this ain't livin'

Insomnia Waltz | 17Dec06

Since I couldn’t sleep, I thought I would browse through the New York Times Sunday Magazine online, which is normally something I do a little later in the day on Sundays. But I was awake, and I didn’t want to miss more scintillating advice from The Ethicist (who apparently thinks it is ok to print incredibly racist letters comparing African Americans to midgets).

I also noticed a brief about the work of Taryn Simon. The slide show is worth checking out, because she travels to some interesting places and got access to things most of us normally never see. The photographs are stark, compelling, and interesting.

If you have ever wondered what a customs confiscation room looks like, or how the Federal government farms marijuana…now you can know.

I would love to see her out on the Island. I am beginning to think that there is an urgent need for documentation of abandoned military bases, before they decay entirely and slip out of sight and memory.

Trip the Light Fantastic | 16Dec06

I’m up into the morning again, reaching the point where going to sleep before sunrise just seems pointless. I might as well wait it out, climb the oil tank, and wait for dawn to arrive, creeping long fingers over the already pink tinged horizon so slowly that at first I don’t realize what is happening. The metal I sit on will be cold and damp with dew which will seep through even thick pants, and I will wear a heavy sweater because it is chilly out tonight. It reminds me of Vermont out tonight, the air biting and cold. Walking down Avenue N earlier, the wind bit at me and teased my clothes, pulling the words from my mouth and throwing them away before I could speak them.

The day has been a series of isolated incidents and snatches of conversation which work together to create a whole. I’m still digesting it, though. When I go to sleep it will be cloudy, and the murky light will slip fitfully through the blinds while I toss and turn. Perhaps I will wake up with deeper knowledge…perhaps I will rise, tired, from the sheets at noon and stumble downstairs to make tea, giving up on sleep as a bad job. I used to fear these bouts of insomnia, and now I embrace them for the creative force which surges through me.

I write so much that my hands cramp, and the callus on my right hand where my pen rests starts to bleed. I will feel a phantom pen in my hand for days while I wake and while I sleep.

Today I went on a plant liberating mission.

Today I learned something.

Today I felt ashamed of myself.

Today I felt alive and filled with an emotion I could not label.

I think my neighbors are probably not liking me very much right now.

Perhaps I will bake a cake and watch it cool on the counter. Maybe I will cut a slice right then before I frost it, so I should make a torte instead so that it is not as important. I would drizzle it with raspberry sauce and eat it on one of my plates from Japan with my favorite fork. I would sit in the back yard and let the moisture of the rain seep up through me.

The stars were out in force tonight. It is cold and clear and when I can find a patch of dark, I look up into dazzling, brilliant light, a sky filled with promise. These formations so far away seem so small and insignificant, and I wave to them lazily in case someone is watching.

You will go to the moon.

A friend of mine just finished graduate school. He is now an official Master of Arts. I feel guilty.

My father called yesterday. I felt like a betrayer.

I am electric with waiting.

Avenue M | 15Dec06

As I dropped to my belly on the concrete, I heard glass crunching under my belt buckle.

The overhead lights were dim and flickering, and I was clinging to the floor in an attempt to appear invisible. Damp seeped through my knees and my right hand was wedged under a pile of old office lighting. My face felt gritty.

“Fuck,” I said. “What is he doing?”

“I’m not sure,” he muttered, sliding under the gigantic tractor to peer out into the parking lot.

I lay frozen on the filthy concrete pad and strained to hear something. He at least was relatively hidden from view by the tractor, but I was completely visible to anyone who might walk, or drive, by, despite my effort to hide behind a pole. Luckily I was wearing dark colors, and might at casual glance look like a heap of debris, assuming I didn’t do something foolish like lift my head.

I tried to inch into the relative shelter of a tractor scoop by dragging myself along the ground. I heard something rip.

“I think he’s parking,” he said. “Behind that building over there, look, you can just see.”

I peered up from behind a jumbled pile of transformers. The East Bay was cloaked in fog and a dim glow spread out invitingly across the Bay. Closer to home, I saw the car skulking in the lot next to us, lights off.

“Maybe he’s taking a nap. I don’t think he saw us. We can keep the tractor between him and us and slip out the back.”

I cautiously stretched to my full height and slid between a pile of empty pallets. We moved in wordless accord like inky shadows, welcoming the gathering darkness as the overhead lights became less widely distributed. Glass crackled under our feet and I decamped through a hole in the fence, holding it open for him.

“Well,” I said. “That was fun.”

We trotted off into the night along Avenue M, trying to look like people doing nothing in particular. In point of fact, that was exactly what we were.

Glorious Brussels Sprouts | 14Dec06

It has come to my attention that there is still widespread fear and loathing of brussels sprouts, one of the most delicious vegetable experiences the winter has to offer. I like few things in this world so much as brussels sprouts in any season, frankly. They are right up there for me with asparagus and artichokes.

However, like so many delicious food products, the humble brussel sprout has suffered from poor preparation. Most people seem to think that they are bitter, or mushy, or tasteless, dull to the tongue and a miserable dining experience. This most fantastic food is pushed to the side of plates nationwide, and this is a great pity.

For starters, let us speak about what makes a good brussel sprout. Size queens in the audience will be disappointed to hear this, but small sprouts are better. Why? Because the bigger the brussels sprouts, the more woody and bitter they will be, because age is an indicator of maturity. The brussels sprouts I got at the farmers’ market were small, about the size of my thumb, and perfectly glorious, sweet, and delicious.

You should also pick brussels sprouts that are a healthy green, and are tightly furled. No yellow stained leaves, no partially unfolding nonsense: you want nice, firm little brussels sprouts that shout out in a vibrant green color. From this is greatness made.

I have a favorite preparation for brussels sprouts, which I will detail below.

Start with your brussels sprouts. Wash them and halve them.

Take a cast iron pan and add butter and olive oil to it. Put the pan on medium heat until the oils start to sizzle when you flick water into it, at which point you should add the brussels sprouts. Be aware that leaves loosened by the cutting process may try to escape: hurl them back in. You can also add sliced shallots or garlic if you like, but you do not really need to.

Saute your sprouts for a minute or two, stirring around, before covering.

Lift the cover periodically to stir and fork test the brussels sprouts. They are done when the flesh yields to the fork like the legs of a virgin on prom night—you want a slight resistance, because that adds texture.

Serve immediately, dressed with salt and pepper. A pat of butter can be added. I eat this straight all the time in the winter, but it’s also really good with mashed potatoes, roasted potatoes, or any potato product, really. And meat. Mmm…meat.

The goal that you are going for here is slightly caramelized outer leaves, which will turn golden brown. This lends a sweetness to the brussels sprouts. Some of the leaves will also tuen crispy, which adds a fun texture to the completed dish. The end result is deliciousness incarnate.

For Pete’s sake, please do not steam brussels sprouts, or boil them. This causes them to be soggy. You may roast them in the oven if you do so with care. You might also want to try raw or marinated preparations, which arezesty and excellent as coleslaws and that sort of thing.

[brussels sprouts]

The Squid and the Whale | 14Dec06

Cap’n Boysenberry and I watched The Squid and the Whale last night on the recommendation of someone who shall remain nameless. Luckily, the film was mercifully short. Thank God. For all of the trendiness of the film and the critical acclaim it received, I was hoping for something slightly more impressive. Compelling, even. A film which spoke to my heartspace.

Several things about the film bothered me. I think I would have enjoyed it more if I was from New York, because there were a number of New York references made that I didn’t get and wasn’t interested in getting. For example, there’s a scene where subway stops are used to convey distance as characters drive past them. Does the sequence “Embarcadero,” “Montgomery,” “Powell,” “Civic Center,” “16th St. Mission,” “24th St. Mission,” “Glen Park” mean anything to you? If it does, you must be from San Francisco. Anywhere else in the world, that series of subway stops would be meaningless. You wouldn’t understand the neighborhoods and the distance it conveyed. That’s how I felt in the subway stop scene. I’m sure New Yorkers saw it and said “ahh, yes,” but I was left completely mystified.

The characters kept making comments about various neighborhoods in New York, and other such things, and I was left with a feeling of complete disorientation. The entire film felt like a long private discussion which I wasn’t privy to at all. The father was selfish prat, the mother was a fool, the older child was a sheep, and the younger child was a beer drinking foul mouthed little pervert. The movie is supposed to be autobiographical, which makes it a pretty unflinching look at all of the people involved. But it was not “touching,” “refreshing,” or anything else that the reviews claimed it was.

The film also seemed weak in many ways. As Cap’n Boysenberry pointed out, the film relied heavily on music to carry boring or dull scenes. This is a common ploy, but it is still irritating. Why not skip the scene altogether if it is boring, or make it interesting if you think it is important? There were many awkward, stilted scenes in the film which felt very forced and unnatural. Perhaps that was the point of the film: divorce is unnatural, but it did not feel that way.

Ostensibly, the movie is about a coming of age. We start with a family of four which undergoes separation and change. Hey, these things happen. It is what happens to the family along the way that is supposed to be interesting. But the story was not terribly compelling. I was not gripped with interest to know what would happen to the characters, because I knew what would happen: the same thing that happens in any family which undergoes divorce. I suppose if you were not from a broken home, the film might hold some interest for you.

The movie was not one which showed me the commonalities I had with the characters, or one which made me feel sympathy with the characters. It seemed more like a long and not terribly interesting, rambling statement about nothing in particular (somethat like this post). Maybe I just didn’t get it because my parents separated when I was fairly young, so I have already experienced everything in this film. Nothing new here, kids, move along.

I might recommend The Squid and the Whale to people who like to watch wierd movies and then be pompous about them. It is the kind of movie where you can say “what, you don’t get it? Well. I am not going to tell you, then, because you are unworthy of indie cinema.” I would also recommend it to people who follow everything they are told, like puppies. “Check it out,” I would say. “It is a little quirky, but I think you might enjoy it.” Filled with shame at their unworthiness, I am sure the person would never tell me they didn’t much fancy the movie.

Of course, I would also recommend Asses of Fire III for much the same reason, so what do I know. Perhaps I am just a dense philistine who does not comprehend the fillet of the world.

[The Squid and the Whale]

With Friends Around Us | 13Dec06

Yesterday I took a day off and went into San Francisco to meet Haddock, the GM, and the Sardine (who was, let me tell you, remarkably serene throughout our visit for a gentleman of only 4 1/2 months). I met them at the Ferry Building so that we could check out the Farmers’ Market, which is looking a little bedraggled this time of year, although there were some fun foods. Before they arrived, vegans pressed strange product samples on me. It was highly traumatizing. Haddock couldn’t resist a Buddha’s Hand, and I got brussel sprouts. Mmm. Delicious.

Anyway, we wandered around the Ferry Building and checked out Cowgirl Creamery, where an immense amount of cheese was purchased. I got a Mt. Tam, which was a delicious brie-like triple cream soft gooey cheese with a tangy, excellent crust. I ate it on a baguette from Acme, which happens to be next door. Which is, by the way, brilliant product placement. We also popped into Miette, where a gingerbread cupcake was eaten (excellent) and a chocolate cream layer cake with cacao nibs might have been purchased as well.

We departed for Great Eastern, which was quite excellent. An assortment of dim sum and regular dishes were ordered and enjoyed by all. The green beans were spicy and crunchy, just the way I like them. The soy sauce chicken reminded me of a dish The Girlfriend makes, which she serves with a sort of Chinese style salsa, and is really fucking good. Alas, my sore throat (which is rapidly getting worse) prevented me from enjoying the delicious meal nearly as much as I should have.

After lunch, we headed out to the Island so that I could give them the tour. Because of the Sardine, I didn’t want to take them anywhere particularly dangerous or difficult to access, so I showed them Halyburton Court and the swimming pool and we walked out along the sea wall to admire the City. Which is, admittedly, a pretty great thing to see from the seawall at dusk, even when it is cloudy.

I look foward to adventuring with them again—Haddock has an unerring sense for delicious food which is a marvel to watch in action. Hopefully next time I won’t feel like my throat is being eaten by wild wolves who are sprinkling pure capsaicin on it. Ow. Truly. Despite applications of hot tea and honey, I am not a fan of this situation at all.

At the moment, I am deeply torn. I want to eat more delicious delicious cheese, but I don’t want to deal with the intense pain of swallowing. Will my stomach prevail? Only time will tell.

Menu For Hope | 12Dec06

I am a fan of Christmas, in the eating obscene amounts of food and killing a tree to decorate my living room sense. I don’t actually like the now obligatory exchange of presents, the tearing out of hair that goes on over who to buy gifts for, and the sense of capitalism which has invaded an otherwise excellent opportunity to make a lot of food and devour it. That’s why I don’t give out (or expect) Christmas presents, because I would rather have the company of good friends than things I don’t really need.

Many people seem to have this compelling urge to buy presents anyway, because they are under the impression that this is expected of them. To that, I say piffle and tosh. There are far more important things in this world than trying to execute a carefully finessed balance of presents to show people “exactly how much you love them.” Show people you love them by dropping by and saying hello, with food.

Christmas used to be a time for charity and almsgiving—some of my older readers may remember this, or may even participate in charity. This year, my charity of choice is Menu for Hope III, which is collecting funds for the United Nations World Food Programme. I would much rather see my readers sending money to them than spending it on spoiled brats. If you need an incentive, there are a number of raffle prizes associated with it, some of which are pretty excellent.

DairyQueen of The Ethicurean is issuing a challenge to her readers: try to donate what you would otherwise spend on a meal for two, including wine (if you are a wine drinking kind of person). I’m going to up the ante a little: a nice dinner for two, not dinner at that cheap but really good Indian place. If you don’t really eat out, think about what you would spend at the Farmers’ Market, a day at the grocery store, a week at the coffeehouse. Better yet, take all the money you would have spent on presents and donate that.

Many of us take food for granted, despite the fact that there are people in our own communities who don’t know where their next meal is coming from. If you would rather think and act locally, donate money or goods to your local food bank. Winter is a really shitty time to be hungry, kiddos. Hopefully there will never be a time when any of you have to find that out for yourselves.

Menu for Hope III is being administered by Firstgiving, which sends donations on to the charity of choice. It is also possible to use corporate matching programs with Firstgiving, and you can deduct your donation, if you are into that kind of thing. The company networks fundraisers and donors in a safe environment, where you can be assured that your funds actually reach their intended destination. So go donate. Tell all your greedy friends and family that you donated the money you would have spent on their presents to people who actually, you know, needed it.

[charity]

How I Stopped Worrying and Learned to Love the Bomb | 11Dec06

That picture is from my cellphone, which explains why it is so shitty. I’m glad that I finally figured out how to get pictures off of my cellphone, because there were some pretty neat ones on there. Including that one. In case you can’t see what’s going on, Cap’n Boysenberry is sitting on the barrel of an anti-aircraft gun.

That was the same day we discovered the mystery sunken ship, but more about that later.

Astute readers may remember my battle with Comcast. I waited a few days for a call back, received two more bills ($49.68 and $50.17), and talked to three more customer service agents. I finally browbeat a woman into putting a credit on the account, bringing the total to $23.75.

Two days later, a bill for $60.83 arrived, and I called Comcast yet again for a merry round of he said she said. There must be a note on my account or something, because the gentleman I finally talked to spouted off about credits and so forth, finally admitting that whatever the bill said, I only owed them $23.75. Which I paid by phone, because the online payment server “wasn’t working.”

At last, I thought. Another month will go by before I have to do battle with Comcast again. I can relax, drink Mai Tais in the sun, and think about nothing in particular.

Today we went on an Indian food adventure. It was hoped that the heat of the Indian food would make us less sick. We were wrong, in fact, but it was a nice adventure. I strolled home through the gathering darkness humming Moxy Fruvous to myself under my breath, and stopped to grab the mail.

Two exciting things for me:

A giftcard from CompUSA, which apparently inteprets “rebate check from the store I never want to enter again” as “giftcard only good in the store you never want to enter again which must be used by January 15th.” Anyone need some toner? Or…something?

And…A bill from Comcast! It was big and scary, with “PAST DUE” on the outside of the envelope, and the inside to boot. How much was PAST DUE? $63.75!

Ah, Comcast.

I picked up the phone to do battle yet again, and ended up with a nice lady named Tiffany, who is probably beating something up in the break room right now. I was simply trying to comprehend how I had $63.75 past due when I thought it had been established that the total bill for November was $23.75, and I had paid it.

“Oh,” she said, “well that’s for November and December.”

“Wait,” I replied. “That’s preposterous. After fighting with you idiots for two weeks, I was told that I owed $23.75 for November 15th-December 15th, and that it was due by the 7th. I paid it. I was not aware that I was being billed in advance for December, and no one made me aware of this at any point. I think that you are full of it, Tiffany. Why are you sending me a bill for $63.75?”

“Well ma’am, what you don’t seem to be understanding is that this bill is for November and December.”

“Well ma’am, what you don’t seem to be understanding is that YOU ARE AN IDIOT. I should be getting a totally separate bill for December 15th-January 15th, which I will be content to pay at the last possible minute like I always do, because I will spend two weeks battling with you assholes to get it right—”

“Well ma’am—”

“Don’t you well ma’am me, I’m NOT DONE. I want to know who in your billing department is apparently sending out random bills, how much money you think I owe you, and when you think I am supposed to pay it. I already paid the bill for November-December, I can see it on my credit card statement, so don’t you get fresh with me, damnit!”

“Er, well, uh, I see here that you made a payment of $23.75 on the 5th of December…”

“Yes, for my November-December bill.”

“And then here’s an adjustment here, and then, yes, $23.75 for December!”

I really tried to keep myself as calm as possible here. I’m sick, I’m grumpy, and I thought I wouldn’t have to tussle with Comcast again until after Christmas. So I kept my voice very level, and very calm.

“If this is a bill for December, it is wrong. It is also not past due, because December isn’t over yet. In fact, the billing period hasn’t even been entered yet. How can I possibly owe money for a billing period which hasn’t started?”

“Oh, well ma’am, the bill is due on the 28th.”

“Ah. Then explain for me please, Tiffany, why it is that the bill says “PAST DUE” on it.”

“Oh, well that’s for November.”

Most people who know me would have recognized the dangerous softness my voice took at this point in the discussion.

“You mean the bill I already paid?”

“Yes, that’s right!”

“Tiffany, let me ask you something. Are you seriously saying that your employers think I am so stupid that I am going to pay twice for monthly services? I mean, if I paid every bill you had sent me in the last month, you’d be looking at over $300 in revenue. Is this plan, here? Was I supposed to be scared by the PAST DUE and render payment immediately? Because let me tell you something, Tiffany. The plan? It’s not working.”

*click*

“Tiffany? Hello? Tiffany? Oh, you motherfuckers.”

I did the only logical thing: I fed the bill to Loki and put a reminder in my calendar to call Comcast on the 24th, assuming I don’t get any more bills before then.

[Comcast]

Sell Out | 10Dec06

Well, not quite. We don’t have advertisements yet!

So for readers who have never maintained a website, websites cost a fair amount of money to run. Especially when websites have a lot of visitors, and your hosting service wants you to pay more for devouring their bandwidth. (I know, silly host!) I have really strived to keep this site noncommercial, because it’s an aesthetic that I really value. I don’t like advertisements, and I find them highly distracting. Ultimately, I would also like to be able to dedicate more time to entertaining my readers, rather than engaging in morally dubious slave labor to pay the rent. But right now, I would just be stoked to see this site pay for itself.

This is where you come in, gentle readers. I would greatly aprpeciate support from you. Donations are always welcome to my PayPal account, care of meloukhia at gmail dot com. But sometimes just sending a random person money isn’t enough. For this reason, I’ve experimentally opened a CafePress store, with a few items in it. You can support a website you like, and get something nifty in return. Perhaps you need a totebag with a piece of cake on it, or a 2007 calendar with image highlights of 2006. Or maybe you’ve been dying for a camisole with a picture of a goose on it. We’re going to see how this works out, gentle readers. I am open to suggestions about items you would like to see included, as well.

Bikram This | 10Dec06

Puff and I woke up at around noon. Still grumpy and filled with anger, I made some toast and pondered what I should do with the day.

“I am going to a yoga class,” she said. “Do you want to come? It’s that kind in a really hot room?”

“Oh, Bikram?”

“Yeah,” she said.

So off we went to Funky Door Yoga Studio to sweat it all out. I had done one Bikram class before, but didn’t really remember it. Essentially, I was starting fresh. Puff had never had a Bikram session, although she was an experienced yogini. We were equipped with towels and stripped down as much as decency would allow.

Walking into the yoga studio, it was hot. I mean, hot. It’s supposed to be between 95-100 degrees Fahrenheit, and it was certainly toasty. We walked in a little bit late, but joined in the breathing excercises and then started the standing Asanas. Let me tell you, those things kicked my ass. By the end I was sweating like a pig and my legs had decided to hate me. It felt so very good, though. My whole body started to loosen up and release. I certainly got more flexible, even though I fell out of poses a lot. My breathing steadied, and I could feel my anger melting away.

We moved down to the floor after a short break in which I downed about half a Nalgene. The floor excercises were much more comfortable for me. I was still sweating, and it was still hard work, but it felt…really good. I could feel my body stretching out, and the increased flexibility was amazing. By the end, I was so tired I could barely move, and lay on the floor to rest for what felt like forever.

Walking out, I felt great. Tired, for sure, but also energized and really healthy. I felt…clean and renewed. I think this is a yoga practice I want to adopt, because it made me feel so very excellent. I emerged grounded and very centered on myself and my own practice. External things just…didn’t seem as important.

I also felt comfortable at Funky Door, although I didn’t like the lobby music. Our instructor was Mark, who was really awesome. He made me feel secure even at my low level of experience, and made the class very enjoyable for me. I’m looking forward to working with him much, much more, and to improving as a person.

Am I still pissed off? Well, yeah, but I had about eight hours today where I felt really, really good. And I’m looking forward to doing it again. Soon.

[Bikram]