The past couple of days I've been thinking a lot about the conversation my ceramics teacher and I had about "tunnel vision." During my final critique he asked me to tell him a bit about how each pot was different and branching out in the sense that he could tell I was "taking a risk to see what the clay could do." I know "tunnel vision" drives him absolutely crazy because a student's reluctance to try new forms means that student gets stuck making the same pot over and over. That same student gets pissy about making any other form than the form he or she has appropriated as a comfort zone, which makes his life more difficult since the student becomes reluctant to being taught anything new.
The same happens to writing students. I imagine that "tunnel vision" is a problem of all artists in any genre in any part of the world. I did go through my little diddy of tunnel vision, though I remained teachable because I'm an idea thief. This means I listen, I read, I scratch my head and then take whatever I've observed and try to make it my own. I'm sort of a sponge that way. But, my first year of graduate school I wrote only from the perspective of a submarine. When I felt the submarine poems going stale, however, I ditched them. I didn't really have much of an emotion about ditching the submarine sequence. I just knew it had to happen. At first, the submarine poems were liberating, but as they grew stale I realized I was trapping myself.
My teacher is a firm believer that students rob themselves of spontenaiety and the pleasure of learning what clay can do--the ultimate chameleon as he calls it--because they get wrapped-up in the idea of grades and praise and the word "good." Yeah, I've gotten wrapped into those things before, but not for all that long because it's not worth the energy. I went through my "is it good?" phase until I realized I had no fucking clue what "good" really means. The only thing I know about what "Good" means is that the definition of "good" depends on who you are talking to. Personally, I'd rather explore the bounds of what can happen in generating and revising and tinkering than taking on the burden of effectively commenting on the nature of "good." People have been discussing what "good" means since people have been able to speak and we still don't know what exactly it means because the term is always in flux. And the idea of "good" will always be in flux because human beings are creatures of contradiction and change.
I told my teacher it was more effective not to have an opinion about my pots while making them because I was more interested in learning how to react to accidents while working. I think there are two ways to create art: 1. excercising control over the work; 2.) reacting to accidents. You're doing a favor to yourself if you manage to do both while creating the work. I agree that writing and making art, as Diana Jospeh puts it, is a series of choices and each choice has an effect. From my practice I have found that to be not only an effective route but a responsible one because that line of thought requires integrity from the artist. I'd like to feed off of that expression by saying that making art is also a series of accidents and your response to each accident will have an overall effect on your acceptance or resistance to tunnel vision.
Friday, May 8, 2009
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Hunt for the Mysterious Bad Smell
Yes, it's a little like Hunt for the Red October; I just cannot locate either the origins or breeding ground of the pungent funk haunting my abode. This smells has wicked-good ninja skills. I have emptied trash, hurled trash, cleaned the trash cans, cleaned the bathroom, looked under the couch, looked in corners, peeped around in closets. All dirty dishes are clean. Nada. Something somewhere is producing an industry of smell.
It's a smart smell. I can't figure out exactly what the cause is like with spoiled meat or rice or laundry. Some smells are sneaky in the way they lay dormant but you can locate them by distrubing the funk. This smell is not dormant. It's omniscient. It's an all seeing, all knowing smell. This can mean only one thing: a drain smell.
I suspect that my kitchen sink drain has accumulated some serious jazz in its throat.
Okay... just a second...
It's not the drain, well, there's probably some problematic jazz in that drain, but I just now located where the empire of funk is. Not all dishes have been done.
Recently I made some yummy soup. I thought I cleaned out the stock pot. Not so much, I guess. I must have slid it into my oven while cleaning a couple of days ago. Bad, bad move.
I just pulled the stock pot out and said, "This can't be it. This is clean."
This was it.
I barely lifted the lid and the empire of funk attacked with its smell akin to biological weaponry. There was just a bit of the soup including chickpeas, black beans, sweet potato, grilled ham, and tomato left inside. It does not help that my oven is always slightly heated AKA incubator for accelerated production of NASTY.
Time to battle against the stock pot. The goal is to have this place of mine pretty spotless by this evening. It shouldn't be that hard especially considering the phrase "pretty spotless." Spotless, but please please please do not open THAT door. THAT door is not where the evil monkey lives. THAT door is not the portal to Narnia. THAT door holds back all quarantined nasty.
It's a smart smell. I can't figure out exactly what the cause is like with spoiled meat or rice or laundry. Some smells are sneaky in the way they lay dormant but you can locate them by distrubing the funk. This smell is not dormant. It's omniscient. It's an all seeing, all knowing smell. This can mean only one thing: a drain smell.
I suspect that my kitchen sink drain has accumulated some serious jazz in its throat.
Okay... just a second...
It's not the drain, well, there's probably some problematic jazz in that drain, but I just now located where the empire of funk is. Not all dishes have been done.
Recently I made some yummy soup. I thought I cleaned out the stock pot. Not so much, I guess. I must have slid it into my oven while cleaning a couple of days ago. Bad, bad move.
I just pulled the stock pot out and said, "This can't be it. This is clean."
This was it.
I barely lifted the lid and the empire of funk attacked with its smell akin to biological weaponry. There was just a bit of the soup including chickpeas, black beans, sweet potato, grilled ham, and tomato left inside. It does not help that my oven is always slightly heated AKA incubator for accelerated production of NASTY.
Time to battle against the stock pot. The goal is to have this place of mine pretty spotless by this evening. It shouldn't be that hard especially considering the phrase "pretty spotless." Spotless, but please please please do not open THAT door. THAT door is not where the evil monkey lives. THAT door is not the portal to Narnia. THAT door holds back all quarantined nasty.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
In Praise of Fusion: Kanye West and 1950s Visual Art Influence (Warhol & Pollock)
I love what Kanye West is doing in his music videos for Good Life and Heartless:
Both of these videos are excellent examples of how to borrow from previous artistic movements in a different art form and contributing to those already established forms as a way to create something fresh.
These videos are visual sugar, sonic joy, and flat-out enjoyable, smart narrative and rhyme. The next time I teach poetry, I'm pretty sure I'll do a couple units on Rap. I just love love love how much there is to learn about spontaneous turn and humor and earning intentionaly subtly and intentionaly raw emotion.
I could go on and on intellectualizing why these videos represent so much about what I believe art should do, but that would ruin the visual and musical integrity of these works. I would rather sit back, enjoy, and appreciate that this work is in the world.
Good Life
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=su_zrW9WBVk
Heartless:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gWzlD7Lc6w8
Both of these videos are excellent examples of how to borrow from previous artistic movements in a different art form and contributing to those already established forms as a way to create something fresh.
These videos are visual sugar, sonic joy, and flat-out enjoyable, smart narrative and rhyme. The next time I teach poetry, I'm pretty sure I'll do a couple units on Rap. I just love love love how much there is to learn about spontaneous turn and humor and earning intentionaly subtly and intentionaly raw emotion.
I could go on and on intellectualizing why these videos represent so much about what I believe art should do, but that would ruin the visual and musical integrity of these works. I would rather sit back, enjoy, and appreciate that this work is in the world.
Good Life
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=su_zrW9WBVk
Heartless:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gWzlD7Lc6w8
Sunday, May 3, 2009
MSU-Mankato Surplus Sale
It is a miracle I walked out of there empty handed, a matter of self control, a matter of, well, I had a GOT TO PEE BAD and PEE NOW situation on my hands.
The word on the street is that FIVE randal pottery wheels are getting surplused and sold. Some thought they would go for dirty dirt cheap this semester. Some said September. Either which way I got my ass to the sale at 7:15 a.m.
I'd heard that people will line up for the surplus sale starting at 4:00 a.m. I'd heard some camp out all night. For the most part, this is entirely true and entirely wrapped around the idea of buy computers and other electronics for next to nothing--all computers go for $35, the majority of monitors go for $25. You can buy a baby grand piano for $75. You can buy a nice office desk for $20. You can put in a bid on a fishing boat and trailer included. You can buy anything that the university is getting rid of because of upgrades.
At 7:15 a.m. there must have been 150 people in line already. Even if there were a pottery wheel available, which I doubted due to the fact I saw them in the cermaics studio on Friday, my chances were pretty shot.
At the front of the line was an army of twenty to thirty absolute nerdy, gawky, gangly computer types who looked liked maybe they played and extended session of Dungeons and Dragons in the parking lot all night. A small sacrifice for cheap computers.
I stood in line drinking coffee thinking this would be complete chaos as soon as the massive garage door to the sale goods inside the surplus garage opened. Parents were telling their children DON'T WALK OFF, STAY WITH US, STAY IN SIGHT. One guy said, Why don't they just open the goddamn doors already. I sipped my coffee while preparing to elbow and be elbowed. I sharpened my ninja skills, my ballet moves to gracefully slide around people in a panic driven crowd.
As I was bullshitting with some African guys the doors opened. The African dude had been going down the list of sale items with a pink pen in hand listing the items he wanted to go for first. I said, "Good luck, dude. Hang on to that pen or someone will pick it up. I have the feeling nothing is safe here unless it is in your hand."
That warning was a little like Hunter S. Thompson's in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas "We're in Bat Country. Poor bastard is on his own."
Either which way, the crowd was moving, the game was on. I was ready.
You know how hoards of fish surface and roll around when people pay 25 cents to feed them, how there is a frenzy of rolling and eating and some fish fight with each other? That's pretty much how the surplus sale went.
By the time I got inside the surplus garage, all good laptops and flat screen monitors and classroom projectors had vanished into the hands of the nerdy, the not so nerdy, and the homeless looking. It took me under five minutes to get into the garage, too.
People were scattering like ants, rifling through computers, tools, office supplies and all the whatnot. Electronic guys were on their cell phones already selling the laptops and nice Apple computers and flat screens. Electronic guys were saying, Hey, I'll buy that computer from you right now for fifty cash.
In about forty mintues all the good stuff was claimed, lines were drawn, territory was claimed. I picked up a nice looking backpacking backpack and a man said, PLEASE DON'T TOUCH THAT. IT'S MINE while he was looking at microscopes. I thought, What dipshit puts down his bag at a fucking frenzy sale like this?
My favorite moment was the mother who was standing beside the baby grand piano marked $75. She held her son by the hand. He was having an absolute fit and crying and shouting and she was trying to keep him quiet. The look on her face and body language said, You touch this fuckin' piano and I'll break your face. I thought it was a kind of a beautiful and complex emotional moment. How the son, probably seven, might remember his fit, his crying infront of all of these strangers panicing like ants swarming in an ant mound. How the mom will remember his fit and how she just wanted this piano for herself, for her kids, for her family. That the way we bring art into our homes requires some emotional sacrifice sometimes. That no kid or adult can get a $75 baby grand piano without giving up a little something first. I like to think that that little boy might be the next Chopin or Motzart. I like to think that people will gather in concert halls to see him play and even if he messes up in his performance, even if he tanks, even if he screws the pooch more than anyone thought the pooch could be screwed, it wouldn't be as bad as his first experience with the piano. That from this day on, his relationship with the piano is complex.
If I had gone into the surplus sale with buy buy buy on my mind I probably would have forgetten all about that as soon as I saw the people reacting to this situation. I couldn't keep myself from looking at this man and woman debating on if they should buy an old card catalogue cabinet. The man said, I could keep my paints in here. I thought, That's a lot of fucking paints. The woman said, Where will we put it? The man said, We could put it in the garage or the shed. The woman rolled her eyes.
That's exactly how I am. I buy shit and collect shit and keep shit that I think I'll use someday or invent a purpose for. Once, I kept a bunch of old wooden futon frames in my apartment with the idea that I could use the wood to make a little boat. Once, I riffled through a dumpster just for some five inch think binders. I've been trying to thwart my bullshit collecting, getting a grip on what I need and what is needed right now. It's pretty hard for me. But I'm working on it.
In all of of my debating on what to buy and not buy--I looked at an outboard motor, some computers, thought about putting a bid on a fishing boat, thought about carting off a desk I don't need, shelves I don't need, tools I could live without right now--the PEE BAD GODS said we must leave. We must leave right now. I could hold it no longer. Pissing on a tree in the parking lot was considered. Too many people. I could piss in a cup in the car. No cups.
I drove 45 mph straight to Nelson Hall (the art building). I slammed on the breaks, hopped out, keyed into the building. I made a full out sprint, Maurce Green eat your heart out, to the bathroom next to the wheel cermaics studio. Inside the bathroom I did the PEE PEE DANCE while fiddling with my zipper before the pure pleasure of urine vacating a maxed out bladder.
In the midst of patting my own pack for not pissing myself and not buying anything at the surplus sale I looked inside the ceramics studio. The wheels are still there. September, I told myself. And, yes, I do plan to drive back up here for one of those wheels. I might even stay up in the parking lot all night with the nerds playing D & D. Maybe my character will be a wizard or a mage. Someone who casts spells would be nice.
The word on the street is that FIVE randal pottery wheels are getting surplused and sold. Some thought they would go for dirty dirt cheap this semester. Some said September. Either which way I got my ass to the sale at 7:15 a.m.
I'd heard that people will line up for the surplus sale starting at 4:00 a.m. I'd heard some camp out all night. For the most part, this is entirely true and entirely wrapped around the idea of buy computers and other electronics for next to nothing--all computers go for $35, the majority of monitors go for $25. You can buy a baby grand piano for $75. You can buy a nice office desk for $20. You can put in a bid on a fishing boat and trailer included. You can buy anything that the university is getting rid of because of upgrades.
At 7:15 a.m. there must have been 150 people in line already. Even if there were a pottery wheel available, which I doubted due to the fact I saw them in the cermaics studio on Friday, my chances were pretty shot.
At the front of the line was an army of twenty to thirty absolute nerdy, gawky, gangly computer types who looked liked maybe they played and extended session of Dungeons and Dragons in the parking lot all night. A small sacrifice for cheap computers.
I stood in line drinking coffee thinking this would be complete chaos as soon as the massive garage door to the sale goods inside the surplus garage opened. Parents were telling their children DON'T WALK OFF, STAY WITH US, STAY IN SIGHT. One guy said, Why don't they just open the goddamn doors already. I sipped my coffee while preparing to elbow and be elbowed. I sharpened my ninja skills, my ballet moves to gracefully slide around people in a panic driven crowd.
As I was bullshitting with some African guys the doors opened. The African dude had been going down the list of sale items with a pink pen in hand listing the items he wanted to go for first. I said, "Good luck, dude. Hang on to that pen or someone will pick it up. I have the feeling nothing is safe here unless it is in your hand."
That warning was a little like Hunter S. Thompson's in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas "We're in Bat Country. Poor bastard is on his own."
Either which way, the crowd was moving, the game was on. I was ready.
You know how hoards of fish surface and roll around when people pay 25 cents to feed them, how there is a frenzy of rolling and eating and some fish fight with each other? That's pretty much how the surplus sale went.
By the time I got inside the surplus garage, all good laptops and flat screen monitors and classroom projectors had vanished into the hands of the nerdy, the not so nerdy, and the homeless looking. It took me under five minutes to get into the garage, too.
People were scattering like ants, rifling through computers, tools, office supplies and all the whatnot. Electronic guys were on their cell phones already selling the laptops and nice Apple computers and flat screens. Electronic guys were saying, Hey, I'll buy that computer from you right now for fifty cash.
In about forty mintues all the good stuff was claimed, lines were drawn, territory was claimed. I picked up a nice looking backpacking backpack and a man said, PLEASE DON'T TOUCH THAT. IT'S MINE while he was looking at microscopes. I thought, What dipshit puts down his bag at a fucking frenzy sale like this?
My favorite moment was the mother who was standing beside the baby grand piano marked $75. She held her son by the hand. He was having an absolute fit and crying and shouting and she was trying to keep him quiet. The look on her face and body language said, You touch this fuckin' piano and I'll break your face. I thought it was a kind of a beautiful and complex emotional moment. How the son, probably seven, might remember his fit, his crying infront of all of these strangers panicing like ants swarming in an ant mound. How the mom will remember his fit and how she just wanted this piano for herself, for her kids, for her family. That the way we bring art into our homes requires some emotional sacrifice sometimes. That no kid or adult can get a $75 baby grand piano without giving up a little something first. I like to think that that little boy might be the next Chopin or Motzart. I like to think that people will gather in concert halls to see him play and even if he messes up in his performance, even if he tanks, even if he screws the pooch more than anyone thought the pooch could be screwed, it wouldn't be as bad as his first experience with the piano. That from this day on, his relationship with the piano is complex.
If I had gone into the surplus sale with buy buy buy on my mind I probably would have forgetten all about that as soon as I saw the people reacting to this situation. I couldn't keep myself from looking at this man and woman debating on if they should buy an old card catalogue cabinet. The man said, I could keep my paints in here. I thought, That's a lot of fucking paints. The woman said, Where will we put it? The man said, We could put it in the garage or the shed. The woman rolled her eyes.
That's exactly how I am. I buy shit and collect shit and keep shit that I think I'll use someday or invent a purpose for. Once, I kept a bunch of old wooden futon frames in my apartment with the idea that I could use the wood to make a little boat. Once, I riffled through a dumpster just for some five inch think binders. I've been trying to thwart my bullshit collecting, getting a grip on what I need and what is needed right now. It's pretty hard for me. But I'm working on it.
In all of of my debating on what to buy and not buy--I looked at an outboard motor, some computers, thought about putting a bid on a fishing boat, thought about carting off a desk I don't need, shelves I don't need, tools I could live without right now--the PEE BAD GODS said we must leave. We must leave right now. I could hold it no longer. Pissing on a tree in the parking lot was considered. Too many people. I could piss in a cup in the car. No cups.
I drove 45 mph straight to Nelson Hall (the art building). I slammed on the breaks, hopped out, keyed into the building. I made a full out sprint, Maurce Green eat your heart out, to the bathroom next to the wheel cermaics studio. Inside the bathroom I did the PEE PEE DANCE while fiddling with my zipper before the pure pleasure of urine vacating a maxed out bladder.
In the midst of patting my own pack for not pissing myself and not buying anything at the surplus sale I looked inside the ceramics studio. The wheels are still there. September, I told myself. And, yes, I do plan to drive back up here for one of those wheels. I might even stay up in the parking lot all night with the nerds playing D & D. Maybe my character will be a wizard or a mage. Someone who casts spells would be nice.
Saturday, May 2, 2009
Peter Voulkos, Cermaic Abstract Expressionist
PETER VOULKOS 1924-2002
This is the ceramic artist I'm writing on for my lil' diddy due on Monday for Ceramics 250: Beginning Wheel.
Not only do I think Pete Voulkos' heavy, fractured/rough work is visually interesting, but I love his name. Not only do I love his popular name: Pete Voulkos, but I ABSOLUTELY LOVE his birth name given to him by his parents who immigrated to the US from Greece:
Panagiotis Harry Voulkopoulos
At first it looks like a tongue twister. Then there is sort of this strange music to it that in no way could I say the name three times fast. Just looking at this name makes me think this is the way to teach beginning writers about assonance and consonance. His parents must have either consciously or subconsciously been in love with the assonance of the A sounds working with and against the O sounds with the repetition of the consonant P. The name makes absolute sonic sense while making me go, Huh? No wonder the boy with such a name became an Abstract Expressionist.
Here's some nuts and bolts on Pete:
Voulkos' sculptures are famous for their visual weight, their freely-formed construction, and their aggressive and energetic decoration. He would vigorously tear, pound, and gouge the surfaces of his pieces. At some points in his career, he cast his sculptures in bronze; in other periods his ceramic works were glazed or painted, and he finished them with painted brushstrokes. He bought some of his metal from Sidney Levinson. In 1979 he was introduced to the use of wood kilns by Peter Callas; much of his late work is wood-fired. Peter Voulkos loved working with an audience. He died of an apparent heart attack in February 16, 2002 after conducting a college ceramics workshop at Bowling Green State University, Ohio, demonstrating his skill to live audience. He was 78.
Some of my favorite pieces by him:
Friday, May 1, 2009
Dale Chihuly
I've been a big fan of anything Dale Chihuly for some time now. I think any American artist in any genre, medium or whatever should know who he is.
Chihuly practices in multiple forms but it mostly a glass installation artist. Some glass is blown. Some is pulled with tongs. Some is just flat out Chihuly and there's no other way to put it than that.
Chihuly became famous for his chandeliers like this one currently on display at the Desert Botanical Garden in Phoenix, AZ:
Chiostro di Sant'Appolonia Chandelier, 1995:
http//www.chihuly.com/installations/DesertBotanicalGarden/DesertBotanicalGarden013.html
Yes, that is glass. Sometimes HOLY SHIT is the only response we can have when looking at a piece of art this intense yet delicate and soft. The technical term for this piece is HOLY SHIT.
For more HOLY SHIT visual experiences, check out some of the other pieces on display linked below.
Current Chihuly exhibit at the Desert Botanical Garden in Phoenix:
The Sun, 2008:
http//www.chihuly.com/installations/DesertBotanicalGarden/DesertBotanicalGarden003.html
Scorpion Tails and Bamboo, 2008:
http//www.chihuly.com/installations/DesertBotanicalGarden/DesertBotanicalGarden004.html
Ruby Fiddleheads, 2008:
http//www.chihuly.com/installations/DesertBotanicalGarden/DesertBotanicalGarden006.html
Blue Reeds, Marlins and Floats, 2008:
http//www.chihuly.com/installations/DesertBotanicalGarden/DesertBotanicalGarden009.html
Blue and Purple Boat, 2008:
http//www.chihuly.com/installations/DesertBotanicalGarden/DesertBotanicalGarden010.html
How are these pieces not inspiring?
In my poems, I try to bring together fierce intensity and vulnerabilty. Chihuly does that for me every time...with glass. I look at these installations and think they look so, so violent, but they are also so breakable and vulnerable at the same time. Jesus Christ I cannot get over this exhibit and it is almost over. I can't get over how Chihuly responded to the desert setting, how he is reacting to the local floral and fauna and overall landscape. He's owning the landscape and letting the landscape own his work at the same time. His art isn't competing with the landscape. It's contributing to it. Both the art and the natural setting mingle so well.
Like I said, I've been a long time fan, but this show, this exhibit is just out of this world. This is a pure, pure example of a hard, well practiced artist in the prime of his prime. I think any contemporary artist in any form of art should know Chihuly's work.
Chihuly practices in multiple forms but it mostly a glass installation artist. Some glass is blown. Some is pulled with tongs. Some is just flat out Chihuly and there's no other way to put it than that.
Chihuly became famous for his chandeliers like this one currently on display at the Desert Botanical Garden in Phoenix, AZ:
Chiostro di Sant'Appolonia Chandelier, 1995:
http//www.chihuly.com/installations/DesertBotanicalGarden/DesertBotanicalGarden013.html
Yes, that is glass. Sometimes HOLY SHIT is the only response we can have when looking at a piece of art this intense yet delicate and soft. The technical term for this piece is HOLY SHIT.
For more HOLY SHIT visual experiences, check out some of the other pieces on display linked below.
Current Chihuly exhibit at the Desert Botanical Garden in Phoenix:
The Sun, 2008:
http//www.chihuly.com/installations/DesertBotanicalGarden/DesertBotanicalGarden003.html
Scorpion Tails and Bamboo, 2008:
http//www.chihuly.com/installations/DesertBotanicalGarden/DesertBotanicalGarden004.html
Ruby Fiddleheads, 2008:
http//www.chihuly.com/installations/DesertBotanicalGarden/DesertBotanicalGarden006.html
Blue Reeds, Marlins and Floats, 2008:
http//www.chihuly.com/installations/DesertBotanicalGarden/DesertBotanicalGarden009.html
Blue and Purple Boat, 2008:
http//www.chihuly.com/installations/DesertBotanicalGarden/DesertBotanicalGarden010.html
How are these pieces not inspiring?
In my poems, I try to bring together fierce intensity and vulnerabilty. Chihuly does that for me every time...with glass. I look at these installations and think they look so, so violent, but they are also so breakable and vulnerable at the same time. Jesus Christ I cannot get over this exhibit and it is almost over. I can't get over how Chihuly responded to the desert setting, how he is reacting to the local floral and fauna and overall landscape. He's owning the landscape and letting the landscape own his work at the same time. His art isn't competing with the landscape. It's contributing to it. Both the art and the natural setting mingle so well.
Like I said, I've been a long time fan, but this show, this exhibit is just out of this world. This is a pure, pure example of a hard, well practiced artist in the prime of his prime. I think any contemporary artist in any form of art should know Chihuly's work.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Long Live Salvatore
Yes, that's how you spell his name, Salvatore. He is the red paper shredder I bought this evening in the midst of cleaning. He's a cube. He's small. He's always hungry and I have lots of shit to feed him. At this moment, Salvatore is turned off and unplugged from the wall. He's overheated, again. This is the third time he has overheated since I birthed him from his packing material at 8:00. It's currently 10:02.
In three years time I have stowed lots of FUCK in my apartment. Right now, I'm going through all of my old bills and whatever enveloped mail that snuck into my desk drawers or elsewhere. I feel a bit like I am a member of the Watergate crew as I smoke cigarettes and stare out the window shredding my documents.
I know that I could just tear this shit up by hand, but I get paranoid about identity theft and shit like that. I must think pretty highly of myself because I have ZERO money. But some how in my brain I think that it is possible for a piece of paper to fly out of a dumpster and into the hands of some evil person.
I guess this must be some form of mail paranoia. I totally would have burned the mail, but it was too windy to light the grill on the back side of my apartment complex. Believe me, I thought about it. I thought about it even more because there was a big group of mo-fos sitting together under a tree singing songs from Grease at the top of their lungs. For a moment I thought, Awww that's sweet. When that moment passed I considered setting my mail on fire by shooting the grill with an arrow from my bow. That's some Grease Lightning for ya. Maybe I could have said that from my apartment window. Yes. I would like to set my mail on fire by shooting an arrow at it from my apartment window. But, with my luck, I'd miss like five times before I'd have to walk out there, get my arrows, and just torch the shit by hand.
All viking funeral rituals aside, Salvatore and I are going to wrap up the night now.
More on the adventure that is my moving out of this shit rigid apartment later.
In three years time I have stowed lots of FUCK in my apartment. Right now, I'm going through all of my old bills and whatever enveloped mail that snuck into my desk drawers or elsewhere. I feel a bit like I am a member of the Watergate crew as I smoke cigarettes and stare out the window shredding my documents.
I know that I could just tear this shit up by hand, but I get paranoid about identity theft and shit like that. I must think pretty highly of myself because I have ZERO money. But some how in my brain I think that it is possible for a piece of paper to fly out of a dumpster and into the hands of some evil person.
I guess this must be some form of mail paranoia. I totally would have burned the mail, but it was too windy to light the grill on the back side of my apartment complex. Believe me, I thought about it. I thought about it even more because there was a big group of mo-fos sitting together under a tree singing songs from Grease at the top of their lungs. For a moment I thought, Awww that's sweet. When that moment passed I considered setting my mail on fire by shooting the grill with an arrow from my bow. That's some Grease Lightning for ya. Maybe I could have said that from my apartment window. Yes. I would like to set my mail on fire by shooting an arrow at it from my apartment window. But, with my luck, I'd miss like five times before I'd have to walk out there, get my arrows, and just torch the shit by hand.
All viking funeral rituals aside, Salvatore and I are going to wrap up the night now.
More on the adventure that is my moving out of this shit rigid apartment later.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Wheel Pottery: Part I
It's been a long long time since I've been able to put up a post, so I imagine that in the following days I'll be posting often. I have a complicated relationship with blogs. Sometimes I'm all over my blog like a fat man on a jelly doughnut. Other times blogging gets pushed to the back burner and I forget I write one. Enough of that.
As many of you know, I've been working a lot with clay and wheel pottery this semester. I'm aboslutely in love with working on the wheel. I'm not even that great at it, but the small triumphs are incredibly rewarding and both beginner and veteran potters know how to take pleasure in the small miracles and accidents that come with practice practice practice. Here's a list of what I like about clay:
1. It seems to me that no matter what skill level of the potter, you've got to have a sense of humor and be able to let go. This is fragile business. Anything can go wrong. More things go wrong that right, but when something does go right, even mildly right, it's mistake driven beauty.
For example. In my practicing I managed to turn out a thimble size cylinder (some of you have seen this masterpiece) from a six pound hunk of clay. Six pounds is a lot of anything--three pants sizes, a very good size rump roast, two average size cantaloupes.
I wedge and wedge this clay by rocking and kneeding it back and forth to get all of the air bubbles out before the clay ever touches the wheel. If there's an air bubble, even a tiny one, say the size of a Zippo flint, not only will that create havoc while trying to lift the walls of a cylinder, but after all my work of doing that, whatever I make will probably explode in the kiln and take everybody's work with it. Fussy-wussy was a hunky of clay.
After wedging, I shape the clay into a large pear form so that when I throw it onto the wheelhead the hunk stays level and as centered as possible before the wheel rotates. I wet the six pound pear with a squeeze of water from my sponge. This is the beginning of my making a pitcher on the wheel. Call it the very beginning of working on the wheel with this pear that, utlimately, enjoys being pear-sized and was, by nature, designed to remain stationary. My task is to manipulate this clay into a functional pot.
I brace my elbows onto my thighs and kick on the speed pedal with my left foot. As the clay begins to move I press this clay down with all of my weight. Not doing this means that the clay launches off the wheel. I have had a three pound hunk of clay launch off the wheel, which resulted in a son of a bitch and scramble to retrieve said clay.
While the clay is moving at about five miles per hour, I center the clay. Centering is a real sonofabitch. That's right. The type of sonofabitch that requires the running of words together. With the clay moving at top speed I cup my left hand around the hunk lean in with all of my strength and flex to keep my body from moving. Clay can boss you around. A hunk can move your whole upper body if you don't brace because the clay is now an extension of you body, an extension moving five mile per hour.
Once the clay is centerd I cone up the compact mound by placing my hands on either side and squeezing so the clay has nowhere to go but up. I lift the clay up to about nine inches. I do this because I'm stretching the clay in preparation to make a cylinder that's roughly 14 inches tall.
I've got to keep this "coned-up" clay centered all the while. If the clay becomes uncentered, you go back and center and center, otherwise you'll get a wicked wobble and the pot will fall over.
Still at top speed I press the coned-up clay down with the palm of my right hand while keeping the thing centered with my left. I do this gradually so not to knock the thing out of whack and control the speed with my left foot on the speed pedal.
At this point, I center the whole hunk with the wheel going as fast as it can go. Once that's good to go, I brace my elbow on my thighs and us the index and middle fingers from both my left and right hands to make a bowl in the clay. I dig softly while stretching the walls out, pulling softly at 4 o'clock. I check the bottom of the pot then compress by pushing down softly with the tips of my fingers. With the bottom good to go, I compress the lip rim to keep the clay center and switch off the speed pedal.
From here on out, I'll go manual and kick the wheel with my right foot to keep control of the speed. This is truly the beginning of where everything that can go wrong will go wrong because the ultimate goal is to get this clay to get up off its ass and up in the air by raising wall.
I stick my left hand into the bowl and with my right hand on the outside I press in on the outside of the wall with two fingers and lift. This is a delicate process because the clay doesn't want to be bossed around. It will want to wobble, so I keep my whole body brace and flexed while hands lift those wall to about four inches. After that pull, I center the clay again by compressing the lip rim. From here on out I will repeat this process by pulling the walls until I'm up to my elbow in the pot's bidness and kicking the wheel to a speed not too fast and not too slow so I don't run out of speed in the middle of pulling up a wall.
With a cylinder fourteen inches tall, it's time to start bending the clay so I can get the shoulder of a pitcher. The clay does not like this one bit. I put my hand inside the moving pot and slowly raise just like doing a pull, but stretching as I go up.
The clay is wobblinging now and wanting to cling to my arm. It clings to my arm and a ripple in the pitcher. I try to fix the ripple by stretching out the wall again. Nope. Another ripple. This is the pitcher that didn't even turn into a vase. SO, I cut off the top and try all of the above, again. Nope. I cut off a little more. I'm mug size now, trying to create the body of a mug. Nope. The Mug gets smaller and smaller and smaller. The mug is now a thimble.
As many of you know, I've been working a lot with clay and wheel pottery this semester. I'm aboslutely in love with working on the wheel. I'm not even that great at it, but the small triumphs are incredibly rewarding and both beginner and veteran potters know how to take pleasure in the small miracles and accidents that come with practice practice practice. Here's a list of what I like about clay:
1. It seems to me that no matter what skill level of the potter, you've got to have a sense of humor and be able to let go. This is fragile business. Anything can go wrong. More things go wrong that right, but when something does go right, even mildly right, it's mistake driven beauty.
For example. In my practicing I managed to turn out a thimble size cylinder (some of you have seen this masterpiece) from a six pound hunk of clay. Six pounds is a lot of anything--three pants sizes, a very good size rump roast, two average size cantaloupes.
I wedge and wedge this clay by rocking and kneeding it back and forth to get all of the air bubbles out before the clay ever touches the wheel. If there's an air bubble, even a tiny one, say the size of a Zippo flint, not only will that create havoc while trying to lift the walls of a cylinder, but after all my work of doing that, whatever I make will probably explode in the kiln and take everybody's work with it. Fussy-wussy was a hunky of clay.
After wedging, I shape the clay into a large pear form so that when I throw it onto the wheelhead the hunk stays level and as centered as possible before the wheel rotates. I wet the six pound pear with a squeeze of water from my sponge. This is the beginning of my making a pitcher on the wheel. Call it the very beginning of working on the wheel with this pear that, utlimately, enjoys being pear-sized and was, by nature, designed to remain stationary. My task is to manipulate this clay into a functional pot.
I brace my elbows onto my thighs and kick on the speed pedal with my left foot. As the clay begins to move I press this clay down with all of my weight. Not doing this means that the clay launches off the wheel. I have had a three pound hunk of clay launch off the wheel, which resulted in a son of a bitch and scramble to retrieve said clay.
While the clay is moving at about five miles per hour, I center the clay. Centering is a real sonofabitch. That's right. The type of sonofabitch that requires the running of words together. With the clay moving at top speed I cup my left hand around the hunk lean in with all of my strength and flex to keep my body from moving. Clay can boss you around. A hunk can move your whole upper body if you don't brace because the clay is now an extension of you body, an extension moving five mile per hour.
Once the clay is centerd I cone up the compact mound by placing my hands on either side and squeezing so the clay has nowhere to go but up. I lift the clay up to about nine inches. I do this because I'm stretching the clay in preparation to make a cylinder that's roughly 14 inches tall.
I've got to keep this "coned-up" clay centered all the while. If the clay becomes uncentered, you go back and center and center, otherwise you'll get a wicked wobble and the pot will fall over.
Still at top speed I press the coned-up clay down with the palm of my right hand while keeping the thing centered with my left. I do this gradually so not to knock the thing out of whack and control the speed with my left foot on the speed pedal.
At this point, I center the whole hunk with the wheel going as fast as it can go. Once that's good to go, I brace my elbow on my thighs and us the index and middle fingers from both my left and right hands to make a bowl in the clay. I dig softly while stretching the walls out, pulling softly at 4 o'clock. I check the bottom of the pot then compress by pushing down softly with the tips of my fingers. With the bottom good to go, I compress the lip rim to keep the clay center and switch off the speed pedal.
From here on out, I'll go manual and kick the wheel with my right foot to keep control of the speed. This is truly the beginning of where everything that can go wrong will go wrong because the ultimate goal is to get this clay to get up off its ass and up in the air by raising wall.
I stick my left hand into the bowl and with my right hand on the outside I press in on the outside of the wall with two fingers and lift. This is a delicate process because the clay doesn't want to be bossed around. It will want to wobble, so I keep my whole body brace and flexed while hands lift those wall to about four inches. After that pull, I center the clay again by compressing the lip rim. From here on out I will repeat this process by pulling the walls until I'm up to my elbow in the pot's bidness and kicking the wheel to a speed not too fast and not too slow so I don't run out of speed in the middle of pulling up a wall.
With a cylinder fourteen inches tall, it's time to start bending the clay so I can get the shoulder of a pitcher. The clay does not like this one bit. I put my hand inside the moving pot and slowly raise just like doing a pull, but stretching as I go up.
The clay is wobblinging now and wanting to cling to my arm. It clings to my arm and a ripple in the pitcher. I try to fix the ripple by stretching out the wall again. Nope. Another ripple. This is the pitcher that didn't even turn into a vase. SO, I cut off the top and try all of the above, again. Nope. I cut off a little more. I'm mug size now, trying to create the body of a mug. Nope. The Mug gets smaller and smaller and smaller. The mug is now a thimble.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
The Curious Incident of the Invisible Pet in My Highland Hills Apartment
At 9:10 this morning I finally resolved the battle with my landlady over the mysterious pet of which I had been accused of owning and "harboring" in my apartment.
The Back Story:
During December "Saftey Inspections" a Highland Hills staff memeber discovered evidence of my owning a cat of which in a January conversation the landlady said I was harboring a cat, as if I had a cat underground railroad stop, as if I hang quilts in my window signaling when it is safe for refugee cats to stay at my apartment, as if the John Dillenger of cats purrs on my lap while I'm lounging on my sofa in my underpants.
Though the landlady said she would "investigate" this matter and get back to me, I heard nothing out of the office until a friendly "unauthorized pet fee" of $50 arrived this past Thursday. When I called the office on Friday to discuss this with the landlady she was gone at "a meeting" but since I wasn't going to pay the "unauthorized pet fee" by Friday and the landlady wasn't there to take care of the paper work I would be given a $25 late fee.
On Monday the landlady was not in her office. On Tuesday she left me a phone message letting me know of the fees.
This morning I called ready to raise hell in a full-out declaration of war: David Estate vs. Highland Hills.
On the phone, the landlady told me that during the "saftey inspections" a staff memeber saw evidence of my owning a dog. The story she told me in January had to do with a cat. Hmm....
What is the supposed evidence of this pet? I don't own a pet. No cat. No dog. The only animal in my apartment is me, I said.
Well, did you have a water bowl or a litter box out? the landlady asked.
Why would I have that? I don't own a pet.
Have you ever had an animal visit your apartment? The landlady asked.
Yes. Human beings, I said.
Because the landlady didn't even know what this supposed "evidence" seen in my apartment was I asked, Does your staff have pictures of this evidence of my owning a pet.
No, but I trust my staff and the staff has a keen eye for people keeping unauthorized pets.
Extremely keen eyes, since the staff can see invisible animals, I thought.
Listen, I said, What we have here is hearsay. You say I own a pet. I say I do not...
Do you ever have pets spend the night? the landlady asked as if I am having some kind of wild parties with multiple pets, as if I am having pet-based orgies.
No. No pets spend the night and I do not own any pets and like I was saying this is all hearsay, so what I'm going to do is call the Police. We need a non-biased third party. I'll have the Police search my apartment up and down and report if their findings.
Silence.
Silence.
Silence.
Well.... We don't need to go that far, the landlady says.
It's the only way to prove that no animals other than a human being lives or stays here.
Well.... No pets stay there, not even for the night?
I don't own a pet.
Okay....Well.... If that is the case and there are no pets then what I can do is drop the charges.
Good, I said.
As I am writing this, the landlady just called. She checked the staff notes. The staff reported a water dish on the floor. There was a water bowl on the floor, the landlady claims.
A bowl on the floor does not mean I own a pet. I can keep as my bowls on the ground as I want, I said.
I know. I was just letting you know what the staff saw. It's still over.
Okay.
So why did the landlady call me with that information? Hmm.... Why all this stupid-ass bullying as if Highland Hills doesn't fuck people enough out of their money, as if I haven't put up with enough from these people who invent fees and fines while letting crackheads and whatnots live here.
I've decided what to do when it comes time for another "saftey inspection," which should be over Spring Break. Interesting how the saftey inspections are held over time periods when the majority of residents--students--are out of town. Suspect. Well, this is what I'm going to do:
When the little slip of paper announces that "saftey inspections" will take place I am going to Pet-Co and thrift stores and dollar stores to buy pet toys. I'm gonna create an arsenal of squeaky toys, chew toys, plush duckies, and rope toys. I will spread them all over my apartment alongside a bowl of water in each room. When I am accused of owning a pet I will tell my landlady the truth about said evidence: Those are my toys and the bowl of water hydrate the air in my apartment.
To be continued, motherfuckers.
The Back Story:
During December "Saftey Inspections" a Highland Hills staff memeber discovered evidence of my owning a cat of which in a January conversation the landlady said I was harboring a cat, as if I had a cat underground railroad stop, as if I hang quilts in my window signaling when it is safe for refugee cats to stay at my apartment, as if the John Dillenger of cats purrs on my lap while I'm lounging on my sofa in my underpants.
Though the landlady said she would "investigate" this matter and get back to me, I heard nothing out of the office until a friendly "unauthorized pet fee" of $50 arrived this past Thursday. When I called the office on Friday to discuss this with the landlady she was gone at "a meeting" but since I wasn't going to pay the "unauthorized pet fee" by Friday and the landlady wasn't there to take care of the paper work I would be given a $25 late fee.
On Monday the landlady was not in her office. On Tuesday she left me a phone message letting me know of the fees.
This morning I called ready to raise hell in a full-out declaration of war: David Estate vs. Highland Hills.
On the phone, the landlady told me that during the "saftey inspections" a staff memeber saw evidence of my owning a dog. The story she told me in January had to do with a cat. Hmm....
What is the supposed evidence of this pet? I don't own a pet. No cat. No dog. The only animal in my apartment is me, I said.
Well, did you have a water bowl or a litter box out? the landlady asked.
Why would I have that? I don't own a pet.
Have you ever had an animal visit your apartment? The landlady asked.
Yes. Human beings, I said.
Because the landlady didn't even know what this supposed "evidence" seen in my apartment was I asked, Does your staff have pictures of this evidence of my owning a pet.
No, but I trust my staff and the staff has a keen eye for people keeping unauthorized pets.
Extremely keen eyes, since the staff can see invisible animals, I thought.
Listen, I said, What we have here is hearsay. You say I own a pet. I say I do not...
Do you ever have pets spend the night? the landlady asked as if I am having some kind of wild parties with multiple pets, as if I am having pet-based orgies.
No. No pets spend the night and I do not own any pets and like I was saying this is all hearsay, so what I'm going to do is call the Police. We need a non-biased third party. I'll have the Police search my apartment up and down and report if their findings.
Silence.
Silence.
Silence.
Well.... We don't need to go that far, the landlady says.
It's the only way to prove that no animals other than a human being lives or stays here.
Well.... No pets stay there, not even for the night?
I don't own a pet.
Okay....Well.... If that is the case and there are no pets then what I can do is drop the charges.
Good, I said.
As I am writing this, the landlady just called. She checked the staff notes. The staff reported a water dish on the floor. There was a water bowl on the floor, the landlady claims.
A bowl on the floor does not mean I own a pet. I can keep as my bowls on the ground as I want, I said.
I know. I was just letting you know what the staff saw. It's still over.
Okay.
So why did the landlady call me with that information? Hmm.... Why all this stupid-ass bullying as if Highland Hills doesn't fuck people enough out of their money, as if I haven't put up with enough from these people who invent fees and fines while letting crackheads and whatnots live here.
I've decided what to do when it comes time for another "saftey inspection," which should be over Spring Break. Interesting how the saftey inspections are held over time periods when the majority of residents--students--are out of town. Suspect. Well, this is what I'm going to do:
When the little slip of paper announces that "saftey inspections" will take place I am going to Pet-Co and thrift stores and dollar stores to buy pet toys. I'm gonna create an arsenal of squeaky toys, chew toys, plush duckies, and rope toys. I will spread them all over my apartment alongside a bowl of water in each room. When I am accused of owning a pet I will tell my landlady the truth about said evidence: Those are my toys and the bowl of water hydrate the air in my apartment.
To be continued, motherfuckers.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Lima Bean Update
Last night I faced a terrible temptation. The lima bean size zit festering on my upper, left thigh would not stop talking to me. While braising spare ribs and making garlic-tomato soup, I would feel the lima bean noodle-maker rub up against my right thigh. Yes, the zit has adopted the old Iron Kids Bread song that played constantly at the end of TV commericals in the 90s, "Strong and growwwwwing." Between searing ribs, simmering whole tomatoes in beef broth, mincing garlic, and sauteeing mushrooms, a deep, satanic voice would scream, SQUEEEEEEZE ME.
I watched the tomatoes leaking their clear juices out into the brown broth. I stared at a toe of garlic the same size of the noodle-maker growing on my leg, SQUEEEEEEZE ME, as if that giant flower from the Little Shop of Horrors has set-up shop on my upper thigh.
I resisted for a total of five minutes. The clamorous SQUEEEEEZE ME convinced me to drop my pants right there in my kitched depsite the potential dangers that can become of a bare, defensless penis in the company of a simmering sautee pan and cast iron stock pot.
SQUEEEEEEEEEEEZE MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE.
The wee head of the lima bean of some five hours before had now developed into a whitehead the size of a match head. That white head centered in directly in the middle of all that interior puss looked like the eye of a hurricane. No. It was the eye of a hurricane. Staring down at the zit I felt like inside the zit there was a party going on, a party I wasn't invited to until the voice came again and again and intensified the more my pants stayed around my knees.
I squeeze that fucker as if making hommade lemonade. Only a trickle of puss emerged and a sense of guilt and feeling like a dipshit remained inside the now redding lima bean. I knew I'd provoked a beast.
I watched the tomatoes leaking their clear juices out into the brown broth. I stared at a toe of garlic the same size of the noodle-maker growing on my leg, SQUEEEEEEZE ME, as if that giant flower from the Little Shop of Horrors has set-up shop on my upper thigh.
I resisted for a total of five minutes. The clamorous SQUEEEEEZE ME convinced me to drop my pants right there in my kitched depsite the potential dangers that can become of a bare, defensless penis in the company of a simmering sautee pan and cast iron stock pot.
SQUEEEEEEEEEEEZE MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE.
The wee head of the lima bean of some five hours before had now developed into a whitehead the size of a match head. That white head centered in directly in the middle of all that interior puss looked like the eye of a hurricane. No. It was the eye of a hurricane. Staring down at the zit I felt like inside the zit there was a party going on, a party I wasn't invited to until the voice came again and again and intensified the more my pants stayed around my knees.
I squeeze that fucker as if making hommade lemonade. Only a trickle of puss emerged and a sense of guilt and feeling like a dipshit remained inside the now redding lima bean. I knew I'd provoked a beast.
Monday, January 26, 2009
In Praise of Zits
I want to tell you about an ingrown hair on my upper thigh. There is a large bump now the size of a lima bean with a wee white head festering with an industry with ooze that I absolutely cannot wait to pop. Each night before bed I pray and pray and pray that when it does come time to pop this mother-ship of a zit there will not be an eruption of puss; I pray for a swirling, spiraly, out of control noodle-like release. Those are the best kinds of zits to pop. The ones with the instant, Mt. St. Helen's type explosion are fun, but the noodle-makers (technical term) are by far the best. There's just something extremely satisfying about watching all that puss zip straight out of your own skin like a minature version of squeezing a tube of toothpaste.
This is not my first relationship with ingrown hair zits. Once I had one on my chest that I squeeze so hard that it blew out a pencil eraser size hunk of skin that has never grown back, which means there's a little, jagged dent there; I wear it like a medal. My last year of college I got an ingrown hair right between my eyes, the ever epic third eye. I provoked this goddamn thing so much that to this day you will see me walking around with a little red dot between my eyes. This is because I've been squeezing, prodding, hoping that some puss has grown there, that a thin, thin noodle with shoot straight out of my forhead. Most times zits are positioned in strange places on the body that make you strain your neck or contort your body to see when you pop them. Not this guy Paul. That's the name of my third eye zit, Paul. That's what he told me anyway. We've been pals, roomies, and partners in crime since 2001. Yes, he's eight years old. He is my first born. My only child. He's in second grade. He's the ooze of my life.
And Paul doesn't mind that Paulina, the lima bean sit has moved in. He knows she's only probably here for a little while. Or maybe not. I have to admit that if I had a lima bean noodle-maker zit I could pop every month, I'd be a happy man. And the best would be all the random places I could pop it when I just can't resist the urge, when I know this is the day the zit hath made for popping. Squirt. Squish. Squish.
This is not my first relationship with ingrown hair zits. Once I had one on my chest that I squeeze so hard that it blew out a pencil eraser size hunk of skin that has never grown back, which means there's a little, jagged dent there; I wear it like a medal. My last year of college I got an ingrown hair right between my eyes, the ever epic third eye. I provoked this goddamn thing so much that to this day you will see me walking around with a little red dot between my eyes. This is because I've been squeezing, prodding, hoping that some puss has grown there, that a thin, thin noodle with shoot straight out of my forhead. Most times zits are positioned in strange places on the body that make you strain your neck or contort your body to see when you pop them. Not this guy Paul. That's the name of my third eye zit, Paul. That's what he told me anyway. We've been pals, roomies, and partners in crime since 2001. Yes, he's eight years old. He is my first born. My only child. He's in second grade. He's the ooze of my life.
And Paul doesn't mind that Paulina, the lima bean sit has moved in. He knows she's only probably here for a little while. Or maybe not. I have to admit that if I had a lima bean noodle-maker zit I could pop every month, I'd be a happy man. And the best would be all the random places I could pop it when I just can't resist the urge, when I know this is the day the zit hath made for popping. Squirt. Squish. Squish.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
In Praise of Pork
My vegetarian and non-pork-feeding friends will not appreciate this post, but I just can't fucking help myself.
I spend most Sunday afternoons and evenings cooking ahead for the week--parboiling pasta to flash fry for lunch and braising whatever kind of meat I have on hand so I can use bits of beef or pork to help season vegi entrees. But today, today was a day for PORK due to an amazing dollar per pound special. I bought eight pounds and fifty-one ounces of pork for, yes, $8.51. This rarely happens. Even better, the cuts in the "value pack" were perfect for what I like to cook: one center cut for roasting, spare ribs, and about eight hansome, bone-in chops. Thanks be to Cub Foods.
Braised anything is amazing. You could probably braise possum and it would be tolerable (depending on sauce and seasoning) especially considering that braising is the answer to making less desireable cuts of meat mouth-watering. Personally, I believe braised meat tastes best when you let whatever has been braised chill overnight in it's own sauce then reheat it. Marination.
Last night I braised the pork roast following instructions from the best braise recipe I have, which I have nearly memorized, in the best cook book I have. Today I reheated the braise and I must say I have never been able to peel, yes, peel pork straight from the roast. It was a heavenly braise.
With the left over braise sauce (you can reduce this to gravy if you want) I made homemade pork stock. Currently some of that stock is in with some homemade rice and beans I making in my slow cooker. The stock came out well and I've even got a little extra.
As for my apartment, it smells like heaven is a place on Earth. As for all the dirty dishes and pots and pans that piled as I whirled around like the Sweedish chef from the Muppets (wearing my PJs the whole time, mind you) the dishes are all clean. I consider this a personal triumph.
I spend most Sunday afternoons and evenings cooking ahead for the week--parboiling pasta to flash fry for lunch and braising whatever kind of meat I have on hand so I can use bits of beef or pork to help season vegi entrees. But today, today was a day for PORK due to an amazing dollar per pound special. I bought eight pounds and fifty-one ounces of pork for, yes, $8.51. This rarely happens. Even better, the cuts in the "value pack" were perfect for what I like to cook: one center cut for roasting, spare ribs, and about eight hansome, bone-in chops. Thanks be to Cub Foods.
Braised anything is amazing. You could probably braise possum and it would be tolerable (depending on sauce and seasoning) especially considering that braising is the answer to making less desireable cuts of meat mouth-watering. Personally, I believe braised meat tastes best when you let whatever has been braised chill overnight in it's own sauce then reheat it. Marination.
Last night I braised the pork roast following instructions from the best braise recipe I have, which I have nearly memorized, in the best cook book I have. Today I reheated the braise and I must say I have never been able to peel, yes, peel pork straight from the roast. It was a heavenly braise.
With the left over braise sauce (you can reduce this to gravy if you want) I made homemade pork stock. Currently some of that stock is in with some homemade rice and beans I making in my slow cooker. The stock came out well and I've even got a little extra.
As for my apartment, it smells like heaven is a place on Earth. As for all the dirty dishes and pots and pans that piled as I whirled around like the Sweedish chef from the Muppets (wearing my PJs the whole time, mind you) the dishes are all clean. I consider this a personal triumph.
Hello, Again
It's a good feeling, returning to blog-world, though I never imagined myself a person to say that. Maybe I was going through blog denial for years due to zealous belief in paper journals. Wait. No. I was going through blog denial until beginning this little diddy of technological scribs and rants.
I've been absent for about three weeks and, upon this non-memorable return, quotes and images (some of them horribly cliche) enter my mind. For instance, I feel I've been a deep-running submarine on radio silence that's just now broken silence and the surface. Or maybe I am a the lone cowboy riding back into town at day-break after a long cattle drive to Texas or some other slaughter state. As for quotes, I can't help thinking of the Yeats poem, "Speech After Long Silence," (a work of beauty) though Yeats and I have nothing in common except, well, he couldn't spell well and I fumble vowels and those other thingies quite often.
Over the last three weeks I've been preparing for the semester of which I am pleased to report that I survived without the temptation to pack a sawed off shotgun. The first week started so well for me that I expect Oprah to call and ask if I am willing to share my success story with millions of weepy viewers at home. My answer to her is a proverb from the Willie Nelson section of the Bible, "You got the money, honey, I got the time." I'll sell my success story for cheap. Hell, I'll whore it out. Funding is tight at the Daveeeeeed Estate. I'm waiting for a bailout check from the federal government, but I'm neither a bank nor an auto maker, so I'll gladly take financial aid and agree to pay it back. Oh, yes, I'll take the financial aid.
I suspect a long post later. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe tonight. Stay tuned and I will too. I'll leave you with a horribly macho insult I just picked up which I think is both nasty, frightening, and awesome.
Insult: Hey, motherfucker. I'm gonna punch two holes in your neck and then me and that guy are gonna bump dicks.
I've been absent for about three weeks and, upon this non-memorable return, quotes and images (some of them horribly cliche) enter my mind. For instance, I feel I've been a deep-running submarine on radio silence that's just now broken silence and the surface. Or maybe I am a the lone cowboy riding back into town at day-break after a long cattle drive to Texas or some other slaughter state. As for quotes, I can't help thinking of the Yeats poem, "Speech After Long Silence," (a work of beauty) though Yeats and I have nothing in common except, well, he couldn't spell well and I fumble vowels and those other thingies quite often.
Over the last three weeks I've been preparing for the semester of which I am pleased to report that I survived without the temptation to pack a sawed off shotgun. The first week started so well for me that I expect Oprah to call and ask if I am willing to share my success story with millions of weepy viewers at home. My answer to her is a proverb from the Willie Nelson section of the Bible, "You got the money, honey, I got the time." I'll sell my success story for cheap. Hell, I'll whore it out. Funding is tight at the Daveeeeeed Estate. I'm waiting for a bailout check from the federal government, but I'm neither a bank nor an auto maker, so I'll gladly take financial aid and agree to pay it back. Oh, yes, I'll take the financial aid.
I suspect a long post later. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe tonight. Stay tuned and I will too. I'll leave you with a horribly macho insult I just picked up which I think is both nasty, frightening, and awesome.
Insult: Hey, motherfucker. I'm gonna punch two holes in your neck and then me and that guy are gonna bump dicks.
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