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Wille had the shit right

Some days the high heavy sun and the cool wisps of all day breeze off the Uncompaghre just can’t hide the catch and throw of the breath I don’t want to breathe. With all the working and living and long gone traveling on, I got nothing but ideas and no one to give a shit. That sounds sadder than it is.

These days, the ones thick with some worthless regret and thicker still with worthless women and warm beer, grind to dust on the mortar base of the end of everything real.

The animal outside has taken to killing birds. She kills them and stows them at various points around the yard. It is not insignificant that such a meek mannered animal is so capable a creature as to kill fast and flighty fowl. They lay in her haunts.  She stores them in places she frequents throughout the day avoiding the scorch of sun. She still wags her tail and looks innocent. But she is a killer. It does not show in her sphalerite eyes.

I got the same text message today I have received countless times. The point is that I am a great guy and some girl or another does not deserve me. I wonder sometimes who it is they think they know. If they were to get to know me, they would hear about it all. The one night stands, the led on and discarded, the dead. I sometimes wonder how I end up with such a collection of female company, always where I want them. I don’t deserve them. They should know this when they look into me.

In other news, I drank too much beer.

Life is not so bad.

Loser No. 7

More than I can say that I love any other human being more than myself, I can say that I think I am pretty great.  This is not just ego.  when I sit down and consider myself, I am a little amazed that I exist.  It is too much to hope that existence would make anything even remotely as awesome as I.

More or less, I think I kick ass at most of what I do.  I can make a carbonara that makes bacon seem a divine and incredible thing.  i can do some pretty sweet suspended chord comping as well as the occasional pocket sinking chromatic walks.  And all on a cheap Mexican strat.  I built a smoker in my back yard.  This summer I will cure my own bacon.  I will use a combination of smoked piquins and chipotle.  I made a sort of barley malt/raspberry methlygyn that smells absolutely amazing popping away over there on my end table.

Unfortunately I am a failure–an unrepentant and legendary failure–at being able to forget you.

Fortunately, I am exceptional at drinking.  We all play our strengths.

Craigslist Friday

Maybe the lamest yet. Sue me, bitches.

It helps to me a nerd for this one.

http://washingtondc.craigslist.org/doc/w4m/692345896.html

Update: I will never, ever post as a female again. Jesus Christ, there are some pathetic men out there.

Ex 1. Obviously did not get it

From: Glen R__

Well I’m SooooOOOOooo cool !!

(referring to your statement “There has to be someone cool in this town!!!”)

What more can you tell me about this “ball” Cinderella (goth)?

Ex. 2 is just sad

From: LibertyDefender

Hi–

I hope you’re not a spambot.  I am funny, I make great arm candy for any formal occasion.

I’m a young fortysomething DWM, 6′0″ tall, a fit 170 lbs., with a full head of dark brown hair, green eyes.  My pictures are from last fall, but marathon training keeps me in nearly as good shape year round..

I’m tested d/d free, non smoker, non drinker, I have no problem being around people who choose to smoke or drink.   I’m certifiably nerdy–roughly equal parts engineer and lawyer (I’m a patent attorney)–yet I’m literate enough to have on occasion been mistaken for a liberal artist.

You don’t have to take my word for it about my–um, . . . goth escortability.  I have references, here’s what a former paramour–a rather together thirtysomething Architect–said to me last year as she was letting me down easy before she moved away:

“I did have a very nice time with you, I think you are a nice, funny, intelligent, handsome and confident person; we had fun and we seem to enjoy doing similar things, and you definitely know how to physically please a woman. . . . You were great.   And it is clear that you want to be with a woman and enjoy making a woman happy.”

I’m local, I live in Fairfax City in a house with no roommates.  I’d love to hear from you (unless you’re a spambot),

If you want my phone number, just ask.

–Your friendly neighborhood LibertyDefender

Ex.3 defies explanation (I had to save the formatting, too)

From: Randi247

You are like talking like someone half you age.

What gives? R  U   really 40?

U sound hot

R

Recipe Thursday

This will not have the full effect without some sort of pictures, but as I may have discussed, the digital camera is down.

The recipe this Thursday will be a bourbon honey roasted pork roast wrap. This is a good recipe for any kind of occasion and it is easily prepared with tools you already own. Most of the ingredients are easily available all year.

The ingredients:

One big pork picnic roast, boneless

One onion

One orange

One lemon

Two cloves of garlic

1/2 cup of rice vinegar

About two tablespoons of honey (i just dumped it out of the bottle and guessed)

Stiff shot of cheap bourbon

Rosemary, salt, pepper

Sugar peas

Lettuce wrapping material and some sort of full grain starch (I used a bulgar wheat and flax pilaf)

Step One

Drink some bourbon.

Rub roast with two cloves of minced garlic, rosemary, salt, and pepper. I prefer going heavy on black pepper with pork. Place in freezer bag, juice lemon and lime, pouring juice in the bag. Place roast in bag. Marinade should touch the roast on all sides. I was using a small roast and still had to add a touch of rice wine vinegar to top it off. It doesn’t need to be drowned, just wet enough. Let it marinate a while. Give it a few hours, if you got it. Leave it over night if you can, but I don’t think a marinade this acidic needs that treatment. Take the roast out and retain the marinade.

Step Two

Drink some bourbon.

This is where you prepare your eventual deglazer. Dump the bourbon, rice wine vinegar, marinade, and the juice of the orange in a bowl and make a half ass attempt to mix (I was getting a little tipsy).

In a high sided and already medium hot roasting pan or dutch oven (feel free to improvise), sear all six sides in a mix of butter and olive oil (if I had sesame oil, I would have used it) with about half of the onion chopped. Once you have it good and brown, pull roast out. Deglaze the pan with your mixture. Keep in you drunk mind that this shit will catch the FUCK ON FIRE. I had a couple casualties in the eyelash department.

Once you got it rubbed down pretty good, dump in the honey and let it mix in. The mix should be a little sweet if you put enough honey in. Keep in mind, you’ll be adding more honey later.

Strain out, again half-assed drunkenly, the fluid and retain. Let the pan cool down. Put the roast in the pan with the last half of onion, sliced, and pour in some of the fluid. Maybe around half or so.

Dump the remaining fluid in a small sauce pan. Cover and simmer. Add more honey.  This will be a glaze, so it needs sugar.  Drink bourbon, adding some to glaze.  Feel free to add more citrus, also.  At this point, you should be drunkenly slinging ingredients about.

Cover the pork roast with tinfoil or a lid. Place in a 300 degree oven. Leave that shit for about three hours or so.

Not Sure What Step We’re On

Drink more.

Pull stuff out of oven and skim fat off the pan sauce. Tear into the roast.  It should easily fork apart.  If it does not, you are dumb.  Once you have it broke up into bite size strips, mix the pan juice and pork around good.  Fire up the broiler and place rack where the food will be about five inches from it, alternately, you could just heat up the oven to 425 and leave the rack in middle if your broiler doesn’t allow that kind of room.  Let the pork sit a little bit so the top layer dries out a little.  Then brush it with the glaze.  Place under broiler for about ten minutes.  Sample glaze.  Then bourbon.

Step 452

Steam (very briefly) sugar peas or snap peas or whatever the hell they are.  Dust them with some salt when they’re done.  Put them on a bowl of ice.  You want them slightly cooked, but chilled.

Remove roast pan from the broiler, flip the meat over, again letting it sit until it starts to dry a little.  You’re only doing this so the glaze sticks.  So, don’t let it sit out too long.  Brush it with glaze and put it back in the broiler.

At this point, you should be thinking about the starch.  I usually keep the bulgar and pilaf stuff around and in the fridge.  It helps to have the stuff about room temp.  If it’s hot, the lettuce will wilt too fast, but if it’s cold, it would be kind of nasty, too.  so fuck it.  Just cook it and set it out. By the time you figure this out, the pork should come out.

Step Q

At this point, you basically have a Pacific Rim modified carnitas going on.  So, make the wrap out of the sugar peas, meat, and rice or whatever, using whatever glaze is left over as a sauce.  I would make sure to squeeze some the juice out of the pork, first.  This dish goes well with bourbon.

Outline Tuesday

Who Would “Get It”

I. Smart chicks

A. The girl at work with the green eyes and the pre-Oprah’s bookclub edition of the Centenial Collection East of Eden.

1. Bad habits, yes, a few

2. Black hair

3. Talks about movies with subtitles

B. The brown eyed girl

1. Rattled off the firing order to a small block Chevy (note: cannot introduce her to my Ford parents)

2. Knows the difference between a Scout 80/800/II

3. Is a drunk (I’m assuming)

C. The girl whose keys I cut (dirrrrty!)

1. Sundress

a. has nothing to do with intellect

b. is still hot

2. Could hold a conversation about mineralogy

3. Understood deflective cleavage (also dirty)

D. Tina Fey

1. Nice rack, if you’re into minimalism (not a joke)

2. Cute, but not cutesy

a. slight insecurity, comes across as self denigrating humor

b. tough streak

3. Interesting ideas

a. Read some interviews

4. Glasses

II. Celebrity chicks I would probably not get along with would still get it

A. Rashida Jones

1. Rashida Jones

2. Rashida Jones

3. Rashida Jones

B. Rashida Jones

1. Rashida Jones

2. Rashida Jones

3. Rashida Jones

a. Rashida

b. Jones

III. Nice girls (niceness is required in all cases of hotness)

A. The girl who works as a vet assistant

1. Mabel likes her

2. Has no problem with dog slobber

3. The laugh

B. The libraian

1. Anyone who understands the Dewey Decimal System is in for a wild night with me

2. Likes Edward Abbey

a. understands thermite

b. actually got The Monkey Wrench Gang, didn’t think it was just a fun enviro-terrorist read

3. Recommended Neal Stephenson

C. The Safeway girl

1. Is always nice

2. Has a nice ass

a. I hate to be so shallow

b. I want to butter it like a biscuit (bye female readers!)

3. Wouldn’t mind saying hi, if I could pull my tongue out of the back of my throat when she’s around

D. Salem

1. Across the water, under the rocks, beneath the history of man, something great moves (she showed me)

2. It is up to all of us to face down the end of oppurtunity

3. Has good taste in beer (Red Truck), and names for her son (Clyde)

Note:

All of these are probably bad ideas

Meeting

Slick Haired Manager: Ok, so this is a team, guys. Let’s always remember that at the beginning and end of the day, we’re not department 26 or department 23, we are the Depot. We are a team. Last time I looked, we’re all wearing orange, here. So what does this mean, being on a team?

Garden dweeb: It means we all have to try for the whole store, not just ourselves! Blah blah blah I’m a fucking pussy!*

Some chick who’s job I can not ascertain: heck yeah, that’s our job. Even when it’s for big meanies like Casey in hardware!!! LOLOMG!! Teehee!

SHM: That’s right! now, we all have things we can just do better than anyone. Some of us are great at at places where, I got to be honest, I can’t hold a candle, like Maury over there in electrical, woot!

Chorus: Woot! We’re all gay!

SHM: Ok, so, Mr. Frownie face Casey, what is your main talent?

Casey: (in whiskey voice) Hardware?

SHM: No, I mean what are you best at? There has to be something! What do you do better than anyone else?

Casey: Alcoholics and single mothers.

Scene

*Some dialog is altered slightly

What is the buttfucking stupidest meeting you have ever attended?

Nothing

All I got today, sorry for no Craigslist Friday.  I thought about doing it, still might.  But for right now, all I got is nothing.

Her

an excerpt from one of the Four Letters

I love you dearly and fiercely and without regret. You are the one who shines through all of the time passed beneath us. My whole life up until now, I hoped to meet one like you. I know it would never work with you (damn the hope) and I know you have left me thoroughly for another, as I left you thoroughly for a life of living and dying on the raging main.

The night I told you I loved you, you hit me. Not with the coy punch in the shoulder of a buddy or the giggling acceptance of a girl manipulated by the most used and trifling and powerful of words in our tongue. You hit me and with tears raining from your tourmaline and serpentine eyes like the Southwind storms, you slapped me with all the force of one who had delved into the depths of humanity and emerged as something better and deeper than the normal. You slapped me because I was leaving for a year, maybe forever. At least you were honest. Had I met you long ago, I would have changed everything, I hope. He had no right to ruin you for me. As I had no right to ruin bitter single motherhood for you. That’s why I worry some days. I worry that you are living with someone less than you because I reminded you of the bond possible between an honest man and his woman. And an honest woman and her man.

When I met you, I knew I had to leave. I didn’t want to tell you because I knew the toll of the left behind. I wanted to experience a woman, but mostly just individual beautiful you, without being afraid and lonely and with you hanging under my domaclean departure. We shared our bodies, in life and death. In love and the end, we shared all we had and I took you into me.

But these nights, when I sit in the cold, and when I am honest with myself, when I was lonely with anyone else, I missed you. I would drive by your road and think of turning my old Ford up your way. In life and death, pervasive during those terrible times, from bullet or pathogen, you were a lover and friend. And now, forever gone to the wilds of finding yourself. You reside easy on the mind, but so heavy upon me that some days I can’t think about anything but you. I want you. I think I need you. But you are not one to be needed or wanted, not by someone like me. You need someone more permanent.

And permanence is a sick joke. We both know that better than most anyone.

Notebook

This is something I wrote fireside a few years back. You could say it is prophetic.

Evening on the river and the night sends a breeze through the tops of the jack pines away from the high country. The moon turns the clear and moving river into a hundred mile highway from up on Lizardhead down through the flume and on into a lake where I have people buried in a town underwater. The quicksilver from the sky bathes my old beat up truck and gaudily minimal Jamis, igniting polished surfaces–lugnuts, disc rotors, spokes–into a pale silver. The work of men explodes in faddish display when light hits it. The work of the earth only gives a demure translucent opaline river, the height of class. Upriver about three hundred yards, I went under the water and gave myself to Jesus. Now I sit here in the moonlight killing the night, wasting good whiskey futilely trying to drink your infidelity off my mind.

The fire’s banking low. I spent a good hour gathering and chopping wood laid down by last winter’s snow. The fire still can’t keep up with the cold. July means nothing to this altitude. When I come down off the pass, I saw nothing but you defiled. But it won’t be forever.

I still love you. It screams out of my chest and colors my words and drains down my back when I grind up another climb. I drink it from your coursing waters, which of course should have killed me long ago. But still you give yourself away.

To adobe sand castles where your iron stripes flanks used to show. Paved thoroughfares where double track four wheel drive only roads used to live. To every last subversive with a wad of cash and every last terrorist with fountain pen and a subdivision development plan. You are not a reliable lover.

But I do love you, ancient Yavapai. Because I like my orogenies like I like my women. Dark, a little evil, and part Mexican.

***

Unrelated!

I really like this picture of me and my room mate. That is my salt shaker emptied out and full of rye. And I swear I am not doing the Shocker.