Tuesday, November 25, 2003
Oh, yeah: First, owww. I worked until I was gonna puke, and then I worked some more until I was gonna puke. I'm gonna be OK now.
Second: The really barebones menu, as I promised.
Two chickens. One will be marinated with a simple brine. I'll add a little rosemary and maybe some black peppercorns. The second will be marinated in a brine with crushed red pepper, garlic, habanero sauce, black peppercorns and rubbed with a ground black pepper mix.
Steamed broccoli and asparagus. We also got apples (a pie? I don't know yet.), bananas and a seedless watermellon. The mellon was quite a treat to find and I'm excited to eat it in winter, just 'cause that's really when you need a summer fruit, right?
Sweet Potatoes with little marshmellows. marshmallows. marshmelows. Those little spun sugar doodads. You know.
A very plain sort of mashed potato. I think we'll leave the skins on. I've threatened Toshi with a split batch and the second being seasoned until the spuds turn black. That's still a possibility.
Wine. We got some tasty wine from Sister Creek. It's the same one we've been drinking for months now. The 2003 oughta be out before too long, but we're enjoying the 2002 so very much...
So. There ya' go.
Second: The really barebones menu, as I promised.
Two chickens. One will be marinated with a simple brine. I'll add a little rosemary and maybe some black peppercorns. The second will be marinated in a brine with crushed red pepper, garlic, habanero sauce, black peppercorns and rubbed with a ground black pepper mix.
Steamed broccoli and asparagus. We also got apples (a pie? I don't know yet.), bananas and a seedless watermellon. The mellon was quite a treat to find and I'm excited to eat it in winter, just 'cause that's really when you need a summer fruit, right?
Sweet Potatoes with little marshmellows. marshmallows. marshmelows. Those little spun sugar doodads. You know.
A very plain sort of mashed potato. I think we'll leave the skins on. I've threatened Toshi with a split batch and the second being seasoned until the spuds turn black. That's still a possibility.
Wine. We got some tasty wine from Sister Creek. It's the same one we've been drinking for months now. The 2003 oughta be out before too long, but we're enjoying the 2002 so very much...
So. There ya' go.
Monday, November 24, 2003
Also, on the Thanksgiving thing, I'll post a really bare-bones menu after we hit a grocery store tonight to pick up some specifics. I know, I'm a suicidal loon for even thinking about a grocery store this close to Black Thursday, but I'm brave and there's only so much you can do with Soy Sauce and Talcom Powder before somebody realizes that you aren't actually serving food.
Oh, and we also have mustard. Still, there's only so many ways to combine those ingredients.
So, yeah.
Oh, and we also have mustard. Still, there's only so many ways to combine those ingredients.
So, yeah.
I'm doing Thanksgiving, sort of. Actually, I'm putting my house up as a place where folks can meet up for a meal and social time, should they so choose. I'll be cooking a little and opening it up for potluck. If you are in Austin and know how to get a'hold of me, go right ahead. I can give directions 'cause I'm just that cool.
P.S. My cooking plans as of right this moment don't include any bread, and I'm particularly not planning to make rosemary Jon-Bread, hint hint, if anybody were, hint hint, able to bring some, hint hint.
P.S. My cooking plans as of right this moment don't include any bread, and I'm particularly not planning to make rosemary Jon-Bread, hint hint, if anybody were, hint hint, able to bring some, hint hint.
Thursday, November 20, 2003
On the one hand, owww.
On the other, my arms have never looked better, I've got more energy (when I can move) and I can feel myself slowly losing that nasty jiggle around the middle that's been my trademark since college (and in elementary school. Really, It just took a sorta break during part of high school).
It's not that I don't think a belly is cute. I do, and I wouldn't want to get rid of the belly completely. I just need a little less of it.
The last estimation I got put my belly at containing twenty to thirty pounds of fat. That's too much fat, says me.
So, owww, but I'm feeling good.
On the other, my arms have never looked better, I've got more energy (when I can move) and I can feel myself slowly losing that nasty jiggle around the middle that's been my trademark since college (and in elementary school. Really, It just took a sorta break during part of high school).
It's not that I don't think a belly is cute. I do, and I wouldn't want to get rid of the belly completely. I just need a little less of it.
The last estimation I got put my belly at containing twenty to thirty pounds of fat. That's too much fat, says me.
So, owww, but I'm feeling good.
The Lizard Brain is pretty damned irrisistable. I'm just glad I trained mine to make me write sometimes.
Tuesday, November 18, 2003
A little bit of sugary stuff makes a big difference in recovery from solid, hard work. Maybe it's also got to do with loss and reintroduction of salt, but I feel better for having had this stuff that's basically a 4:1 ratio of sugary stuff to protein, combined with electrolytes and fiber.
Point is, I don't hurt so much as I did this morning.
Point is, I don't hurt so much as I did this morning.
Monday, November 17, 2003
It's raining right now.
I've had an offer to go watch British movies tonight at a coworkers apartment. The idea interests me, and I'll have to see how I'm feeling tonight.
The rain is coming down fast and hard, and it makes a background roar that says "You Will Soon Be Wet."
I need a new meme. Being a cowboy has been a lot fun, but it will stick if I am not careful. Maybe a tortured writer. Maybe just a prolific and thoroughly happy one.
The intensity of the rain oscilates between bone-soaking and soul-drenching and the city cries for cleansing.
I've embraced my heritage before. I've been southern at various points in my life. The accent slips in a little too easily when I don't keep it down. I've also embraced my upbringing as the child of educated parents. There are certain shames in being "from" anywhere that were instilled in me by these parents for reasons I've never fathomed. These reasons are inscrutable but undeniable and enforced by the best police there are: siblings and self. If my brothers are the "from nowhere" mob, then I'm right there with them.
The rain is not falling but being pulled in suicide dives to the earth, where each drop is dashed to pieces on the flat, paved rocks of reality.
Happiness calls. My phone's on vibrate.
I've had an offer to go watch British movies tonight at a coworkers apartment. The idea interests me, and I'll have to see how I'm feeling tonight.
The rain is coming down fast and hard, and it makes a background roar that says "You Will Soon Be Wet."
I need a new meme. Being a cowboy has been a lot fun, but it will stick if I am not careful. Maybe a tortured writer. Maybe just a prolific and thoroughly happy one.
The intensity of the rain oscilates between bone-soaking and soul-drenching and the city cries for cleansing.
I've embraced my heritage before. I've been southern at various points in my life. The accent slips in a little too easily when I don't keep it down. I've also embraced my upbringing as the child of educated parents. There are certain shames in being "from" anywhere that were instilled in me by these parents for reasons I've never fathomed. These reasons are inscrutable but undeniable and enforced by the best police there are: siblings and self. If my brothers are the "from nowhere" mob, then I'm right there with them.
The rain is not falling but being pulled in suicide dives to the earth, where each drop is dashed to pieces on the flat, paved rocks of reality.
Happiness calls. My phone's on vibrate.
Friday, November 14, 2003
Much as I hate to do this, it's easier than linking to my other archive:
originally posted a godawful long time ago:
From where I am sitting, I can touch God.
He's in the next booth, and I can smell a trace of his cologne. Not a whole lot, like stupid yuppies wear, where it crushes your whole nose and makes you want to barf; just a whiff. I can't place the scent. It smells soft and whispy, like clouds. Maybe he just smells like that all the time. It reminds me of being a child, when I'd smell something, then try to go back later and have it smell different, not so neat. New toys used to smell so good, but now they just smell like plastic. This is like finding a smell when you were a kid, and then finding that it smelled the same, just as magical when you are an adult.
He's wearing a blue suit. It's a very tasteful one, with a banded collar, kind of like a priest should wear, if he wants to be fashionable. His hair is black and curly, and he's got perfect, smooth olive skin. His eyes, when I cought a flash of them a moment ago, are very deep black, with very well-defined whites, the two perfect examples of the colors, deep and bright, inky and glowing, in absolute contrast to each other. They are like a perfect Yin Yang. He looks very middle-eastern, and yet not. From the right angle, he looks more mexican or asian or even sometimes like a well-tanned European. It's hard to say what kind of ethnicity he is. I couldn't help but notice he's wearing very snazzy blue shoes with black laces. They're shiny and not scuffed or dirty at all. He really looks like he has everything together.
I haven't heard him talk yet. He's just sitting there playing with a palm pilot. A minute ago he had one of those fold-out keyboards out and was writing something in a big hurry. You can tell, he types really well, and really fast, too. It must have been an important thought, too, because when he put the keyboard away I think I heard him give a thoughtful "hmm." Now he's just playing with the thing. It makes the occasional beep or whistle, but he's a really quiet person, it seems.
The waitress didn't even ask him what he wanted. She just brought over a big salad and a cup of coffee. I noticed she left him extra cream and she changed out his sugar cup for him. I think he probably just gets that kind of service everywhere he goes. If he doesn't I guess it's all for the best. Divine plan and all that, yeah?
He hasn't touched his salad except to take out the croutons and put them on a plate and eat one of the cherry tomatoes. I guess he's like me in that. He doesn't eat the croutons either. Sometimes you just have to be in the right mood. And when the tomatoes are ripe, and I guess he can tell if anybody can, they're really good, when they've just got a little spot of dressing on them so it doesn't cover the taste all the way and just adds a little zip to the flavor. Yeah. He's done this before.
I wonder if, every time he looks at something he thinks "I did a good job on that," or "I need to fix that. I'll get around to it," or something. Is it kind of like the guy who builds machines for a shoe factory going out shoe shopping? I don't know.
The whole impression, though, is just that he looks absolutely comfortable and at ease. He's doing his own thing and loving it.
I feel like I'm seeing the better version of me, the version with all the upgrades, where the engineers have taken out all the stupid features and replaced them with ergonomic ones that work every time and never burn out. I'm the model T, and this guy's the flying car the uses no gas, puts out no pollutants and folds up into a 6-pound suitcase.
I think he's done. He ate his salad, and obviously enjoyed every bite. He chewed slowly and closed his eyes while he ate. After each bite, he waited a couple of seconds and just seemed to enjoy the flavor. It's the same crappy dressing I got on my salads here a hundred times. He just seems to be able to relish it properly. After his salad, he drank his coffee. I couldn't help noticing that it was still steaming. He had the first sip black, and then, while he was still smiling from it, he opened a creamer and a sugar packet. He added a little of each, then had another sip. He kept that up, sip by sip until at the bottom it was probably just a sip of cream and sugar with a little coffee flavor in it.
He left a pretty good tip. God, it seems, tips 30%. I hope the waitress knows what she's got. After he was gone, she just came around and picked up the money and wiped down the table. God didn't leave a mess and he seems to have bussed his own dishes. I wouldn't even know where to put them. I always leave a mess at this kind of diner. I thought that was why you leave a tip.
It's a funny thing. You can't just walk up and say "Wow. You're God. I love what you've done with Honey Dew melon. I think it's your best work. I have your book here, will you sign it?" I think that would be rude. I just let him go. When he noticed me staring, he gave me a little wink and a thumbs up. Obviously, he knew I knew who he was. He was very cool about it.
All in all, God seems to be an alright guy. I've got to find out where he gets his suits made. If I could look half that good, I'd be satisfied.
That was a good looking suit.
originally posted a godawful long time ago:
From where I am sitting, I can touch God.
He's in the next booth, and I can smell a trace of his cologne. Not a whole lot, like stupid yuppies wear, where it crushes your whole nose and makes you want to barf; just a whiff. I can't place the scent. It smells soft and whispy, like clouds. Maybe he just smells like that all the time. It reminds me of being a child, when I'd smell something, then try to go back later and have it smell different, not so neat. New toys used to smell so good, but now they just smell like plastic. This is like finding a smell when you were a kid, and then finding that it smelled the same, just as magical when you are an adult.
He's wearing a blue suit. It's a very tasteful one, with a banded collar, kind of like a priest should wear, if he wants to be fashionable. His hair is black and curly, and he's got perfect, smooth olive skin. His eyes, when I cought a flash of them a moment ago, are very deep black, with very well-defined whites, the two perfect examples of the colors, deep and bright, inky and glowing, in absolute contrast to each other. They are like a perfect Yin Yang. He looks very middle-eastern, and yet not. From the right angle, he looks more mexican or asian or even sometimes like a well-tanned European. It's hard to say what kind of ethnicity he is. I couldn't help but notice he's wearing very snazzy blue shoes with black laces. They're shiny and not scuffed or dirty at all. He really looks like he has everything together.
I haven't heard him talk yet. He's just sitting there playing with a palm pilot. A minute ago he had one of those fold-out keyboards out and was writing something in a big hurry. You can tell, he types really well, and really fast, too. It must have been an important thought, too, because when he put the keyboard away I think I heard him give a thoughtful "hmm." Now he's just playing with the thing. It makes the occasional beep or whistle, but he's a really quiet person, it seems.
The waitress didn't even ask him what he wanted. She just brought over a big salad and a cup of coffee. I noticed she left him extra cream and she changed out his sugar cup for him. I think he probably just gets that kind of service everywhere he goes. If he doesn't I guess it's all for the best. Divine plan and all that, yeah?
He hasn't touched his salad except to take out the croutons and put them on a plate and eat one of the cherry tomatoes. I guess he's like me in that. He doesn't eat the croutons either. Sometimes you just have to be in the right mood. And when the tomatoes are ripe, and I guess he can tell if anybody can, they're really good, when they've just got a little spot of dressing on them so it doesn't cover the taste all the way and just adds a little zip to the flavor. Yeah. He's done this before.
I wonder if, every time he looks at something he thinks "I did a good job on that," or "I need to fix that. I'll get around to it," or something. Is it kind of like the guy who builds machines for a shoe factory going out shoe shopping? I don't know.
The whole impression, though, is just that he looks absolutely comfortable and at ease. He's doing his own thing and loving it.
I feel like I'm seeing the better version of me, the version with all the upgrades, where the engineers have taken out all the stupid features and replaced them with ergonomic ones that work every time and never burn out. I'm the model T, and this guy's the flying car the uses no gas, puts out no pollutants and folds up into a 6-pound suitcase.
I think he's done. He ate his salad, and obviously enjoyed every bite. He chewed slowly and closed his eyes while he ate. After each bite, he waited a couple of seconds and just seemed to enjoy the flavor. It's the same crappy dressing I got on my salads here a hundred times. He just seems to be able to relish it properly. After his salad, he drank his coffee. I couldn't help noticing that it was still steaming. He had the first sip black, and then, while he was still smiling from it, he opened a creamer and a sugar packet. He added a little of each, then had another sip. He kept that up, sip by sip until at the bottom it was probably just a sip of cream and sugar with a little coffee flavor in it.
He left a pretty good tip. God, it seems, tips 30%. I hope the waitress knows what she's got. After he was gone, she just came around and picked up the money and wiped down the table. God didn't leave a mess and he seems to have bussed his own dishes. I wouldn't even know where to put them. I always leave a mess at this kind of diner. I thought that was why you leave a tip.
It's a funny thing. You can't just walk up and say "Wow. You're God. I love what you've done with Honey Dew melon. I think it's your best work. I have your book here, will you sign it?" I think that would be rude. I just let him go. When he noticed me staring, he gave me a little wink and a thumbs up. Obviously, he knew I knew who he was. He was very cool about it.
All in all, God seems to be an alright guy. I've got to find out where he gets his suits made. If I could look half that good, I'd be satisfied.
That was a good looking suit.
Moving along slowly, the cat sneaked down the hallway.
Why sneaked? Why not snuck? Or Snook? I mean, it could be either, I suppose. Most speakers of English would understand and be able to decode either of those. Snuck may, arguably, be more correct (righter? more right? Damn this language.) aber da hab' ich kein idee.
Die katze ist ein maus gesehen, und snell gespringen. Und so endet ein lebe.
Why sneaked? Why not snuck? Or Snook? I mean, it could be either, I suppose. Most speakers of English would understand and be able to decode either of those. Snuck may, arguably, be more correct (righter? more right? Damn this language.) aber da hab' ich kein idee.
Die katze ist ein maus gesehen, und snell gespringen. Und so endet ein lebe.
Wednesday, November 12, 2003
This is an interesting look at Porn by a feminist. I'd posit, however, that her point about porn making people feel alienated even when together is not really as accurate as it could be, if only because she asked people who feel alienated all the damn time how they feel about a subject that they probably feel they have a duty to think about in unconventional terms. I'm just sayin' is all...
I read this on BookSlut.
I read this on BookSlut.
Tuesday, November 11, 2003
Friday, November 07, 2003
Thursday, November 06, 2003
128 fluid ounces=16 cups=8 pints=4 quarts=1 galon.
You lose, according to two sources I've recently bumped into, 80 to 96 fluid ounces of water a day due to normal activity, which need to be replaced through fluid consumption. You can do the math to figure out that this comes to a paltry half- to three-fourths-gallon of water a day you're supposed to drink. Let's say five eights, or 5 pints.
Assuming 1 pint to be .5 liters, this means you oughta be drinking about about 2.5 liters. A medium soda bottle and then a little soda bottle full of water every day. No Problem, says I. I've had almost that much already, and it's only 11am.
How's my math? I'm damn tired, so I'm sorry if I'm off a bit.
You lose, according to two sources I've recently bumped into, 80 to 96 fluid ounces of water a day due to normal activity, which need to be replaced through fluid consumption. You can do the math to figure out that this comes to a paltry half- to three-fourths-gallon of water a day you're supposed to drink. Let's say five eights, or 5 pints.
Assuming 1 pint to be .5 liters, this means you oughta be drinking about about 2.5 liters. A medium soda bottle and then a little soda bottle full of water every day. No Problem, says I. I've had almost that much already, and it's only 11am.
How's my math? I'm damn tired, so I'm sorry if I'm off a bit.
Wednesday, November 05, 2003
Oh, yeah: all the stuff I posted on the 3rd was anagrams of my various and sundry names, including my whole given name, my first&last given names (no middle, y'see), and my chosen name which is the site you're reading.
So far, I like "Being B-Jam Bins," but I could be talked into "Bambino Jenning's Jobs," neither of which have real meaning per se in the "real" sense of the word.
So far, I like "Being B-Jam Bins," but I could be talked into "Bambino Jenning's Jobs," neither of which have real meaning per se in the "real" sense of the word.
Monday, November 03, 2003
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