There's a reason why Nazi troops came running with their hands in the air as American troops got closer to the Eastern front. The Natzis had committed unspeakable wrongs and the Eastern Front, directed by Stalin, represented a whole new deck of unspeakable wrongs that were the direct opposite of the unfortunate ends of those who died in Nazi workcamps, Siberia. Both Stalin and Hitler were monsters. Unfortunately, the were both relatively genius when it came to war and persuasion.
I respect neither of these men, but, unfortunately, I believe it would be unwise not to learn something from Stalin, especailly when it comes to dealing with loud, bad, untolerable neighbors. Though Stalin was more of a monster than Hitler, in my mind, he was a valid and valuable friend of Britian and the US in WW2 and the way Russia waged war can stand as a general principle of waiting, of teasing, of bringing having the big mouse bring the big cat to a location where there are 100 big mice.
Russia invited the Nazi army to chase and chase them further and further into Russia. The Russian army kept loosing small battles on purpose. Thr Russians were waiting for their strongest military weapon, Winter.
I've been dealing with my asshole, downstairs neighbors the same way lately. I called the cops on them twice tonight and the second time the 911 person said the police would like a call back to talk to me.
Long story short: The cops are tire of coming up here. I am tired of calling the cops. The cops and I are on the same page for the first time in my life.
The cop I talked to said, "If there are anymore problems just call and we'll bring some cars and arrest them."
How the cops will do that legally I am not quite sure, but this state has strange laws.
Nonetheless, I feel a bit like I am playing a Stalin card. The neighbors have been somewhat loud all night. I'm waiting for the right moment. I know there will be a potential fall-out for me when I do finally call the cops. And I know I will because these people are as considerate as people who think the can raise hell on their own planet.
I'm waiting for winter. I'm waiting to use the Stalin card. I honestly hope I don't have to.
Sunday, December 7, 2008
Writing Honestly
I'm pleased that I exceeded my daily writing quota by two thousand words, but I am displeased with a thought I stumbled upon because it scares and challenges something I've believed in strongly, believed in as law until now and this has to do with Stafford's belief about writers block. In terms of writer's block William Stafford used to say, "If you think you have writer's block, then lower your standards." That catch phrase served as a writing compass for me from the time I heard it until today, and I now wonder if that thought is a tad misguided, a tad flippant, and a tad from a guy wrote so much that he didn't fully understand blocks because of his own, earned confidence, a guy who wrote his way out of the goddamns of writing.
I assure you that there is some Stafford-freak out there somwhere who will tell you I have Stafford all wrong, that I don't get him, that the quote is just one of Stafford's many great quotes. To you I say, I know. I assure you that some know it all will come along and say, Well, Stafford does have a point.
I just don't think I am as willing to accept that point the way I once did. Anymore, I think that if you have a block of any kind then you don't "lower your standards." You start writing honestly whether the facts are invented or not. In this I think writers raise the standards because no cheap tricks are tolerated. You are honest to the emotions of the text you write and you write those facts understanding that if you are not honest to them then you have failed. And that failing is not acceptable.
I assure you that there is some Stafford-freak out there somwhere who will tell you I have Stafford all wrong, that I don't get him, that the quote is just one of Stafford's many great quotes. To you I say, I know. I assure you that some know it all will come along and say, Well, Stafford does have a point.
I just don't think I am as willing to accept that point the way I once did. Anymore, I think that if you have a block of any kind then you don't "lower your standards." You start writing honestly whether the facts are invented or not. In this I think writers raise the standards because no cheap tricks are tolerated. You are honest to the emotions of the text you write and you write those facts understanding that if you are not honest to them then you have failed. And that failing is not acceptable.
Saturday, December 6, 2008
Saturday Recipes: Part One-Tomato Soup
Each week I like to develop a new recipe. Since it's winter, I've been working mostly on soups and hearty, most times fatty sides.
I have always enjoyed complex recipes and dishes. I also enjoy making comlex dishes and recipes easier and nicer to be around on the kitchen-playground. Here's my newest invention / recreation of an old-style recipe that worked out very well.
Tomato Soup A-la-DJC
Ingredients:
4 (14.5 0z) cans Red Gold Diced Tomatoes with Basil, Garlic, Oregano--DRAINED
1 bundel scallions (chopped)
2 cups veggie broth [can substitue chicken broth--2 cups usually amounts to 1 (14 oz) can]
1/2 teaspoon black pepper
1 teaspoon Italian Seasoning
3 tablespoons butter
2 tablespoons all-pourpose flour
Directions:
1. In a stockpot, over medium heat, combine tomatoes, scallions, veggie broth, and 1 tablespoon butter. Bring broth to a boild and gently boil for about 20 minutes to blend all of the flavors. Remove from heat and process mixture in a large bowl. [NOTE: By process, I mean you need to puree the mixture to taste. You can do this with a mill, processor, blender, or immersion mixter. I use an immersion mixer and it works just fine].
2. In a second sauce pan (I use a stainless steel one and your sauce pan should be large enough to hold your processed tomato mixture) melt the remaining 2 tablespoons of butter over medium-low heat. Stir in all-purpose flour to make a roux, cooking the roux until it is pale brown. Make sure to constantly whisk.
3. Once roux is ready (about two minutes), gradually whisk in a bit of the tomato mixture so that no lumps form, then stir in rest of tomato mixture. Heat thoroughly, but do not bring to boil. Let stand five minutes then serve.
Adaptions:
Sugar ( 2 teaspoons white sugar): I don't like sweets except on rare occassions when I just eat and eat them and I'm not a big fan of sugar in any sauce that's red.
Balsamic Vinegar (1 tablespoon added at same time as broth): I haven't tried this, but I bet it would be amazing.
Cloves (4 whole): I'm not the biggest fan of this, but some well reviewed recipes call for this.
If you like creamy soups, consider making this into a bisque. Not all bisques are seafood such as the traditional lobster or shrimp bisque. Anymore, unless you're a pureist, tomate bisque is pretty much tomato soup with a milk mixture added. If you translate this into bisque then add two cups of milk to your roux. Actually it might not be that simple. You'll need to look up bisque recpies.
That's pretty much all I have on that recipe. It's good and pretty good for you. Three tablespoons of butter is a pretty significant amount, I guess, but in the world of fast food eaters, this is a sneeze of fat at the Big Mac or any fried food.
I have always enjoyed complex recipes and dishes. I also enjoy making comlex dishes and recipes easier and nicer to be around on the kitchen-playground. Here's my newest invention / recreation of an old-style recipe that worked out very well.
Tomato Soup A-la-DJC
Ingredients:
4 (14.5 0z) cans Red Gold Diced Tomatoes with Basil, Garlic, Oregano--DRAINED
1 bundel scallions (chopped)
2 cups veggie broth [can substitue chicken broth--2 cups usually amounts to 1 (14 oz) can]
1/2 teaspoon black pepper
1 teaspoon Italian Seasoning
3 tablespoons butter
2 tablespoons all-pourpose flour
Directions:
1. In a stockpot, over medium heat, combine tomatoes, scallions, veggie broth, and 1 tablespoon butter. Bring broth to a boild and gently boil for about 20 minutes to blend all of the flavors. Remove from heat and process mixture in a large bowl. [NOTE: By process, I mean you need to puree the mixture to taste. You can do this with a mill, processor, blender, or immersion mixter. I use an immersion mixer and it works just fine].
2. In a second sauce pan (I use a stainless steel one and your sauce pan should be large enough to hold your processed tomato mixture) melt the remaining 2 tablespoons of butter over medium-low heat. Stir in all-purpose flour to make a roux, cooking the roux until it is pale brown. Make sure to constantly whisk.
3. Once roux is ready (about two minutes), gradually whisk in a bit of the tomato mixture so that no lumps form, then stir in rest of tomato mixture. Heat thoroughly, but do not bring to boil. Let stand five minutes then serve.
Adaptions:
Sugar ( 2 teaspoons white sugar): I don't like sweets except on rare occassions when I just eat and eat them and I'm not a big fan of sugar in any sauce that's red.
Balsamic Vinegar (1 tablespoon added at same time as broth): I haven't tried this, but I bet it would be amazing.
Cloves (4 whole): I'm not the biggest fan of this, but some well reviewed recipes call for this.
If you like creamy soups, consider making this into a bisque. Not all bisques are seafood such as the traditional lobster or shrimp bisque. Anymore, unless you're a pureist, tomate bisque is pretty much tomato soup with a milk mixture added. If you translate this into bisque then add two cups of milk to your roux. Actually it might not be that simple. You'll need to look up bisque recpies.
That's pretty much all I have on that recipe. It's good and pretty good for you. Three tablespoons of butter is a pretty significant amount, I guess, but in the world of fast food eaters, this is a sneeze of fat at the Big Mac or any fried food.
Friday, December 5, 2008
Suck My John Wayne
I'm totally taking credit for that phrase because I'm positive I'm the first person evre to utter those words by means of insult. Before I get into the birth-reason for said utterance (pun-intended), I would like to say that my John Wayne ain't no lil' pilgrim especailly when mirrors are involved. That said, I will proceed to the ocassion for the utterance...
Every school teacher has a shit-head, fuck-ball student he or she refers to as DOUCHE-BAG. This semester I have a five start shit-head, fuck-ball douche bag. And, quite frankly, I hope this student stumbles upon this blog so said student can be affirmed how much of a shit-ball, fuck-ball douche bag said student really is.
If you teach, you know this student. This is the student who is not only disrespectful by means of obviously surfing the internet while you teach, but thinks s/he knows more than you. Though this person might, the person has no fucking tact and an ego larger than the moon. This is the same person who says your descriptive comments are "stupid." This is the same person you have given so much wiggle room to improve that you can expect that this person will volunteer a kidney if you need one. And what does this student do? This is the student who after you have offered kindness to grant another chance on a big paper, emails you the same paper that got turned in the first time. The paper that still doesn't fill the page requirement despite your warnings, your kindness, your imploring. So what do I want to do? And what will I do? Pissing contests with students are stupid. Nonetheless, you can't let some fucker in your class boss you around. I have decided I will email this fuck-ball in a nice way and see what the bull-fuck story the student comes up with next. What I really want to write to said student is as follows:
Hey there, monkey-shit. You have proved yourself as a person who can read well because you figured out how to fuck up every single criteria for this paper. I'll be sure to keep you on my Christmas card mailing list because you made grading your paper so easy, F as in fucker. Also, thanks for saying, "Oh, Darn" when I told you half of your homework was never turned in. I'd like to "Oh, Darn" your face with a Swingline stapler. But I never will. I'd never do anything like that. I'd never get violent because that's not in my nature. I'm gonna be really nice now. I'm gonna be so fucking nice. That way when you contest the grade, I'll be D-Day on your white-trash existence and I can say you have a white-trash existence because I'm from Missouri and I'm white and almost all of my close friends are white-trash, you Minnesota-accent-mother-fucker.
Every school teacher has a shit-head, fuck-ball student he or she refers to as DOUCHE-BAG. This semester I have a five start shit-head, fuck-ball douche bag. And, quite frankly, I hope this student stumbles upon this blog so said student can be affirmed how much of a shit-ball, fuck-ball douche bag said student really is.
If you teach, you know this student. This is the student who is not only disrespectful by means of obviously surfing the internet while you teach, but thinks s/he knows more than you. Though this person might, the person has no fucking tact and an ego larger than the moon. This is the same person who says your descriptive comments are "stupid." This is the same person you have given so much wiggle room to improve that you can expect that this person will volunteer a kidney if you need one. And what does this student do? This is the student who after you have offered kindness to grant another chance on a big paper, emails you the same paper that got turned in the first time. The paper that still doesn't fill the page requirement despite your warnings, your kindness, your imploring. So what do I want to do? And what will I do? Pissing contests with students are stupid. Nonetheless, you can't let some fucker in your class boss you around. I have decided I will email this fuck-ball in a nice way and see what the bull-fuck story the student comes up with next. What I really want to write to said student is as follows:
Hey there, monkey-shit. You have proved yourself as a person who can read well because you figured out how to fuck up every single criteria for this paper. I'll be sure to keep you on my Christmas card mailing list because you made grading your paper so easy, F as in fucker. Also, thanks for saying, "Oh, Darn" when I told you half of your homework was never turned in. I'd like to "Oh, Darn" your face with a Swingline stapler. But I never will. I'd never do anything like that. I'd never get violent because that's not in my nature. I'm gonna be really nice now. I'm gonna be so fucking nice. That way when you contest the grade, I'll be D-Day on your white-trash existence and I can say you have a white-trash existence because I'm from Missouri and I'm white and almost all of my close friends are white-trash, you Minnesota-accent-mother-fucker.
Be Smart Or Get Tough
Writing that last entry made me think of stupid shit I've done, which always makes me think of a conversation I had with my buddy Dennis. In August, I called Dennis to see how he was doing because he was, without a doubt, having the worst time in his life. Dennis is almost sixty and in the Spring his son died. On top of that, Dennis got into a terrible accident which amounted to about 40% of his body burned by gasoline. And on top of that, while in the burn unit, the doctors diagnosed him with diabetes. Go into the hospital for burns and come out still burned with an added dose of diabetes and a son who is still dead. When I think I have a hard day or hard times, I think of Dennis and tell myself to quit my bitchin'.
While I was talking with Dennis that day I was checking up on him, we got to talking about his old man. Dennis's dad was an iconic-Missouri hick dad with lots of catch phrases that stick in your head. The one we talked about was how Dennis's dad would say, "Son, you gonna have to start being smart or get real tough, real fast." This saying was always in reference to prevent doing stupid shit like messing with explosives or drinking too much or driving motorcycles over the legal limit on gravel roads. Most of all the phrase is a mortal one and Dennis and I were having the most mortal conversation I've ever had with anybody. I'd told Dennis about how I'd sort of slowed down on doing too much stupid shit like messing with explosives on camping trips. Dennis told me about how he was just trying to keep breathing without thinking about how his life and body were in ruin.
While I was talking with Dennis that day I was checking up on him, we got to talking about his old man. Dennis's dad was an iconic-Missouri hick dad with lots of catch phrases that stick in your head. The one we talked about was how Dennis's dad would say, "Son, you gonna have to start being smart or get real tough, real fast." This saying was always in reference to prevent doing stupid shit like messing with explosives or drinking too much or driving motorcycles over the legal limit on gravel roads. Most of all the phrase is a mortal one and Dennis and I were having the most mortal conversation I've ever had with anybody. I'd told Dennis about how I'd sort of slowed down on doing too much stupid shit like messing with explosives on camping trips. Dennis told me about how he was just trying to keep breathing without thinking about how his life and body were in ruin.
Grey Light
On mornings like these I wake up at 6:30 for no reason at all. Then there is a debate in my head: do I make coffee or try to go back to sleep? Usually, I roll my nuts for a second and smoke a cigarette before going back to bed, but, no, today I am staying up, getting on with the day, making things happen.
Right now the sky is greying with light. For some reason the grey light of night turning to morning always reminds me of harder times. Every day and week and month is hard in its own way, but there are always the years that were hardest and there will always be years ahead that are harder than what we once presumed to be the hardest. That's a pretty cliche thought, but, eh, I've only had one cup of coffee. Let me be concrete.
When I worked nights at the hotel, I lived a life of grey light. During the winter, I went to work in the dark, and walked home a dawn. Then I'd try my best to get my ass to sleep so I could go do that again. Nothing all that subtantial ever really happened those mornings, but when ocassionally I would think of interesting things that happened in grey light. The time I worked that night job was a pretty dark point when I hated "the man" and spend a lot of time boo-hooing to myself about how I wasn't on the inside circle of other grad students who had teaching assistanships. So I lived in my mind for the most part. I recreated memories of bends in rivers that I love to fish. I recreated parts of France and Italy I like. And maybe it was because I saw so much grey-dawn that my brain resorted to thinking fondly of memories of grey light. The one that comforted me the most was also one that represented a hard down turn, more wandering into the bad.
Between 2004-2005 I was risking a pretty bad gambling habit. I was working as a bartender/ cook at two really successful bars in Kansas City so this meant I made a lot of disposable income that I could blow. Dropping three hundred bucks at a casino really wasn't a big deal because, on an average night, I'd make more than that. At this time, The Point in Kansas City was a premiere bar and everybody who was anybody in Kansas City would show up. It was pretty common to walk out of the bar after close with five hundred bones in your pocket. Five hundred bones to toss at a black-jack dealer. Wow, I am rambling and rambling. Let me get to the point.
My favorite memory of grey dawn was when my brother and I were leaving Harrah's north of the river in KC. John won three grand and I won two grand. It was summer. We were absolutely drunk and rich and in a cab. In our minds, we'd finally beat the casinos. In reality we'd scaped back probably a fourth of what we'd blown, at best. But in that moment, in the cab, anything was possible, and because John and I both blew money as if our hands were fans, we wanted to spend it. We wanted to do something wild because we could. We had the money, so why the fuck not?
We decided we'd have the cab take us to KCI airport so we could hop a flight to Chicago. We decided that since we had the money, we'd go to Chicago to eat hotdogs and get haircuts. The cabbie was pretty unimpressed with our idea, which made us think maybe it wasn't a good idea after all. Logic started coming back. We ditched the idea of going to Chicago. We had the cabbie take us back to my brother's pad.
I always like thinking of being in that cab deciding on if we should go to Chicago for hotdogs and haircuts. I represents the true silly and like all silliness represents an aspect of life that is truly stupid, stupid. I've done shitloads of stupid shit. I like to think that's what makes me a pretty empathetic person. But that just might be me thinking too highly of myself. I think there's a poem fumbling around in these fumbling words of this fumbling entry.
Right now the sky is greying with light. For some reason the grey light of night turning to morning always reminds me of harder times. Every day and week and month is hard in its own way, but there are always the years that were hardest and there will always be years ahead that are harder than what we once presumed to be the hardest. That's a pretty cliche thought, but, eh, I've only had one cup of coffee. Let me be concrete.
When I worked nights at the hotel, I lived a life of grey light. During the winter, I went to work in the dark, and walked home a dawn. Then I'd try my best to get my ass to sleep so I could go do that again. Nothing all that subtantial ever really happened those mornings, but when ocassionally I would think of interesting things that happened in grey light. The time I worked that night job was a pretty dark point when I hated "the man" and spend a lot of time boo-hooing to myself about how I wasn't on the inside circle of other grad students who had teaching assistanships. So I lived in my mind for the most part. I recreated memories of bends in rivers that I love to fish. I recreated parts of France and Italy I like. And maybe it was because I saw so much grey-dawn that my brain resorted to thinking fondly of memories of grey light. The one that comforted me the most was also one that represented a hard down turn, more wandering into the bad.
Between 2004-2005 I was risking a pretty bad gambling habit. I was working as a bartender/ cook at two really successful bars in Kansas City so this meant I made a lot of disposable income that I could blow. Dropping three hundred bucks at a casino really wasn't a big deal because, on an average night, I'd make more than that. At this time, The Point in Kansas City was a premiere bar and everybody who was anybody in Kansas City would show up. It was pretty common to walk out of the bar after close with five hundred bones in your pocket. Five hundred bones to toss at a black-jack dealer. Wow, I am rambling and rambling. Let me get to the point.
My favorite memory of grey dawn was when my brother and I were leaving Harrah's north of the river in KC. John won three grand and I won two grand. It was summer. We were absolutely drunk and rich and in a cab. In our minds, we'd finally beat the casinos. In reality we'd scaped back probably a fourth of what we'd blown, at best. But in that moment, in the cab, anything was possible, and because John and I both blew money as if our hands were fans, we wanted to spend it. We wanted to do something wild because we could. We had the money, so why the fuck not?
We decided we'd have the cab take us to KCI airport so we could hop a flight to Chicago. We decided that since we had the money, we'd go to Chicago to eat hotdogs and get haircuts. The cabbie was pretty unimpressed with our idea, which made us think maybe it wasn't a good idea after all. Logic started coming back. We ditched the idea of going to Chicago. We had the cabbie take us back to my brother's pad.
I always like thinking of being in that cab deciding on if we should go to Chicago for hotdogs and haircuts. I represents the true silly and like all silliness represents an aspect of life that is truly stupid, stupid. I've done shitloads of stupid shit. I like to think that's what makes me a pretty empathetic person. But that just might be me thinking too highly of myself. I think there's a poem fumbling around in these fumbling words of this fumbling entry.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Ear Farts
It is a day like this one when I really appreciate being a T.A. It's not because all of my students are little angels. It's not because I've just given a WOW-Lecture. It's because I can sit here in my "office" and think about the possiblity of farting out of my ear. Naturally, this new method of farting came about during a Smoker's Conversation outside Armstrong Hall.
We were talking about how headache pressure builds and builds and it would rock if there were a way to release that pressure. Drilling was suggested. Then I thought, wouldn't it be fantastic if you could pinch your ear closed, let go, and all of the pressure in your head would come out like air escaping from a balloon? Would it smell? I hope so. Would the sound be like that of a balloon squeaking? Or would it sound more like a real fart. I would hope it would smell and sound like a real fart. And since you are pinching your ear, in essence creating the pitch of the fart, you could come up with different little songs. On really bad migraine days you could pinch your ear and hold long enough to play Taps for yourself (buuuurrr....burrrrrr....burrrrrr. and so on). During Christmas migraines you could play Oh Holy Night. During Halloween you could pinch really tight when releasing the ear fart to get the high pitch of a witch laughing. The possiblities would be endless.
You'd be able to release the pressure of your migraine while entertaining yourself. The smells might be a turn off, but if it's a fart then the gas needs to have a stench to it. Got to stay true to the world of the story. And, you know what? You could ear fart right into someone's nose depending on your height. You could walk right up to them, rip a silent ear fart and be right on your way with that person gagging on your migraine gas.
I just know tried to make my ear fart by pinching it closed. I did hear the sound of the ocean, but there was no gas release. I really wish there had been. I'm curious what ear-wax smell would smell like. Would it smell like nasty carrots? It is orangish yellow. I just don't know.
Well, time to scoot (not literally though I would like to scoot like a dog on some very rough carpet some days). Time to go do student conferences. I like this job. I truly feel like an academic this very moment as I have my feet up and just typing away.
We were talking about how headache pressure builds and builds and it would rock if there were a way to release that pressure. Drilling was suggested. Then I thought, wouldn't it be fantastic if you could pinch your ear closed, let go, and all of the pressure in your head would come out like air escaping from a balloon? Would it smell? I hope so. Would the sound be like that of a balloon squeaking? Or would it sound more like a real fart. I would hope it would smell and sound like a real fart. And since you are pinching your ear, in essence creating the pitch of the fart, you could come up with different little songs. On really bad migraine days you could pinch your ear and hold long enough to play Taps for yourself (buuuurrr....burrrrrr....burrrrrr. and so on). During Christmas migraines you could play Oh Holy Night. During Halloween you could pinch really tight when releasing the ear fart to get the high pitch of a witch laughing. The possiblities would be endless.
You'd be able to release the pressure of your migraine while entertaining yourself. The smells might be a turn off, but if it's a fart then the gas needs to have a stench to it. Got to stay true to the world of the story. And, you know what? You could ear fart right into someone's nose depending on your height. You could walk right up to them, rip a silent ear fart and be right on your way with that person gagging on your migraine gas.
I just know tried to make my ear fart by pinching it closed. I did hear the sound of the ocean, but there was no gas release. I really wish there had been. I'm curious what ear-wax smell would smell like. Would it smell like nasty carrots? It is orangish yellow. I just don't know.
Well, time to scoot (not literally though I would like to scoot like a dog on some very rough carpet some days). Time to go do student conferences. I like this job. I truly feel like an academic this very moment as I have my feet up and just typing away.
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