Memories of a Magpie

Note: This entirely too long post reminds me of a NewsRadio episode where Jimmy James takes a kid to court over a box of junk.
Judge: Mr. James, all you have proven to this court is that you have a box full of junk. Never since The People vs. Junkyard Jones has a box of junk been so thoroughly documented. If I were this young man, I'd countersue you for defamation of character, and generally wasting everyone's time. What do you have to say in your defense?

Jimmy James: Tubal Cain.
Judge: The court rules in favor of Mr. James and sentences the defendant to a month in a juvenile ward for psychiatric evaluation. Case dismissed.

I remember clearly the tedium of clearing out a house. I didn't help much with my maternal grandmother's house. My youth and the presence of my cousins, my best friends as relations went, probably made that impossible. When my paternal grandmother moved out of her house, I was of a proper age to help. The difference between the two families was stark. At the time, my mother was far more sentimental towards the remainder of the possessions. My Dad and I after a day were kind of in a fuck it mood, and just started tossing shit. Then again, the Lays kept stuff like I'm about to show you and the Landises bought stuff off the home shopping network. I loved them equally; they were just different. I have no basis for genuine comparison as they were all gone before I could have eloquent adult feelings that I could put in words here.

The problem with every year of life is that clutter begins to appear, and I never really understood that. Hell, I don't even have unnecessary furniture such as a living room set. I will never have that problem. I accumulate two things, DVDs and books. when I go it will just be a free for all or quick sale for all that. If I buy something and it begins to gather dust, it finds itself on Craigslist or in the trash. The latest purge of documents and crap resulted in me going through my valuables. Being valuables of mine, you realize now that they have little or no worth at all.

The weird thing is how organized everything is for me. All of this crap fits in one Hammermill paper box, one of two containing old stuff that has no use anymore (the second has tshirts from all kinds of stuff, high school to now). My Dad always tells me to buy a document safe for my important papers (I don't have any), and I would probably just shove this stuff in it. The weird thing is I can tell you the story of my life, most of it good stuff.

 This is what is left of high school for me. It's a reminder that I was once called Joey, which is frankly a foolish name for a grown man (though it is debatable if I am one now.) Now, everyone calls me Jojo which is simultaneously emasculating and the homophobic may say gay. To be fair, (as far as stereotypes go), I am probably the gayest heterosexual alive.

The first picture is of two newspaper clippings that Joe Dunn saved for me. Another advantage of dating is if you do it well, you get another family to dote on you a bit. It is a reminder as well that I was once athletic, but I would say thin. The muscles are actually bigger now; I'm just cuddly as well. Also of note, my backhand was so fucked up by the time I was a Senior that I prayed no one hit to it, then hit them back slices just for the sake of it. The card in the background is just my Mom writing me back when she used to regularly; it's the only non-Christmas, non-birthday card I have, though she sent me far more before I became nostalgic.

The second is a bit more complicated. The picture frame is from my friend Meggi, who used to do my locker signs and give me junk food when I was a Senior football player. It is a practical and long lasting gift, but about that time, pictures starting being printed larger (then digitally) and so I don't own a single picture that fits the frame. The picture inside is my Senior picture with the remainder of the Senior pictures that were given to me. Most have interesting writing on the back that I could tell stories galore about, but my memoirs are waiting on me to become famous. Almost all are of girls, which probably should have said to my high school girlfriend that I wasn't a keeper or I was at least this man.

That watch was her birthday present to me at 17, and I didn't feel good throwing out a good watch in need of a battery. Then cell phones and work eliminated its practicality. The keychain lasted me ten years and aided me numerous times in finding them. In fact, I made it in eight grade and it stayed on my keys until I was 26, so it lived a good life. The class ring never fit, the key was made of lustrium, and the key chain broke. It symbolizes the sudden change of those years. Friendships you spent years cultivating are gone, and everything fades. You don't forget, but it isn't really a defining part of you. Unless you decide to go back, which I haven't done yet for clear economic and social reasons.* The patches are simply a reminder that I'm a huge nerd. They were sent with my replacement disc to Buried in Time, which the guys at Presto Studios signed for me. I miss those games.

*There are far more women, jobs, concerts, and women in big cities.
**(You said women twice.)
 ***I like women.

Never been to Mardi Gras, even the shitty St. Louis one.
Yet still beads all over the place. Hint: They're all green.

Then, I went to college. In hindsight, I didn't go to college to graduate it appears. In fact, I may not have even gone to college to make friends, as I've done a pretty fine job of burning as many of those bridges as possible. What did I go for then? Well, it wasn't women. I went to Rolla. It wasn't booze; there was booze in Carrollton or any other town. I went to become who I am now if that makes sense. I figured that would involve engineering, but it didn't. In fact, every plan of mine in life has an underlying current of delusions of grandeur. There is no grandeur in engineering, as there is none in a kitchen, but there is a theatricality to it that appeals to me. In hindsight, I probably should have focused on fine arts a bit more. I have some great ideas now that are a basic understanding of piano and music writing away from being within my grasp.

You can't say Kathy didn't try to help when I asked.

Pins, carnations and pledge quizzes. I have weird collection
habits. I think I have an afghan somewhere.

I did four things in Rolla that were memorable. Of course, I fucked all of them up, but that isn't necessarily the worst sin. I joined a fraternity, which was a brilliant decision, if many of my decisions within the fraternity were not. I hate the stigma that fraternities have in popular culture, but I understand it as well. All the stereotypes exist for a reason, and all of them are untrue for the same reason all stereotypes are. Simply, life is not black and white; there are douche-bags and good guys, and sometimes you're both. I have friends that straddle the line to this day. I didn't take it seriously enough and others took it too serious, which is just a microcosm of life itself.

The Chi fell off a boob and is a memento of both
follies success and boobs. The rest is schwag.

St. Pats was a personal choice that was also forced upon me. I was preordained for the Board. However, I didn't stand out there, mostly because I found out how much I could do from the shadows. I preferred helping others do their work, taking shortcuts on my own work, and then riling up as many people as possible. A campus employee once told me I lacked integrity for deceiving her, which was far from the truth. I felt I was above her contempt and didn't care to be subject to her purview. Basically, I got to spend three years working a part-time job, which rewarded you with booze and small college fame as opposed to money. As my academic exploits would have been poor either way, it was a decent time, but a part time job would have been more practical. It was the first time in my life where I was allowed to be creative, even to put on a show, which I did. I was "The Legend" as my jacket said, but legends die faster than regular folk. It's a chapter of my life that will probably never be opened again.

The worst thing about college is that when I tried I was really good at it. Not in the hard work, which is required to both graduate and succeed in any reasonable matter of life. I was capable of ridiculous acts of both oration, creativity, and recollection. I have numerous tests that I keep just in case somebody someday needs an example of how to write an essay test without citing a damn thing and without writing complete nonsense. One of my teachers made me stand up and take a bow, then proclaimed I was going places. That was the last class I took up to this point before the government decided I wasn't progressing at a speed sufficient to garner student loans. This is not a statement made out of anger, as this was completely true and regrettable now. If I ever get the money and time, I'll finish if only to make my parents happy, solely out of guilt.

Melissa, remind me to give you that ticket. It's signed to
you. I wasn't the Toad the Wet Sprocket fan there.

Then, I drank a bit and fell in love. Not with a woman, although I have fell in love with quite a few of those, but with music. Not in playing it, as I clearly do not have the dedication for such tasks. I love a concert. In fact, I love musicals, plays, movies, or any kind of performance art. I would have a bit more pocket-change if I had learned earlier to curb the bottle and didn't fall in love with ingenues. On the other hand, every cent spent on a concert has been worth it. Even CrueFest, which I went to for free.

Completing the circle of tickets
and booze, tickets to beerfest.

My favorite is that Joe Camel one that belonged to my
brother Bryan. It serves no practical purpose as it only
fits Coors products, so perfect for Bryan really.

I keep sports tickets and movie tickets as well, although I don't know why. Back in the day I had every one from when I was a junior high schooler to college, but I assume they were lost in the many purges of my childhood room. As they become more digital, I expect less and less to keep them. Also, drinking tends to lead to them getting lost along the way. I used to keep train tickets, but my iPhone does those now as well. Nostalgia is harmful to trees I've found.

Why save four of these?

Look at that taste. Harry Potter on
Christmas night.

I also possess an assortment of Halloween costumes. I have never made it through an entire night with an entire costume. Usually, I lose a shirt or any accessories. So now, I have a parka, which succeeded in getting me a ride to the Creve Couer police station, as I appeared to be a hitchhiking immigrant. I was not, so I didn't get charged for anything.I have Hammer pants, which I hope Lacey has the the top for because I loaned it to her for some sorority picture. I also have an Elvis jumpsuit. None of these are useful unless I meet a girl that is into role-playing, and that is even a bit weird for me.

There is some that has no deep significance and is simply oddities that I like.

License plates from my first two cars
who now share a junkyard.

A flower from Chi Omega's semi-formal,
 a bookmark that says I'm productive which shows how
well I match with the biblical Josephs, some sort of medallion
 for serving in Korea in support, a 50
centavo piece from Brazil (where I've never been)

Assorted gifts from Chinese roommates
I helped with English verb tenses.
Expensive green tea, chopsticks, and
an opera mask bookmark.

A Christmas teddy of both sorts.
One for being Mrs. Claus (see what I mean
about the vaguely gay thing  being acceptable.), the other
inexplicable.

Then, there is the stuff I've always saved. I don't have many friends (and I have a lot of friends). I'm rather inaccessible, emotionally and occasionally physically. I come when called, but most people wouldn't think to make that call as I tend to be aloof. So, I have these reminders that people do knwo where I am from time to time. I save all Christmas cards, wedding stationary (announcements, invitations, programs, placeholders, sometimes flatware ;), and birthday cards.



The birthday cards are mostly from my parents. They have slowly evolved from the humorous ones of my youth that better reflect my parents spirit to the emotional ones that my Mom prefers to send nowadays. She said that she was afraid the last thing she would ever say to me was a joke as opposed to "I love you", but I would say that making someone laugh is a great display of love in itself, even cheesy laughter. There are a few from Ozzie's which I forgot about. One of the upsides and downsides of restaurant jobs is the familial relationships that develop over time. The upside being a kid far from his actual brothers and sisters having some surrogate ones nearby to take some of the emotional load. The downside being the awkward incestual relationships that spring out of it and the bad holidays which can only be solved with booze. Except in a restaurant, every day is a bad family holiday.

 You could probably learn everything about me from this box of crap. Then again, you could learn nothing. That's the thing about magpies, we keep plenty of small mementos and trinkets on hand, but we hoard many other things of greater treasures. Lucky for those that know me that I write about them on here. Memories that cannot be forgotten need no trinkets, no ticket stubs, no cards. They just linger there in your mind waiting for you to recollect them, and that is the greatest hiding spot for things. What am I hiding there? Mostly social security numbers and bank account numbers in the Caymans, which are two unrelated topics.

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Guide to the Hard Knocks Culinary Route

It both the beer and the thought that my sexy fingers made
that sexy crust that make it more delicious. Oh
and pecans are like ten bucks a pound on the street. 

It was weird that I had never heard this phrase in reference to my career path until a recent interview. The phrase is particularly telling in the culinary trade, because there really aren't many shortcuts. The shortcuts that exist are purely a matter of luck, which someone with better luck could describe to you. The downside of such shortcuts is that perhaps you had no intention of becoming a chef, and now you got a taste for it and cannot give it up. This may sound like a good problem, but then you haven't ever seen the paycheck comparisons between someone who carries their food to you and those who had to make it enjoyable.* While your part in a restaurant (especially a great one) is perhaps the most important piece in the puzzle, one finds themselves as at best the median** on the pay scale.

*This cannot be understated: this is not a knock on servers, as in most cases customer service is the hardest job in the world. On the other hand, anyone without personality or stress disorders is capable of doing it. It's why people cannot con you into paying to learn to serve.
**The middle number not the average. Sorry, but a mathematician pet peeve.

This isn't going to be a woe is me tale, trust me on this. I have worked for four restaurants in my life and each one has been a pleasant experience on the vocational side (except compensation wise but that's not a fixable issue so why worry about it). My immediately bosses have been likable, at times flexible, and mostly competent. Before you accuse me of damning them with faint praise, I don't worry too much about my bosses because I don't fuck up too much and my personality in a kitchen is harsh on the language front but otherwise incredibly laid-back. I don't throw shit and yell at people, and generally because of that my bosses don't respond in kind. My first boss was sort of like that, but I think my brother took most of the flak for my incompetence and really supervised me, for the most part.

This is more of a commentary on the pointlessness of culinary school. People think sometimes that I've been to one or desire to. I have always been befuddled by two statements from people who don't cook.

The Aging Curve

One GIF to describe all of existence. Then again
not if you don't mind getting wet. Paris is more beautiful in
the rain. (I'm a master of crossed-up references and also
French girls speaking English kills me.)

My life is not a thing of coincidence; there are no accidents. Everything happens because of my actions and that is something one can either be glad of or wearied by. I'm writing many things at the moment as I am prone to severe bouts of what they call these days ADHD and perhaps somewhat of perfectionism derived from OCD.* The first is a book, about the only thing I cared about from about 2007-09. If I had sat down and wrote the book then, it probably would have been less cynical and doe-eyed as a 24 year old hopeless romantic could write it.

*My mom once made fun of me because she came in my apartment and my pennies were sorted in a geometric pattern, which is what happens when I clean my apartment. Don't ask why; it's just the way the pennies go.

The second is essentially an auto-biography, but in my case that results in a series of vignettes, most recording days, some merely hours. To be fair, most people's lives are mundane, and mine is as well. However, the double edged sword of inherited intelligence and imbalance has led to some moments that probably wouldn't happen to normal well-adjusted people. This is an extension of that. It was going to be a tale of aging, but that would probably anger my family of which I am the baby and therefore banned from complaining about the passage of time.

When I wrote the first six stories/vignettes, I realized after a while that I was writing in all of the peoples' real names. Of course, this could be a problem, but then upon second glance I realized that I didn't antagonize anybody. In fact, I can't think of a single situation in which another human being has ever wronged me. I could imagine scenarios in which the implicit denial of affection from the opposite sex would cause me to treat them antagonistically, but from a genetic and superficial standpoint, it seems to be a perfectly understandable position. In fact, I can't think of many people who could explicitly describe me as an antagonist either. Despite a recent disparity in friendships, I can be and am on most occasions a likable, if highly indifferent or (the more frequently used) aloof, individual. I can think of a few guys who didn't like my relationship with their girlfriends, but they of course did not realize that I both exist as an inadequate object of desire and also as a gentleman of the highest order with far too many scruples.*

*Of course, those men, being assholes, didn't get the girls in the end anyways, so I got some laughs out of their misplaced jealousy. I may have scruples, but I'm a fine purveyor of hyper-aggressive male schadenfreude .

That isn't to say that I haven't done many things which one would find disagreeable, but as a whole my parents did an excellent job raising me, according to testimony of strangers.* Yet being a gentleman is not an attribute worth lauding in the current age, it can actually be a fatal flaw. Sometimes, I found I care too much, and in truth every person I've let be has turned out better for it. There is too much of a paternal instinct in me, and sometimes I meddle and muddy the waters further. In careers, the more cutthroat or sometimes illogically brash you are results in reward. If I had to tell you the amount of times someone of equal pay-grade and status has tried to educate me on how to do my job, I could literally write an entire book about that. Why can they tell me what to do? They are older.

*This comes from Amtrak passengers. Last month, I got to sit next to a 92 year old lady from St. Louis all the way to Jefferson City. I like talking to people who have lived, and this lady had done that. She opened with a sad statement about me not wanting to live as long as she had, but said it through a smile. Everyone she knew was dead, excepting her progeny. She didn't have much that she liked doing, save gambling at the casino. She was old enough that she referred to my brothers as colored, which I reflexively had to bite back my usual retort. It was a conversation that reiterated many points that I already hold dear. My parents are incredibly giving and wonderful people. I don't want to live that long. Lastly, the US used to be (still is?) a horrible place. Still, I love talking to that generation that Tom Brokaw is so irresponsibly in love with. Case in point.

Age is a funny thing. It is both regretted as a loss of youthful beauty and celebrated as a gain of elderly wisdom. I find that neither is particularly certain for humans. Animals get wiser or they die. Humans usually don't have much to fear, so they seem to repeat the same mistakes. Wisdom is not acquired but rather a tolerance to their own ineptitude  People also don't get ugly as the age; they change. I'm an extremely superficial person at first glance, and even I can appreciate beauty in people of all ages. Beauty does not fade with time, unless you view your entire life from a static position. If you possess that ability, you obviously are a much higher power than I and deserve all congratulations.

The problem for me is I can't see myself in ten years or fifteen. I know people in their forties and their stories are those of a 25 year old, still tales of arrested development. However, once you hit a certain age* the stories aren't funny anymore, and on that note I can't remember many that I laughed at honestly. I like it when 21 year old bartenders find the stories immature as if they are bastions of adult conversation and wisdom. I also don't find it amusing that you find womanizing a badge of honor. Would I be that man at 40? Not alone in the traditional sense, but very much alone in reality. There is nothing I am proud of now. Nothing I've accomplished worth lauding. Yet many people feel that what they have done while being equal to mine is impressive even given the extra fifteen years. It puzzles me.

*17-18

It made me wonder if that is what will happen, because everyone at some point was my age. A single man just squeezing by with only remote prospects of anything worthwhile in the future. Yet fifteen years have passed and now, what do you have? A wife, maybe. A girlfriend that hates you but is resigned to her fate. No kids. The same job, except the wages haven't adjusted for inflation or gone up with the minimum wage so you make the same amount you made ten years ago but your bills are tripled. So you work two jobs, and perhaps even long for your days off where you can get paying gigs doing construction or vending street-side.

Those are the oats you have sown. It's not a matter of luck or even upward mobility. It's all groundwork. You go to school, you get a shitty job, and you work your ass off. If you are lucky, you are genetically predisposed for romance or really fucking funny. and someday you get a guy or girl to rough it with you. If you plan poorly or just are so inclined, maybe you have children and accept the more rewarding but ultimately time consuming prospect of parenthood. People talk about accidents, acts of God, miracles and tragedies, but mostly, life is in your control. The crucial decisions that make or break your day to day life are yours to choose, unless you have passed them off to God or maybe your spouse. That also was a choice.

Which ultimately brought me back to my fears that started this introspection, am I doomed because I've sewn either no oats or trampled them carelessly? The obvious and easy answer is yes. Three months ago, it would have been a 99% chance that I was either going to die young, go to prison (Don't ask how, I get locked up for the weirdest reasons.), or just remain a burnout like I have been since I was 19 years old. However, I finally learned something about myself that should help everyone out. I have no enemies but myself. Sure, it would be nice to go back to being that virginal 17 year old that was neglecting his girlfriend and turning down summer internships from a guy who worked for a Fortune 500 company.* However, I'm never going to be that guy and it's nice being a 27 year old gentleman. I'm poor, friendless (outside the Internet and family), and some would argue lonely although I prefer stir-crazy. However, I'm still charming when I desire, a hard-worker, humble almost to a point of severe self-deprecation, and patient as always.** Time does not make you wiser, it highlights what defines you. I'm all right with being this man forever, and everyone should find that point for themselves and then live a little bit. The stories get better when you live them fully, not with age.

*Yes, I did that. Met a guy through my DECA presentation. It was my last summer at home with my high school friends. Idiot. I will tell you I have no regrets. I lied; I have that one. Also, kind of regret going to Rolla, and wish I'd done something outrageous and incredibly far from Missouri. Stir-crazy.
**Patient but pro-active nowadays. I've interviewed for thrice jobs in the last month than in the previous 27 years of my life.

Note: I would prefer everyone listen to the album Pines by A Fine Frenzy while reading this. The album is a great Winter album, snowy and cold for about ten tracks and then two songs that make me ridiculously happy to be alive like spring rain.

Winter:
Spring:


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Gun ContrLOL: America's Epic Tale Of Idiocy

There are few events that can't be over-reacted to. Americans are very good at this. Albert Pujols is going to Los Angeles for more money. Bastard. Our president had an affair and lied about it. Impeach him on moral grounds. Vietnam. Hell, we even over-reacted to 9/11, which by now is so ingrained in our psyche that my uttering it right now is cliche. Everything is done in excess, most often to the detriment of our society, with the exception of people who stock up on non-expiring items for the apocalypse. That is just helping the economy. There are few things that cannot be blown out of proportion and also few things that we agree on, but I think I found one.

There is no way to over-react to a child's death, especially when there is no one left to blame. Self-inflicted tragedies seem to always involve the deaths of not just innocents, but those of whom we spend our whole lives protecting. Of all the horrible things we wish upon people and even in cases take action upon, violence perpetrated towards children is the most unforgivable of sins. Yet it also results in an infamy that media loves to create for those who both commit the unspeakable crime. I don't follow stories like that anymore. I don't care to know the man's name who shot all those people last week. I think from the first report I read that he was a white guy. I don't know the names of any man that has shot multiple innocent people in public ever. None of them deserve to be remembered. The immediate reaction of the general public was correct. Horror is the simple and reasonable response. Those of you with children should first think of your own children, that's natural. Those of us without, should recognize the level of psychopathy required in this instance, where the answers did not exist like many other school shootings before had. We did not have anyone to blame because one man committed this crime and denied us the satisfaction of killing him again in a much more peaceful manner, a uniquely macabre view of the world.

Then, it wore off. Americans were no longer horrified; they were outraged. Outrage is the over-reaction that is not capable. It is the false sense that you can prevent outliers from happening in existence by creating boundaries for which they have to overcome. The reality is that are greatest strengths are flaws in themselves. The opposite applies for our weaknesses. Both have just been labeled as such due to improper relation to the human condition as opposed to an actuality. Our belief that we are always safe is always destroyed is the most inhuman of ways. Our ability to believe everything is alright could be portrayed as naivete, but it's part of why we press on in life despite the hardships. We are not all good people or bad people. Sure, some of us are heroes, but there are also monsters among us. That is not something that makes you feel warm inside, but the outrage helps with that. You can't be angry at the killer, so you're angry at the guns and culture.

So, you go on about an issue that you could care less about last week. If you are reasonable, you do so by saying how ridiculous private ownership of assault rifles is. Most people aren't reasonable. They talk about all guns, as if they have no idea of their argument's scope. Some people complain about gun lobbyists, why don't those people say something? Well, they'd be pretty poor at their jobs if they acknowledged a gun's secondarily chose purpose. They complain about the people who sold him the guns, as if American lawmakers have ever done anything to prevent ridiculous statements of Constitutional dogma. Look at that ridiculous group of "freedom of speechers" in Kansas, who I would argue paint a worse picture of the human race than most murderers ever will. The worst part about your argument is not that it is wrong. Most people acknowledge that guns aren't particularly useful to the health of society. The problem is that it's overarching and causes perhaps the most vitriolic, dangerous, and one-sided of arguments.

Gun owners are not usually reasonable people. It takes a certain level of conviction to purchase a gun and also a certain level of paranoia to constantly fear attack by your peers. People who buy guns to hunt, really enjoy hunting as much as I love sports (no, shooting things much like golf is not a sport.) or some people love theatre or anything for that matter. Not a single one of them when hearing a blanket statement about guns is going to respond reasonably. They are the correct party in this occasion at first. By the time, they finish the statement they will have invariably turned the rifle unto themselves and shot themselves in the foot with worse arguments. My favorite is the "people kill people" one, as if every time I pick up a knife I feel a slight urge to kill something with it. This is simple misunderstanding as these two sides actually agree on most counts. The actions of few endanger both the lives of Americans, but also endangers the reasonable right to bear arms granted by the United States Constitution.

There are two more groups that violently oppose your view and they should be treated very differently. This first is military men and women (in some occasions, police officers fit in here as well), who have a very different relation with guns than the rest of us. They are trained killers from any way you look at it. A gun is not a threat it is a tool. They use the gun with the authority of whatever nation they serve at the direction of said authority. Even after their service ends, some will be far more comfortable with a gun than others, and many will own their own. Serving your country is something everyone should be proud of and it should be respected. Under the orders you were given, the actions taken should be accepted, even if death is a result of them. There is no reason for you to compare killing insurgents with gun rights. It is a nasty and ineffectual form of conjecture, given the nature of warfare. My father indirectly killed men in Vietnam, but he has no fondness for guns nor should he. There is no pride in killing; there is duty and in just cases, honor. There is pride in saving lives with a gun, not in taking them. So when someone I know posted a killcount at one point as a justification for gun ownership; I must state they are not a reasonable representation of our armed forces.

The third faction includes that "soldier" and is simply a faction not far from the young man who committed this crime. They are sociopaths at best, who know exactly what guns can do and would love nothing more than to use one. Most never will kill anyone, they would have no trouble doing so but life hasn't presented them that opportunity. Most of us don't shoot home invaders, cheating spouses, or criminals caught in the act because the majority of these things don't happen to regular people that often. It's why when assholes talk about the kid who shot a robber, they fail to mention the hundreds who die each year from self-inflicted gunshots, gang warfare, and domestic disputes. The ones who do get the opportunity are no better than this man, as they kill for pleasure, not justice nor a sense of right and wrong. They shoot kids wearing hoods in the wrong neighborhood, people crossing borders for freedom, those who have wronged their convictions which while misguided are no weaker than others. I respect the right to protect one's home but don't argue that your home contains enough valuables that robbers will be armed with heavy firepower. For one, I may think your family is worth protecting, but if you own assault rifles I can debate whether you do or not.

I briefly mentioned police officers, because I have no idea how they feel about guns. I'm sure they have a more intimate relationship with them like the armed forces, but the issue pertains directly to their safety. Enemy forces can sneak up on you, but not in the way that a normal armed citizen can. Sure, its nice that some citizens can take care of themselves, but the guns in my city do not protect people because that is not their purpose. Guns are both their greatest deterrent and their greatest threat, so I could understand them being ambivalent towards them. Of course, some get into it for that, but that is again not the point to harp on.

I obviously am not for gun ownership on a ridiculous scale. If you can describe a reasonable situation where you need a gun that can kill a dozen people almost instantly, then I'm more than willing to hear you out and concede my point. If you say in war, I would agree, but that's a pointless argument unless you are at war with the general public as we speak. I don't care if you own a handgun, and I'm not particularly concerned with concealed weapons, even though statistically those are the ones most likely to kill me. (Especially, given the gunshots that went off outside my apartment as I wrote this.) I especially don't care about rifles and shotguns for hunting. I'm just saying that no one needs assault rifles, sub-machine guns, or any sort of military grade weaponry. I don't think that is an unreasonable argument. I also don't think there is a chance in hell that either anything substantial gets passed by our government nor that incidents like this are deterred by banning them.

Then again what would I know, I've never owned a gun because I'm not afraid of being robbed nor important enough to be targeted to kill. I have no children so I must have no concerns for their safety. I never served in the military, so I don't know the pleasure of killing as my friends seem to consider it. Hell, I don't even think it is a viable issue of discussion in Congress given our incredibly open ended document allowing it for perpetuity. I also play violent video games which should apparently result in me becoming more violent, but my anger is almost non-existent even with a "fight-or-flight" instinct that evidence says always comes up fight. I am just a reasonable man, and that's all I ask of everyone: be more reasonable. Or, we can spend the next few months fighting, but I think that one side is more prepared for that battle.

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First Daylight

Now, the question you want to ask is: why am I naked and
 in a river? The better question is: why am I wearing biker
 gloves? The third, why is this on a post about my birth?
 One, I have boxers on and it was enticing. Two, because they
are fashionable. Three because pictures and videos of births
are disturbing.

Last week, I published an auto-biographical short story and got back to writing my auto-biography. As I am not famous, this is more of a collection of essays, vignettes, and short stories. I should be done with it by the end of the week, as it is a lot easier than finishing my first novel which has been under development for the past five or so years. I kinda want to make a Kickstarter project out of it, just so I can get money to say live and hire a book agent, but I'm not comfortable with taking money from people for something I can almost do for free. Any advice that anyone has would be willingly taken at this point. To that point, enjoy this while you can because it will most likely be taken down like my other writing.

Chapter one of Gin and Platonic is completely fictional by most standards, except for me looking like Popeye and of course everything that God narrates. Now onto the story of my birth as narrated by Morgan Freeman as God and myself (below the jump). 

Amortentia and the Senses

A quiche without spinach is a lesser quiche.
Via http://smittenkitchen.com/blog/2008/09/spinach-quiche-revisited/

Writers have a tendency to fail more often than they succeed. This is incorrectly held against writers as if they are somehow superhuman constructs of the human imagination. One of my favorite currently active(?) writers is George R.R. Martin. His epic tale has gotten somewhat out of control as of late, as he continues to write and write*, thereby creating far too many loopholes he needs to close. However, the moments where he really succeeds are worthy of the languishing periods listening to the thoughts of fisherman in Essos. The truth is that most stuff fails. The Empire Strikes Back is arguably the best movie of the Star Wars franchise, but I could argue that this is only for two reasons, which take up ten seconds on film. (Han Solo's response to Leia and "I am your father"). Life is a giant collection of failures, but within that the beautiful moments that aren't. Writing is not outside this.

*Incredibly slowly, as one such as I can surely appreciate.

This is a long lead-in to essentially a hypothetical from two sentences in a 5000 page* fantasy series. The series in question has probably one of the largest unnecessary literary failures, which dampened a solid if not brilliant conclusion to the series.* However, that is a negative spin to put on Harry Potter, as it certainly has positives to think about. Last week, I re-watched the movies, a tedious process as it involves a Mike Newell film and noted a change in the Half Blood Prince which was well done, but perhaps unnecessary. When presented with the world's strongest love potion, Hermione Granger lists off the smells she gets from it. Fresh cut grass, new parchment, and then she stops herself and blushes. Every reader knows that she and Ron are in love with each other, but both the horrid description of whatever Ron Weasley smells like and the dimwitted reaction such a reveal would invoke for Ron are left to Hermione's imagination. The film substitutes toothpaste for this silence which is not a complete disaster, and also allows those who haven't read the books** to get the reference. When writers get out of hand and write too much, just remember that every once in a while, they'll throw you a delicious bone.

*I guessed at the page count. The failure is the epilogue to The Deathly Hollows. It screams of a Lucasian attempt to kill a franchise, and makes Harry Potter into such a boring blank slate of a character. The Harry Potter from the books was a troublemaker, who just survived a fight with a dark wizard far superior to him, and had already walked to his own death. There is no way he becomes this boring father of three dropping his kids off at school. The childhood he had screams alcoholic, young death from thrill seeking, imprisonment, or at least several psychological impairments. Also, it is one of the easiest failures to avoid on film, which of course means they literally adapted it.
**Do people go to movies before reading books? This is a horrible idea, because the cliche is right and the books are always better. The human brain produces far better imagery than cameras ever can.

Now, this left me with a question. What would I smell? Harry smelled subconscious desires and literal ones as well. I'm going to take it a bit farther and include all of the senses. Why give the nose such credit when the other five senses are also part of love?* Since the smells seemed to come in threes in the book, we shall keep the number at three for each it also helps with brevity.

*Who are we? Burton Guster?

Smell

The first, which I'll probably write books about in itself, has to be the smell of honeysuckle. I'm a purveyor of Hermione's cut grass lust, but it gives me terrible sneezing fits* which seem to disqualify it. Honeysuckle is a weed in most regards, which might suggest some psycho babble about my diamond in the rough obsessions. It also is the dominant smell of my childhood as it had almost completely overtook the fences in my backyard. I once found Glade Plug-Ins that smelled of honeysuckle and I just went crazy, that's irrational at best.

*I'm also quite fond of sneezing, which I'm not sure is normal or not.

I had to think hard for a second, but I'm thinking ginger snap cookies. It had to be something with food, specifically home cooked food. I made ginger snap cookies a week back and that was a good childhood memory. This could go any way, I certainly wouldn't count out a fresh quiche as the smell I long for. In fact, I'm going to open a restaurant which makes only quiche and pies. Really, quiche for breakfast, pie for lunch, and pie for dessert. If not for those bastards at Pi, I would have a name, too. Oooooh......pizza pies!

In following the script, the third choice is the one you wouldn't expect. The third in my case would be a woman's perfume quite obviously. I can't remember what the perfume is called, what it smelled like, nor what the woman who used it looked like. Perhaps, it was the perfume mixed with a conditioner, a restaurant aroma, and cigarette smoke that amalgamated to form an aroma which is impossible to recreate. That is the beauty of the third smell, you know exactly what it is and can't describe it. Funny thing is I remember that she was named Lauren, or at least that's what I'm remembering.

Hearing

I listened to this yesterday after strolling down Wikipedia lane. This led me to two conclusions: first, stealing things that were made before the Internet is incredibly hard and secondly, that I find myself more and more drawn to a love of television than is understandable. Inspector Morse was probably the only Mystery episodes I remember watching with my parents, though God knows I sat through some Cadfael back in the day.

Now, to be more to the point, we're talking love here, so I must have some lovely lady singing a love song. Or I could choose of duet if I were so schmaltzy. Well, I can't say how legally distant my love is for this artist is, so just let the video speak for me. Of course, it can't be embedded because people are imperfect and make poor decisions in life.

A Fine Frenzy - "What I Wouldn't Do"

Thinking of something that probably is more subtle and subconscious is probably impossible in this regard. For example, "Fernando" popped into my head today for some reason and stayed there. The mind is horrible like that, but let's suppose it is a song that reminds you of someone and isn't particularly pleasing to yourself. This means that you derive pleasure from your own pain. In the spirit of the season, number three is...

 *I really can't stop smiling right now, it's fucking disturbing. Also, fuck VEVO.

Taste

Food is too easy. I love everything, but here you go:

Quiche. In a homemade crust, preferably with spinach and feta. Also, great with mushrooms.
Deep dish pizza. ANY DEEP DISH OR PAN PIZZA.* Give me crust, give me butter, and give me death.
Ginger Snap Cookies. Make some, tell everyone to fuck off, eat all the cookies, profit.

*Seriously, if you ever order me a thin crust pizza, I will end you.

If I had to pick specific ingredients: butter, garlic, and black olives.

Touch

I have this ordinary dress shirt. It's a Munsingwear shirt that I got at JCPenney when I was sixteen for a State DECA Contest. It's 65% Polyester and 35% Rayon and is in no way a remarkable piece of clothing. Due to some late growth, it stopped fitting as a dress shirt after a while, but it still remains the most used shirt in my closet. Why? It feels like God weaved it, when you touch it. It doesn't feel much different when you are wearing it, but it's fucking magic. I can't state enough how awesome this shirt is. I suggest all sixteen year old's buy this shirt and age it like mine. Girls too.

The obvious one is women's skin and hair, and that has to be listed on every man's minds. For me, this is not just a matter of basal lusts, but rather a pronouncement of my own problems. I have terrible skin and equally troublesome hair. My skin's too dry and due to it's near translucence, shows every blemish and scar like a badge of courage. My hands have scars from when I was sixteen, and show cuts I made at Ozzie's in 2007. It's troublesome at best, and gingery at worst. Then, there's my hair. It's red, brown, black, and blond. It comes in colors it chooses and does as it pleases. It doesn't grow on my head, grows unnaturally fast in my nose, and grows black on my chest. It actually gets quite amusing after a while.

Rain falling is probably the third. I'm like a little kid with a sprinkler. In fact, I could turn this into a five sense one with the booming sounds of thunder, light percussion from raindrops. The way water clings to your hair in beads initially. The smells of a spring rain. I just love rain, snow, and all that comes with them.

Sight

Sight is an overused and limited sense. It's why films tend to fail at adapting books, which rely on us processing the images as they are described. I can't think of many things that sight can harness that you can't simply imagine or picture. Of course, sight is what allows us to mentally picture things, and I can't begin to comprehend a world without it or how that would change our perception of our surroundings.

Let's start simple, and go with sunset. Mine is a specific sunset in a specific place. It is in a boring stretch on a boring road, a mile or so on I-70. Like the third scent, I can't tell you where it is without the moment happening again. It's lost to me in that way, but there is a creek, mislabeled a river,* From the top of the ridge overlooking the "river" valley, with the sun shining on Missouri in autumn at sunset, I could die there. In fact, had I taken a picture with my cell phone as I was wont to do when driving through boring ass Iowa, I probably would have.

*some people call these rivers, but I'm from Missouri and you need something more to be a river in my eyes

Second, in a surprise turn, is my arm hair. Yes, it has no sense of identity, as it shines gold in the light from my computer monitor. However, in the perfect light, it shines in a copper hue that is simply magical. Unfortunately, due to my theory that the majority of life sucks, this light is only available at sunrise. Like the moment I remember, I am never just barely awake at sunrise and my apartment does not observe such occasions being blocked from the east in every manner possible. There are other reasons for this memory, but I cannot list them and remain the upstanding young gentlemen everyone I know deems me to be.

Smiles. Just the different ways, people do it. I love subtlety because I have so little.

Troy thinks boobs are probably top 3 in reality.

You know what's also good on the eyes, economy of words. I wish I learned that. This post brings up two questions: what would you sense and why did I put myself through the Harry Potter movies again?*

* A simple ranking of the movies from best to worst:
3. Prisoner of Azkaban: Possibly the best book as well, concise and the film kept most in it, save the Quidditch Cup victory.
2. Chamber of Secrets: Basically followed the first film's formula and was solid throughout, and kept to the book as much as possible.
1. Sorcerer's Stone: Easiest book to translate to film, but also the first so many mistakes could be made. Horrible child acting at times, which is weird given that children make acting look instinctual in most instances.
7. The Deathly Hallows (1&2): No Charlie or Ginger Harry. Off-Camera deaths. Luna, Ginny, and Dean are all chilling at Hogwarts and the Carrows are but aren't. Needed to leave off the Epilogue.
5. Order of the Phoenix: Unfair to everyone involved. The hardest book to film as it was overly wordy. Style was a bit off, and the Quidditch omission is almost criminal here given the character developments it gives Harry, Ginny, and Ron.
6. Half Blood Prince: Harry just wandering London all cheekily. The missed opportunity to see Ron react when Harry kissed his sister. The Burrow getting blown up.
4. Goblet of Fire: Horribawful. Pre-Twilight Pattinson making us glad Diggory died. Elimination of key characters and plot movements. Angry Dumbledore. Making Fleur Delacouer look incredibly incompetent. Failure to introduce the final two Weasley brothers. The awkward did Neville and Ginny spend all night snogging vibe. Mike Newell ruins everything. Yes, even Andie Macdowell.

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Recipes To Die For: Bread Pudding

Cooking is not a complicated matter. When someone tells you they cannot cook, they are lying. If it were complicated, I would belong to a union, and certainly be making a significant amount more. The reality is that anyone can do it with a recipe and patience. Sometimes, these are both lacking, so I will begin to serve you with recipes in hope that you have patience. The second quality that will be strictly followed here is no health substitutions. This site only supports sinful choices in eating and will not support anything remotely healthy. (Lie; See bottom.)

The first recipe is probably the only one that I can say is so complicated that I am the only one with the patience to make it. In reality, it takes a couple of days in my initial version, but I push forward with the knowledge that it does not have to and some people make Amish bread that takes them weeks to ferment the starter mix for.

Personal History With Bread Pudding

Bread pudding is a dessert of which I have obtained the highest familiarity. My parents did not exactly make the best bread pudding ever, perhaps taking it a bit too literal in the pudding department. The problem with bread pudding is that the bread needs to be able to both absorb liquid and hold shape. (Obviously, reading into my title, this will not be a requirement of the following recipe.) They followed the traditional recipe and added raisins, which I'm sure everyone has as much of a love-hate relationship as I do.

My first job was with my brother in a French restaurant, Le Fou Frog. I plated the desserts for dinner service, and bread pudding was one of the few I had actually seen before. It was probably the best bread pudding I ever had, and probably will be until I figure out a way to improve upon it. Just for an example of a more qualified chef like my brother, here's what his version of bread pudding looks like.

Talent only trickles down in our family. Also, plating...how cute!

Ozzie's Sports Bar and Restaurant was nowhere near the quality of Le Fou Frog, but my second kitchen job had a fine and under-appreciated dessert menu. Even the most horrendous of flops such as cupcakes that imploded and brownies that were brownies, seemed to have their loyal supporters. The bread pudding that we began serving after scaling back our desserts, was a simple recipe substituting Krispy Kreme doughnuts for the bread and granny smith apples for raisins. To be fair, it was just eating a hot apple donut covered in icing, but enough people liked it to suffer the inevitable diabetes and heart disease.

The version I'm offering here is the one I used to make at Ferguson Brewing Company. Now, here's where it gets tricky, because I don't care about calories and fat content. If you are worried about these, you probably shouldn't be reading this. If you are serving or eating desserts, the idea of health concerns shouldn't be a factor. The second part of this is that like many of my recipes, this incorporates alcohol into it. The flavor will be changed, but in most cases it is an unnecessary addition.

Banana Bread Pudding 

2 cups milk
2 eggs
1 t Vanilla
1/2 cups sugar
1/2 teaspoon allspice
1 teaspoon cinnamon
-------------------
1 loaf of banana bread, cubed and dried (After cubing, 10 minutes in 300 degree oven to dry it.)
1 cup dried cherries, soaked overnight in whiskey 

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Mix the milk, eggs, vanilla, sugar, allspice, and cinnamon together. Pour the mixture over banana bread and cherries, then mix until the liquid is absorbed. Bake in eight inch square pan or a 1.5 qt. casserole dish 50 to 55.

The key to this recipe is who cares about directions. Throw it all together. Cut the bread irregularly. Who cares? It's all going the same place. If it seems too moist, no worries; it'll hold. Mix it with your hands if you wish, but do take care to wash them beforehand. Choose the pan to get the shape you desire. It really does not matter. So you ask, what makes this recipe complicated?

Whiskey Creme Anglaise

1 cup heavy cream
2 teaspoons vanilla
2 ozs Spirit of St. Louis whiskey or any other good whiskey
4 egg yolks
1/3 cup sugar
 Slowly, heat the cream, vanilla, and whiskey in a saucepan.  Mix the egg yolks and sugar together while it heats up. When bubbles begin to form on the edge of the pan, add ½ of the cream to the egg yolk mixture, gradually*.  After mixing them together, return the mixture to the saucepan and heat slowly, whisking constantly. Once the mixture is thick enough to coat a spoon, remove from heat. Refrigerate.

* Tempering the eggs is tedious, but best take it slow. The eggs will curdle if added directly or if too much hot liquid is introduced. This concludes the process of making this fabulous dessert, as you can see I just ladled the creme anglaise on top of the bread pudding. If you feel like plating it, my brother's idea is wonderful, although it requires the presence of many tiny pitchers, which I find unlikely for someone to own if they are cooking their own meals. Enjoy and come back next week for something easier (hopefully) but just as delicious.

Just in case:

Banana Bread

2 cups flour
1/2 teaspoons baking soda
1 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
1/3 teaspoon salt
---------------
5 ripe bananas
1/2 c melted butter
1 cup sugar
2 eggs, beaten
1 teaspoon vanilla
1/4 Candied Pecans, chopped finely (Optional, or any nut will do)

Preheat oven to 375. Combine the flour, baking soda, baking powder, and salt and set aside. Put the remaining ingredients in a separate bowl and mix together until the bananas are smashed. Pour into one 9x5 bread pan or two 7x3 bread pans. Bake 50 to 55 mins. Check with knife, and if it comes out clean it is ready. Let cool on wire racks.

Healthy substitutions: There aren't many for this recipe which is meant to be rich in flavor. I suggest Smart Balance or its like for a butter substitute. You can also use oil, but this keeps the buttery flavor. The creme anglaise cannot be made healthy, but can be omitted. If it's sugar content you are worried about, the sugar in the banana bread can be lessened or omitted as well.

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