Pizza Night

Last night, I slept over at my sister's house. She had arrived extremely late (or should I say extremely early?) on her flight from Denver (around 1:00 a.m.), and I, monstrously generous fool that I am, I volunteered to go pick her up from the airport. Consequently, by the time I got her back to her house, it really was too late for me to go home. We talked for a while, and it was around 3:00 or 3:30 a.m. before "I was well upon my way to sleep" (from Robert Frost's "After Apple-Picking"). Right now, the phrase "I am overtired" is something of an understatement (Ibid.).

This morning when I arose (I have no idea when, although I think it was later than usual), I immediately set about removing the snow from my sister's driveway, pulling back the pavement's crystalline blanket and launching it onto the lawn (Of course, I also threw some of it onto the neighbor's lawn, as well; goodness knows his was already snow-covered too and he surely wouldn't notice the addition of a few shovelfuls). Soon thereafter, I completed the work only to watch as a few more snow clouds rolled in and shook the icy mothballs from the folds of their misty raiment, supplying the driveway with a fresh set of powdery linen. I was incensed and wished I had waited a while longer before trying to do my daily good turn. However, "I am no prophet" (from T.S. Eliot's "The Love Sone of J. Alfred Prufrock), so how could I have known in advance that my work would have been in vain? (Note: The correct answer is, Watch the weather forecast, dummy)

But surely you went back and removed the snow from the subsequent storm, didn't you? you ask. Of course I did.

Not.

Actually, I went back in the house and did what I normally do "when the weather outside is frightful" (from the song "Let It Snow, Let It Snow, Let It Snow").

Let us guess, you say. Did you read a book?

Uh, nope.

Did you play video games?

Well, yeah, but that's not the answer I was looking for.

Did you pull a "Risky Business" and dance around the house in your underwear with Bob Seger playing in the background?

How did you gue...No, that's not it either. But I'll have to remember to do that the next times it snows. Hey, what do you know? It's snowing right now. Perfect.  I think it's time to "take those old records off the shelf," if you know what I mean (from Bob Seger's "Old Time Rock and Roll").

We give up, you say at last, after a few minutes of profound contemplation. What do you do "when the weather outside is frightful"?

Let's just, if "it doesn't show signs of stopping", that when I start pizza-topping. That's right, you heard it correctly. This morning, I made one large deep dish pizza with four kinds of cheese, Italian dry salami, and citrus chicken. Yummy to my over-sized tummy.

Well, how do you make this pizza, you silly man? you ask eagerly, while your salivary glands begin excreting so much fluid that you look like a teething toddler with drool all over your chin and the front of your shirt. Tell us, tell us, please.

Alright, you greedy little fiends, "How should I begin?" (from T.S. Eliot's "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock").

Pizza with Salami and Citrus Chicken

Crust:

1 cup warm water
1 Tbsp. yeast
1 Tbsp. white sugar.
3 Tbsp. brown sugar
1 tsp. salt.
2 Tbsp. olive oil
2 1/2 to 3 cups of all-purpose flour

Chicken:

1 large chicken breast (don't hold the chicken; I'm warning you)
Parsley flakes
Cayenne pepper
Minced garlic
Minced onion
Malabar black pepper
Salt
Brown sugar
1/2 can of Fresca

Other toppings:

8-12 oz. of Kraft Italian cheese mix
12 pieces of Italian dry salami

Sauce:

Hunt's Original Spaghetti sauce

or

1/2 can of stewed Italian tomatoes


Begin by making the crust. Combine the yeast and warm water. Add the sugar and and salt. Let it git all foamy an' stuff. When it looks sufficiently foamy, add the oil and one cup of flour. Mix with a fork (I know, I know, some of you don't wanna hand mix and knead the dough, but I'm asking you to do yourself and your young'uns a favor right now. Now, mix!). Add flour in cup and half-cup increments and mix until the dough ceases to be sticky. Now, and this is the important part, knead the living h--- outta that there dough with your fingers for 8-10 minutes. If it starts to stick a little to the counter, add a little more flour. By the end, all of those tiny little lumps should "vanish in air" (from film "An Affair to Remember"). Put the dough back in the bowl and cover until the dough doubles in size. Put it into a large baking sheet and flatten it.

While all of this is going on, your half-frozen chicken breast (again, do not hold the chicken) should be in a large covered saucepan, frying up jist dandy on medium-low heat (Note: I say use a frozen or half-frozen chicken breast because most people don't have them fresh anyway, not to mention that frozen chicken will let out a lot more water as it's cooking so the chicken will be moister.) Cover it with all of your spices. After it has cooked for five minutes, add the Fresca. Let it continue frying until the chicken is done. Turn off the stove and let the chicken rest in it's own juices for ten minutes (Note: I know that sounds gross, but trust me it's for the chicken own good). Cut the chicken into little pieces.

Spread the tomatoes or spaghetti sauce, not too thickly, on the crust. Put on the cheese and the chicken and the salami. Preheat the overn to 425 degrees. Bake the pizza for 16-17 minutes. Enjoy.

And I mean that.

If you aren't enjoying it, you either did something wrong with the pizza, or there's something wrong with you. In any case, buon appetito! (Disclaimer: Don't get addicted to this recipe; otherwise, you'll put on so many extra pounds that you'll look like you're constantly doing the Care Bear Stare).

Story of My Life

The other day, I was thinking (not a bad thing to do every once in a while, especially if you're into all of that introspective mumbo-jumbo), and a thought popped in my head (sometimes that happens unexpectedly; catches me off-guard, let me tell you): If I someday, for some reason, turned my life into a screenplay and put it out there for everyone to see, who would I cast as myself? As I pondered that question, other ideas, other serious questions, came to me along the way; for instance, who would I have play opposite me? would I want a soundtrack? what would my theme song be? and who would I sell the rights to?

Well, to tell the truth I have not yet decided everything yet, but I have batted around a few resolutions. My first two choices were Jimmy Stewart or John Wayne, but unfortunately that production will have to wait until the hereafter. Paul Giamatti would be a good choice, after all, he's funny, he's vibrant, and he's very, very bald, more's the pity, as I will be one day myself. "Oh me, oh life" (from Walt Whitman's "Oh Me, Oh Life"). On the other hand, there's the guy who played Macgyver, and he is quite the opposite (In fact, his extremely spiky mullet resembles a pile of roadkill doused in mousse). Also, if I had him play me, I could do just about anything I wanted, including freeing myself from a torture bed using only a long piece of metal and the dangling hand of a plastic prop skeleton to trip the lever which held my ropes in place, thereby allowing me to escape before a large wooden beam fell down and killed me. Not to mention, I could apprehend the cowboy/hitman responsible for my potential demise using only a fire hose which I had tied to an ascending elevator and wrapped around the scaffolding he was standing on with his sniper rifle awaiting a clear shot at his mark. Yes, indeed, he would be a great choice.

However, I think I would ultimately decide to cast Kiefer Sutherland instead. Overlooking his stirring performances in Stand by Me, Flatliners, and The Karate Kid, his portrayal of Jack Bauer puts him in a league of his own (Note: Not League of Their Own; that was Tom Hanks, silly). Not to mention his Phone Booth persona, which I would ask him to implement into his portrayal of me. "Isn't it funny? You hear a phone ring and it could be anybody. But, a ringing phone has to be answered, doesn't it?"

Now that's settled, but who will play the antagonist? Why, "by Grabthar's hammer" (from film Galaxy Quest) who else but Dr. Lazarus, Alan Rickman himself? He would be a great villain. He always is. Even when he's supposed to be a good guy, like Colonel Brandon in Sense and Sensibility, you still think he's eventually going to yell, "I'll cut your heart out with a spoon!" (from film Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves). Yes, indeed, Severus Snape will be my arch-rival.

Well, since it won't be a major production or epic, I imagine my life will probably be turned into a mini-series or a made-for-TV movie, like Joan of Arc or Jesse Stone (darn, I never even thought to have Tom Selleck play me. Oh well, I don't look good with a moustache anyway). Perhaps someday, someone, will even consider turning it into a Broadway musical, but hopefully that doesn't happen until after I'm clearly and dearly departed. I certainly wouldn't go to see it. How tearfully awkward would it be to see some homosexual man, muscle-bound and bald, carrying a pitchfork over his shoulder and prancing around the stage in a black leotard with holes in the knees, red-striped suspenders, and flashy orange irrigation boots, all the while singing about how he's glad to be my dad? Or how it wasn't a bother to be my father? P.U. At the very least, I only hope that Jim Sharman doesn't decide to cast him as a transexual farmer in leather coveralls on a dairy in Transylvania (see The Rocky Horror Picture Show). Cross your fingers.

So, if Broadway is not my first choice (and more than likely my last choice), who will be showing this little masterpiece? At first I thought, why not show it on the History Channel? After all, it would an extremely delicious documentary, I'm sure. But, on the other hand, I would probably opt to make up a large portion of the details in the movie, you know, just to spice it up a bit, and the History Channel would probably elect for something a little more, hmm, shall we say, uh, true. And I don't believe I could get it on Lifetime, either; after all, I don't intend to have a small-town, love-frustrated, middle-aged mistress anywhere along the way (If I did, I could call it The Post-Graduate: The Return of Mrs. Robinson and Helen Mirren could be the lead female role. Take that, Dustin Hoffman). TLC could be another choice, but since you have to be either a fashion expert, a baker, a little person, or a woman who pops fertility pills like they're coming out of a Pez dispenser before you can have your own show on TLC, I don't like my odds there, either. Perhaps I should just settle on Fox; after all, as Bart Simpson once so aptly pointed out, "They'll take anything."

So, I have only one question left: Will anyone, including me, want to watch this little gala? Hmm....

Nah.

Movie Recommendation

This last week I went to the library and checked out To Kill a Mockingbird. The stars are Gregory Peck and bunch of other people whose names mean just about nothing, and perhap less than nothing, to us today. However, I was quite surprised by how much I enjoyed the film; in fact, I liked it so much that I went back and checked out the book of the same name by Harper Lee.

Plot Summary: Atticus Finch (Gregory Peck) is a small-town lawyer in the South around the time of the Depression. He has two children, who for some reason call him Atticus instead of Dad, or Daddy, or Father; their names are Jem and Scout (Note: Scout is a girl). Scout also functions as the narrator for the story.

The plot revolves around a trial in which a black man, whose name is Tom Robinson, is accused of raping a white woman, and Atticus volunteers to defend the accused man. Atticus does his best to protect Tom, despite the onslaught of lies, abuse, and typical anti-Black prejudice. Jem and Scout, as well as their friend Dill Harris, have their share of adventures in the meantime, many of which involve a local lunatic, whom everyone calls Boo Radley. After presenting scenes including a mad dog, a lynch mob, and the father of the girl who claimed to have been raped, the story comes to a climax when..."well, that's my secret" (from Edmond Rostand's Cyrano de Bergerac). I know I say that a lot, but I don't want to give away the ending. That would ruin the surprise and defeat the purpose of recommending that you watch this film. All I will say is this: There are many people who have bumper stickers asking the question, What would Jesus do? There are a few others who have bumper stickers which ask, What would Chuck Norris do? (By the way, did you know that when Chuck Norris does push-ups, he isn't really pushing himself up? He's actually just pushing the world down). But I wonder why people haven't gotten around to making a "What Would Atticus Finch Do?" bumper sticker. Personally, I think that leadership by quiet example would improve the world we live in much more quickly than any of Chuck's roundhouse kicks to the jaw of society.

In conclusion, To Kill a Mockingbird has the ability to make you realize that, even though things haven't always worked themselves out in the past, we can still control much of what happens in the present. Perhaps we have shot our share of mockingbirds, that is to say we have a multitude of sins to cover (see 1 Peter 4:8), but we are not obliged to continue adding to the pile. One bird is killed through hate, while another is saved through love, and thus we find redemption.

It's a Habit!

Just so you all know, this is my 21st post. Therefore, according to what I've heard, I have written in my blog enough days in a row that I can now call it a habit. I guess if you do something 16-21 times, it becomes a habit; at least, that's what they say.

Today, I have posted a short story I wrote a while back. Let me know what you think.

Collateral

DING DONG! DING DONG!

Hurriedly, Dad told me finish my cereal and went to answer the front door. He opened it and there stood our next-door neighbor Mr. Parken.

“Hey, John, how you doing? What can I do for you?”

Mr. Parken replied, “I need to ask a favor. I’ve got a tree in my backyard that needs to come down, and if I don’t take care of it now, it’s gonna fall on someone. Can I borrow your chainsaw?”

Dad sighed and thought for a second.

“You know my wife’s rule. I’m going to need to see some collateral to make sure you bring it back.”

“I know, I know. And that’s why I brought Jimmy with me.”

The little boy peeked out from behind his father’s leg.

“You’re leaving Jimmy for collateral? I’ve had your Olivia for three weeks now because you haven’t brought my leaf blower back. Now you want to give me Jimmy, too?”

“I’ll take him back later today. And I broke the leaf blower, so it’s in the shop right now getting fixed. I’ll come by with it and pick up Olivia tomorrow.”

“Fine, but I can’t take anymore of your kids until you bring my other things back. Got it?”

Jimmy came in the house, Mr. Parken took the chainsaw, and everything was settled. For five minutes.

DING DONG! DING DONG!

“Zeke, can you get that?” Dad yelled to me.

“Me and Jimmy are busy.”

Mumbling to himself, Dad answered the door again.

“John, you’re back already? Decided not to leave Jimmy after all?”

“Actually no. The chainsaw doesn’t have any gas, so I’m going to need a refill. Do you have any?”

“Uh, sure, but you’ll need to get me some more.”

“Sure, sure, I understand. Look, I’m leaving little Cindy with you to make sure I buy you some more gas. Sound good?”

Dad groaned.

“Cindy’s a year old. I’ve already got two of your kids. There’s no way I can take her. Don’t you have anything else to leave?”

“Well, I can leave my wife, Mallory, with you. She’s extremely quiet, and she’ll just sit around and crochet and do crossword puzzles. She may even fix lunch for you and the kids.”

“But who’ll watch Cindy?”

“Good point. I’d have to leave both of ‘em.”

“C’mon, John. I can’t take your wife. What would mine say?”

“She won’t be here that long. I’ll come get most of ‘em in a couple of hours.”

“Alright, John. But this is the last time.”

“Deal.”

Dad was a pushover. That’s why Mom made the rule in the first place. Dad was too nice to make people bring his tools back, so Mom made sure they left something. In fact, that was the last thing she said to him before she left on her business trip: “If people have to borrow something from us, make them leave something valuable with you. Otherwise we’ll never see our things again. Got it?” She’d been out of the country for a month now, meeting people in Japan, Hong Kong, India, and Korea. Tomorrow, she would come back and see that Dad had held firm to her rule and had adopted half a family in the process. I didn’t mind too much. I was an only child, so I usually had no one to play with except Dad. Now, I had Jimmy, Olivia, and even Cindy who, though she was too young to play with, could still be teased incessantly, creating out-of-the-ordinary noise and juvenile pleasure in our household.

For Dad, the rest of the day was spent watching the clock. Around five, Mr. Parken showed up with the leaf blower, a suitcase, and a diaper bag.

“Your leaf blower is fixed. I can take Olivia back now. These things,” he said, handing the suitcase and the diaper bag to my dad, “are for Mallory and Cindy.”

“Aren’t you going to take them all back now?”

“Well, I haven’t gotten to the gas station yet, so the wife and Cindy will have to stay. The tree is a bit more stubborn than I thought it would be, so I’ll have to work on it some more tonight. I’ll come and get Jimmy tomorrow morning around eleven.”

“But my wife will be back before nine. I can’t have your wife sitting around in her pajamas on my couch when my wife gets home.”

“Why not? She’ll understand. She always does.”

“I don’t think she will this time.”

“Don’t worry about it. It’ll be okay.”

It wouldn’t be. But Dad had to stick to the rules.

The next morning, Mr. Parken showed up at eight, much to my Dad’s delight.

“I’ll take my family now. Here’s the chainsaw and here’s the gas. Thanks for helping me out.”

It took Mrs. Parken just a second to pack herself and the baby and Jimmy and head out the door.

“Oh, one more thing, John.”

“Yes?”

“If you ever need anything else, please ask someone else.”

“Deal.”

An hour later, Mom came home. She was irritable and tired and ready to just fall into bed after her seventeen-hour flight from Calcutta.

“Hey, everyone. I’m home.”

We both ran and hugged her. I was glad to have her back. So was Dad. Until Mom found some of Mrs. Parken’s panties hanging over the shower rod.

“What are these doing here?”

Dad was speechless.

“They’re Mrs. Parken’s,” I answered.

Her eyes widened. I could almost smell the brimstone in her perfume.

“What was Mrs. Parken doing here, sweetie?” she said to my dad, venomously.

Dad still couldn’t speak.

Seeing that Dad still couldn’t or wouldn’t say anything, I replied for him.

“Oh, she just slept here last night. So did…”

Then her claws came out.

“What were you thinking? I’ve been off for a month trying to support our family and you have some tramp sleeping over here while I’m gone? You good-for-nothing pig….”

Suddenly, my dad grabbed the panties, took my hand, walked out the door with me, and slammed the door behind us. I could still hear my mom’s threats about divorce and lawyers as we crossed the lawn.

We quickly walked over to the Parkens’ house and rang the door.

DING DONG! DING DONG!

Mr. Parken answered.

“Hey, what are you doing here?” he asked. “Didn’t return everything?”

“Yeah, well, um, your wife left these,” Dad stuttered, handing him the underwear.

“Oh, yikes. Hope your wife didn’t see those,” Mr. Parken said with a nervous laugh. “Could be trouble.”

“Yeah, well about that. Zeke here needs to borrow something for a couple of days.”

"Of All Sad Words of Tongue and Pen"

Holidays are a time for family. A time for giving. A time for unity. Holidays provide all those who recognize them with the opportunity to remember things which are significant in their past, present, and future.

That's all well and good, but unfortunately most holidays also come with their own baggage. It's not all fun and games and kicks and giggles and a barrel of monkeys. Just like many things, holidays eventually come to an end, and that's when the regret shows up. That's right. Regret.

No, that can't be, you say. I don't have any regrets after a holiday. "Oh, I think you do, Trebek" (Skit from Saturday Night Live). Christmas is an obvious one. People spend a lot of money they don't have to satisfy the desires othose closest to them, who will often take back the somewhat generous and long-thought-out presents to exchange for something they would rather have instead. The regret is not only spending a lot of money but also a lot of time in planning the gift. Here are some others:

Major Holidays

Holiday #1: New Year's. New Year's Eve and New Year's Day involve a lot of festivities, fun, and excitement. People ring in the new year with champagne and beer (Mormons use Martinelli's), stay up late to watch the clock strike twelve, and dance around like gorillas upon discovering that the new millenium didn't turn out to be Judgment Day (Don't worry, Y3K will be here before you know it). People also like to use the time to make resolutions and commitments, things like losing weight, running a marathon, doing genealogy, going skydiving, trying to break yourself of the habit of sucking your thumb because it's giving you buck teeth, etc. You know, things of that magnitude.

Regret: Making resolutions. As soon as we figure out that our resolutions involve a small amount of ambition and effort, we regret making them difficult and immediately set ourselves to amending them. Pretty soon, we have no resolutions at all and tell ourselves contentedly, "Oh well, there's always next year." Guess you'll end up with buck teeth after all.

Holiday #2: Valentine's Day. Have you ever been in a grocery store or a florist shop on Valentine's? They are entirely packed with desperate men who have screwed up with significant others at least once daily 364 days out of the previous year (365 if it's a Leap year) and are determined that this day, of all days, shall be perfect, even at the risk of being trampled by the hordes of other men who are also seeking a bouquet of flawless orchids or roses or lilies for the love of his life.

Regret: You tried to have two significant others this year. Oooh, that one's gonna cost you. Especially when they find out. Then they'll hunt you down and break up with you in front of all your friends. How embarassing, and on Valentine's Day, too. Good thing you had a backup, huh?

Holiday #3: Saint Patrick's Day. All of the Catholics wear green. All of the Protestants wear orange. And they go on wearing their separate colors from opposite sides of the same flag. But they have one thing in common on one day of the year. No, they don't all get together and eat Lucky Charms. No, no, nothing like that. They drink. And drink. And drink. And drink.

Regret: You forgot to wear green to school and everyone pinched you until you ran to the bathroom and locked yourself in a stall and massaged some feeling back into your arm. Turns out you boxers were green so you took your pants off and ran around the halls in your underwear. Instead of pinching you, Bernie Heilenschlosser not only succeeded in giving you an atomic wedgie but he also duct-taped you to the hood of the principal's car.

Holiday #4: April Fool's Day. I liked this one when I was growing up. Of course, no one liked the tricks that I played. I put rotten crabapples and rocks in front of the back door. I put tripwires between trees. I even set a mousetrap in front of the front door. That was an especially good one.

Regret: I was the one who accidentally stepped in the mousetrap. Yep, bare feet and all. I never played another trick.

Holiday #5: July 4th. Burgers. Bratwursts. Steak. Hot dogs. Polish sausages. Potato salad. Raspberry jello salad with carrots and cranberries and shrimp and shredded coconut and soy sauce. All of the things that make our country great. Not to mention the fireworks are spectacular.

Regret: You ate the the jello salad. Oh, and Uncle Billy's toupe caught on fire when he was lighting the final Roman candle. It was kind of cool how he looked like a sparkler running around like that, but you regretted laughing at him later. Admit it. You felt bad. You didn't? Well, you should have. And you still regret eating the salad.

Holiday #6: April 20th. I don't think I have to explain about that one.

Regret: You're the only who isn't taking multiple breaks and loving your job that day.

Holiday #7: Thanksgiving Day. The fare might be somewhat different than July 4th, but it still tastes great and there's more of it. Consequently, "you wanna eat an' eat an' eat an' eat until you die" (from film Disney's Fun and Fancy Free).

Regret: You ate an' ate an' ate an' ate until you wanted to die, but you couldn't. As a result, you slept very poorly and you now have acute constipation. Tums are good for the one, and milk of magnesia for the other. It won't get rid of the pain, but you'll sure feel better sooner.


Ultimately, regret is inevitable, but that should not be allowed to prevent us from celebrating the holidays in a way that makes us happy, even if it's only for a moment. I'm speaking in the socially appropriate things, of course. Maybe that child did not play with the toy you gave her for Christmas for more than a few minutes before moving on to something shinier, louder, softer. Maybe you felt like h--- after eating that entire turkey leg. Maybe that last glass of Martinelli's really went to your head and made you say some things that you wish you hadn't said. That's not the point though. The point is not even that the child was happy for a minute, or that the turkey tasted good, or that Martinelli's is always essential to a good time on New Year's Eve. The point is that you were with the people you love and made the most of the time you had with them. And that is how you avoid the regrets that actually matter.

Thank Ya, Thank Ya Very Much

I know this kind of makes me sound like one of those celebrities receiving an award or something, but really I have a lot of people to thank today. So, taking a page from the book of Jimmy Fallon, I'd like to take a few minutes and say thank you.

My Thank-You List

20. Thank you, Alanis Morrissette: For writing a song about saying thank you. (By the way, was it cold in the subway when you were making that music video? You looked a little chilly. Good thing your hair was long, huh?)

19. Thank you, Food Network: For letting me watch Giada de Laurentiis.

18. Thank you again, Food Network: For letting me watch Giada de Laurentiis (That deserves two thank-yous).

17. Thank you, first snow of the year: For freezing the doors of my car shut.

16. Yo, thank you, Justin Bieber: For being, like, the coolest thing to come along, since, you know, like, uh, forever. Like, totally, you rock.

15. Thank you, guy I know that isn't that attractive or intelligent or successful and still managed to get married: For giving me hope.

14. Thank you, Billy the Exterminator: For simultaneously entertaining me and reminding me why I'm pursung more education in a field unrelated to gator-wrastling, snake-killing, and mohawk-wearing. Jist sayin'.

13. Thank you, fortune cookies: For never being right. I'm still waiting for all of that success in my future. By the way, someone told me I should add the words "in bed" at the end of my fortunes. Yeah. That hasn't happened either.

12. Thank you, mimes: For showing us that actions speak louder than words. At least, they would if I knew what the h--- your actions were trying to say. Okay I get it, you're in a box now. Now, you're climbing out. Are you doing the hokey-pokey...hey, did you just flip me off?

11. Thank you, Michael Jackson: For helping us realize that no matter your race, gender, or color, you can always become a different race, gender, or color.

10. Thank you, India: For not hating Americans just because we allow NBC to continue showing "Outsourced", which only stays on the air because the "Office" viewers don't have enough sense to change the channel.

9. Thank you, NBC: For reminding me why I prefer CBS.

8. Thank you, BCS: For keeping sports non-political and preserving the integrity of the game of college football and its athletes.

7. Thank you, New England Patriots: For giving me a reason to watch the first NFL game on Thanksgiving morning.

6. Thank you, Bill O' Reilly: For showing America why it's good to be liberal.

5. Thank you, Keith Olbermann: For showing America why it's good to be conservative.

4. Thank you, The View: For giving me a reason to turn the TV off and read a book.

3. Thank you, Japanese library gameshow: For making me laugh even after I watched your Youtube video six times in a single evening.

2. Thank you, pilgrims: For taking a day off from burning witches and shooting Native Americans to give America a day which brings us one step closer to chronic obesity. You've done so much.

1. Thank you, Tiger Woods: For....uh, well anyway, thanks for nothing.


All of that aside, I would like to thank all of you who have been reading my blog. This has become an extremely fun and rewarding endeavor, which I had not expected when I started a couple weeks ago. I hope to continue providing entertaining and interesting material in the future, and I hope you will continue to read and enjoy. Thank you again.

A Day for Dipping...and Not the Skinny Kind!

The big four of Thanksgiving are as follows: food, family, football, and...food (Note: That is not a typo; and I think you know why). After all, in between trough times, we chat with our family members or take turns angrily yelling or excitedly cheering at the TV screen through a mouthful of dressing and rolls because of some stupid mistake committed by some Dallas running back, fullback, tight end, wide receiver, quarterback, offensive lineman (offensive? I'll say) defensive lineman, linebacker, cornerback (Note: By the way, how did the Cowboys become a Thanksgiving tradition? Did Jerry Jones buy the holiday or something? It certainly would not be the first thing he screwed up).

The point is Thanksgiving is more than just a day for giving thanks. In fact, it's hardly about giving at all; personally, I think we should call it Thanksgetting, as in, "Thanks, I'm getting dosed up on tryptophan so I can take a nap in between football games," or "Thanks, I'm getting a day off work to lay around and veg on the sofa," or even "Thanks, I'm getting so bloated with dressing and pie and candied yams that I'll need to invest in a new pair of pants with an elastic waistband and a stretchy pair of blue suspenders." God bless America. Amen.

Now, because Thanksgiving is a day wherein everyone in this country comes two or three inches closer to developing a personal gravitational pull (Note: I find it somewhat ironic that an essential part of the holiday feast includes rolls, don't you?), I have something to add to your holiday solar system. And what would that be? you ask. As if we're not already going to be fat enough, you have something else for us to gorge ourselves on?

I certainly do, though the gorging part is entirely optional. Tasty snacks are always nice to have around the house because people tend to work up an appetite while watching football. You know, all of that lying around and such. Makes you hungry. So, I have two dip recipes that are perfect for tiding people over in between breakfast, dinner, and dessert.

Cheddar Bacon Dip (or as I like to call it, the Man Dip)

2 pkgs. lite cream cheese, softened
6 strips of bacons, cooked and crumbled
3 oz. sharp cheddar cheese, grated
1 tsp. Dijon mustard
2 Tbsp. lite mayonnaise
1 tsp. Worcestershire sauce
1 tsp. lemon juice
Parsley
Garlic powder
Salt
Pepper

Combine all the ingredients in a bowl large enough to contain all of the ingredients. That's very important, you see. Otherwise, you might lose half of the dip before you've gotten around to mixing. Next, mix the ingredients, which are hopefully still in the bowl and not on the counter. Sample right away on a Wheat-Thin. Then place in the fridge until it's seasoned. I mean it. Don't keep on sampling it. I'm warning you, stay out of the fridge until it's...hey, listen to me! Stop picking in the dip! That's not just for you! It will taste better if you wait anyway! Fine, have it your way. But you'll be sorry that you didn't listen when you've eaten the whole bowl of dip before Thanksgiving even gets here.

[Note: You will see that I said in the recipe to use lite this and lite that. Well, if you must know, that is merely a ruse to make you think that what you are eating is somewhat healthy. If you have already entered that deluded frame of mind, then you ought to look at the other ingredients in the dip. Using lite mayonnaise and lite cream cheese simply means that you will live one month longer than you would have if you had decided to use full-fat everything.]

Clam Dip

2 pkgs. lite cream cheese, softened
2-6 1/2 oz. cans of whole clams, drained into a bowl (you might want to save that for later)
1/4 teaspoon of Worcestershire sauce
2 Tbsp. lite mayonnaise
2 tsp. lemon juice
1/2 tsp. garlic powder
1 1/2 tsp. parsley flakes
Salt and pepper to taste

Once again, combine all of the ingredients in a bowl of suitable size to contain everything without spilling on the counter or the ground. This dip is too delicious to risk losing any. Mix until it looks mixed enough (Note: that means the cream cheese will have no lumps). If it's still a little too thick, which it often is, add three Tbsp. clam juice. You dumped it down the drain? I told you to save it. Fine, put in a little more mayonnaise, but not more than another half a tablespoon. Mix some more. And more. And more. Come on, how hard is it to mix? Mix! Mix, you fool! My grandma can mix better than that! (Note: She probably can't actually; it's just a figure of speech). Sample with a plain potato chip or Chicken-in-a-Biskit crackers to see if you need to add or adjust any of the ingredients. Put in the fridge until well-seasoned. Should be ready in a few hours. Best if left overnight.

Conclusion

Ultimately, you are going to spend the holiday eating a lot of things you normally wouldn't. Therefore, you ought to enjoy the day ingesting delicious food and snacks rather than worrying about a few lousy calories. Or, should I say a few thousand lousy calories? Really, the actual number of calories is irrelevant (I mean, come on; it's Thanksgiving after all); just eat the food and worry later about how you will rid yourself of the nasty little buggers clinging to your hips, buns, and waistline. And if, or when, someone sees you recline in your chair as you liberate your swollen abdomen from the leather constriction holding it all in place, and remarks rather loudly and dramatically at your billowing belly, "'Tis a rock--a--crag--a cape--a cape? say rather, a peninsula"; or "I recognize in you a man of parts, a man of prominence"; or, should he be delightfully literate and zany, he might even say, "Is this the [stomach] that launched a thousand ships, and burned the topless towers of Ilium?" But you, instead of being offended by such jabs, will reply through a delectable mouthful of bacon and cream cheese, "It is indeed; shall I unveil the monument?" (see Edmond Rostand's Cyrano de Bergerac).

One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish

As I was debating what I ought to write today, I happened to glance up and to my right. There, in the SEU section of my library, (yes, my library), though they are quite horribly out of order (I'll have to fix that eventually; Tom Stoppard's play Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead should never come before Dr. Seuss) I have a considerable number of Dr. Seuss books. I had never counted them until today, but I discovered that there are on that top shelf twenty-one different Dr. Seuss books in English (Note: I have four in Italian as well; I purchased three from a book vendor on Via della Liberta and one from a bookstore on Via Vittorio Emmanuele in Palermo, Sicily).
Now you are surely asking yourselves, well, that's all well and good, but why the fuss about Dr. Seuss? Indubitably, you like reading Dr. Seuss; but why should we care?

Now, there is a good question (you always ask good questions), and I guess you really don't have to care, if you don't feel like it. But I do; I do care immensely because I feel that Dr. Suess is part of the reason I am what I am and do what I do today. Dr. Seuss books were a staple in my literary diet when I was a small child.

[Note: My mom saw that I was reading Dr. Seuss books just now and started to laugh uncontrollably. I guess the sight of a grown man reading Fox in Sox was just too much for her. Ridiculous. People and their expectations. Pshaw.]

Anyway, as I was saying, such wholesome literary fiction as Horton Hatches the Egg and How the Grinch Stole Christmas provide two very significant elements to a child's development. The first is, of course, verbal experimentation and wordplay. Dr. Seuss's books demonstrate, in basic plotlines and outlines, how much fun it can be to take a word like alligator and juxtapose it with Aunt Annie in order to create an alliterative picture of Dad's sister astride a wild green reptile (see Dr. Suess's ABC). Or, to demonstrate the diversions derived from developing delightful delicacies in unreasoned rhyme, Dr. Seuss also creates such picture as this:

What would you rather be when you grow up?
A cop in a cop's cap?
Or a cupcake cook in a cupcake cook's cap?
Or a fat flapjack flapper
In a flat flapped-jack cap?
OR...
If you think you don't like cop's caps,
Flapjack flappers'
or cupcake cooks' caps,
Maybe you're one of those choosy chaps
who likes kooky captains' caps
Perhaps.

(from Oh Say Can You Say?)

Which brings me to my next point: Dr. Seuss's books are unmatched in their ability to provide fodder for a growing imagination. They give us things like loraxes, wockets, gacks, fiffer-feffer-feffs, and, oh, my personal favorite, zizzer-zazzer-zuzzes, a yellow-eyed, pink-and-white-checked creature who happens to be the narrator of Dr. Seuss's ABC. Where else could one find such creative stimulus?

To commemorate Dr. Seuss's work, I have put together a sort of poetic collage of Seussian characters from the many books I pulled down from my extremely dusty shelf. Understand, I have no desire to create great poetry, only laughable lunacy in imitation of the inimitable.

Uncle Ubb's Umbrella
(In Memoriam)

Vera Violet Vinn one day
And Rosy Robin Ross
Played a prank on Uncle Ubb
With their rhinoceros.

Jerry Jordan tried to help,
But there was jelly on his socks,
And he couldn't leave the house because
Auntie Annie took his Gox.

But the girls had plans, they always did,
They'd trick their Uncle Ubb;
They'd take his big umbrella, yes,
While he was in the tub;

Of course, they weren't malicious;
They said to Uncle's Gack;
It's no crime to borrow things, you know,
If you someday bring them back.

But they didn't return the big umbrella,
So Gacky called the fuzz;
And those officers came over
On a Zizzer-Zazzer-Zuzz.

The cops in cop's caps looked around
And tracked them through town;
They never would have caught them though
If not for Mr. Brown.

They caught those little girlies
And they threw them in a lake;
Luke Luck and Duck stopped lake-licking
And spanked them with a rake.

So, Unc got his umbrella back,
And Gacky napped, and then,
Vi and Rosy vowed that day
They'd never steal again.

The End

Laughing Out Loud

Suppose one morning in autumn you decide to take the dog for his weekly constitutional. The November sun is shining splendidly, yet the air is as crisp as a Granny Smith apple on the tree. Patches of ice have formed during the night, due to the somewhat unexpected fall of precipitation. You and the dog (let's call him Theodore) dodge the icy spots with a great deal of care and effectiveness and continue your jaunt without incident.

The neighbor boy however, the one generally responsible for delivering your morning newspaper, is not as cautious nor as fortunate as you and Theodore. He passes you on the slick sidewalk on his neon-green rollerblades with a can of Red Bull in his hand, and his plastic-sheathed wheels hit the ice with a great deal of velocity, sending him into a skid and dumping him in a fetal-like position on the cold, hard pavement.

What is your first inclination?

Do you:

a) Call the ambulance for rollerblade boy
b) Try to help him yourself
c) Continue on your morning walk
d) Command Theodore to attack the boy while he's half-conscious so he cannot identify you or the dog
e) Scream obscenities at the boy for nearly hitting your defenseless canine
f) Laugh like a lunatic at the boy who is currently writhing in pain
g) All of the above

If you chose g), then you are more than likely an extremely gifted multi-tasker, a maniacal superhero, or just someone who is suffering from a variety of personality disorders. If you chose f), well, you've probably had people tell you there is something wrong with you at sometime or another in the past. But is there something wrong with me? you ask, hoping for a positive prognosis. Would you like to know the truth? Yes, you say. Well then, here it goes. "I spill my bright incalculable soul" (from E.E. Cummings "O Thou to whom the musical white spring).

Yes, there is something definitely, definitely, definitely wrong with you.

Awwwww, you say, the air suddenly sucked out of your lungs as the disappointment descends upon you like an eagle after a spawning salmon.

Wait, let me rephrase that. No, I can't rephrase it; I think I said it fairly well. There is something wrong with laughing at people who fall down. In English, we have a word to describe people like that; we didn't have one until we borrowed one from the Germans, but it functions beautifully now that we have it. It's called schadenfreude, a person who laughs at other people's misfortunes or misery. So, don't be a schadenfreude; you need to suppress the urge to chuckle at calamity. But I can't! you plead, as the tears suddenly begin to form in your eyes. I've always done it! "Nothing is funnier than unhappiness" (from Samuel Beckett's Endgame).

Well, I have a solution. The next time you see someone skate into a patch of ice and hit the pavement like it's WWII Nagasaki, instead of dwelling on how that person looks like a stinkbug resting on its exoskeletal back, waving all of its tiny legs wildly in the air, perhaps you might try dwelling on this:

What if you were a stinkbug?

Oh, wait. You are a stinkbug; you like to laugh at people who fall down. Fo' shame!

Anyway, the only consolation I can offer is the fact that you are not alone in your debilitating disorder. After all, America's Funniest Home Videos would not have stayed on the air for all of these years with only a viewership of one. Therefore, you are part of a not-so-elite group of individuals that enjoys watching skateboarders get hung up doing ollies and kickflips; you like to see people climbing stairs, tripping, and rolling to the bottom; you like to see teenagers performing a variety of tricks on the trampoline and flying off onto the grassy area beside it in a broken and battered heap (Consequently, there's a good chance you also laugh when you see grown men getting smacked with balls squarely in the...well, that might sound redundant).

The point is, laughing at people who fall down might look funny doing it, but that does not mean you get to take advantage of their comical plight and guffaw ad nauseum. The next time you're out walking the dog and you see someone biff it hard into the blacktop, take a second to collect your thoughts, pushing all of the laughter aside, and help them to their feet.

Do not think I am judging people who do this. "'That is not it at all, / that is not what I meant, at all'" (from T.S. Eliot's "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"). I have done it myself on occasion. Yes, "'good fences make good neighbors'" (Robert Frost's "Mending Wall"), but why can't we do better than a fence?

"Buddy the Elf, what's your favorite color?"

Whenever I ask someone what their favorite something or other is--such as a favorite food, book, movie, sport, SI swimsuit model--the response is generally coupled with a somewhat odd look, resembling the visage of a recently castrated bull (Note: Animals whose genitalia have undergone a recent removal tend to have a sort of frightened yet faraway look in their eyes after such operations, much like those nervous people who can't answer a question they ought to know the answer to). Now, some people, like Julie Andrews, have an automated and immediate answer for those types of questions, and such individuals have no problem replying that their favorite things include raindrops, kittens' whiskers, doorbells, apple strudel, ponies, and wild geese (Note: Yes, that is from The Sound of Music, though it sounds more like something from The Producers). Really, you might think more people would know what their favorite things are. "But they don't!" (from film A Man for All Seasons).

So what? you ask. What is the big deal about not knowing what your favorite food or sport or TV show is? I think the big deal lies in the fact that much of what we do involves interaction with other people and making relationships; that means getting to know them, what they like, what they dislike, etc. If we do not know those sorts of things about ourselves, how are they supposed to know? Such self-ignorance begets other-ignorance and leaves a rift in what could have been an otherwise strong relationship. Wait, wait. Don't you think that's a little melodramatic about it? you ask. Am I really? I wasn't aware that making a big deal out of knowing such things about your family and friends was being melodramatic. I apologize.

Okay, fine, you say. We get the point. But how are we supposed to figure out something like that? Especially with subjects as broad as favorite movies, favorite books, and so on. I mean, "I could no sooner choose a favorite star in the heavens" (from film Ever After). Well, personally, I think it's all about being specific and taking time to figure things out. Try this for a model:

Questioner: What's your favorite book?

Me: Well, my favorite young adult novel is Banner in the Sky by James Ramsey Ullman. My favorite fantasy novel is The Hobbit by J.R.R Tolkien. My favorite science fiction novel is Out of the Silent Planet by C.S. Lewis.

Questioner: Do you have a favorite author?

Me: Sure. My favorite American writer is Mark Twain. My favorite children's author is Dr. Seuss. French author: Albert Camus. Italian: Dante Alighieri. German: Johann Wolfgang von Goethe. American poet: Robert Frost. Non-fiction....

Questioner: Wow, sounds like you read a lot. You probably don't have much time to watch movies.

Me: Actually, I do watch movies. My favorite action movie is Gladiator. My favorite romantic comedy is...

And so on and so forth. Got the picture? You know, we often make the mistake of thinking that the question "What is your favorite..." means pinning it down to one thing which stands above all others. But even Julie Andrews couldn't do that. All you need to do is think about it for a while, then categorize the subject into subgroups. If you are still indecisive or having trouble figuring it out then, divide the already divided groups further. In the end of your introspective endeavor, I am certain you will, in effect, have done as the Greek philosopher Thales suggests, namely "know thyself." And when someone asks you for a favorite sushi restaurant, you'll pop off an answer just like that (Note: I just snapped my fingers when I wrote "that"). And "then [you won't] feel so bad" (see film The Sound of Music).

(Note: Should some of your favorite things happen to be bright copper kettles, warm woolen mittens, and brown paper packages tied up with strings, you don't actually have to sing about them)

My Favorite Things

Favorite cut of meat: T-bone steak

Favorite type of pasta: farfalle

Favorite day of the year: April 20 (Note: Hey, it was my favorite day before the cannabis activists turned it into a national holiday. Okay, it really wasn't. And it actually isn't. But it happens to be the day that Michael Jordan set a record for most points in an NBA playoff game, which leads me to the next category)

Favorite retired NBA player: Gary Payton (Betcha thought I was gonna say Michael Jordan!)

Favorite type of tomato: Roma, of course. A tomato by any other name would smell...like a tomato. But it's still my favorite.

Favorite season: Autumn. Or fall, if you prefer (Go ahead, fall. Just don't whine if you hurt yourself).

Favorite country: Italy

Favorite U.S. president: Ulysses S. Grant (Note: He only beats Abraham Lincoln because he's on the fifty dollar bill and Lincoln's only on the five; if Ben Franklin had been a president he would have beaten them both)

Favorite continent: Europe

Favorite Indian pacifist: Mahatma Ghandi

Favorite non-white poet: Gwendolyn Brooks

Favorite mythological character: Teiresias, the blind prophet from Sophocles' "Oedipus the King"

Favorite Will Ferrell quote: See title.

What are yours?

What If Life...

Do you ever hear those silly people who talk about how much more they would like the world if something about it were changed or it functioned in a certain way? For example, they say things like, what if life were like a John Wayne movie? Or a Rocky movie? Or a professional wrestling match? Or a musical? What if life functioned like a game of fantasy football, where people use other people's work to compete against one another? Oh, wait. That's not hypothetical; that's corporate America. Ultimately, this hypothetical exercise yields some interesting results.

...Were a John Wayne Movie?

First of all, we could say good-bye to calling each other by the titles Mr. or Mrs. In a world with a John Wayne theme, everyone would just be called Pilgrim. Imagine that. Every time I would teach at school, the kids would have to call me Pilgrim Howard. "Hey, Pilgrim Howard," they would say, "what's going on in your life?" And I'd have to reply, "If I weren't so hung over, Pilgrim, I'd belt you in the mouth right now." Also, in that world, all of the cops would drive appaloosas, and the police chiefs would all be chronic alcoholics with black eye patches and drunken cats. Not to mention, you would go to see the Doc whenever by some chance you're sick or have a bullet lodged somewhere in your body, and they may or may not have had enough medical training to do something about it. In the end, they would dose you up with opiates and whiskey and send you on your way.

Hypothetical Rating: 3 stars


...Were a Professional Wrestling Match?

Let's discuss the cons first. First of all, every encounter with another individual would be extremely awkward because no matter where you look or who you speak with, everyone would be wearing a speedo, kind of like a worldwide swim meet. Imagine this (or don't if you'd rather not); you would go to work every day only to find your boss standing on your desk, wearing a black spandex speedo and calling you a jabroney for forgetting to empty your trash the day before. Then when you try to explain yourself, you end up being the victim of a chokeslam through a desk and are eventually beaten senseless with your own computer.
The pros, of course, are mainly that all of the violence is fake, so behind the choreographed facade we will actually have world peace. My question, though: would we still believe in the catch-phrase "peace at any price"? Or is the price of a blue-and-red speedo too rich for our blood?

Hypothetical Rating: 1/4 star


...Were a Rocky Movie?

For starters, in this world no one would understand each other, every issue will eventually end in a boxing match, and without the consent or approval of your wife or girlfriend or fiancee, you wouldn't be successful at anything. Also, as an unfortunate sidenote, in a Rockyworld, African-Americans would not allowed to win out in the end. And if by some chance they do, just wait; there would be a rematch, a sequel, or a big white Russian man on steroids meant to take them out and assure a white man's victory (see Rocky I-V).

(Note: If we ever do have to live in a world like this, I have some advice. Girls, if your Rockyworld boyfriend suggests that you go the zoo with him, perhaps to see the tigers 'cause they're his favorite, you need to suggest an alternative unless you really want to remember his crappy, incomprehensible proposal for the rest of your life. Also, if the guy does not know the difference between a condom and a condominium (see Rocky II), you are allowed to say no.)

Personally, I think the inherent racism present in a Rockyworld makes it wholly undesirable.

Hypothetical Rating: 0 Stars


...Were a Musical?

This one is a little more difficult to describe or rate because it is so broad. But its very broadness allows for a great deal of variety. For example, suppose it started raining. Everyone would immediately run outside and dance around in the street like no one was watching (see Singing in the Rain). No one would have self-esteem issues at all, and school counselors and psychologists would be extinct.

On the other hand, go to see a doctor there and he might just be flouncing around his office in leather lingerie (see The Rocky Horror Picture Show). Further, if the person you're dating in that world is wearing a mask, it's probably a good idea to break up before he teaches you how to sing really well and becomes obsessed with you, yada, yada, yada (At the very least, if you wanted to stay together, you should not take his mask off; he'll get angry if you take the mask off, and you won't like him when he's angry; see Phantom of the Opera).

Ultimately, the unparalleled diversity of this world would make it an exciting place to live; no would ever know when a trio of midshipmen would come running off of an aircraft carrier and start singing in the subway (see On the Town). On the other hand, hearing people sing about every little thing would quite possibly become annoying after a while. "I don't care if it's almost like being love, Gene; shut your piehole!" (see Brigadoon).

Hypothetical Rating: 1 1/2 stars

Conclusion

Two points: First, be careful what you wish for. Every conceivable world has issues because even in theory no perfect world exists. Second, we should stop wishing for a different world and do something to make our world a better place to be.

Here's a Story

Now, I did not write this today. The process actually began 7-8 months ago, and I have worked on it ever since. Perhaps you will find it interesting. (Note: This story is fictional)

The Street Vendor

I walked up to Ayo’s table, looking to buy something to send to my sister Jocelyn who was getting married back in the States in May. Ayo wore cotton robes of purple and yellow adinkra cloth, a purple, cylindrical hat with a red tassel falling across his youthful, black face, all typical attire for a salesman from Ghana. Another African salesman I knew had once explained to me the spiritual significance of the adinkra; he had even told me some of the names of the symbols woven into the cloth, but I had forgotten most of them. As Ayo conversed with a fellow salesman, I noticed he was not as loud and obnoxious as the other street vendors. He had a three-inch scar along his jaw line, and a dimple creased his cheek as he spoke.

Quickly scanning Ayo’s various pieces of merchandise, I saw, nestled among tribal masks and incense of poppy, cinnamon, and cannabis, a carved, wooden statue of a shriveled, naked woman playing a flute to a snake curled around her leg. Gorgeous. I could have bought Jocelyn a soccer jersey or a sweatshirt or a pair of shoes, but a fertility goddess costs a lot less than a pair of Italian stilettos, and I knew the statue would be more noteworthy than any of the bagel toasters or cookie pans she would get from our relatives. I picked up the statue, running my fingers along the snake’s writhing coils. Sighing heavily, I put it back on the table in front of me.

Ayo noticed my interest and immediately left his conversation to make the sale.

“Which one?” he asked innocently. I pointed at the wooden woman.

“Quella lá, per favore. La statua che sta suonando il flauto. Con il serpente.”

“I don’t speak Italian,” he said.“Io non parlare Italiano.”

That was obvious. But if it could help me get a better price, I was going to speak to him in Italian. It would make Ayo feel uncomfortable, and whenever you can take a street vendor out of his area of comfort, you automatically have the advantage. Street vendors have a knack for making you feel stupid, and every encounter I had had with one ended with the same stark feeling of idiocy. I wasn’t going to lose this one.

“Voglio quella statua là. Grazie, molto gentile.”

He looked at me, suspicious. Then, he picked up the statue.

“You want this one? 15 euros, please.”

I shook my head. “No, non ce la faccio.”

His hand moved to his face, his thumb moving up and down his scarred jaw line. His purple shirt sleeve fell slightly, exposing two small adinkra tattoos on his lower forearm. I recognized one as the symbol for love, osram ne nsoromma, “the moon and the star.” I couldn’t quite place the other one, but it sort of resembled the hot pads my mom used to crochet when I was little.

After a minute—it seemed—of deliberation, Ayo nodded softly. “Allora, dieci. Ten.”

He could do better than that.

“Ce l’ho cinque,” I said.

“No,” he said. “I need dieci.”

“Ce l’ho solo cinque,” I said again firmly. And I pulled the fiver from my wallet, placing it on the table and reaching for the statue.

Ayo’s eyes darted from the money to the photo of my family sticking out from behind my bus pass, then back to the five euro bill. Almost protectively, he cradled the carved woman closer to his body and quickly replied with “No, dieci.”

“Cinque.”

“Dieci.”

“Cinque.”

“Sette.”

“Cinque.”

“Sei.”

“Cinque.”

He shook his head tiredly. I turned to leave, putting the bill back in my coat pocket.

“Wait. Un attimo,” he said hurriedly.

He pondered for a second longer, then he slowly held the statue out to me with a sad, almost desperate look, the same look I used to give my brother whenever he stole my baseball bat and hid it from me. Ayo’s outstretched arms revealed the tattoos once again. Two words flashed through my mind, and suddenly I remembered what the other tattoo meant. It was kete pa, “a good bed,” an adinkra symbol of marriage.

“Cinque,” he said slowly.

I slowly took the merchandise from Ayo and pushed the five into his open palm and walked away, my head down, staring blankly at the statue I had just acquired. She stared back at me, her gaze cutting through me, the snake coiled around her leg baring its fangs as if preparing to strike at my whitened knuckles.

“I won,” I muttered, shifting my gaze to the garbage-covered sidewalk, unable to return the statue’s stare. “I won.”

"Lieutenant Dan, Ice Cream!"

Now what in the name of St. Hades does that have to do with anything? you ask. Well, the answer is quite simple actually. I just ate a popsicle. While I was eating the popsicle, I kept thinking, "This is a really good popsicle, but it's all of a sudden giving me a hankering for an ice cream cone." Consequently, I put that line from Forrest Gump as the title to commemorate the craving, even though it has practically nothing to do with the subsequent subject matter contained in this post. And "that's all I got to say about that" (from the film Forrest Gump).

During these last few of days, I have been clearing out some space in my room. Why, you ask, would I, such an untidy, unkempt, and otherwise disorganized sort of chap suddenly decide to become a practicing adherent to the "cleanliness is next to godliness" cult (Note: By the way, that phrase is not found in Proverbs, so don't let anyone tell you differently). I will explain the source for my sudden desire for neatness in my personal ambience.

When I was substitute teaching the other day, I sat at the teacher's desk and wondered how such a disorganized person could function as a professional of any kind, let alone a teacher. Papers were scattered willy-nilly over the entire surface area of the desk; pencils and pens and assignment sheets arranged in piles on top of piles on top of piles on top of who knows what. Then I realized the similarity between the mess which cluttered this desk and the one on my desk at home. Not to mention the one under my bed, the one on my bookshelves, the one in my clothes closet, the one in the dresser beside the bed, and the other one in my closet.

Consequently, I grew ashamed of myself and decided I would go home and junk out my hell-hole of a clutterbox before it grew legs and swallowed me in the middle of the night, perhaps while I was dreaming of becoming a virtual character in Mortal Kombat (Note: I would be Lord Raiden or Liu Kang) and holding hands with Audrey Hepburn on a bridge somewhere in Firenze, listening to her say "Non capito" in her very poor Italian accent (see film Roman Holiday), eating cannoli and focaccia, and singing to tune of La Vie en Rose with a gondola full of accordion players and organ grinders, complete with dancing simians and their clashing cymbals and tiny tambourines, as they sail on the Tiber as it flows beneath our feet (Note: To date, I have not actually dreamed such a dream, but I imagine it would be about as trippy as listening to a Pink Floyd album backwards).

Anyway, I cleaned my room the very next day. And the next day. And the next and so on. Finally, yesterday I finished the project. Not only is my room clean but I also found six videocassettes, eighteen cassette tapes, nineteen books, and one board game to contribute to Deseret Industries. Now, I call that productive.

On a side note, a rather lengthy one, today, because I was going to DI anyway with my old things, I went in the store to see if they had anything I wanted. Nada. I went across the street to Savers. Nothing. At that point, I said to myself, "Well, maybe you could go all the way down to the St. Vincent de Paul's on State Street ande see if they have anything you want." To which I replied, "Why not?" (Note: I do talk to myself often; I find it fascinating to hear what I have to say about things in general, and I always listen with much interest to such an intriguing perspective and eager anticipation). So, I filled up the car with gas and made my way down to that store. Not overly hopeful, considering the places I had just left, I really was not expecting to find much there.

Well, I walked in, and the place was quite nearly humming. I went over to the book section and began to rummage. And scrounge. And sift. And winnow. Finally, I poured the water from my proverbial pan and stared at the gravel within my gold-catching receptacle. Do you know what I saw? Of course you don't; that's why I'm going to tell you. Eventually. There was no sparkle of metallic dust, no flake of shining ore, polished smooth by the clear-running streams of "many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore" (from Edgar Allen Poe's "The Raven"). No, indeed. What I beheld was perhaps a sight to make a grown man weep, though I could not allow such odd show of emotion to emerge in public for fear of embarassing myself in front of all those other bargain-hunting treasure-seekers. I...

Enough already! you cry. Tell us what it was! Stop being so dramatic! Sorry, but I felt that merely telling you what I found might be slightly anti-climactic. Remember, "peace be in the journey" (from the film Cool Runnings). However, now the pump is completely primed, the cup runneth over with anticipation, and you are ready for me to relate what I found.

Well, it was a set of Dickens, if you must know. Is that all? you ask, somewhat disappointed by this abrupt ending. You certainly built that up more than you had to. No, no, you obviously do not understand. I found Dickens; all of him. Every last major novel or essay or short story he wrote, I found. A 15 volume set of the complete works of Charles Dickens from around the turn of the century in very good condition. Some of the books have yet to be cracked for the first time. (Note: I found this out when I perused the contents of The Old Curiosity Shop) And how much did I pay for this nugget, this shining vein, this mother-lode, this strike to end all strikes? you ask. Well, "that's my secret" (from Edmond Rostand's Cyrano de Bergerac). Suffice it to say though, the cost was minimal to me in light of its perceived antiquity (Note: I use the word perceived because the volumes carry no sign nor indication of the copyright year; however, their external and internal makeup indicates quite clearly that they are at least 80-90 years old if not a bit more) and intrinsic value, not to mention my joy at finding them complete and with only a certain amount of wear due to age and other factors.

Therefore, the most important things is, I bought the books and I say, "God bless it!" (from Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol). In fact, "God bless us all, every one!" (Ibid.). D--- it, Tiny Tim, I still want an ice cream cone. Lieutenant Dan, ice cream!

No Knead to Order a Pizza

A couple of years ago, or thereabouts, I was in a class at BYU-Idaho. One of my classmates had also served his mission in Italy (he served in the mission of Milano, while I served in the now-defunct mission of Catania), so we often spoke of our separate experiences and the distinct idiosyncrasies of the Italian people. More than anything however, we often spoke of the food.

[Note: This is a game that I played as a missionary and have played many times since: each player takes a turn planning a meal from start to finish, and the first one to drool or give up because the pangs of an unrequited hunger have beset him en masse, well, he or she is the one who loses (this is a fun game to play on fast Sundays if you want to torture the person sitting next to you in church; I have often done it, and I always win).]

The class we had together was called History of the English Language, but because the English language has borrowed to no end from other language groups, it would have been impossible to fully satisfy the demands of the course content without delving into root languages, both Germanic and Romance. Consequently, the teacher often appealed to the students' areas of linguistic expertise. However, once when he was feeling especially difficult, he turned to my friend and me, the Italian experts.

Teacher: You know, I'm sure Italy is a fine place, but what has Italy done for America? Much of our language comes from French, and our country is predominantly Latino now. So what about Italy?

Me (somewhat defiant and insulted at the implications of his question): Are you kidding? If it were not for Italy, you Americans would have starved to death a long time ago.

Suffice it to say, the professor backed down and behaved himself thereafter.

To this day, I stand by my statement. Pizza, that summit of culinary understanding, the all-in-all of Italian cuisine, the sustenance of the gods, the ambrosia of angels, the very essence of which, it might be argued, is "an attribute to God himself" (see William Shakespeare's The Merchant of Venice), has rescued millions upon millions from the turmoil of indecision found in that singular question: "Honey, what should we have for dinner?" Yes, many such people might have starved before triangulating an answer had not there previously existed the automatic "Let's just get a pizza." The convenience of ordering a pizza is the great selling point here. Everyone likes pizza, and everyone likes not having to take the time to cook. Also, everyone has problems making decisions, so the almighty pizza is a perfect way to circumvent any and all issues in those areas.

Unfortunately, the appeal of convenience, which is helpful as a stress-reducer and responsibility-remover, also possess the potential ability to kife a certain amount of enjoyment and accomplishment. I find that the days, such as today, whereon I decide to make pizza, crust and all, are days in which I find a significant amount of self-satisfaction and pride in what I do. I am willing to admit that sometimes calling the pizza parlor and having them deliver a pizza or two really helps you out if you're tired and worn out; I think it's a wonderful privilege, if it is not abused. However, I do not think that it should always be the answer. Sometimes convenience is not worth as much as we think it is, for 'tis "a dream, a breath, a froth of fleeting joy" (from William Shakespeare's The Rape of Lucrece)

For example, the dough for the pizza I made this afternoon took over an hour to make, even before I started putting on the toppings and baking it. Therefore, I would hardly call it a convenient meal. However, after putting yeast, salt, sugar, oil, and flour into warm water and kneading the h--- out of it for ten minutes, what do you think happened? The clumps of flour disappeared and the texture smoothed as the gluten broke down and took the dough to a place between too dense and too soft called kneaded nirvana. Surely, you are exaggerating somewhat, you say, with an incredulous half-grin twitching upon your mocking lips. Please "don't fancy I exaggerate" (from Eugene Field's "The Duel"); I merely relate the sentiment of satisfaction which stems from doing something for yourself rather than giving in to the tug and pull of convenience. In this case, I made a perfect crust for two large stuffed pizzas, filled with bacon, sausage, ground beef, pepperoni, and pineapple, and a pan of rather crunchy--but still quite delicious--breadsticks. Just remember: the only satisfaction one can find in ordering out is the extra-large tip you give the delivery boy when he brings the pizza to your house in thirty minutes or less.

"Baby, Baby, Baby, Oh Baby"

This morning I received a call to teach a language class full of twenty-two eighth-graders at the middle school. It was my first opportunity to teach at the middle school and I was not disappointed with the experience. First of all, I arrived at 7:30 as I was supposed to, but I was informed later that I would have an extra hour and a half of prep time (8:00 AM-9:30 AM). Lucky eh? So what did I do for that hour and a half? I decided to read a book (Note: This is the part where you ask me what book it was). What book was it? you ask. Thank you for asking. This will actually be my book recommendation for the week.

Intermission/Book Recommendation

The book was written by Ray Bradbury and it is called Fahrenheit 451. Now, I have not yet had a chance to finish it, but it was originally recommended to me by a teacher of mine, and after having read about sixty pages, I think I feel safe in recommending it to you.

Plot Summary: Guy Montag is a fireman. That's not so unique, you say. Lots of people are firemen, and I don't want to read about them. Well, this is slightly different. You see, Guy is a fireman who starts fires. That's right. Starts them. So, he's an arsonist fireman? Well, that's sort of like the one guy in the movie Backdraft, isn't it? Yes, but you have to understand something. In Fahrenheit 451, all of the firemen do this. It's their job. They're paid to start fires. Instead of water, their hoses spray kerosene on houses, which are then lit on fire. Gasp. Why, that's inhuman. Of course, it makes more sense if you realize that they only burn the houses belonging to people who have books. Yes, books. They're burn books because their society is a censoring type. The government's weapon for creating a society wherein people are all equal is the removal of volumes continuing information which might lead to unrest within and between classes and social groups. And Guy believes in the society. Until one day he meets a seventeen-year-old girl named Clarisse, who has the audacity to question.

End of Summary/ Conclusion of Story

The class itself was quite entertaining. Public school classrooms house all types of people, mixing them together like pina coladas and expecting them to learn something. The most amusing part of the day came close to the end when one girl raised her hand and announced that she would like to know what my first name was because she and her classmates were having a really big argument about what they thought it might be (She also announced that I looked like a Bob to her). Somewhat shocked by the announcement, I asked the class if there were anyone in the class who agreed with that statement. Two others raised their hands. So, now we know the truth. Three people in the world today think I resemble a Bob, and one thinks I look like a Jeremy. I strongly disagree, as do the other 19 students in the class, but, hey, what do we know about it?


One of the boys later asked if I were married. Not sure why a boy was asking me about my marital status, but once again what do I know?

Me: No, I am not married.

Boy: So, you're a...bachelor?

Me: Yes, I am an unmarried man and therefore a bachelor. Class, the fifth word on your vocabulary assignment will be bachelor.

Boy: Really?

Me: No.


I later walked by that boy's desk, and I was amused to hear him singing under his breath, "Baby, baby, baby, oh baby, baby, baby, oh baby."

Me: That's a Justin Bieber song, isn't it?

Boy 1: Uh-huh.

Me: Justin Bieber is the worst musical artist of all time.

Boy 1: Yeah, he is. (turns to his friends) See, I like this guy.

Me: I mean, after all, how hard do you think he worked to write that song? Oh, let's see, I need something catchy and witty for the chorus. How about I just repeat the same word over and over and over and over and over? Let's see. What's a word I could do that with...I got it. Baby is a great word. But how many times should I say it? Three is probably about enough for a line, and each chorus ought to have four lines...let's see...three times four...carry the one...sure wish I'd stayed in school instead of trying to make it as a musical artist..hey DJ, how much is 3 times 4? Oh yeah, twelve, my age when I had my first smash song; I'll have to remember that. Also, the year my voice was supposed to change and it didn't. Well, like, cool yo.

(At this point, the boys in the class join in the ridicule)

Boy 2: He looks like a girl, sounds like a girl...he's a girl.

After the remarks ceased and most people returned to their work, I continued discussing, in kinder terms, the subject of music and the difference between Justin Bieber and music from decades ago. The two boys and two girls with whom I discussed seemed to comprehend my idea that the difference in quality has to do with the emphasis of the artists today, namely that music used to be about message and having something to say. Consequently, lyrics used to be the primary part of the music, and melody second. Now, the music takes precedence over the message because people don't listen to the words anymore; they only want to dance and feel the rhythm of the songs. Curse you, Footloose. You made everyone want to dance, and now Justin Bieber prospers, rather than musical groups and artists like The Guess Who, Led Zeppelin, or even Roger Miller, that genius who kindly informed the listening public that "you can't go fishin' in a watermelon patch," and "you can't take a shower in a parakeet cage," and "you can't drive around with a tiger in your car" (from Roger Miller's "You Can't Rollerskate in a Buffalo Herd"); now, such quality bands are condemned to obscurity found in the dusty annals of music history.

Finally, I looked at the one girl at whom the students' comments about Justin Bieber had been directed.

Me: So, do you like Justin Bieber?

Girl (brightening somewhat): I'm married to Justin Bieber!

Of course, I congratulated her on the union (which apparently had taken place a year and a half prior) and said I hoped it would work out for them both eventually.

Writer's Block

What? you say. Writer's block? you say. But how can it be? If you do not write something sensational for us to read, why, we shall feel lost and alone and desperate. Now, now, don't be dramatic. I have plenty to write about. Oh, scrumptious, you say, sighing in relief. Thank goodness for that. You had us worried for a moment there because your title says Writer's Block. It certainly does, but it does not mean that I have it currently. Just sometimes. Like any other writer, I get writer's block from time to time; I either have nothing I can think to write on, or I can't think of how I want to phrase the ideas I have. But why is the title of this post Writer's Block? you ask. Wouldn't that indicate that you have it, perhaps, justifying our anxiety? It might signify that indeed and I'm certain you are perfectly justified in jumping to conclusions, but in this case it does not mean that I have writer's block. I merely use that as a point of reference because I know that this condition afflicts many people who try to write, and I wanted to discuss some potential methods for combatting said affliction. Well then, you say, please proceed. I shall, thank you.

The first step to overcoming writer's block is recognition of the problem. That is not difficult as the digital screen or paper pad in front of you will remain either blank or covered in doodles or crazy caricatures of people you have the misfortune of knowing. It is fairly obvious when nothing is coming out, so when you see that you have been sitting at your desk for an hour and nothing manifests itself on the page but a pencil sketch of your donkey-eared math teacher wearing suspenders, a Santa Claus hat, and a Bart Simpson tie, you may be certain that the problem is writer's block. (Note: you also ought to find a different person to teach you algebraic formulae).

So what's next? Well, now that you've noticed that you are about as productive in your writing as a prehistoric cockroach in a ball of dried amber, I think you ought to figure out a particular methodology for putting your mental cogs into motion when they seem to be rusted beyond repair. Now, different things work for different people. I, myself, I begin writing like a madman. But how is that possible? you ask. How can you resolve the inability to write by writing? My friends, just do it (Note: that's the Nike slogan by the way, and if it works for them it should work for you; unfortunately, it did not work for Tiger Woods who just did it and did it and did it. And did it and did it and did it. And did it and did it and did it and did it. Now he's all alone, and he can't find his swing).

Now, the process is actually fairly simple. It starts with writing letters, (you know, A and B and C, and so on). Then you upgrade to words like moose and goose and caboose and loose. When the wheels of progress begin to creak, try forming coherent sentences. Or incoherent sentences. And they don't need to have anything to do with what you are supposed to write about. For example, let's say I am stuck on a paper. The teacher wants me to write about Huckleberry Finn. I don't know what to say about Huck, so I begin saying things that make no sense at all and may or may not have anything to do with the subject at hand. But how do you do it? you ask. That's easy, friends; it's called writing poetry. Here's an example of what I mean.

I begin to ask the rodents how they brush their tails

And why eating cheese will clog their arteries

No wonder they don't live as long as us

But I don't care about the mice

They don't care about me

They simply live in the walls,

Which require invisible rafts

To float through on sailing winds of satiated clouds

From which purple monkeys throw poo and coconuts at passers-by

Hoping for a macadamia handout

If they'll only stop the sprinting pineapples from coming in first

And breaking the tape ahead of everyone else.

Yes, I did write that just now. It came out of my head as fast as I could write it down. Of course, that has nothing at all to do with Huckleberry Finn. In fact, it has nothing to do with anything. Should you ask me what it is signifying, I'm afraid I cannot tell you. That beautiful stanza I have just laid out has nothing in the way of meaning, that is until someone finds it; the important thing is that it is not purposeless. It has a function, namely the greasing of the track for the little engine who can, in fact, write about Huck Finn at this point. Let your fingers walk until your mind begins to talk. But I don't write poetry, you lament. I can't do that. That is not the point. I'm not asking you to write poetry. I'm asling you to write gibberish and nonsense (which often translates into poetry). Just write about stuff that comes to mind. Nonsensical words and images are the basis for the modern tradition of poetry anyway; just ask Allen Ginsberg and E.E. Cummings and John Lennon (Note: you cannot really ask these men anything; they're all dead).

Another method is taking a break. It may be that your eyes are tired from looking at the same blank screen or page for too long. You need to rest from it. Take a nap. Watch a movie. Go for a jog. Listen to music. Do anything you want that is unrelated to writing. After you've had some time apart from the paper, it will be on better terms with you, and you with it, as well.

Now, you ask, do you suppose that you, Jeff, will ever have a day in which you will have writer's block and be unable to write a post for your blog? Without your writing, my life would have no meaning for a day; I would simply curl up in a blanket and weep until you thought of something. Well, I am sorry to say it could be possible. In fact, it's entirely possible. However, it's more than likely I will end up writing an 800-word poem about purple monkeys throwing poo and coconuts at passers-by. For your sake however, I hope I always have something meaningful to say. Hopefully, I will always have something for you to read, laugh, or think about. On purple monkey days, you will probably leave comments on here to the effect of, "Do you friend, even now, know what it is all about?" (from Wole Soyinka's "Civilian and Soldier) to which I will have to answer, "Not a clue. But someday, someone will figure out what I was trying to say. And that person is probably smoking doobies."