minutes of cooking. Serve warm.

Cucumber Raeta

2 cups plain yogurt
1 English or two pickling cukes
2T mint or cilantro -- or 1T of each
1 scallion, thinly sliced
2 cloves garlic, minced
¼ t cayenne
¼ t paprika
½ t ground cumin
1t salt
½ t black pepper

Split cukes lengthwise. Scoop out seeds. Cut into ¼" dice. Place cuke chunks in glass, plastic, or stainless steel bowl. Add all other ingredients. Stir well and refrigerate 1-2 hours before serving.

Onion Chutney

1 large onion, diced
1 clove garlic, minced
2t each mint and cilantro, shredded
1t salt

1t cumin seed, roasted
1t ginger root, minced
1t black pepper
½ t cayenne
Juice of one lemon

Mix all ingredients. Refrigerate 1-2 hours.

Zucchini Curry
 
2 zucchini, marrows,  or other summer squash, sliced ¼" thick
1 onion,  chopped
1 clove garlic, minced
1t salt
¼ t garam masala
¼ t Madras-style curry powder
1t black pepper
½ t turmeric
¼ t cayenne
2t dried, shredded coconut
2T butter, ghee, or vegetable oil

Heat oil in skillet or wok.  Add onion and garlic. Sautee until onion is translucent. Add spices and stir-fry until garlic and onion are well coated, and spices release aroma. Add squash and stir-fry until slices are coated. Add water 1T at a time, if necessary. Cook until squash slices are crisp-tender -- approximately five minutes. Serve warm.

 Parsi-Style Scrambled Eggs

6 eggs
3T butter, ghee, or vegetable oil
1 onion, diced
1 clove garlic, minced
1 tomato, seeded and diced
1" piece ginger, minced
2T Cilantro, shredded
2 green chiles, thinly sliced (seeded and deveined if one happens to be cooking for girly-man poofters…)
1t salt
1t black pepper
1t turmeric
½ t cumin
½ t paprika
½ t cayenne

Heat oil in wok, skillet or Dutch oven. Add onion, garlic, ginger, chiles and tomato. Sautee until onion is translucent. Break and beat eggs. Whisk in salt, spices and cilantro. Pour egg mixture into pan and scramble until eggs are well set. Serve piping hot.

Three-Bean Salad

1 can garbanzos, rinsed and drained
1 can black-eyed peas or crowder/field peas, rinsed and drained
1 can kidney beans, rinsed and drained
1 onion, chopped
2 cloves garlic, minced
1t cumin
½ t ground coriander
2 green chiles, thinly sliced
1T salad or sesame seed oil
1t salt
2T chopped cilantro
1t black pepper
2+T lemon juice, or to taste
 
Place chopped onion in glass, stainless steel, or plastic bowl. Whisk oil, garlic, salt, and spices together. Pour over onion.  Mix well.  Add legumes, cilantro, and lemon juice. Stir until fart-fuel is well coated. Refrigerate 1-2 hours and serve.

The Beat Goes On?

The wife's grandson turns three in a few days, and has expressed an interest in learning guitar. For my part, I'd have preferred that he express an interest in Karate, boxing, or shooting (if a kid's old enough to walk unassisted, he's old enough for a BB gun...) but it's ultimately none of my business. I don't believe in choosing children's interests for them -- it only leads to resentment later in life.

So we bought a him a guitar: a kiddie-size, Yamaha classical acoustic. I was leaning towards something less prissy, but the clerk at the music store reminded us that steel strings aren't very gentle on young fingers, and I had to agree. I'd quite forgotten that I was fourteen going-on fifteen when I began playing, and that teenagers have higher thresholds of pain than toddlers. Steel strings, however, are just what the doctor ordered insofar as building finger strength is concerned. Therefore, I hope his parents will buy him a standard acoustic once his calluses develop.

Anyhoo, we packed it up and sent it aloong its merry way. Needless to say, the strings were a tad ratty (they always are: for whatever perverse reason, it never occurs to most people to wash their hands before pawing the axes at the local music store), so we tossed in an extra set. Luckily, the store had ball-ended strings.I can't imagine a young child stringing a classical acoustic the old-fashioned way -- most of 'em have trouble learning to tie their shoes... As I've mentioned, it's a Yamaha; so if the kid sticks with it, it'll keep him occupied until he's ten or twelve.

Here's a shot of Yours Truly tuning it up. See? I do have a heart...



But for some reason, I felt like Gulliver the entire time...

"Speak, Speak, Thou Fearful Guest!"

     Here's the mail I mentioned in a 2006 or 2007 post.

     I've had a touch of writer's block of late (What else is new?), and thusly decided to recharge my batteries by doing something which, if not exactly useful, is infintely preferable to vegetating. As I was working on the byrnie, the wife suggested photographing it. (God, but I love 'er! She's the only woman I've ever met who actually considers my eccentricities "cool.")

     "Hey, dear! Ya wanna learn a few basic quarterstaff moves?"
     "Really! Can I? That would be awesome!"

     Although mail isn't at all difficult to make, it's time-consuming and labor intensive. The process is simple -- if tedious: Wind several feet of 14 gauge steel wire around a 3/8" dowel. Slip the coil off the dowel, and saw or otherwise cut it into rings. (You Bruce Lee-types can practice your "Tae Kung Jitsu" chops, if you like. You won't accomplish Jack Shit insofar as cutting the coils is concerned, but it's gotta be a worthwile form of hand conditioning, right?...) File the burrs off each ring so that the ends butt together neatly, and close with two pairs of pliers. Hang four closed links on one open link, then close it. Make a few dozen of these "butterflies," then connect them with additional open rings. Keep going until you have something wearable.

    To reiterate: It's a tedious process -- but I've found that consuming large quantities of beer whilst cranking up Cirith Ungol and other get-a-life '80s metal bands (Fates Warning, Omen, etc.) on the ol' ghetto blaster is rather an effective mood enhancer/ennui buster. (So is peyote, incidentally -- but don't be surprised if the finished product ends up looking as if Salvador Dali or M.C. Escher had designed it...)



On active steed, with lance and blade,
The light-arm’d pricker plied his trade,--
Let nobles fight for fame;

Let vassals follow where they lead,
Burghers to guard their townships bleed,
But war’s the Borderer’s game.

Their gain, their glory, their delight,
To sleep the day, maraud the night,
O’er mountain, moss and moor;

Joyful to the fight they took their way,
Scarce caring who might win the day,
Their booty was secure.

-- Sir Walter Scott, "Marmion"

     As I mentioned in my '06 or '07 post, mail is an effective defense -- to a certain extent. After steeling myself with a substantial tranfusion of poor, ol' John Barleycorn's blood, I field tested the (then sleeveless) haburgeon by ramming one of my large collection of sharp, pointy objects into my chest. To my delight, the mail held. To my sorrow, the gap between the rings allowed 1/4" or so of blade to pass through. It might have been my imagination, but I swear I could almost feel the point grating against my breastbone. I also had an immense, black, blue and purple bruise to show for it.

     Lesson #1: Don't test your armor by stabbing yourself whilst plastered, numbnuts!
     Lesson #2: YOU may think your latest exercise in handicraft is jes' da shee-yawt. The laws of  
                      physics, physiology, etc., however, may very well beg to differ with you -- and painfully  
                      so, at that.



     As you can see from the closeup photo, 20+ pounds of linked steel makes for a tough, flexible, barrier 'twixt one's delicate hide and the naughty, perpetually out-of-sorts malcontents who specialize in breaching the delicate hides of the unwary. Be that as it may, mail has its limits -- said limits amply demonstrated by empirical observation, in my case.
     "Wull feck me daid!" says I, reaching for the betadine, iodine, alcohol, and hydrogen peroxide. "AC 5 is as overrated as Pauline Reage, Anais Nin or that 'Marquis de Shah-day' baysturd! Gawddam 'at Gary Gygax! Soon as I sober up, I'm'on' stomp a mudhole in 'at sumbitch's 'ace,' an' walk 'at sucker dry!"

    Oops! Did I say that out loud? Must be all the banana peels I smoked this morning...

     Now where was I? Oh, yeah! Mail's inherent limitations (which, as Clint Eastwood hath us assuréd, a man's got to know): Although it defeats slashes (especially from short swords and daggers), it's vulnerable to thrusts; said vulnerability increasing with the mass of the thrusting weapon and the strength of the wielder. It offers no protection against blunt trauma. Ergo, a sufficiently powerful drawcut will inflict bruises -- and perhaps even fractures -- whether or not it draws blood. For this reason, mail is no defense at all against mass weapons (maces, clubs, flails, morning stars, etc.). Moreover, the "long-haired sons of the northern world" discovered in short order that mail -- even the top-shelf variety with riveted links -- is an axeman's wet dream: the demonically perfect combination of mass, leverage and cutting edge handily sunders the links and drives them into the very flesh and bone they were meant to protect; fairly guaranteeing a septic wound.