On this blog, take 2.

It feels like just yesterday I kicked off 2013 with an oath to write more, to use this blog to post once a day for the entire year (thanks, Kitty, for starting up #BED2013).  Okay, I'm lying.  Feels like way more than just yesterday.  This shit is exhausting.  But that's beside the point.

I was talking to my good friends and neighbors last night about this blog.  There is a paradox, it seems, between the title, my assertion that this platform is for me and my thoughts and postulations and posturing, and the push for you, my dear readers, to read what I'm spouting.  There's a confusion as to what the purpose of this exercise really is, if I say all I'm doing here is writing and I'm still cramming it down your throats.

The URL and title of the blog come from a particularly awesome episode of The Venture Brothers, a cartoon series featured on Adult Swim (for the clip of the Grand Galactic Inquisitor, see here).  At first I just thought it was friggin' funny, because that show is the tits.  But after some consideration, I realized just how apt the idea of something so obviously there screaming "IGNORE ME!" really was.

Because apparently, I obviously don't really want you to ignore me if I'm posting blogs to the Bookface and the Twitters.  I'm writing for me, yes, but writing is meant to be read.  Ideas in a vacuum don't change or grow.  So get in there if the mood strikes you.  If you agree with me, that's great.  If you don't, tell me why.  If you don't feel like reading, or you read and just shrug and walk away, cool.  If you want to open a dialogue, go for it.

And as I blather on about this or that, remember this: I really am just blathering.  Some of you are friends as old as time.  Some of you I just met through the magic of BiSC and the Twitterverse.  But new or old, I can't emphasize this enough: I don't claim to know any more or less than the rest of you jagweeds out there.  I'm just a guy with a bunch of funny/shitty/interesting experiences under his belt and too much time on his hands.

Cheers, guys.  One month down, eleven to go.

...

IGNORE ME

On a brief observation.

I think we really show our true colors on our days off.  Especially the first full day of any stretch.  The day before, no matter what time we get off work, we're still just a little bit in work mode.  And maybe we pop off to the bar or crash on the couch to decompress - it's still not true to ourselves.

But that next day, we do the things we've been wanting to do, but work was in the way.  Maybe we exercise, maybe we sleep in.  Me, I'm spending the day making the final push to cap Borderlands 2 on True Vault Hunter Mode, I'm making a baked pasta out of stuff I've got in the fridge, and I'm catching up on TV I've been meaning to get into.

Here's to days off, ladies and gents.  Here's to us.

On my other blog.

As some of you might know, I used to regularly update another blog of mine, I Hate This Cat.  It comes and goes in waves; sometimes I feel like I'm just taking the same picture over and over.

What's interesting is how divided the audience is on it.  People either think it's the funniest thing they've ever seen, or they just shrug and walk away.  I, obviously, am of the former camp, otherwise I wouldn't have started the damn thing (though credit where credit's due, it was Courtney's idea to start with).

The thing is, I don't know why.  I don't know why it just hits that funny bone on some people and completely misses with others.

If you have any ideas, I'm all ears.

On the value of self-loathing.

I hate myself.

I am a liar.  I am a coward.  I am manipulative and arrogant.  I am ingeniously lazy, noticeably lacking in self-control, and consistently self-defeating.

And I'm not saying all this fishing for compliments or support, for warm hugs and pats on the back. Fuck that noise. I know that for all my weaknesses, and they are legion, I am an exceptional human being. I say this to you because I know I am not alone. I know that even in this day and age of feelgoodery and positive self-actualization, you know that in your heart sits a wad of shit, black and odorous, that turns your stomach every time you think of it. That deep down, you hate yourself too. Maybe not every hour of every day, but it's there.

And that hate, that self-loathing, is good.  Because those to truly love every aspect of themselves are the complacent.  The people who do nothing, who achieve nothing, because there's nothing left to achieve.  Or worse, the megalomanic, the psychotic, the people so certain they can do no wrong that they raze everything in their path to mold the world in their image.

Do you think those who spend hours at the gym, sculpting themselves into paragons of fitness, are ever happy with how they look?  Are the go-getters scaling the corporate ladder ever satisfied with their positions?  They hate that they're two pounds off their target weight, they hate that someone else is still making more money than they are.

No, if you truly want to be good, you have to hate yourself.  You have to look at your shortcomings and be disgusted at the person they can make you.  It is because I am arrogant that I remind myself I'm nothing to be arrogant about.  It is because I can control how someone feels that I make them feel good.

A friend once told me that being a good person isn't something you are, it's something you do.  So take the time to really look at yourself, to really be honest with yourself.  Don't cover up the prejudice, don't hide the selfishness; just sit in it.  Embrace it.  Breathe it in.  Realize what a shitty, shitty human being you could be.

And do everything in your power to keep that from happening.

On living by yourself.

This may sound odd, but it's taken me until my 33rd year to live completely by myself.  No family members, no roommates, no significant others.  And while the adjustment period was a little rough, now that I've gotten used to it, this shit is the tits.  Seriously.

Of course, I know this dream can't last forever.  One day, I'll settle down with a wonderful woman, have 2.2 children, and think fondly of this carefree state.  Or I'll go dead broke and have to get a roommate to cover utilities.  In any case, these halcyon days will come to an end, and I shall weep the bitter tears of cohabitation.

And when that day comes...

Things I'll miss when some poor sucker decides to live with me:

1.  Eating ice cream directly out of the container.

2.  Prepping coffee nude in the kitchen before I head back up to take a shower.

3.  Doing anything nude around the house, really.

4.  Really getting into Rock Band.  I mean kick-over-chairs and sing-backup get into it.

5.  Doing the dishes, like, once a week.

6.  Planning the contents of my refrigerator with laser-like precision.

7.  Blasting music and singing in the shower.

8.  Practicing dance moves from Scrubs in the living room.

9.  Using my wheely office chair to get anywhere on the first floor when I'm feeling extra-lazy.

10.  Licking the spoon before I put it back in the soup.

11.  Pausing and rewinding new TV shows to make sure I catch everything.
12.  Using the left side of my bed as a cell phone/laptop/pants repository.

13.  Napping anywhere I damn well please.

I'm already sad on the inside.  (sigh)

On dating, part 2.

So after my last post, I got a couple of responses, both on and offline, of other key points I missed along the way.  And since I may as well keep rolling in this continuum, here we go.

7.  Get used to them.  It's an unpleasant reality to face, but that dreamboat of yours farts, snores, and has morning breath.  Because they're human, and not some artificial construct designed to match your every desire and preference.  (Unless they actually are a construct, in which case, kudos.)  Part of settling in with someone is getting past the flashbang of the opening volley and getting used to all the shitty, annoying parts of who they are.  Maybe he doesn't shower on his days off, or maybe she takes an hour and a half to get ready.  If you can't deal with that, get off the damn train.  And if you can't deal with bodily functions in general, start hoarding cats and books, because it's gonna be a long life of solitude.

On the other side of the coin, try to be considerate of your partner.  If they have to find themselves attracted enough to you to plow you, maybe don't shit with the door open, huh?

8.  Someone's gotta order the pizza.  Everyone has their strengths and everyone has their weaknesses, and while it may seem like a godsend to find someone just like you, this is not a good idea.  You need someone to step up and pick up the slack when you're not equipped to do it, and you need to do the same for your partner.  My buddy said it best when he talked about me and my ex-wife: If you both hate making phone calls, no one's going to order the pizza.  And you'll both starve to death holed up on your couch watching Parks and Rec.  Because someone's gotta order the pizza.

9.  Back the fuck up.  When you're just coming off that happy glowy stage, you might want to cling to them every minute of every day so you can bask in their love.  This is a terrible, terrible idea.  It doesn't matter how awesome your relationship is, people need alone time.  This goes double for the introverted.  Problem is, there's no kind way to turn to the person you love and say "Go away."  So a) if they do say that, don't take offense.  And 2) go do something else every once in a while.  For fuck's sake, you used to do things before you were in a relationship; go do those things.  There is a very fine line between love and the desire to strangle someone.  Don't test that line.

10.  I might be full of shit.  This is, perhaps, the most important point I'm going to make so far.  I've been preaching from the rafters these last few posts.  Some of you know me quite well, some of you don't know that I'm kind of a jerk yet.  Regardless, if you take away anything I've said about friendship or relationships, let it be this:  The person saying all of this probably doesn't do half of the shit they're telling you to do.  That doesn't just go for me, that goes for every shiny new self-help advice column you read.  Take what we say with a grain of salt, because we're all human.  We all make mistakes.  We're all just doing the best we can.

On dating, for the pragmatist.

Let's be honest; there's a whole lot of dating advice out there already.  It's oozing out of every blog and website, it's on every third page of every high-gloss magazine.  Problem is, a huge chunk of these are all about the first quarter - first dates, how to wow someone in bed, skills you need to get your foot in the door.

Thing is, I haven't found a lot of material on how to actually make something stick.  Okay, you've had a great couple of months.  You've gotten through your first big fight.  You're past the honeymoon phase, and all that's left is the two of you.  I can't tell you how many of my friends don't get past this phase, the stretch between "YAY NEW RELATIONSHIP" and "Well, I guess we're getting married".  And fuck that "if you know, you know" bullshit; this span takes just as much work as any other part of your relationship.

I realize that as a serial monogamist working on becoming a full-fledged ex-husband, I'm not exactly an expert on dating, but here's a couple of pointers I've picked up along the way.

1.  Understand what they're passionate about.  Might sound like common sense or romantic comedy bullshit, but fact is, if you don't understand why she won't shut up about the travel industry or he volunteers at the pet adoption center, you're missing a fundamental aspect of who your partner really is.  And unless they're stupidly hot and/or rich, if you don't get the person you're with, trust me, it's not going to last long.

2.  Enjoy what they're into.  Admittedly, this is a diminutive form of the first point.  But if you intend on sharing a life with someone, much less a living space, you'd better make sure that what they do in their spare time doesn't annoy the shit out of you.  If you're not okay with him spending a weekend screaming at football or going antiquing with her, then things stand a pretty good chance of getting rough pretty quickly.  Caveat: if you have your own activity you can do on your own time, like working the antique car in the garage or writing your novel while your partner plays through the latest Mass Effect DLC, then this can work.

3.  Stay thirsty, my friends.  Congratulations!  You've won the human of your dreams over; you know everything there is to know about them and vice versa.  You know what happens when you watch the same movie over and over and over and over again?  Shit gets boring.  Just because you've gotten them too lazy to look for someone else doesn't mean you get to sit back and enjoy the ride.  Go new places.  Get new stories.  Get out there and be interesting, for fuck's sake.

4.  Keep fucking.  I'm serious.  In all my relationships, only one didn't go completely sexually dead inside two years, and that's because the girl was out-of-her-mind psychotic.  You're going to get into a routine - you go down on her, she goes down on you, you ram it in until she's done, you hack your Gibson, and you're done in time for the news.  And eventually you start trading that in for an episode or two of 30 Rock instead.  Get weird.  Just make sure that when you do, they're into it, too.  If you're in a schoolgirl outfit, knuckles-deep in someone's ass and checking Twitter with the other hand, no one wins.

5.  Learn to read them.  I can't tell you how many articles I've read where a happily married couple is all "We're best friends!  We tell each other everything!  Open communication for the win!".  Then they go back to huffing unicorn farts and playing leprechaun bocce in their cloud garden because that shit doesn't exist.  The one thing someone never wants to talk about is themselves in relation to the person they're fucking to the person they're fucking.  I don't care if you were attached-at-the-hip besties before you decided cooperative mattress testing was a good idea, when you're in a relationship, you arm yourself for war.  That means showing no weakness and seeking the upper hand just in case.  So do the next best thing and pay attention to how they act when they're in a shitty mood.  Know when they need to come home to a batch of fresh-baked brownies, or when they need commercial break oral.

6.  Don't be a dick.  You might be stuck with this person for a long time, so be sensible about how you treat them.  If you wouldn't do it to your roommate, why would you do it to your bedmate?  Don't get high and plow through the hummus they were going to bring to work tomorrow.  Don't passive-aggressively leave the dishes in the hopes they'll come to their senses and do it.  Generally speaking, it's not a good idea to give your mate reasons to hate you.

Comments have led to this post being continued the following day.  ONWARD

On a to-do list.

I'm getting blogger's block today, which really isn't something I ever thought I'd say.  It's not that I don't have ideas brewing; I have posts based on everything from a conversation about yesterday's post to the collards I just ate for dinner, I just can't draw the lines necessary to bring them home.

So in the meantime, I'm going to provide a list of tomorrow's goals, since I didn't do shit today and I need to get off my ass tomorrow.

1.  Get a haircut.  This shit is getting out of control, and I'm using too much shampoo.
2.  Close my Wells Fargo account.  When I graduated high school, my mother opened a mutual fund with me using the cash I'd accrued over a childhood of birthday checks from god- and grandparents.  I've been putting this off for ten years.  Seriously.
3.  Put up the Super Mario Bros. wall stickers Kitty got me for Christmas.
4.  Read the New Employee manual for the job I'm starting on Sunday.  Evaluate it to see if it's worth scanning and sending to my former company for reference.
5.  Learn how to scan a multiple-page document as a PDF.  Contingent on #4.
6.  Using the intertubes, determine whether or not the Lindy Hop is something I can learn in four months.
7.  Blog something other than a to-do list.
8.  Ham and bean soup.

On friendship.

To really be friends with someone, you need to fall in love with them a little first.

Hear me out.  In my experience, the difference between a good friendship and a great one is in the details - the common language, the shared experiences, the emotional and temporal availability in times of need.

The groundwork is laid when you take an interest in someone.  When you like someone, enjoy someone, you pay attention.  You listen to the words they say, the things they tell you.  It starts out simple, the things that make them happy, the things that make them angry or sad.  You absorb these things, memorize these things.

And you spend time with them.  Whether it's across the table at a cafe or through a window on your monitor swapping links, they become part of your week, part of your day.  You remember what you talked about last time.  You remember what makes them laugh.  You take an interest in their life, listen to it like a story, ask after it to learn what happened next.

And as you get more and more tangled in each other's lives, as you share more and more of yourselves, you don't just learn about them, you start to understand them.  Their motivations and aspirations become clear to you even when they're unclear to them.  You can see what's good for them and what's bad, and if you're particularly adroit, you guide rather than steer.  You figure out not just what to say to drive your point home, but how to say it to make it stick.

And you start to sacrifice parts of yourself for them.  You put dinner on hold to listen to them talk about a shitty day.  You adapt plans to accommodate dietary restrictions and preferences without really thinking about it.

And you forgive them their trespasses.  The little iniquities and habits you'd find annoying in a stranger become endearing in the person you care about.  You don't mind that they forgot the five bucks they owe you because you were going to buy their sandwich for them anyway.

And you begin to think of them first.  When you wake up in the morning after a long conversation at night, you wonder what they're up to.  When you see them again, you ask "How are you?" rather than talk about yourself.  When you think about them, you don't think of how they relate to you, you think of them as a person with needs and wants.  And you put these needs and wants in front of your own.  Not because it's the right thing to do, but because it's what you want to do.

And I ask you this:  Is that not love?

On foreign languages and music.

I've managed to get Mike Doughty's cover of Ta Douleur stuck in my head.  (Yes, this is just a crappy Last.fm snippet, but it's not on YouTube and Grooveshark's being a dick.  If you want to listen to it, I suggest Spotify.)  I'm not sure why, but I've always been a sucker for music sung in French - from Edith Piaf to Les Wampas, songs manage to worm their way into my earballs even though I can barely pronounce the lyrics, much less understand them fully.  And yet I love listening to them.  But why is that?  Am I attracted to the lyrics because I can't understand them?  Does the loss of meaning translate to an increased appreciation for the mere sounds of the words?

I have a hard time thinking of English as a beautiful language.  Don't get me wrong, beautiful things can be said in English, but it's a matter of sentiment and meaning.  Because let's face it, our language is a battered mass of words stolen from anywhere we could find them, glued together by mispronunciation and self-contradictory syntax.  It's the Ke$ha of languages.  But then again, I was raised speaking it.  I know all its dirty little secrets and shitty origins.  Who's to say English isn't beautiful to non-native speakers?  K- and J-Pop certainly seem to be having fun with it.

Anyway.  I didn't really have a fully-formed thought going into this post; I was just struck by one of my more esoteric preferences and postulating on the root of it.  Maybe when we can't comprehend something in its entirety, we enjoy the aspects we do understand all the more.

Or maybe French is just one sexy-ass language.

On talismans.

Talisman (n.):  anything whose presence exercises a remarkable or powerful influence on human feelings or actions.

I was watching Alton Brown talk to Serious Eats the other day.  He mentions halfway through that he has a certain spoon he gravitates towards, a talisman.  "You need something that is special for you.  And its significance is strictly mental comfort."

And I instantly knew what he was talking about.  After all, I've got one of those, too.

I don't even remember when I picked this thing up.  It was two bucks at a Key Foods somewhere in Manhattan, purchased just when I started taking cooking seriously in the shitty TriBeCa apartment I shared with two of my college buddies.  And to this day, rare's the dish I prepare when this chunk of wood isn't part of it.

He's right, you know.  Mental comfort is important.  Whether I'm cooking something for the first time or firing off a recipe I know by heart, when that wooden spoon is in my hand, I feel confident, self-assured.  I know the little circles I need to make while stirring risotto, the amount of pressure I need to apply to scrape up fond.

But it's not the only talisman in my life.  Back when I played in a pool league, I used a shitty plastic bracelet with "LOVE" emblazoned in rhinestones on it as my marker.  I still use the ancient Zippo my old friend gave me when he quit smoking.  I use the same Höfner replica controller every time I play Rock Band.

What is it about us that leads us to put significance in the inanimate?  Why do we need to put faith in things other than ourselves to make ourselves better?  Or is it more than that?  Do we invest ourselves in these objects to extend ourselves beyond the limits of our bodies?

Take the time to think about the objects of significance in your life.  When you're getting down on the 8 ball, take a second to think: how much of you is taking the shot, and how much of you is using that crappy little bracelet to pull it into the pocket?

On losing things.

The other day, I lost my remote.

Wait.  Before I get into this, I should probably set up some context.  I live by myself in a little rowhouse.  The first floor was once three separate rooms, but has since been converted into one large open space, though with three distinct zones - the couched-off living room, the office-slash-wine cabinet region, and my kitchen.  It should also be noted, that as a bachelor, while I don't have a lot of stuff in my living space, what little I own is arranged somewhat... haphazardly.  The furniture isn't, but the stuff - the mail, the couch blankets and cushions, the giant stuffed hamster - it's on the lower end of the organized spectrum.  I spend much of my life in this contiguous room.  One of the benefits of having a clear line of sight to the TV is that pretty much anything I do in my house, I can do so while watching TV.

And this day, this was exactly what I was doing.  An episode of Archer averages in at around 22 minutes long.  I hit play, and in the consequent 22 minutes, I engaged in the following activities:

1.  I prepared a plate of Triscuit nachos.

2.  I poured myself a tasty beverage from my fridge.

3.  I ate said nachos and quaffed said beverage on the couch.

4.  I used the only bathroom on this floor, through the laundry room extension.

5.  I sat down at my desk to shut down my desktop and turn off the monitors and mouse.

6.  Using my laptop sitting on the printer on the wine cabinet, I checked Facebook and Twitter.

It is important to note, for the purposes of this blog post, that I did not recall the order in which these activities occurred.  Some, of course, were obvious in sequence.  But for the most part, these instances were bits of motion spread out over the course of an episode.

It was when the episode ended that I first realized my remote was missing.  I run Netflix through the TV itself, so it was impossible to move on to the next episode without using the remote.  "Huh," I said to myself as I patted the couch cushions around me.  "Where'd I put the remote?"

The sudden silence hung in the air as I stood up, brow furrowed as I cast my gaze about.  I couldn't see it anywhere in the vicinity.  It crossed my mind that perhaps, over the course of my various activities, I'd taken it with me on my way to my desk, or the kitchen, or the bathroom.  I retraced my steps, slowly but not too slowly, confident that at any second, I'd spot the bulky black rectangle of my remote.

Nothing.  From couch to desk to kitchen to laundry room to bathroom and back, nothing.  "Where'd I put it?" I asked Alistair as he lumbered past me.  My only response was an inquisitive "Prrp?" as he looked up at me.  It was close to their dinnertime.  No problem.  I'd feed them as soon as I'd found the remote and got the next episode started.

I looked again.  This time, really looked.  Each object on my desk, in my shelves, in detail this time, seeking out edges and shapes, hunting, searching as Alistair chirruped at my heels.  "Shoo, Alistair," I muttered to my cat, knowing he wouldn't understand me.  How could he?  He was a cat.  Still, it felt good to say.  Helped relieve a little of the tension building inside of me as I cycled back to the couch.  Still nothing.

Couch cushions were next.  Next logical step, right?  If it had been on the couch, maybe it'd fallen behind one of the cushions.  One by one, I took my couch apart, setting aside pillows, blankets, controllers, and the hamster as I lifted each pillowy plank.  All the while telling myself to take it easy, to relax.  It had to be here somewhere.  After all, I was the only person here.  I had to have been the last one to have it.  Right?

But nothing.  Still nothing.  The silence was getting to me.  The search moved on, to the wine cabinet, lifting the stray paper, checking under the keyboard on my desk.  Shifting the recycling around on the island, checking behind the coffeemaker.  Because maybe, just maybe, I set it down and nudged it behind something.  Maybe it was in my hand as I headed for the bathroom.  Maybe I put it on the dryer.  Maybe I put it in the dryer.  Was it in the dryer?  No.  Behind the toilet?  I might have knocked it into the toilet.  No.

Did I go to this bathroom?  Or did I go to the one upstairs?  I headed upstairs.  I was pretty sure I hadn't gone upstairs during the episode, but clearly it wasn't downstairs, so maybe I should check.  I ripped up my bed, checked behind my bathroom mirror, peeked into the shower.

Nothing.  Still nothing.  The silence was deafening.  Taunting me, mocking me for my failure.

By now I was yelling at Zevran.  "Where?  Where did you put it?"  He blinked lazily at me from the top of the cat tree.  The little bastard.  It wasn't upstairs.  Maybe it was down in the basement.  I hadn't been in my basement for days.  But I went anyway.  I opened all the storage boxes and rummaged through my high school memorabilia and my box of computer cables.  I rummaged through my workbench, even though I knew it couldn't be down there.  But what was the other option?  That I'd missed it?  Impossible.  I'd looked everywhere up there.  Hadn't I?

There came a point between checking inside the printer tray and in the crisper drawer in my fridge where madness settled in.  Did I ever really have it?  Was the remote real?  Or was God playing some kind of sick joke on me?  Had I kicked it under the couch?  I didn't remember kicking anything, or hearing anything being kicked.  I was begging to no one, to the silence, as I lifted each couch, mumbling half-weeping pleas through the maglite in my mouth that I find my remote.  My mind was mapping out what would happen if I didn't find it.  I wouldn't be able to use Netflix or Hulu or Amazon through my TV anymore.  I'd have to find the manual 'ON' button just to use the XBox.  Every time.  I'd have to get a new TV.

By now, I wasn't searching with my eyes anymore.  They were useless to me, just leaking orbs dried out by what felt like an eternity of search.  I was on my hands and knees, fingers splayed on the hardwood as I crammed my arms into any dark crevice or shadowy gap between the furniture that would have them.

And then I found it.

I found it as I ran my fingers over the top of the black fabric of the cat carrier.  It had fallen from the cabinet onto the carrier - face down, so the black plastic blended effortlessly with the polyester.  Cushioned by the soft roof to disguise the sound of its descent.  I slumped to the floor, clasping the remote to my chest, breaths coming in long, shuddered inhales.

"Prrp?"  It was Alistair, his paw on my knee.  Dinnertime.  Of course.  With a smile, I stood, hit Play on the next episode, and strode off to feed the beasts.  And it wasn't until I slipped the quart container of cat food back in the fridge, still smiling to myself, listening to the strange duet of Amber Nash and masticating cats, that I realized my hands were empty.

"Huh," I said to myself, fighting back the tremor in my voice as a clammy fist clenched at my heart.  "Where'd I put the remote?"

On internet socializing, part 1.

Hm.  Apparently, by signing up for BiSC, I've suddenly shown up on 50 or so new radars.

And also apparently, I'm going to celebrate this by staying off the radar for the day.  I've got a lot of people to meet tomorrow.

Does this mean I'm getting introverted as the years march on?

Recipe break. Fried Chicken.

I love fried chicken.

Yes, I could go into further detail about this, but really, does any more have to be said?  Over the years, I've developed several methods of preparing this, from extrapolations of the classic flour dredge - egg wash - bread crumb technique to the Korean-style cornstarch batter twice-fry.  But when I've got the craving on the fly and I want to set myself up for impromptu availability (after all, I live on my own, and making a full-on eight-piece recipe is a bit much even for [sober] me), this is how I roll.

  Boneless, skinless chicken thighs.  Bones will only slow you down.  White meat is for chumps.
  A thingy of buttermilk.
  Sriracha.  Technically, you could use any hot sauce here, particularly if you have an assload of random sauces in your fridge that have been sitting there since the last time you went to a hipster farmer's market.
  Flour, cornstarch, and panko bread crumbs.  Yes, all three.  Don't start.
  Salt and seasonings of your choice.  This one's up to you.  Me, I like to use smoked paprika, garlic powder, red pepper flake, and sometimes chipotle chili powder.

1.  In a resealable container of some variety (I use quart containers; if you don't know what those are, order a quart of soup from a Chinese place), throw in the chicken with enough buttermilk to cover, and enough hot sauce to turn the buttermilk pink.  Or whatever color your hot sauce looks like combined with white.  All a matter of preference.  Shake vigorously until the chicken is well-coated and submerged in buttermilky goodness.
  Why buttermilk?  Not only is it viscous enough to absorb ridiculous amounts of flour and flour-like substance, the enzymes in buttermilk actually infiltrate the meat and begin breaking the fibers down.  Also, the salt and flavorings from the hot sauce will, through the magic of osmosis, get into the actual flesh as time goes on rather than just sitting on the surface.

2.  In another resealable container (again, quart container, though a gallon-sized Ziploc bag works well for larger batches), combine a 1:1:1 ratio of flour, cornstarch, and panko.  It's important here not to go over 60-70% capacity of the container.  You're going to be shaking your chicken in this mixture, and you can't shake if there's no room.
  Flour adds body, cornstarch adds crunch, panko adds both.  If you asked me why I say this is the golden ratio between the three, I wouldn't have an answer outside of "I've made a shit ton of fried chicken and this has turned out the best.  Now stop asking questions and get off my lawn."

3.  Season your dredge mixture.  Salt, spices, herbs, whatever.  Taste the flour.  Yes, I'm serious.  This is one thing that blows my mind about home cooks - if you blindly follow a recipe without tasting as you go, how do you know how the end product will taste like?  The dredge should taste like how you want your crust to taste.
  There are tons of cooks and chefs who will tell you to season your chicken, then dredge it to keep the spices from burning and to reduce the amount you need to use.  After all, you're never going to use every last bit of the dredge.  To them, I rebut: this is way easier.

4.  Drizzle buttermilk into the dredge mixture, about a tablespoon at a time, stirring with your fingers or a fork to incorporate.  This is the determining factor between a thin, weak crust and the rich, firm crunch of a crust that has strength.  To tell if you've got enough in there, open the container, place your head directly in front of the opening, and give it a firm tap on the counter.  If it doesn't explode in a cloud of Scarface-like dust all over your face, you've got enough in there.
  Adding buttermilk directly to the dredge gives it a chance to clump together, exponentially increasing the amount of surface area on your crust.  And this, when fried, is what makes for a heartier crunch in the end product.

5.  Place both of these containers in the fridge and walk away.  That's it.  You're done with your prep work.  If you stop at this point, you are about fifteen minutes away from fried chicken at any time.  I've kept chicken like this up to a week.
  I'm totally lying.  I eat the first pack up inside a day or two, then keep restocking it with more thighs.

6.  When it's go time, heat up a pan of oil.  The pan should be wide enough to accomodate however much chicken you eat at a go without crowding, and you should have the oil at about 1/4" off the bottom.  Preheat that oil while you grab your containers out of the fridge.
  I reuse the pan and oil until the oil gets gross and filled with burnt bits.  I just put a lid on it when not in use.  Don't judge me.  You don't know my life.

7.  Take a thigh from the buttermilk and let it drip, then deposit it in the dredge container and shake the shit out of it to coat.  Make sure it lies flat, or it'll clump up on you.  You want the dredge mixture to get all up in that shit.  If you're doing more than one piece of chicken, do them one at a time so they don't stick together.
  I can do two thighs in the same container, but it takes practice.  Also, I'm more clever than you.  I'm not really.  I didn't mean it.

8.  Get the oil up to about 325.  If you don't have a fancy infrared thermometer like I do, wet your hand and flick droplets of water on the oil from a distance.  They should immediately sizzle and skitter across the surface.
  I say 'about 325', but it doesn't really matter too much.  Anywhere between 300 and 350 is fine.  Outside that range, though, and it'll start messing with how much time you need to cook it.

9.  Fry the chicken for four minutes on each side.  This time will vary, depending on the size of your chicken, but I've found four minutes to be the optimal time for what I find around here.  One minute before the end of side B, kill the heat.  The oil's plenty hot.
  Also, the oil will inevitably be smuttier on side B, which often leads to a darker crust on that side.  Plus side B is starting at a higher temperature than side A by virtue of its proximity to hot oil for four minutes, which means it'll take less time to cook.  Easing up on the gas pedal alleviates these issues.

10.  Drain and devour like the savage you are.

I should note that this process works for boneless pork chops, too, if they're around 1/2" thick.

All this chicken talk is making me hungry.  See you tomorrow, guys.


P. S.  Invest in a fry screen.  Trust me on this.

On sexism and the negative stereotype.

Before we get started, let me go ahead and tell you guys that this is not going to be nearly as serious a blog post as you think it is.

Right.

I love my cats.  I really do.  Alistair is quite possibly the cutest and most loving creature I've ever run across.  I could spend an entire Saturday scritching his belly while we're sprawled out on the bed, listening to him purr like a motorboat as he stares at me with unquestioning adoration.

And don't get me started on Zevran.  When I say he is the greatest cat in existence, it is no exaggeration.  He gets crazy eyes when he's about to play fetch with a wadded-up paper towel, he follows me room to room at my heels like a warlock's familiar.  He climbs on my shoulders so he can divebomb headbutt me.  Look at the little fucker.

That's me in the middle of making dinner.  I can wear him like a parrot.  If he'd bake muffins for me, I'd upgrade him to roommate.

That being said, I'm well aware I'm crazy.  I'm crazy about my cats.  I'm a crazy cat...

uh... hm.

Why is there no male analog to Crazy Cat Lady?  Why is it that when we envision a person living alone, humming in their house by themselves, cooking for one, wearing a frilly apron and singing to their cats, we see a woman?

That shit is sexist.  It ain't right.

On one of those days.

Have you ever had one of those days where you think yourself into a spiral?  Maybe you know what I'm talking about.  When nothing going on that day seems to pick you up, the activities you have planned for yourself seem inconsequential and dull.  When, despite the years of amassed knowledge and wisdom you've acquired, the future seems so vast and empty and dark that you feel helpless in the face of it.  When that spark you've been carrying in your heart, that light that pries your eyes open in the morning and shoots through your spine as you roll out of bed is conspicuously absent.

When your writing projects stare you in the face, empty boxes and windows with one accusatory vertical line blinking at you.  When the things you wanted to cook for yourself are too complicated or time consuming for you right now, and you tell yourself the ingredients will keep for another day.  When it's too much to make the phone calls you need to make, or open the bills you need to pay.

Your mind is moving, but your body isn't.  And your thoughts are plentiful, but refuse to focus.  You let the things you keep neatly shelved in your head loose - the doubts, the anger, the fear.  You get so mad the blackest ideas surface; you recoil in horror, terrified that you're going insane.  You scrutinize everything you do, every interaction you experience, looking for where you fucked up, where you failed.

Before you know it, it's dark outside.  You haven't done anything, and it's too late to get anything started.  Everything you pick up feels heavy.  Your head or your stomach hurts, but you don't care enough to do anything about it or figure out which one it is.  You don't feel like yourself, but how can that be?  You have to be you.  This is you.

And you stare at the TV as the hours tick by, waiting for the time you're not embarrassed to say you went to bed.  And you know the day is wasted, that you're one step closer to the grave without having anything to show for it.  And you hope when you wake up the next day, it'll be different.  But you're pretty sure it'll be the same.

Ever have one of those days?

I'm having one of those days.

On shared experiences.

People.  With the exception of hermits and software developers, having people in your life is an inevitability.  Every new job, every new city you move to, every cool little bar you just found in your neighborhood is full of them.  The damn world is lousy with them.  Other people inform our actions and decisions in thousands of indescribable ways.  What we wear, how we eat, the ways we communicate are all formed by the people in the world around us.

Some of which we try to keep around on a regular basis.  Maybe it's for the satisfaction of having people we're close to.  Maybe it's just so we don't have to meet new people every day, since it gets exhausting after a while.  And while there's a lot of reading material out there about how to meet new people and how to maintain interpersonal relationships, I haven't heard much about that magically inelegant in-between stage.  You know what I'm talking about.  When you've established that you'd like to keep talking to someone, but you're not quite at that comfortable silence phase.  Between remembering their name and remembering their address is a nebulous, murky, disjointed realm of awkward conversation starters and cliched icebreakers.  But what else are you supposed to do?  Talk about yourself?  Are you really ready for that?

Enter the shared experience.  I feel like this concept doesn't get nearly as much play time as it should.  The idea is simple enough: be around each other while something happens.  Maybe it's a movie neither of you have seen before.  Or an art exhibit that just came into town.  Regardless, after a new experience, you've got all kinds of new ideas floating around, waiting to be vocalized.  Why not vocalize at each other?  Did you feel the same thing they did?  Why or why not?

Or maybe you want to take it one step further and share something they've never tried that you have.  It puts the you in the driver's seat, forging a bond through guidance.  You get to experience second-hand what it's like to see something again for the first time.  You get to see if their first instincts match yours, if they felt the same awe or disgust or contentment you did when you first experienced it.  And it's safe, because you're not sharing just yourself, you're sharing something that exists outside of the two of you, tempered by your own perceptions.

Because ultimately, that's what interacting with other humans is - it's sharing.  Whether it's a cup of coffee at the corner cafe or an exceptionally long red light at an intersection, you're laying the groundwork of a relationship by creating something in common.

And that's the important part.  So next time you find yourself in that weird, vague phase between acquaintance and friend, don't wrack your brain trying to do something you think they'd enjoy.  Just go do something.  And make sure you talk about it afterwards.

On places to nap.

Man, crowdsourcing a blog topic is useful.  One Tom (referenced previously here) said I should talk about my favorite place to nap.

Now, I love to nap.  Love it.  If I could marry an activity, I would marry napping.  Have little half-nap children, grow old in its embrace.

That said, there are plenty of places I love to nap.  My friend Perry's couch, parked conveniently in front of the fireplace.  A stretch of rug in front of my brother's wood-burning oven.  But my favorite?

It's a bit of a cliche, but it's under a tree at the quad at Rutgers.  Just outside of Murray Hall at the New Brunswick campus, a really tall tree.  Like any good favorite spot, it's nostalgic - sleeping, hung over, at two in the afternoon, waiting for my friends to get out of class, sun sifting through the leaves, stoners playing hackysack.  Getting nudged awake with the toe of a Converse or Doc Marten, a mumbled conversation about whether Brower's still serving lunch.

Now, it's my couch, Zevran lying on my chest, Netflix on the TV.  Sometimes I wonder who's napping under that tree now.  What they're thinking about as they pass out, leaning against that trunk.  What's ahead of them yet.

They're probably cold.

On a picture or two.

Drunk.  Deal with it.

Also, this is in the middle of Philly right now.

I can't stop giggling about it, particularly the inscription in the corner.

On a lazy Saturday.

I'm sitting on a couch watching the crap out of Community with my girlfriend.

So no nuggets of wisdom from me.  Go on, shoo.  I'll probably have something more substantial to say on... (checks watch) Monday.

On a quick thought.

In this day and age, when we can access any information or contact anyone we want at a moment's notice, nothing fosters a freak-out quite like being on a plane.

(taking it easy today; I've been traveling.  See you tomorrow, guys.)

On futures.

I know, I know.  That's a pretty vague title to work with.  But bear with me.

The next week or two is going to see me make some very serious decisions.  The determination of where a new interpersonal relationship is going, a choice between two jobs that could very well determine which direction I'm taking my career.  These decisions are going to impact my lifestyle to the core - the hours I sleep, the money I budget.

And if I look far enough into the future, the decisions I make in the next two weeks might have life-altering consequences in the coming years.  They could change my timeline on opening my own place, or cancel it out entirely in pursuit of another branch of the food world.  They could determine where I live.  And these things are all terrifying; the thought that the entire direction of my life comes down to a couple of decisions made in a few short days.

And then I ask myself, how is this any different from any of the other heavy decisions I've made?  What's so great about my life now that I should be frightened of moving in any direction?

So to hell with it.  I'm going to let the next couple of weeks happen.  I'm not going to think too much about things; I'm going to do what feels right.  And I'm going to forge ahead into this year and all the years after.  Because you can't go back, and there's no point in standing still.

Yes, the future is fucking terrifying.  But you know what?  It always will be.  So suck it up and get moving.  There's shit to get done.  Your future isn't going to get here on its own.

On the new Darmok.

So yesterday, this happened:

Afshin:  it just occurred to me right now

  that that shaka, when the walls fell episode

  our use of photo macros to make memes

  that's the same fucking thing

  we show a picture of grumpy cat, and two words carry way more meaning.

me:  Holy shit.

  That's brilliant.

Being the jobless nerd that I am, I couldn't wait to share this revelation with the Twitterverse.  Tom was swift to answer the call, and the three of us spent the next hour or so spitballing a number of phrases to be used in #thenewDarmok.

Boromir, far from Mordor:  An admonition that the task ahead is more difficult than it might seem.
Ermahgerd Girl, her hands full:  Great excitement and delight, foolish giddiness.

Fry, his eyes squinting:  Skepticism.

Greg blazing, smiling:  A kind, charitable act.

McKayla on the podium:  A state of nonplussment, unimpressed.

Morpheus, his visage calm:  Revelation, realization of a new concept.

Picard, his arm outstretched:  Encouragement, a spur to action.

Steve, hat sideways, eyes wanting:  Unethical behavior, particularly moochery.

Tard, her brow furrowed:  Displeasure.

Tard, her eyes wide:  Extreme displeasure, revulsion.

Vader in the ocean:  Futility, a hopeless or purposeless endeavor.

Now, I'm not nearly as up on my memes as I should be, so I'm certain there's a ton of others to be crafted.  Let's hear it, internet!  We've got a whole new idiomic language to create.

On playing roles.

Today, employing both the Twitters and the Bookface, one Miss Kitty dropped storychum in the water using the quintessential "Once upon a time..." hook.  There were several results, including this.  And you know what?  It was fun.  Especially operating within 140 characters, having to hand the story over to your partner after your brief thought, trusting them to take the reins, to keep the story alive with their ideas of where the tale should go.

Now, I'm no stranger to collaborative storytelling.  Those of you who've known me for quite some time know (and consistently mock, you bastards) that I frequently write here, and that I can periodically be found here.  There's an inimitable joy in seeing where a story can go with only a few parameters to work with, to see how others see a situation and move the characters along.  Anyone who's written fiction knows at least a little of what I'm talking about, and anyone who's acted definitely understands.

Is it escapism?  Maybe a little.  But to take what you know of the world, to take your own emotions and experiences and craft them into a character with a history and a story to tell is one of the most cathartic and satisfying things I know.  Even if it never sees the light of day, I highly recommend it.  Take a second and envision someone.  Create them from scratch, dig deep into yourself to see what they look like, how they speak, how they act and react to the world around them.  Bring them to life, even if it's just in your own head.

Because if you don't stretch your imagination from time to time, how can you know it's really there?  And if you don't write it down, how can you know it ever existed?

On paying attention.

When I came downstairs today, my cat Alistair was curled up on the couch, looking despondent.  This is nothing new, really.  He gets this faraway look in his eyes when his face is mooshed into the cushion; the look of ennui etched into his ailuran mien like a Frenchman looking out over the Seine is both adorable and hilarious.  But he didn't immediately jump up, chirruping madly with wide, hungry eyes like he normally does when he knows food is coming.  I noticed it, but didn't think much of it.

I showered and went out, hitting the co-op and dropping my car off at the mechanic.  And when I came back, he hadn't moved from his spot.  I went over to him and started petting him, and he still seemed a little sluggish in response.  He didn't immediately start purring and kneading the cushion before him like he normally did.  So naturally, I began to panic.  Was he sick?  Was he depressed?  What was wrong?  I couldn't tell if he had eaten his breakfast or if Zevran was just a pig.  And I couldn't exactly ask him what was up.  Or I could, but I couldn't expect a sensible answer.

I firmly believe the world is made up of patterns.  Maybe it's how your cat acts, or how a sitcom writes its episodes.  Maybe it's the order in which your mailman delivers to your street, or how your significant other ends a text conversation.  And when these patterns break, that usually means something happened.  More often than not, it means something's wrong.

Patterns exist for a reason.  Familiarity is how we know everything's okay.  A friend of mine came back from visiting a boy she was seeing, a visit that did not go well.  She had her own patterns, her own rituals, and in such close proximity in unfamiliar territory, her patterns were disrupted.  Her mood turned, her outlook shifted.  And, simple as that, what should have been lovely time spent turned into a grueling stretch of discomfort and angst.

I guess what I'm saying is pay attention.  Take the time to recognize the patterns around you, the patterns in your own life, and stay sharp when they shift.  Maybe they'll point to a boyfriend indulging in a little subterfuge, or help you figure out what's wrong when you're in a shitty mood.  Maybe you can tell your boss is about to lay you off, or your favorite sandwich shop is about to change its hours.

Or maybe it'll just help you get to know someone better, to understand what they need to hear or see you do to make them smile.  And maybe that's the greatest reason to pay attention of all.

(Alistair seems to be doing better, by the way.  Pettings have led to happy purrings and sleepy kneading.  I'm still going to have to keep an eye on him at dinnertime, but I think the little guy's all right.)

On a poem I wrote a long time ago.

It's Sunday night.  It's quiet, I'm tired from doing nothing all day, and my head and heart are weary.  I want to talk, want to discuss the words of a wise woman, the value of talking out a problem with a friend.

But it's late, and I'm sure no one wants to read that crap as the weekend's coming to a close as much as I don't feel like writing it all out.  There are jobs to attend to, cars to drop off at the mechanic's, applications to follow up on.  Tonight is about curling up on the couch with a couple of episodes of a good sitcom and tucking into those last couple of hours before we all get back to whatever pains in the neck await us in the morning.

So I'll just leave you with some old words I found while surfing files from my ancient desktop.  And I'll talk to you tomorrow, internet.

rooftop

white light skyline

heartbeat river

wish my life had

been like this

nothing here but

quiet shivers

nothing missing

nothing missed

Recipe break. Chili.

That being said, this is how I generally make chili.

  Around 1.5 lbs. ground meat.  I like to use ground sirloin (the 90/10 stuff) because the texture's nice and crumbly.  Feel free to mix it up; my last batch included six strips of bacon that were going to go south in a couple of days.
  Some worcestershire sauce.  Some is a technical term.
  Some soy sauce.  See above.
  An onion, diced.  The size and variety of the onion should depend on whatever the balls you have lying around.
  Between 1 and 40 cloves of garlic, peeled, smashed and chopped.  I set the limit at 40 because unless you're using the two-bowl technique, madness begins to set in after peeling your 37th clove of garlic.
  Whatever other vegetation you have lying around, diced.  Bell peppers, chiles, whatever.  Knock yourself out.
  Beer.  Tomatoes have flavonoids that dissolve in water, fat, and alcohol, so don't skimp.
  One 28 oz. can of crushed tomatoes.  Muir Glen makes a really nice fire-roasted variety, but I'll go San Marzano if I can find it.  Because San Marzano tomatoes are fucking delicious.
  A splorch of molasses.  Usually however much comes out before you can stop it from pouring.
  Chili powder.  Shocking, I know.  I generally use chipotle here, but anything from ancho to generic'll do.
  Oregano, cumin, and paprika.  Really, these are optional, but this herb and these spices in particular work really well in chili.  If you have it, go smoked on the paprika.  If you don't, throw out your regular paprika and get your ass to the store for some smoked.
  Whatever other spices you want.  I like to use coriander and cardamom because I don't use them in much else, and I kind of want to get rid of them.
  Cocoa powder.  Yeah, I said it.
  One 15.5 oz. can of beans, drained and rinsed.  Red kidney, cannelini, black, pinto, whatever floats your boat.

1. In a pot big enough to hold the chili (and really, if you can't eye that kind of thing up, just go with the first pot in your set that has handles on both sides), brown the meat.  A lot of recipes say work in batches to get some nice browning, but unless I'm really trying to impress someone, I've generally found it isn't worth the time.  If working with a wooden spoon is giving you agita, try using a potato masher.
2. Dump the meat into a bowl, released juices and fat and all.  Add worchestershire and soy sauces until it's tasty enough to eat with a spoon.  Not a fork.  A spoon.
3. Bring the pot back up to heat and sweat the onions, garlic, and spare vegetation.  Note that I said sweat, not burn.  Keep 'em moving.
4. The liquid released from the onions should have been enough to dig up any brown bits left behind from the meat (if any), but just in case, hit the pot with a little beer to deglaze.  If you don't know what deglaze means, bring it to a boil and scrape the bottom and sides with whatever utensil you're using until nothing's sticking anymore.  It's essentially the same thing.
5. Dump in the tomatoes.  Not literally, as it'll glomp out and splatter all over the place if you do it fast enough.  Trust me.  Bring it back up to a simmer.
6. Add the molasses, herbs, spices, whatever.  Gun to my head, I'd say 2 tbsp. chili powder and 1 tbsp. of the rest to start (I just dump the spices into my cupped hand to eyeball it), then add 1 tsp. each in rotation until you get the flavor you're looking for.  If you want more heat, throw in whatever you've got in the door of your fridge - Tabasco, Frank's Red Hot, and sriracha all work well.  If it gets too hot, hit it with a little more molasses to mellow it out.
7. By the time you're done with 6, everything should have simmered long enough to be soft and stick-blendable if you're into that sort of thing.  If you like your chili chunky (or you don't have a stick blender), skip this step.
8. Add the meat and beans back into the pot.  If there isn't enough gravy, add beer until there is.  Drink whatever's left.
9. Bring to a simmer and hold for however long you feel like it.  Truth is, all the flavors should meld enough to be tasty in about 20 minutes, but I just let it go until I have to go to bed so I can keep picking at it.

Note: like most (if not all) things that involve tomato, the chili will taste even better the next day.  I can't tell you the exact science of it, but it has to do with the acids and glutamates inherent in that magical fruit going to town on everyone at the party.

Enjoy, kids.  A demain.

On recipes.

I was prompted today to post a recipe.  Not too surprising of a prompt, of course; those of you that know me (and I'm going to assume that's all three of you that are here) know I cook a great deal.  But as I sat down to think about what my greatest dish and the story behind it was, I hit a rather familiar roadblock.  Barring baking, I don't generally follow recipes, much less write my own.

That's not to say that recipes don't have their purpose.  If I'm learning a new dish, I'll make it once to spec to understand what the author wanted it to taste like, then adapt it accordingly to my tastes.  But after a while, you start to realize that most recipes are just one or two techniques with variances on ingredients.  Once you learn how to make a proper pot roast, braising short ribs in coffee isn't much of a jump.  If you learned how to make a beschamel for your baked mac and cheese, then you know how to build a turkey gravy.

To understand these techniques, it's important to understand why you're doing what you're doing.  Are you searing that pork chop because that's how you seal in juices, or because the Maillard reaction generates complexity of flavor?  Is that water bath you're putting your cheesecake in to keep the top from cracking or for insulation?  When you learn these things, you learn to adapt.  You learn to thicken your chowders with leftover mashed potatoes when you don't have the flour to build a roux, because starch is starch.  You learn to use white vinegar in your guacamole when someone has a citrus allergy because acid is what keeps the avocados from oxidizing.

And I say this to you because it's important to know how to adapt.  When you know why the rules and instructions are in place, you understand what's important and what's not.  And you stop worrying when you miss your turn, because you can just take the next one and circle around.  You stop stressing out when you lose a washer because a bread clip will do just fine.  You waltz to Everybody Hurts because it's in 3/4.

Knowledge is power because knowledge keeps you from freaking the fuck out.  And not freaking the fuck out is the greatest power of all.

On a conversation with Lauren.

After working on my resume all day, I was going to talk about my trepidations on stepping back into the workforce.  But I've been pretty heavy so far, and it's late.  So instead I'm going to show you a little clip of my life.  I'll probably do this from time to time, because let's face it, my life can be pretty fun from time to time.

Today, it's a fairly typical conversation with Lauren.

L:  I'm going to be so sick
  this was an awful idea, still is, can't stop
  NOM NOM NOM
me:  Pizza?
L:  Yes.
  After a week of no dairy.
  or meat.
  I feel like death, and all I want to do is finish this last half-slice
me:  Do it.
  You've come this far.
L:  I'm totally calling you and whining later
me:  I'm totally not going to pick up and just text back a picture of me eating a steak and drinking a glass of milk.
L:  Fuck youuuuu.
me:  I feel like you say this to me a lot.
  And that it strengthens our friendship.

Cheers, guys.  Happy Friday; I'll catch up with you tomorrow.

On change.

So I was reading through a new friend's old blog posts last night.  Blogs from a decade ago, a voice from the past etched in the boundless clay of the internet.  It made me think of my own history, my own life in 2003.  Where I stood as the timer reset, putting to bed one terrible year and starting the clock on a new one.

I wasn't in good shape ten years ago.  My mother ended her year-long battle with pancreatic cancer.  I'd just been laid off from my dot com job; I was dating a girl who lived in Toronto while I rotted away in a tiny apartment in New York.  I smoked too much.  Drank too much.  I didn't know what to do or who I was.  I only knew that change was coming.

I didn't know that I'd start working later that month at a bar that would come to define not only my 20s, but those of my closest friends as well.  That the job would connect me with the finest scum and villany lower Manhattan could offer.  I didn't know that a year later I'd be applying to school again, fighting to fulfill one last promise to a dead woman.  That people that would prop me up in my darkest hours even existed, much less find their ways into my life.

So much of what I am was still on the horizon.  My passion for food and cooking, my haphazard mastery of a pool cue.  Loves lost and won and lost again.  Mistakes indelicately made, the gouts of flame that broke me down and forged me ever stronger.

And that isn't to say I haven't had my constants.  I still love fried chicken.  The cigarettes I'm trying to quit are the same ones I smoked out on the fire escape ten years ago.  The boy I grew up with became a man I still stand side by side with, and the friends I made on the fourth floor of a college dorm still gather every year to celebrate our lives and friendship.  But nothing's the same.  Love grows deeper; people grow into and out of things.

That's the trick, isn't it?  Nothing gold can stay.  We always wait for change to come, never knowing that it's happening all the time.  Every day that passes brings something new and puts something old away.  To stand still, hoping for constancy, for stability is a fallacy.  To hold on to anything, to pray it'll stay exactly as it was is foolish.

If you want to keep anything in your life, be prepared to shift with it, to duck and weave as it expands and contracts.  Because change is always coming.  And the choice to make it for better or for worse is yours.

On fixing a water heater.

So I fixed the TPR valve on my hot water heater today.  Some of you might not know what that is.  What it does, what happens when it breaks.  And that's fine.  I didn't know any of these things until recently, either.  And none of that is really the point.  The point is, I fixed the TPR valve on my hot water heater today.

I could go into detail about it, I suppose.  Talk about that knot in my stomach as I stepped downstairs two nights ago, looking for lighter fluid, only to hear the carpet squish beneath my feet.  The phone calls looking for the contractor who once owned my home looking for guidance.  I could detail the Google searches for "hot water heater diagram" and "TPR valve leaking" that enabled me to diagnose the problem and the herculean effort involved in twisting the valve on the inlet pipe shut.

I could talk about how I turned it into a joke at the New Year's Eve party, shrugged it off the next day when I found out the hardware store was closed.  About how I sat down and made a quick list of the materials I'd need to fix the problem, thanked my friend for donating his wrench to the cause.  I could tell you about the conversation I had with two guys at the hardware store who helped me pick out the right parts I'd need.

And I could tell you about wrenching the pipes apart, twisting off the faulty valve and cramming the new one in against the spurt of now-cold water, hands still gooey with teflon paste.  Grunting as I twisted the pipes back in place, feeling that wave of relief wash over me when I turned the intake back on and nothing spilled out onto the already-soaked carpet.  Slamming the baseplate back on after relighting the pilot, and walking upstairs to hear the gurgle of the hot water output coming to life when I turned on the sink.

But I won't.  Because there was a problem.  And I didn't rail against the Fates about it on social media (well, too much, anyway), call a plumber, and wait for someone to do it for me.  I looked for a solution, asked the right people for help, and fixed the damn thing without raising a stink.

Because that's what being an adult is all about.  It's about putting your self-pity and uncertainty down and doing things that need to be done.  It's about recognizing that the "I can't"s and the "I'm not able to"s don't give a shit when they're spitting water all over the floor.  It's about knowing that in the end, all complaining really does is annoy the people close enough to listen.

So maybe that's what I should do this year.  Stop talking about my problems and do something about them.  Start taking responsibility for the tangled mess of my life.  Start acting like an adult.

But enough about me.  What were your resolutions this year?

On this blog.

I should write more.

At least that's what people tell me.  See, there was a time where I wrote.  A lot.  And it made me happy, kept my mind agile and open, gave me something to do other than sit about and rot.  But life got in the way.  And for years, I stopped writing.  Ran myself through the wringer, tried and failed and gave up on a lot of things.  I sat about.  I rotted.

But it's a new year.  And there's a lot of stuff I need to get done if I want to shape myself up back into some semblance of a decent human being.  And one of those things is to write more, to force myself into a ritual where I can look back each day, each week, and hold myself accountable for every time I didn't get off my ass and take a step forward.

So who knows?  There isn't much of a chance many people will see this, and quite frankly, I'd like to keep it that way.  Because this isn't for you.

It's for me.