Sans le Nom

noreply@blogger.com (Sans) — Fri, 20 Jan 2012 18:39:00 +0000

This is my first post! My name is ____________ and I will be blogging for my Writing 1320 class where we're exploring how corporations have influenced our environment over the last 140 years.

Twenty Hours

noreply@blogger.com (Sans) — Mon, 26 Dec 2011 02:31:00 +0000

F-Bomb Alert^TM This post contains language that may not be suitable for all readers.

Since my dad died, I've been spending a lot more time with my mom because she's by herself. Unfortunately, she also lives 629 miles away, and my husband can only take off one week of work at a time, so I'm generally driving by myself. It's 10 hours one way no matter how I slice it. Twenty total. Twenty long hours to be completely alone with just me.

Twenty. Long. Hours.

One learns quickly just how fascinating one actually is in twenty hours of solitary confinement (not very, in my case). Here are some random thoughts from my holiday drive, "lovingly" hand-coded, by the way (and by "lovingly," I mean I cussed the whole time I coded this bitch).

THERE	BACK

Crap. I left the book I was going to translate at home. I wonder how many more things I'm going to remember that I forgot. I hate packing.	Eight whole days without dropping an f-bomb. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuckity, fuck, fuck fuck." Wow, I feel so much better now.
I am BYPASSING the entire drawn-out town of Vilonia. Woot!	People who are easily offended generally take great delight in it. They probably derive an equal measure of pleasure from being offended than people who enjoy being offensive. Hey, win-win!
Stupid people are REALLY into each other; hence, their numbers are growing exponentially...as demonstrated by all the idiots driving around me.	Whoa! The Led Zeppelin was in here the whole time. "Ah, caught you smiling at me/ That's the way it should be/ Like a leaf is to a tree, so fine."
Get your duct-taped hooptie out of my way!	If S...O...P...A passes, ~~Big Bro~~ is probably coming after me. I hope they aren't googling that acronym with my strategically placed periods of ellipsis. Note to self: Strike through ~~Big Bro~~ in case they're googling that.
Rice, rice, and more rice.	Three-quarters of a tank and I will pull over to fill up just before Illinois, thank you.
What I've learned from the Marquis de Sade: Know and embrace your inner beast and never apologize for your beastly ways.	Is this that place where I was followed by that creepy van? Thank the holies (the Marquis de Sade, Nietzsche, and Derrida...someday you will remember this) for those two truck drivers.
Cotton.	There is no right or wrong in nature. The ability to transgress is what makes us human. Acting on it probably also gives us humanity, empathy, and self-awareness.
This is the place where I rolled down the window and flipped off the dive-bombing crop duster who nearly caused a wreck on the freeway this summer. I wonder if he saw me?	Man, Illinois is boring.
I-55 exit to Portageville, MO: "Drug Check Point, K-9, 3/4 mile." Let me wrap by brain around this. Put up a sign that you're going to be searching for drugs...with trained drug-sniffing dogs...and it acts as a beacon for mules transporting the illegal goods to...gee...I don't know...St. Louis...Chicago? People are actually stupid enough to exit here with 10 pounds of ~~coke~~ in the trunk? Oh, wait...exponential growth in stupid people.	I can't believe I had to eat fast food to stay awake. Now I feel sick. I guess THAT will keep me from falling asleep.
"The Cleanest Restrooms in Fill in The State Here" usually means there is no toilet paper, no soap, and no paper towels. That's why it's clean.	Where's that confounded bridge?
The entire state of Illinois is one giant speed trap. I know this; you know this. Why do you speed? Why do you think you are pulled over? I pass you with a whiff of schadenfreude and a tinge of self-righteousness.	There's that confounded bridge. Just get me back in the South...and back up to 70 M.P.H.
Corn, corn, and more corn.	Surprise! Wrong exit. Oh, well, the Exxon Pit Stop or Reeves Boomland...six of one, half a dozen of another.
How many times can I sing "Femme Fatale" before I become hoarse? Hit the button again and let's see.	Hey, those restrooms really are clean...and well stocked. Maybe I should get gas here from now on.
They shut down seven miles of one freeway lane so two guys can watch another guy work at the half-way point. I'm amazed we even have roads in this country.	Damn CD-Player. I guess I'll have to listen to KGMO 100.7 while it cools off.
I have never seen a single person visiting the aluminum-sided Big Damn Cross since it sprung up by the side of I-57 south of Effingham, IL.	Thanks to the dick who nearly caused me to have a head-on. You were perfectly content doing 50 on 412 (which is a 60, BTW) when I started to pass you. What, you don't like being passed by a woman?
Time for something more sacrilegious. Oh, VU's Peel Slowly and See disc box set number four. That should do it.	If I concentrate, I can get to 67/167 before the last bit of sun disappears behind the Ozark foothills.
There isn't a whole Effing lot going on in Effingham except for the Big Damn Cross, and it isn't exactly happening. turns up volume	Woohoo! I'm burning up the freeway now! Look out fellow Arkies!
Thank everything I consider holy (the Marquis de Sade, Nietzsche, and Derrida), I'm in Indiana where they also appreciate guns and 70-MPH speed limits.	Surprise! Wrong exit again...in Beebe, Arkansas, population 5000 something. Seriously? I've lived here 25 years. I've been to Beebe a million times. I need to be home.
Arkansas smells like catfish and earthworms, Missouri smells like burning tires, Illinois smells like crude, and Indiana smells like poo. I can't decide which is worst.	Still loving the Vilonia by-pass.
Where's my ~~bootleg~~ Led Zeppelin? Crap. Another thing I left at home.	Gee, thanks for leaving the light on for me, Hubs. Damn, I need a drink. Fuck unpacking.

Photo courtesy Barb Henry through a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs License via Flickr.com, http://www.flickr.com/photos/bhenry/124519641/.

Thousands of Words, Hundreds of Miles, and Seven Pounds Later

noreply@blogger.com (Sans) — Mon, 28 Nov 2011 21:06:00 +0000

Several of my friends have been using this month as a chance to reflect on the things they're thankful for. My mom and I conducted an e-mail exchange along those lines each November for a few years. But this year I spent the month winning NaNoWriMo (see badge at left). And when I finished that challenge, I realized the things I'm thankful for are things I made happen: I wrote a novel (no, it's not done and not even ready for revision), I became a runner, and I lost the seven pounds I gained after my dad died of cancer last year.

I celebrated these feats last night by drinking a couple glasses of wine and going to bed early. Hey, I know how party!

So let's start with NaNoWriMo: November is National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo). Anyone who wants to can sign up for an account at the NaNoWriMo.org website. Writers can then use a variety of resources to help them write 50,000 words by November 30: pep talks, a word count tracker, and merchandise like Chris Baty's book No Plot, No Problem! Writers who make it to the 50,000 word minimum "win" the contest. For their troubles, they receive a certificate and special internet badges that indicate they've won (see badge above). Yeah, that's pretty much it.

So now you may be wondering how I came to participate in the contest.

As with most meaningful things that have happened to me in my life, this one happened quite by accident. I woke up on November 1st, thought to myself, "Oh, NaNoWriMo starts today. Let's see if I can get 1667 words." And I did. Then I did it the next day and the next day and the next day until last night when I hit the 50,000 word mark and validated my word count on the NaNoWriMo site. Technically, I was supposed to have spent the month of October prepping, but since I wasn't planning to participate, I did no research whatsoever (which I'll come back to later on.) I had tried the contest a couple times before (never got past 6000 words), and then completely ignored it last year thinking that it just wasn't for me. So what was different this year?

First of all, I had a plot that included a beginning, middle, and end. Second, as I started writing, I either fell in love or in hate, as appropriate, with my characters. Third, the work is ultimately a discussion of some of my favorite subjects: art history, the Marquis de Sade, the link between pleasure and pain, the place of morality in the world, and what it means for something to be "beautiful." It also doesn't hurt that it takes place in Paris, the streets of which I can walk from the comfort of my home in Conwag.

And here's what I learned about life, writing, and teaching writing:

1) You have more time than you think. On Day Three, I had to respond to 35 student drafts while helping supervise the writing center where I am assistant director and attend two meetings. I figured I'd still have that night to write and was then that I had volunteered to act in a short film for my friend CEP. All the shooting was complete except for the green screen scenes, and he had reserved the screen room for that night and that night only. I asked if he didn't mind shooting everyone else's parts and then calling me when he needed me. No, he didn't mind (thanks, CEP!). So in the few hours between getting home and getting in costume, I managed my 1667 words. When I got to 35,000 words, my pace started slowing. I woke one morning at 3:30 and started feeling guilty. Then it dawned on me: "I'm just going to lie here tossing and turning feeling guilty. I'm never going to fall back asleep. Why not just get up and write?" So that's what I did. You've got five idle minutes? You gonna spend it on Facebook? Or you gonna write? Which will mean more to you in the end? Question answered.

2) This relates directly to number one: find people who support you because they'll make sure you've got the time. Leave behind those who don't support you because they'll only see your work as a frivolous excuse for turning down invitations and begging off extra work they've contrived for you to do. Facebook was instrumental in building a network of support. Posting my word count to strangers on NaNoWriMo didn't really mean anything to me. But posting the milestones on FB and receiving "Likes" and congratulations was a tremendous boost to my motivation. Which led me to another conclusion: psychologists say that if you tell someone you're going to do something, you're more likely to do it. That may be true, but if the people you tell start nagging you, you're going to dig in your heels and say, "Na, na, na, na, na, you can't make me." The reinforcement has to be positive. Also, The Hubs finally understands what I mean when I say, quoting Stevie Nicks, "I wanna be a star! I don't wanna be a cleaning lady."

3) Drafting and revising are separate activities. When you have a looming deadline for a rough, rough draft, just write the draft. It used to be that I had the leisure of writing from the beginning until I got stuck, at which point I'd go back to the top and start revising until I got unstuck. Then I'd begin drafting again until I got stuck and end up back at the beginning revising to "unstuck" again. I'm not sure that's the most efficient way to go about writing. I'm now convinced that just getting something down and often working on bits and pieces as the muse for that section calls is more efficient. Now that I've got a huge chunk of novel finished, I feel like I can continue moving forward without ever getting stuck again. And what's the point of going back to revise something that might end up cut from the original because of a plot problem? And this especially translates to teaching: why should a student revise a section of her research paper that may actually contradict her thesis or be completely irrelevant to her focus?

4) Sometimes you just need to write and fill in the gaps that need to be researched later. I could have spent the entire month reading about the philosophy of the Marquis de Sade, translating stories I wanted to use from Le Monde, etc. But I didn't have time for that. Better to get down the story line and develop the characters and worry about the details later. I used asterisks, blanks, and highlighting to indicate places I needed to develop through research, names I hadn't decided on, and fact and spelling checking I needed to do. I can now worry about those things during the December break. Le Monde is archived like any other newspaper; I can go back to the news that fits my story line and translate those articles later. And I get to keep Airaksinen's Philosophy of the Marquis de Sade until March, at which time I can certainly renew it from the library.

So that's what NaNoWriMo did for me.

I've written before about what running has meant in my life. I started the day my mom was diagnosed with a brain tumor (see post dated August 9). I had to put it aside when school started, but now that I've come to realize that I have more time than I thought I had, I've taken it back up again. Also, sitting in front of a computer for nearly a month has made me want to feel my whole body move again, not just my fingers as they glide over a keyboard. Funnily enough, it got a little cold yesterday, so I spent some time this morning doing research on technical gear for runners (that's backpacker/hiker/runner speak for clothes that keep you warm and dry) and discovered a new accidental challenge: the day I started running again (Thanksgiving), Runner's World started the first annual Holiday Running Streak: run one mile a day from Thanksgiving to New Year's Day. Pfft. That's nothing. If you're friends with me on Facebook or follow me on Twitter, you can be sure I'll be posting my triumphs daily, assuming this initial soreness doesn't put me in a wheelchair.

And as for the seven pounds...well, that came off without a hitch. I owe it all to single-serving bags of popcorn and Granny Smith apples for breakfast (because I don't like sweet stuff). If I lost a couple more pounds, I could easily rock a size two, but you know what...I'm pretty damn happy with what I've accomplished so far.

It's been a good year.

Ladies and Gents, We Have a Winner!

noreply@blogger.com (Sans) — Sun, 27 Nov 2011 22:29:00 +0000

Yes, folks, I won NaNoWriMo, and here's my badge to prove it. More on what I learned later. Right now, I'm CELEBRATING!!!

Running for My Life

noreply@blogger.com (Sans) — Tue, 09 Aug 2011 19:03:00 +0000

The day after my mom was diagnosed with a brain tumor was the day I started running for my life.

I'm going on two and half years of major life upheavals, and just when I thought I might get a respite, I found out my mother needed brain surgery. Major brain surgery. I'm not a self-pitying sort of person normally. But these last couple years, I've woken each day, usually around 3:00 or 4:00 a.m., with a heart-pounding sense of impending doom: "What bad thing will happen today? What important thing did I forget to do? Who's going to call with bad news? How much will the next bill cost me?" At 5:30 a.m. that morning, I got out of bed, sat on the porch, and decided to outrun the doom. At about 10 minutes after sunrise, I took off.

I can't say that first attempt was a resounding success: I walked three miles and managed, under the cover of the thick cedars along the nature trail I hoped would conceal my belabored effort, two pathetic 15-second jogs that threatened to kill me. It was more like running toward my death.

Now, a long walk with two short jogs has turned into mostly running the whole way, whatever "the whole way" happens to mean.

I've started exercise regimens before in the name of losing a few pounds, usually with friends, and it has never worked out (no pun intended). Those past attempts usually ended because the whole business started to seem onerous within days: "Crap, I've got to go exercise... again." Strangely, I wake up now, thinking, "Crap, it's too dark to run. Hurry up! I need to run!"

I've been wondering why this is so, and I've come to some conclusions. Here are the things I've learned from running:

Abandon goals: Lao Tzu said that a journey of a thousand miles begins with the first step. Others have said it's about the journey, not the destination. Phooey. There's no use in trying to background a goal. If you have one (a journey which implies a destination), all you'll think about is how much farther you have to go in order to get there, no matter how hard you try. All the coloring books, car games, and breaks along the way do nothing to prevent the age-old question "Are we there yet?" If I wake up thinking "I don't have to run if I don't want to," I inevitably want to. Because I don't have to.

Be surprised by something every day, even if it's the thing you were surprised by the day before. I learned this from rabbits. Two of them reside along my normal route. They know I'm coming through every morning at the same time, and yet they sit in the same spot and wait for me by the trail, one of them standing on its hind legs, nose a-twitch. They hold back until the very last safest second, and then take off running in an exuberant bunny version of hide-and-seek. So, when The Loose Rooster of Bruce Street cock-a-doodle-does every morning when I run by, I still laugh and it still feels like getting a little unexpected present. I like unexpected presents.

Don't fight what you don't have to. Like the guy I met coming the opposite direction down a trail near my mom's house who only uses it to get to and from work, smoking like a chimney the entire way. While I've been known to imbibe in a cigarillo once or twice a year (I know, disgusting and unfeminine, whatever), I am NOT into sharing a ciggy-butt with a stranger sporting crotch-at-the-knees gangster shorts while I'm running. The best course of action, once you've determined that nuisance humans are invading a route, is to abandon it for a less cancerous one. Do not attempt to explain to the offender why and how he should get a life (this dude was in his 30's and vertically challenged; his choice of fashion only served to accentuate his "shortcomings"). This could result in hard feelings...and a fat lip. And even if it didn't, people never listen to the advice of others...except to rule it out.

It doesn't hurt to plan ahead. There is a certain kind of charm about running in the rain, the fog, a heat index into the 110's; if you refuse to truck wimpy excuses, you're among the running elite. Sprinting at lung-burning speed while peering over your shoulder at a monster thundercloud that looks like a skull with fangs and a gaping maw churning the darkest most evil hocker ever to be coughed up as it attempts to gain on your skinny little ass to spit the vile thing all over you is not that charming. Even if it does conclude with a personal best.

Cross-training is good for the body and mind. If you pair running with biking (or another activity like roller-blading or swimming that works your largest muscles, which are in your thighs and rear-end), you will develop your muscles in more ways and gain better balance. You will also cultivate hot legs (while not the point and certainly not the goal), which has shown to boost one's ego. (Yes, the link is sexist and borderline pervy. I still love Rod Stewart.)

Whatever you do, don't stop. Chiggers, mosquitoes, ticks, and other nasties are waiting for you. Your hot, naturally tanned, legs won't look so hot bathed in pink calamine lotion.

Apply liberally. The calamine lotion, that is. Also, a sense of humor.

Give up on your bad self and allow those corny thoughts. Maybe it's runner's high; I'm not sure, but I think the most worn-out, trite things while I'm running...and I don't care anymore. Case in point: Crotch-Pants forced me to run the same trail in the opposite direction. The opposite direction runs along the cemetery where my dad was buried last year. Sunrises in our part of the world are humbled by trees and our need for sleep, outshone by their evening counterparts. But, on this particular trail, I found out that if you get up early enough and head toward a place where the rising sun is visible, like a cemetery, it is every bit as majestic as the setting sun. I don't believe in an afterlife, but my father did, and it comforted me to think how happy he would be to see this sight every day...as if he occupied the place he was buried...because it was glorious in a way that defies description. But I also thought about how every day we wake up to a roomful of choices. Every morning (every minute, really--the sun is just there as a reminder) you can change course. Or not. It's up to you. CORNY!

You are stronger than you think you are. The last time I ran for the hell of it, just to move, just to feel alive, I was probably 13. Then I gave it up for boys. In other words, I didn't want to run or do cartwheels or hang upside down from the jungle gym because I didn't want to appear foolish. Now that I'm no longer interested in "boys" I feel like I cheated myself. I define "play" as doing something for the sole joy of doing it. Once we give up play we forget what it means to feel joy. I think we're tremendously weakened by this. But joy is about the easiest thing to get back. I did a cartwheel today. It was as pathetic as my first attempt at running: my knees were bent, and I'm pretty sure they were at about a 45 degree angle from the floor rather than being perfectly perpendicular. Perfection was not the aim. I was just playing, permitting myself to look foolish, and I think I'm a little bit stronger than I was before (admittedly, only my two cats were watching, but they're a pretty tough crowd, believe me).

So that's pretty much it. I'm running for my life, but I'm swiftly catching up to it.

Photo: Me and My Mom Two and a Half Weeks after Her Brain Surgery. Credits: The Hubs.

If You're a Masochist in Need of a Fix, Try Writing a Novel

noreply@blogger.com (Sans) — Wed, 08 Jun 2011 22:47:00 +0000

Yeah, so what...I've been away for a while. I never expected this blog thing to get off the ground anyhow. Yet I still keep writing...in what can only be labeled a masochistic act designed to end in failure.

To whit: I've had a literary novel in my head and on my hard drive yearning for attention now over 10 years.

Too bad.

Because I got an idea for a novel, pure pulp fiction, no less, in a genre I love: the mystery/crime thriller that borders on horror. (I consider I Saw the Devil, a Korean flick, the penultimate film in this particular genre. But trust me, if you're sensitive in mind or stomach, avoid watching it at all costs; you've been warned.) In my opinion and since the novel is writing itself (even as I write this blog thoughts are coming to me left and right), this project should be easy.

Here's the problem: I keep re-reading and revising it and thinking, "This is total crap."

And by "total crap" I don't mean pulp fiction that sells millions of copies, all John Grisham like (a fellow who happens to hail from my home state, BTW). I mean "total crap" as in "I might as well join the Fulker County Writers' Society" (FCWS). (The name has been changed to protect the not so innocent).

Of course, if you're not from around here, you have no idea what the FCWS is all about. So let me clarify: if you write sentimental rhyming poetry, you might be a red...*cough*...a member of the FCWS. (A nod to Jeff Foxworthy for providing the lead in to that lame joke).

So I'm writing this stupid pulp fiction novel and beating myself up because it's not good enough. As far as this kind of writing is concerned, I'm thinking, "Plot and characters are your only concern. Don't sweat the cliches; they're short cuts the typical reader needs." But damn it, I want every sentence to be awesome in the way that my friend Kevin Brockmeier's sentences are awesome.

In other words, I secretly want this thing to be literary. Well, not so secretly anymore.

So I go back to baseball, which I'm pretty sure is the metaphorical cipher of the universe. There will always be minor leagues comprised of those players who want to make it into the big leagues and those who just love the game. So maybe I should just accept that I'm a minor leaguer with a passion for the game and keep on batting because, really, I've got nothing to lose, right?

A Shopsin's of My Very Own

noreply@blogger.com (Sans) — Sun, 03 Apr 2011 21:47:00 +0000

Dear Mr. Shopsin,

This letter may be a little long. I apologize for that; I tend to get a little verbose, especially when I think I have something important to say.

I want you to know, before I begin, that I'm sitting in my kitchen, part of which is pictured to the left, composing this letter after having made myself an unconventional brunch inspired by the upcoming Passover week: matzoh ball soup, latkes and bacon. Yeah, I know, which of these things is not like the others?

Several years ago, 2002 in fact, I ran into a New Yorker article about your restaurant...you know...the one written by Calvin Trillin. Two things fascinated me: the crazy menu items (Cotton Picker Gumbo Melt Soup, the Egyptian Burrito, and Mashed Potato Radish Soup, to name a few) and the two photos showing a steampunked warren of a kitchen piled high with nooks and crannies for storing odd-shaped implements, spices, stockpots, and various other sundries. Google was young then, and I couldn't find anything about your strange and mysterious restaurant. I was desperate to find out what went into the making of Indomalekian Sunrise Stew. Or Taco Fried Chicken. I came up empty handed, and so I meant to keep the article. But, as these things usually go, I forgot about it and threw the magazine in the recycling.

For years I could not remember the name of the crazy diner with the curmudgeonly but brilliant short-order cook. Every now and then, I would attempt a Google search, looking for "Greenwich Village" and "restaurants" to no avail. And then, as luck would have it, I was rummaging around in the documentaries on Netflix, looking for a film more edifying than my usual Asian horror flick, when I ran into the title I Like Killing Flies. It seemed like something that might satisfy both my yen (pardon the pun) for violent horror films while somehow educating me at the same time. Then I read the description. "Oh, my God," I said to myself, "I think I've found the holy grail I've been looking for all these years." I hit the "Watch Instantly" button, and there was the diner, in all its greasy, messy glory.

I cried at the end of the movie, yes, partly because Eve died (and I'm so sorry for your loss), but also because of what you said about raising your kids. You see, the week previous I had yelled at one of my classes for not paying attention during a mini-lesson, gave them a pop quiz over the lesson, and put them in a seating chart--as if they were high school students (I teach college writing). I felt like a bitch and couldn't seem to shake the guilt. But then you talked about your philosophy that we're all just assholes who occasionally do good things. I've read a lot of philosophers. I've read a lot of books on Zen Buddhism, meditation, getting organized to relieve the stress of life, etc. basically wasting my time when the person who held the key to the universe was happily busy flipping burgers in Greenwich Village all along. The guilt I felt over being so harsh to my students suddenly lifted: we were all just a bunch of assholes. That was mostly what made me cry.

After watching the documentary, I Googled your name. How fortunate Google has grown up, because the first item in the search results was a link to your cookbook on Amazon. I had to have it. I read it from cover to cover in one day, even reading the instructions for every dish. And I'll be damned if I didn't cry at the end of it, too. And not because of all the onion chopping required by almost every dish that ever appeals to me, either (the onion, is without a doubt, my favorite edible thing in the whole wide world).

The last sentence reads, "On the simplest, most basic level, I have never been happier than I am today." I realized in that moment that I could not say the same thing. That was what made me cry. Weep, actually. Tears, blubbering, the whole nine yards.

If someone were to have asked me a few weeks ago if I liked to cook, I would have said, "I hate it, but I'm very good at it." I realize now that I love to cook; I'm good at it because I not only love it, but I practiced at it pretty hard in the early days of my adulthood. No one puts 100% into practicing something they don't love. The problem is that I have been spending the better part of my eight-hour work day doing stuff that isn't covered in my personal mission statement, so I was coming home mentally, psychically, and physically exhausted, too tired to cook.

Too tired to cook, too tired to concentrate on my teaching and my students, to backpack, to hike, to canoe, to go with my cousin to take her horses for a ride, to write poetry, to read, to work on the novel I conceived of 10 years ago. All because I spent the day updating Web sites and creating Excel spreadsheets.

So I stepped down from some responsibilities, happily watched some other responsibilities come to an end, and vowed not to take on anything that didn't directly tie into doing the things I love. I also re-arranged the kitchen, trying to get everything a person needs to cook as close to the range as possible, which, from the scenes in the documentary, I gleaned is what you try to do in your own kitchen. I decided that a short-order cook probably has better recipes for getting dinner on the table in a hurry than a certain 30-minute celebrity I won't name here. And I started cooking again. I began with your ingenious African Green Curry Soup, using green onions (of course), collard greens, green beans, peas, cabbage, and spinach. So weird: really? peanut butter? and Thai green curry paste? are you sure? But so damn fast, so damn healthy, and so damn good!

I swear I shat green for a week, but I was, and still am, the happiest I've been in a long time. Perhaps even the happiest I've ever been.

With sincerest admiration and gratitude,

Jennifer Deering

And for those of you who read this blog I give you three recipes, none of which comes from Kenny Shopsin. You want his recipes? Buy his book: Eat Me.

Vegetable Stock
This is a great way to use up aging (but not rotten, for crying out loud) veggies.
1 onion
1 carrot
1 sweet tater
1 Idaho tater
As much garlic as you can find in the bottom of your vegetable drawer
3 celery stalks
6 cups of cold water
1 - 2 t. salt
pinches of the dried herbs of your choice (I use herbes de provence)
10 peppercorns
1 T. nutritional yeast
1 T. miso or Bragg Liquid Aminos

Chop your vegetables into large pieces--at least one inch long; quarter the onions. Leave the skins on (unless the onion skin has developed mold). Combine everything except the last two ingredients in a stock pot. Bring it to a boil, then let it simmer until all the vegetables have gone completely soft. Cool, and then strain. Put the vegetables on the compost pile.

Add the nutritional yeast and miso/liquid aminos. Ladle into three-cup containers and freeze for later.

Matzoh Ball Soup
4 eggs, separated
1 cup matzoh meal
1 T. baking powder
2 T. butter or olive oil
as much freshly ground white pepper as you can stand (I recommend going to the Asian store and buying Vietnamese white pepper; it's the best)
a pinch of cayenne
salt to taste (I go for 1 t.)

two carrots, chopped
two stalks celery, chopped
one onion minced
7 c. vegetable stock

Matzoh balls: Whip the egg whites until stiff. Mix the egg yolks with the baking powder, melted butter, pepper, salt, and cayenne. Gently fold into the whites. Add the matzoh meal in small portions, again gently folding it in. Place in the fridge for 1/2 hour. Shape into balls about the size of a ping-pong.

Soup: Saute the mirepoix (that's fancy-schmancy for "all those vegetables the recipe required me to chop") until the vegetables are soft. Bring the broth to a boil, add the vegetables, and deglaze the pan with a little of the broth. Add the matzoh balls, and turn the heat down to simmer for about 15 minutes. Eat.

Latkes
Okay, so I cheat at this. Kenny Shopsin cheats, too: he does not make his own vegetable broth.
1 24 oz. package frozen O'brien potatoes, defrosted (this is the cheat: they already contain onions)
2 eggs
2 egg whites
2/3 c. flour
1 t. baking powder
1 t. garlic powder
1 t. salt
as much freshly ground white pepper as you can stand
olive oil for frying
sour cream or apple sauce

After you've defrosted the potato mixture, put it on top of several layers of paper towels, pull the towels into a ball and squeeze the ball over the sink until you have gotten as much water out of the potatoes as you can.

In a large mixing bowl, beat the eggs until thick (if you replaced the word "eggs" with...nevermind). Add the flour, baking powder, and seasonings. Mix until the flour is fully incorporated. Add the potato mixture. Mix well.

Heat a skillet till it's good and hot. Add olive oil. Swish it around the skillet. Add latke mixture in large spoonfuls and immediately smash with a spatula. You'll know one side of the potato pancake is brown when it can be easily flipped. Brown the other side. Drain on paper towels. Fry in batches, adding oil as necessary.

Eat with sour cream or apple sauce. Or both if you feel like living dangerously.

If you have leftovers, freeze them. Thawed and baked in an oven, they come out pretty good.

Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf 4G

noreply@blogger.com (Sans) — Fri, 25 Mar 2011 20:58:00 +0000

(Note: this was in perfect screenplay format, but you can't do that in HTML without really screwing things up and driving yourself crazy.)

*Four-Letter Word Alert^TM The words are original to the movie. Sorry, Mom.

INT.HOUSE.2:00AM

(MARTHA and GEORGE walk into the living room of their small home, Martha smoking a cigarette. She walks over to the wall and turns on the lights, pulling off her coat, which falls to the floor. George picks up the coat. Martha drags on her cigarette.)

MARTHA

"What a dump."

Martha taps George on the arm as he places her coat over the back of a chair.

MARTHA

"Hey what's that from?"

Martha puts on a pseudo-British accent, waving the cigarette in her hand around as she speaks.

GEORGE

"How would I know."

George walks to the kitchen. Martha follows.

MARTHA

"Oh, come on, what's it from? You know."

Martha drags on the cigarette again as she follows George.

GEORGE

"Martha."

MARTHA

"What's it from, for Chrissake?"

George pushes the kitchen door open as Martha continues to follow him.

GEORGE

"What's what from?"

MARTHA

"I just told you. I just did it. (in a pseudo-British accent) What a dump. Huh? What's that from?"

George opens the refrigerator looking for something to eat.

GEORGE

"I haven't the faintest idea."

Martha pushes George's shoulder moving him out of the way.

MARTHA

"Dumb. Dumb."

Martha begins rummaging in the refrigerator.

MARTHA

"Some damn Bette Davis picture of some goddamn Warner Brothers epic."

George removes his suit jacket and hangs it on the back of a chair.

GEORGE

"If you know that much about it, why don't you just Google it?"

Martha closes the refrigerator door and pulls her cell phone from the pocket of her dress.

MARTHA

"Ha, good idea."

Using her thumbs, she types some words into the keypad.

MARTHA

"Beyond the Forest. Look it's on YouTube!"

George and Martha watch the screen of Martha's cell.

GEORGE

"I remember that movie now."

MARTHA

"Oh, crap!"

GEORGE

"What?"

MARTHA

"I invited that boring couple over for after-party drinks. You know, the math professor and that mousy homefry of his."

GEORGE

"Homefry? You mean the one with no hips?"

MARTHA

"That's the one. "

GEORGE

"He's in biology, not math. I'm too tired for company at this hour. E-mail him at NickD at UES dot edu and tell him the kid has a fever."

Martha giggles.

MARTHA

"Good one! But Nick's new, isn't he? You sure he downloaded the app for the school's e-mail system."

GEORGE

"He was complaining about it at the party. "

Martha thumbs more words into the keypad then sets the phone on the kitchen table and takes a seat. George pours himself a drink and also sits down. Martha puts out her cigarette and then lights another one. The cell intones a single note.

MARTHA

"He says they were thinking of calling it a night, too. Maybe another time."

GEORGE

"Thank God. I'm going to finish this Scotch and turn in."

MARTHA

"Could I have a sip?"

GEORGE

"Sure."

George passes the glass to Martha.

Camera fades to black.

(The End)

I'll Cry [Foul] If I Want To: Etiquette and Social Networking

noreply@blogger.com (Sans) — Thu, 24 Mar 2011 16:51:00 +0000

I really don't have time for this, so I'll make it short. (Just so you know, I've learned the hard way that if inspiration crawls in your lap, you'd better give it a cuddle before it reverts to its old aloof self and reconvenes on its duty to shred your curtains. And, yes, I live with cats.)

I'm on spring break which means I'm cleaning the house as if I were expecting an international delegation. After this week, I'll have only one and a half months to get caught up on grading and finish teaching classes in addition to observing tutors and pre-tutors in the Writing Center. Not a lot of time in the scheme of things, so the house must finally, irrevocably, be in order. I've been rewarding myself for getting things done by peeking at Facebook now and then.

The other night I checked out an exchange between two mutual friends, part of a group that hangs out together, as in face-to-face, fairly frequently. There's a reason: we share the same values, political stance, and profession. We're the loathsome liberals everyone should fear, so naturally, we get along well. Somewhere near the end of the conversation I was following between these two friends, someone I don't know posted a statement I all too immediately recognized as Tea Party drivel, part of their tactics to ensure their voice is heard over all others so that it seems they represent the majority (Look it up on Wikipedia.com, if you don't believe me, or go to one of their sites, if you don't believe Wikipedia. They openly admit it.)

-->Begin slight digression. I get a bit irritated by people who hijack my Facebook wall, no matter the reason. I've had people plan get-togethers I couldn't attend on my wall: "Uh, hello, ever heard of wall-to-wall or e-mail? Because if I can't come, I probably don't want to hear about the fun y'all are going to have without me." I've had friends who fundamentally agree get into arguments over miniscule semantic problems: "Please stop, you're making me sad." I've had others take the topic of conversation into wholly other universes without so much as employing the old Monty Python segue, "And now for something completely different..." with a vaudevillian swing of the elbows from side-to-side. In these cases, I want to ask, "How about posting that on your own status updates? Because you do have your own, you know that, right?"<--End slight digression. But this situation seemed like a hijacking of much more momentous proportions to me, so I commented, "This is what the 'hide,' 'unfriend,' and 'block' features on Facebook are all about." Oh, and I might have said something about censorship being the right of the person who has to read a bunch of crap they don't agree with. (Okay, I was acting a bit of a provocateur myself. I know, you're thinking, "What, Sans? No. Never.") Anyhoo, the Tea Partier then tried to provoke me with some statement along the lines of "You're going to shut me down just because I say something you disagree with instead of engaging me in public debate." Well, he isn't my friend, so I couldn't shut him down. I could, however, ignore him, which is what I did, turning off my computer and turning in for the night. I woke the next day thinking about what had transpired and why this hijack perturbed me more than others I had witnessed (besides the fact the perpetrator was obviously a Tea Party troll).

Not to confuse metaphors, but my Facebook wall is my party--as in a social gathering at my house--not as in a political affiliation. I may have invited you to it; more likely you invited yourself (because I don't often friend people), and I agreed to let you attend. That does not give you the right to get shit-faced drunk, become obnoxious, spill your drink all over my antique furniture (in the form of your political invective), and insult my other friends. If you do that, guess what? I'll ask you to leave because my party is NOT your public forum.

As a matter of fact, I find this whole idea of "just engaging in public debate" disingenuous. When people say that what they really mean is "Here, come closer so I can beat you over the head with my opinion, which I stupidly believe will end in your total agreement with everything I say because my rhetorical prowess is just that good." Uh, no, actually, it isn't. And, besides, we all know I'll agree with you when pigs sprout wings and start offering private international flights at incredibly reduced rates.

The only way this is really going to end is with the cops being called. So why bother going there? If you disagree with something someone says at my, or anyone else's party, why not try to be polite to your host and avoid getting embroiled in a pointless argument that's just going to spoil the mood and break the party up?

If you want to "engage in public debate" either run for office or have a party at your house, on your wall, and I promise I won't attend.

BTW, all comments are moderated because it's my party and I'll moderate it if I want to.

Photo courtesy GarryKnight via Flickr

Crown of Thorns

noreply@blogger.com (Sans) — Sat, 05 Mar 2011 21:53:00 +0000

People around the Interwebz (okay, I exaggerate--this sentence should start, "My Facebook friends"--we haven't made it to LOLCats yet) are squeeing about the thing pictured to the left and calling it "cute."

I call it two things: "Lucky To Be Alive" and "Evil Incarnate."

It's lucky to be alive (technically "it" is a "he," but I'm mad at it right now and refuse to personify it with any dignity) because it chewed three quarters of the way through the power cord of the very netbook I'm typing on right now. Even if the netbook is unplugged, the power cord is ALWAYS plugged in, so I know that must have been quite a shock. I only wish I had been here to witness the ensuing melee because it would have been payback for all the traumas inflicted upon me by this creature everyone calls "cute."

That's just one of the many things its done to risk its life and my sanity, but I'm posting today to discuss its alter ego: Evil Incarnate.

Evil has lots of old tricks--biting my hand when I pick it up, biting my shoulder when I pick it up, biting my toes if they dare peak out of the bed covers. And when I say "bite," I'm not talking about a little love nip, like the kind our other cat occasionally gives. No, I'm talking "this-cat-had-better-have-a-rabies-shot-every-year-or-there's-going-to-be-trouble" biting. It draws blood, in other words. Every time. It's serious about something; I just wish I knew what. I mean, really, what has it got against my toes? Not to mention the fact that I now, unexpectedly, have to buy a new power cord for my netbook, after dropping a huge dime on a digital SLR camera and starter lens.

Evil now has a new trick. Every night I go to bed, Evil creeps up and wraps itself around my head so that its front paws are touching my right ear and, its back paws, my left (I'm a back sleeper). This kitty crown would be convenient because it certainly keeps me warm. There's only one problem: I'm slightly allergic to cats. Having one that close to my nose means I'm going to become congested which, in turn, means that I will need to play a little of what I call "nostril tag."

Begin Tangent--->I can't take pseudoephedrine because I have generalized anxiety disorder, and I don't need to be taking anything that will make me feel the least bit weird. So, I've developed a number of techniques to deal with congestion that don't require medication. "Nostril Tag" is one of them. You know how when your right nostril gets stopped up, you can turn over onto your left side and get a little relief from the congestion until it settles into your left nostril, and then you can turn over on your right side to repeat the process? If you didn't, at least you do now. I have another tricking for relieving congestion altogether, but this tangent is going long, and, BTW, it does not involve acupressure, so if you want to know the technique, leave a comment.)<----End Tangent

Anyhoo, this nighttime tiara of mine induces my allergies, so I need to deploy "Operation Nostril Tag." Except for one problem. Every time I try to turn over, my crown of Evil bites the shit out of my right ear, digs its front claws into my head, and does the bunny hop on my skull with its back claws. If you find that cute, I suggest you Google "BDSM" and "furries" because you're clearly into something I'm not. (And yes, that is my flagrant, and by now generic, attempt at pushing this URL up in the Google rankings; I had to find a way to work it in somehow).

So it looks like Evil will be sleeping alone from now on because, while I've always wanted to be queen, I'm not selling my soul or enduring everlasting punishment for it.

New Year's Resolution Success!

noreply@blogger.com (Sans) — Fri, 18 Feb 2011 07:03:00 +0000

So, yeah, I need to make the typical apology so many lapsed bloggers have to make: "Sorry it's been so long, but I'm back...until I quit again."

The fact is I've finally hit upon a New Year's resolution that I can manage: "I resolve not to work so hard." And when I say "manage" what I mean is "be wildly successful at."

The fruits of my resolve are all around me, piles of paper, books everywhere, dirty floors and rugs, dirty dishes, hairy stuff growing in the fridge. I'm already behind in grading. I've got important documents scattered among three different computers, and there is no telling what file I've placed them in. So it has been a mighty struggle to spend the day watching my cats sleep and perform synchronized grooming.

In fact, I've feel so lazy, I'm going to call this post finished. Maybe next time I logon to Blogger I'll tell you about my spectacular, death-defying fall in the Writing Center. But it'll have to wait because I've already worked too hard.

Better Neighborhoods and MuuMuus, Part Two

noreply@blogger.com (Sans) — Mon, 04 Oct 2010 03:48:00 +0000

So, after last week's bra-and-panty outburst, I got a little payback for being an immodest (but haaaaawwwwt) sinner.

Last Tuesday night, as I was working on a committee project, I heard a scratching noise that sounded like my cat sharpening her claws on one of the logs we've provided her with. I looked behind me to find that she was in the middle of the living room about to bolt in terror. And then I saw the knob of the front door wiggling. Alley hid; I went to tell The Hubs, newly returned from visiting his family in Denmark (the country, y'all), that someone was trying to get into the house.

He went to the door to answer. I went to the bedroom to be on standby with the *cough* "cell phone."

I listened as two men I had yet to see explained that they were our neighbors (living in the house from which the car stereo was blaring while I was trying to take a nap last week during my illness and, therefore, probably exposed to my mostly-naked body when I yelled at them through the wide-open window to "shut the eff up"). They then questioned my husband on when and where he worked, whether he was married, did his wife work, and did he have children. The Hubs can be a word ninja most of the time, but his evasion tactics weren't working too well with these two fellas, probably because he was still jet-lagged and exhausted from his second day back to work.

I smelled a rat, so my hackles were already raised. When the young "proselytizers" insisted that they needed to come into our house sometime to "visit" with us to help us understand why our atheism was a straight ticket to Hell (or more likely, as far as I was concerned, to find out if we had anything worth taking when the two of us were at work), my hackles transformed me into a giant sack of Cerberus. Me, my tail, four legs and three heads went to the door, and flung it open to see two very large and burly rednecks standing in our driveway. But I had transformed into Cerberus (even at 110 lbs. and 5 feet, 3.5 inches, way scarier than a giant redneck). So in a demonic, multi-chordal bass, I snarled, "Can we have your business card, please?" (The royal "we," of course). I looked down to see The Hubs had it in his hand, so I snatched it, said thank you, and slammed the door shut. The Hubs tells me that I had obviously confused and unnerved our fledgling ministers because they took off pretty quick. I didn't wait around to find out because I went to the phone and called the police. The dispatcher, Athena (and just what kind of awesome coincidence is that, Athena the Greek goddess of war and strategy talking to Cerberus, the guard dog who keeps the minions from escaping Hades), agreed with me that the questions were not the usual ones missionaries ask and sent an officer to the house. She asked me to call if they came back before the officer arrived.

I went back inside with the Hubs to take a closer look at the business card. Two corners of it had been whited out, so, we scratched the White-Out off. I couldn't make out the symbol, but the Hubs identified it as the Cadillac insignia, which is trademark (so they're in violation of copyright laws, among other crimes and misdemeanors) and their chosen but covered symbol doesn't exactly speak to the meek inheriting the Earth (but what I do I know; I've read the book, but I'm an atheist and, therefore, couldn't possibly understand it, right?). Then I e-mailed their landlord (didn't think I knew who your landlord was, did you, boys?).

Okay, so no more than three minutes later, these two show back up at their rent house (Did they actually knock on anyone else's door? Maybe they thought I was the only one in the neighborhood in desperate need of bra and panty salvation?). One of them started taking a video of the other talking as he stood in front of the the garage. So I called Athena back to tell her they had returned. She said the officer was en route and should be there any second. He got to our home quickly, but not quick enough for these guys. They had already taken off in the only car parked in their driveway.

So we explained the "sitch" to the officer, and he felt patrols were in order for at least a week. He asked if we wanted him to call or come by if he made contact with the individuals, and I responded that I wanted to know if they were legit and just idiotic or if they had a criminal record (though I really wanted to say, "Hell, yeah, are you kidding?").

I have since found them on Facebook (XII Ministries), and identified the two individuals whose names are given on the card as being those who knocked on our door. Their video hasn't shown up on YouTube yet, but I'll root it out if they ever post it. From the information I've gleaned, they're pretty enthusiastic about preaching "The Word," but not about living by it. I know from watching them a little more closely this past week that they speed, litter, and like to break noise ordinances. I also know that a minister is a teacher. And one of the first things you learn as a teacher is that you have to be a role model. They want to change the world but don't, for a second, see that they need to change, too. They're not even trying; they don't have to because they "know" they're right. I am remiss, sometimes, in my actions as a role model, but at least I try, and, at least, I recognize when I've failed and need to do better, especially when it means I can laugh at myself and my transgressions.

You Move to a Better Neighborhood, and Then I'll Buy a MuuMuu

noreply@blogger.com (Sans) — Sat, 25 Sep 2010 22:08:00 +0000

Modesty is a quality one begins to lose steadily from middle age on; I learned this from my grandmothers.

Case in point. I've got the sick: coughing, runny nose, sneezing, laryngitis, and malaise. The malaise took over this afternoon, so I lay down for a nap (yes, that's the past tense of "to lie down," Google it, and stop arguing). Two hours later, I could have slept for another two hours more except that the new neighbors who, heretofore, have been quiet (but very well lit ALL night long with every bleeding outdoor light shining like 10 suns through my bedroom window), decided to test out their car stereo. I croaked out (I have definitely not reached the sexy phase of laryngitis yet) a few poorly chosen profanities (I'm sick, I don't have much to work with in the brain department). It stopped. I knew this was coincidence because not even my husband one room over could hear me. But I fell back asleep somehow comforted that my bad vibes had drifted off in the direction of my tormentor and had alleviated some of my misery.

About 15 minutes later, it started again. On commercials. This person wasn't even listening to music. They were listening to radio commercials. Or maybe they were waiting for what shall remain on my blog as the unnamed but craze-inducing football game that has had the entire state in a zombie-like mania for "Hawgs" the entire week.

I'm not one to take things lying down, especially when I'm lying down. So, in bra and panties, I Frankensteined my way to the wide open window, not really knowing if the stereo aficionado (and let's face it, in English "aficionado" is really the Italian word for "ass who really annoys other people with her/his obsession") could see me. This time I quacked, "Shut the f*** up!" And, with a flourish, slammed the window down as hard as I could, pull the shade down, drew the curtain, and turned on the fan. I'm middle-aged, I'm sick, and I just don't care anymore. And I figured anyone who saw me couldn't be seeing anything much different than me in my bikini, anyway (again, I'm sick, logic may not be in command here).

At any rate, my point was taken. I'd like to think the stereo has remained silent these two hours because the boys in the neighborhood are eager to show respect to the sexy cougar in 428 (because snot, a four-pack-a-day voice, and bags under a woman's eyes that make her look like Droopy are haaaawwwwt). But I have a feeling the prevailing opinion is "that old lady in 428 is from crazy town! Maybe we need to look for a better neighborhood."

Lack of Inspiration Equals Story and Recipe

noreply@blogger.com (Sans) — Tue, 06 Jul 2010 02:34:00 +0000

Sans's Rules of Inspiration:

When you can write, eat out.
When you can't write, cook.
When you really can't write, write about cooking.

So for the first time in a very long time, I give you a recipe (which is a roundabout way of saying I find myself completely unable to write).

A few weeks ago, I decided to invite my entire Hoosier family over to my mom's house for a cookout. My dad came from a family of 13 children. Ten of his siblings are still alive; ten have or had spouses who still live in central Indiana (which ends up adding 9 more people to the possible guest list). I have 31 first cousins, a half-brother, and a niece. And my mom has a sister and brother-in-law, who also live close to her. I didn't do the math of an open invitation until the morning of said event...and then, typical of my characteristic procrastination, it hit me like a ton of frozen hamburger patties: "Oh, my God, I'm supposed to feed these people!"

To top off the situation, I was feeling incredibly lazy, which is, apparently, a normal part of grieving. When you're in mourning, the smallest effort takes incredible physical and mental energy, yet you're still operating as if you're living under normal circumstances. There's no fever or muscle aches or sneezing or coughing to remind you that things AREN'T normal, so you keep on until you get sucker punched by reality, which happens at extremely inopportune moments.

Like this one.

I'd been craving a pulled pork sandwich from Fat Daddy's of London, Arkansas (actually housed in a gas station on Highway 64 smack dab between the towns of London and Russellville over 600 miles away, thus making takeaway out of the question). I had seen plenty of recipes for the sandwiches and figured nothing could really be easier to make even though I had never attempted making the sandwiches myself. So I jaunted off to the store to buy a pork butt and nearly consigned myself to Kitchen Hell for committing the first cardinal sin of entertaining: Never serve your guests a dish you've never made before.

Ah, well. One should live dangerously every once in a while (especially since, in the Big City, one can always have Chinese delivered).

So I bought a 12-pound pork butt roast (which is actually the shoulder and is also called a "blade roast" in case you find yourself cooking in a part of the country where they call it by a different name as I, myself, did) for $7.00 (yes, seven bucks for 12 pounds o' meat).

I brought the thing home, sat it on the counter, and stared at it, then at the slow cooker.

Then at the roast.

Then at the slow cooker.

Then at the roast.

Then at the slow cooker.

Then the roast.

No feat of human engineering was going to shrink a 12-pound pork butt to fit into a 4-quart pot.

After considering Plans B, C, D, E, and F, I settled on Plan G: cut the roast off the bone into several large pieces, rub them down with spices, sear them on high heat, shuffle them off in a shallow turkey roaster, and set them out (in the roaster) on the grill to cook slowly at 250 degrees for a period of 10 hours...or until the propane ran out, whichever disaster occurred first.

Plan H was Moo Goo Gai Pan, in case you were wondering at what point I intended to abandon all hope.

ASPHYXIATION WARNING: Searing a piece of meat that's been rubbed down with spices can lead to death due to smoke inhalation. Open the windows before attempting the aforementioned technique. (BONUS: if you're trying to get 11 cats out of the house, this is your weapon of choice.)

Before I continue, let's talk barbecue. I could lose a lot of valuable writing time researching the various types. I've decided not to because there are no real facts regarding the issue, only opinion. What I've gleaned about the varieties is this: the Memphis kind is dry. Ribs are rubbed with spices and then slow-cooked in a smoker. The resulting dish is served with your choice of several mostly-tomato-based sauces ranging from sweet and mild to terrifically hot—so hot in some instances that servers are required to prove you can handle the sauce by having you taste it on a French fry before they can legally bring it to your table (and I'm NOT kidding).

Kansas City style is wet. My dad was a connoisseur of this method and generally roasted pork ribs (although in KC, there is a wide range of meats considered appropriate for barbecuing, including something called "burnt ends") in an oven on low heat for a very long time to seal in the juices. He, then, grilled them over high heat on a charcoal grill (frequently done in a pit in KC, as I understand) while he basted them continually in a tomato-and-molasses-based sauce until they were done. It was labor intensive, and since I eschew anything sweet tasting, not exactly to my liking.

The Carolinas have their own style of barbecue. A cut of meat typically labeled as a roast is slow-cooked in its own juices for a long time to break down its toughness (technically, this is braising). It is then "pulled." That is, the cook uses two forks to tear the resulting meat up into a big pile which is then served on buns and topped with a vinegar-and-tomato-based sauce—very heavy on the vinegar.

As the Three Men will tell you, "In Arkansas [where I'm from], the sauces vary. Because the state borders Tennessee, Texas, and several other states, one can find a wide variety of barbecue styles and sauces in Arkansas. Side dishes can include baked beans, coleslaw, and potato chips."

So if you want to sample all the styles, visit me. I can take you to Sim's, where you'll be treated to Kansas City style, Whole Hog Cafe, where you'll enjoy Memphis style, and Fat Daddy's, where the barbecue is strictly Carolina.

Back to the recipe. After looking at the ingredients of several different vinegar-and-tomato-based sauces, I decided to wing it (heck, I'd pretty much been winging it since 7:00 a.m., why change course mid-stream?). I started with 2 cups of cider vinegar (16 ozs. / 1 pint) and 2 cups (16 ozs. / 1 pint) of ketchup, heated over a low burner to thicken.

ASPHYXIATION WARNING: Simmering vinegar and ketchup releases all the acids in both ingredients into the surrounding air, which could easily overwhelm an elephant. Open the windows before attempting this technique or, preferably, wear a gas mask. (BONUS: This will run nearly every living thing out of the house, including cats, humans, earwigs, army ants, and several species of moths. Its effect on chipmunks and raccoons has yet to be established, but I'm working on it.)

As with the spices I mixed for the rub, I just started tasting until I had something akin to Fat Daddy's yet uniquely my own. To make the meal, I put out Kaiser rolls, the sandwich meat, the sauce, and coleslaw in that order, so people could make their own sandwiches. Unfortunately, my Hoosier family had never heard of putting coleslaw on their barbecue. None of my prodding convinced them of the benefits, so it ended up being a side dish. Nevertheless, my uncle proclaimed his as "the best sandwich I ever had!" and added, "You should open a restaurant."

That might require a little more planning than I'm obviously used to as well as a health department inspection I could never pass.

If you try this, just remember to taste, taste, taste, and adjust to your palate.

Pulled Pork Sandwiches

1 12-pound pork butt roast (a.k.a. Boston butt, pork shoulder roast, pork blade roast)
Spice rub, to taste
A small amount of oil with a high smoke point (soy, sunflower, or peanut)
1 large onion, chopped
6 cloves garlic, minced

Sauce

Good quality hamburger or sandwich buns

The best coleslaw you can find or make—just ensure it's not the "runny" kind (more on that another day if my inspiration continues to elude me)

Spice Rub
This is my best guess from memory:

1/4 c Hungarian paprika
2 T chili powder
1 T kosher salt (because pork ain't kosher without it)
1 t cumin
1 t garlic powder
1 t freshly cracked black pepper
1 t powdered cayenne
1/2 t cayenne flakes

Sauce
I'm only sure about the first two ingredients. Otherwise, this is also my best guess from memory.

2 c cider vinegar
2 c ketchup
2 T Grey Poupon^TM mustard
2 T tomato paste
1 T Worcestershire sauce
1 T powdered cayenne
1 t Tobasco ^TM
salt as needed

Pre-heat grill to 250 degrees Fahrenheit. Chop onions; mince garlic. Cut the roast off the bone into pieces that will fit into a shallow roaster when placed on the grill. Pat dry. Rub pieces with spice rub. Sear in skillet on high until browned on all sides. Place pork, onions, and garlic in roaster and slow cook on the grill for 10 hours.

Nine hours in, make your sauce. Mix vinegar and ketchup and bring to a boil, then lower temp to simmer. Add spices to taste. Simmer, uncovered, to the consistency of your choice.

After taking the pork off the grill, remove the mixture and pull apart with two forks. Transfer to a bowl.

Allow guests to assemble sandwiches: top buns with pork, sauce, and coleslaw.

Serving Suggestion: Pinto beans, potato salad, and Diamond Bear Pale Ale.

Photo credit goes to jk5854 via Flickr.

Squeal!

noreply@blogger.com (Sans) — Tue, 29 Jun 2010 22:07:00 +0000

If you want to make me squeal...

First, get your mind out of the gutter.

Second, buy me a Pulse Pen!

"What is a Pulse Pen?" you ask. Well, let me tell you. It's a pen that actually writes, while taking a picture of the writing so you can upload it to your computer. Once uploaded, you can "translate" it to text, use a keyword search to find a place in your notes or journal—or whatever you decide to use the pen to write. You can even share pencasts. Here's my first one:

First Pencast
brought to you by Livescribe

But wait, there's more! While you're writing, you can use the pen to record a lecture you may be taking notes on. The pen then links the notes to the audio so you can go back to parts of the lecture you didn't quite understand. Or, if you wish, you can just use the pen as a voice recorder.

And there's no catch. The handwriting to text software does cost $30 extra. The ink cartridges are a little more than what you'd pay for fountain ink. The special paper can be printed for free (Note to self: Possum tooth broke printer, put new printer on shopping list.). It charges through a USB port. And the interface is as intuitive as a smart phone.

So I think I made a pretty good investment. And I'm still ooohing and ahhing over it.

Public Service Announcement

noreply@blogger.com (Sans) — Tue, 22 Jun 2010 21:05:00 +0000

Orange juice looks a lot like blood in the darkness of 3:00 a.m.
Orange juice poured into a dark vessel...in the dark...is hard to see and, out of obligation to your rotten luck, will overflow.
Orange juice is sticky when it dries, no matter how hard you try to mop it up...in the dark.
Orange juice is not much of a thirst quencher, especially in the dark, when it looks like blood.
You definitely need glasses if the first bleary-eyed sweep of the neighbor's back porch in the full 'sun' of his flood lights does not reveal him sitting there, having a smoke, in a green t-shirt and grey shorts...at 3:00 a.m.
With all that light streaming into the window the neighbor can see you at the sink as you wait for your glass of water to fill, having determined that orange juice, which looks like blood in the dark, doesn't hit the spot.
Your neighbor may be looking directly at you, but he's not looking at your marvelous brain as you stand there in your bra and panties.
There are a multitude of reasons to wear night garments, rather than underwear, to bed: if a fire breaks out, you don't have to dress to get out of the house; if there's a tornado, you don't have to dress to get out of the house; if a train derails and fills the neighborhood with poison gas, you don't have to dress to get out of the house. Last, but not least, if you need a glass of water, you don't have to worry about your neighbor getting his kicks at your expense.

Father's Day

noreply@blogger.com (Sans) — Wed, 16 Jun 2010 03:07:00 +0000

There we all were: nearly everyone in my dad's entire family (he was the 7th of 13 children) sitting in a room that was overflowing with people. One of my "Aunts of the Apocalypse" (referred to from here on out as the "A of the A") asked a family friend, who happens to be a Quaker minister, to officiate.

I gotta say, I love the Quakers. This group of "Friends" gets together to galvanize a movement to oppose every war this country has ever been in with such aplomb they're never accused of being unpatriotic. I've known a lot of them in my life (my mom, most notably), and every one I've met has been kind, unassuming, and truly thoughtful. And this reverend gentleman was no different. He came early, I'm sure, to minister to us; some of my family sorely needed it and spent a lot of time with him. He asked specifically to see me, so I went in all free-thinker, business-like armed with a prayer my dad, class chaplain, had written to give for Thanksgiving , which he and his classmates spent on a bus to Philadelphia on their senior trip, a week to the day of JFK's assassination and my mom's birthday, which has put a major damper on that celebration ever since. My mom, both my dad's classmate and his girlfriend, was nervous for him, a fact she carefully documented on a Post-It note affixed to the copy she sent me. I brought the prayer because I thought the minister could use some of it in his service. He looked at me, smiled, and said, "Would you read it for me? My eye sight is very bad." That was the extent of our conversation, and when it was over, I realized something very important: he knew exactly what I needed. I got ministered to, even though I was attempting to avoid it, with a very gracious and graceful twist.

So, I said my piece (and made my peace) and then the minister did his part. It was so different from the last funeral I attended. No hellfire. No brimstone. Just love.

The poor guy only made one mistake.

In typical Quaker participatory fashion, he asked us if anyone would like to share a memory of my dad.

You could have heard a toothpick drop on the carpet.

Dead silence.

And I knew, just as well as everyone else, why no one was saying anything. Here's a Quaker minister asking us to share memories of Dad, who most certainly was NOT a Quaker. I can't remember exactly the list of things Quakers don't do, but I'm pretty sure it includes (besides fighting) drinking, gambling, smoking, dancing, and cursing. All things my dad LOVED (except for fighting—he definitely didn't like fighting or seeing people in fights).

The first remembrance that popped into my little head was an evening we spent at a restaurant in the town where I was born. We had arranged to have dinner with one of my dad's brothers and his wife and a sister and her husband. I ordered us a bottle of wine, which might have turned into two, and before I could realize it, Dad was three sheets to the wind.

It was time to get him home.

He happily turned over the keys to my mom, and like a little kid returning home from a day at the state fair, crawled into the back seat and half laid down.

But there's some back story you need to know before I get to the punchline.

I had successfully secured my cousin Wanda Lee's (and you know she's on my mom's side of the family because she's got that Southern two-name thing going on) recipe for chicken and dumplings and had brought it with me so my mom and I could work through it and figure out all its deep, delicious secrets. Mom showed me some things the recipe didn't reveal (DON'T, whatever you do, overwork the dough—you'll get tough dumplings). And then we argued over something else that wasn't in the instructions but that Wanda Lee had been very adamant about when explaining the procedure to me: roll the dough as thin as you can get it. I reasoned that Wanda Lee's measurements were different from the ones Mom had used, so I won and we rolled the dough thin. Well, when we dropped the dumplings into the stock we had made they turned into these marvelous little pockets of air, flour, and water. I swear you could have lain your head down on them and taken a nap, they were that pillowy.

Dad had already eaten the night we made them, so we warmed enough to feed the three of us the next night, leaving the cold dumplings on the back burner. We served ourselves and sat down at the table to eat. Dad took one bite, and I looked over at him to see how marvelous he thought our creation was only to find that he had the strangest expression I'd ever seen—like all of his teeth were about to fall out of his mouth. I was a little bit nonplussed, to say the least. Mom and I slaved and argued over the stupid dish for hours, and I thought it turned out pretty darned good. But here's my dad looking like he's about to spew. So I asked him, "What's wrong?" I can't remember his response. I know he tried being polite...something along the lines of "I don't know...maybe I'm just not hungry." As he was explaining, I looked over at the stove and saw that the lid to the cold dumplings was off, sitting to the side. I exclaimed, "Dad, you're eating the cold ones. The hot ones are on the front burner." So crisis averted. He ate the hot dumplings, had seconds, and agreed we'd done a good job.

Flash forward to our drive home from the restaurant. Dad was about as happy as I've ever seen anyone in my life. So happy, he started singing: Elvis, Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin.

And then he segued into a blues song written by a fellow named Clarence Williams that's been covered by a lot of famous musicians: Hank Williams Sr. and Jr., Ricky Nelson, Van Morrison, Robert Plant and Jimmy Page, and Dwight Yoakam, to name a few. The refrain goes like this:

My bucket's got a hole in it.
My bucket's got a hole in it.
My bucket's got a hole in it.
Can't buy no beer.

Except this was the only part of the song my inebriated dad could remember, so he kept singing it over and over.

I guess, for variety's sake, he decided to throw in an improvisation:

My bucket's got a hole in it.
My bucket's got a hole in it.
Cold dumplings put a hole in it.
Can't buy no beer.

Now, you have to understand there's a little known fact about my mom that makes this story precious. She has the most infectious laugh I've ever encountered, and if I could achieve that effect on other people, I'd consider it a greater achievement than earning a Ph.D. Being privy, I looked at her sideways to see if the improvised line had actually registered in her brain. She was grinning, so it obviously had. And then we both looked at each other full on and busted up laughing to the point of tears. I kept thinking, "Gosh, maybe we should pull over," but there was no traffic on the road to home, so we just kept laughing and Dad just kept singing.

That was one of the best nights I've ever spent with my parents. And I remember it fondly.

I'll also remember chatting with my dad online every Saturday night; sending him pictures of the places my husband and I visited by canoe or by foot; sitting outside my childhood home by the fire pit I bought because I just wanted to get away from all the cigarette smoke in the house, counting satellites and shooting stars; trying to learn to play euchre; Dad playing his banjo; all the silly nicknames he had for me (Juniper, Jennipoo, Buddy, and, on a few occasions, Asshole), and a million other things.

I left him with a star map, some pictures of all of us, a desert rose from Arizona, a "love rock" from the Buffalo River in Arkansas, and his last pack of cigarettes. I hope that's enough to get him where he's going. And I'm so sorry, Reverend, that we saved our stories until you were gone because there were some awfully good ones, and there's no doubt in my mind you wouldn't have judged my dad's life any differently had you heard them. Thank you for your kindness and generosity.

And thank you, Dad, for being you. So many people miss you, I can't begin to enumerate.

Rant: Wherin I Link the Rubik's Cube, Deconstruction, the Palm Prē, and Word 2007

noreply@blogger.com (Sans) — Tue, 27 Apr 2010 12:29:00 +0000

F-Bomb Alert^TM: This post contains foul language.
This-Goes-Long Alert^TM: This post goes on forever.

I have a student this semester who has what I consider to be a rather exotic and unusual hobby: he's solving the Rubik's Cube. If this were the early 80's, when everyone had a Cube—whether it was a miniature on a key chain or some variant in another three-dimensional shape—this wouldn't be so out of the ordinary. And I can tell this is not some kind of resurgent fad because it's obvious, from the wear and tear, that he got his puzzle second hand. I want to ask him all kinds of questions about it: "What possessed you to take over this object? Did you know it was a puzzle when you saw it? How long did it take you to solve it? Why is it so important to remember the solution and repeat it ad infinitum? Did you pay for the Cube or inherit it?"

At any rate, this got me to thinking about deconstruction, which in turn got me to thinking about all that is so wrong with Word 2007.

I know, I know: "Sans, that's quite a leap." Not exactly. I'm reading Jacques Derrida's Of Grammatology at the same time I'm struggling to design my university's strategic planning document as part of the writing team that tries to craft it so it represents all our ideas—students, faculty, staff, administrators, and community—which is no short order. This morning I was about to fling my laptop across the room as I lost the changes I had made to the current version three times. THREE. At that point, there's nothing else one can do but turn to deconstruction for some kind of solace. It's like the Bible for the intellectual BDSM crowd (flagrant attempt to garner random search hits—you don't have to be here, you know).

When I taught for the Honors College, my courses asked students to don a rhetorical robe. Deconstruction happens to be an important movement within modern rhetoric. In fact, I consider it to be the reinvention of ancient Greek Sophistic rhetoric, which, in my mind, makes it extremely important, even if most others have abandoned it. On the first day that I went over deconstruction with my Honors students, I demonstrated it, simply, by taking apart and then solving a Japanese puzzle box. The thing about a puzzle box that fascinates me, and that I think perfectly (though perhaps a little facilely—good luck pronouncing that word) demonstrates deconstruction is that, unlike other types of puzzles (jigsaws, for example), the Japanese puzzle box always comes as a whole, never in pieces. With deconstruction, one takes something that is constructed, breaks it down, and then reconstructs it in a different way of seeing the thing as the thing itself (I can't believe I just said "the thing itself," but that's what the end of the semester does to a person). If it were in pieces to begin with (or, as in a jigsaw, without a picture to work from), putting it back together would be one hell of an enterprise. You might as well hire a million monkeys. It would, also, not be quite as useful because you would have never seen the thing prior to its destruction-before-reconstruction in the process.

Of course, if it were as simple as taking something apart and putting it back together, everyone would still be doing The Deconstruction Hustle. So after performing my trick on the puzzle box, I added an extra layer to my demonstration by then working on a Japanese take-apart puzzle crafted in the shape of a ship (I guess you could say it's "shipshape"). And this is where the metaphor comes in. Varied metaphors are at the heart of deconstruction. The metaphor (anything from "He's an ass" to "That dog don't hunt") is a way of complementing understanding by comparing two "similar" things. But it's also a way of saying that something is what it isn't and is not what it is, which has, not exactly the opposite effect, because nothing in deconstruction is black and white, but rather a kind of palliative effect: it helps us forget what we don't want to remember: (yeah, I know another big leap, Sans) DEATH.

In the case of the take-apart puzzle, the shape represents something that the thing (in itself) actually isn't. It's a puzzle. Not a ship. But it looks like a ship, somehow, even though it isn't made of the same materials and is quite small in comparison. Language, writing in particular, gives us the capacity to recognize the signifier (the puzzle in the shape of a ship) for the signified (the ship). At any rate, Derrida, like many before him, believed that the gift of language made metaphorical thinking possible. But he took the idea two steps further: 1) he said that writing was the mother of all metaphorical thought, and 2) he didn't just write about what he thought—he thought it as he thought, and, in that way, he gave us something to think about. Which is just another way of saying that deconstruction is like the Bible for the intellectual BDSM crowd (remember, you don't have to be here) and sounds like a really lame joke, but it's not a joke, so I'll translate and explain that huge leap:

writing is thought and thought is "represented" (is drafted repeatedly) over a period of time,
our ability to write puts everything we experience into the past tense immediately,
writing both represents and is reality,
writing pays homage to the distance between us of both time and space and is, therefore, a way to acknowledge our death at the same time that it denies it (I will write these words so that when I'm no longer around I can still be here).

As complex as that statement is it's still too simple because Derrida was a master of choosing metaphors that will make your brain hurt.

In Of Grammatology, the pain is caused by the metaphor of the "exergue" (Windows doesn't even recognize this as a word—that's just how obscure it is). In order to wrap my head around this metaphor, I have to keep a penny taped inside the front cover of the book. An exergue is the space around the pictures and designs of a coin—often where the mint, date, etc., are stamped (I know because I looked it up). It sounds simple, but take a look at any coin, and it starts to get a lot more complicated, real quick. The pictures and designs have all kinds of nooks and crannies. So the question is when are the nooks and crannies part of the design? And when are they part of the exergue? And, boom, there's you're complicated, don't-you-dare-take-this-for-granted metaphor.

When my headache becomes migrainous (geez, another "word Word don't know"), I put the book down and palm my Palm Prē. Now here's a company that understands the power of a very simple metaphor. This device fits in my palm. It has this interesting technology that allows me to pull out several applications at once so I can flip through them at will. Each application I pull out becomes what the company refers to as a "card," which I can hold in my hand as if I were playing poker. As a matter of fact, the Prē has an automatic "five-card draw" known as the "quick launch." Every time I open my Prē, five cards are immediately available to me: my phone, my contacts, my calendar, my e-mail, and the launcher where I can access all my other applications. To learn to use it, seriously, all I needed was a small pamphlet. No 800+-page DOS manual.

That's what I call a royal flush.

Elegant.

Supreme.

Microsoft, on the other hand, is not that kind of company. They are a bunch of Svejks. I can't decide if they're patent idiots who mess things up because they don't know any better or demonic geniuses who work 24/7 to figure out ways to make us pay more, more, more for products that do less, less, less.

At any rate, they decided to change the damn metaphor of only one, ONE, of their suite of Office programs, thereby making life harder for the other 6 billion inhabitants of Earth, minus the few Svejks who work for them. And for this reason, I think there should be a "stupid tax," a tax which would pay for everyone's health care forever, no need for debate, because it would be mostly at Microsoft's expense since they are way ahead of the stupid curve.

I refer to...as if you weren't expecting it...Word 2007. Prior to its advent we had toolbars and toolboxes. I liked that. It made me feel like I was grabbing my hammer and chisel to carve out some wicked-ass prose. But now we have "The Ribbon."

The "Ribbon."

What. the. ffffuuuck?

You tie a damn ribbon. At most you type on a damn ribbon. There isn't much else you can do with a stupid strip of fabric.

Are you kidding me?

Try finding the functions you're familiar with. Like "Find and Replace" which used to be under "Edit" (gone, vanished, kaput, and not mostly dead but positively dead), and which is now under the Home "tab." I get ribbons and tabs—we're talking cute little accouterments added to clothing here. Okay, fine. But how does "Find and Replace" fit with bold and italics? Am I searching around for my lost needle (if so, it's in a haystack) while I try to bejewel my latest corset? And, while we're on the subject of corsets, who sews these days and, thus, will get the metaphor, anyhow? Also, I still haven't figured out how one is supposed to configure bullets and numbering manually. When one right-clicks on a bullet list, one gets to choose...a bullet shape. In the old days, one was given the opportunity to determine bullet shape, tab spacing, type of list, etc. upon right-clicking. Um, could I be respected enough to have some control over my document? Don't even get me started on what tracking changes and comments will do to the poor processor or the fact that the "Ribbon" is not customizable.

A beautiful metaphor, whether complex or simple, fits. In rhetoric and ancient Greek, that's known as kairos. Derrida purposely complicates metaphors; they're still fitting. Palm purposely simplifies metaphors; they're still fitting.

The ribbon metaphor is like the prom dress I wore in high school: I may be able to zip it up, but it's going to look really wrong in all the really right places (and women, you know what I'm talkin' about) as well as making me a really uncomfortable person to hang out with. And Microsoft really ought to be feeling like an 80's prom queen at her 25th reunion wearing her old prom dress. Really.

Because the dress don't fit. And I shouldn't need a 1200-page online to make it so.

TMI

noreply@blogger.com (Sans) — Sun, 25 Apr 2010 19:48:00 +0000

It's official. I have an obsession with social media.

I know what you're thinking: "You? No. Really? You micro-blogged all the way from Little Rock to Lake Charles and back, and you think you might be obsessed with social media? You solipsistic little moron." And you would not be remiss in calling me a moron. Or solipsistic, for that matter.

The fact is I don't really know how I got sucked into the vortex that is social networking. I started blogging back in 2004—about two months before Meriam-Webster declared "blog" The Word of the Year. I had read an article about the phenomenon in The New York Times, liked the idea, and decided to give it the old college try. Since my defunct Web site was sitting over at Tripod doing nothing (I had used it to post my course materials back in 2001—before my university gave us WebCT), I dusted it off, converted it, and Viola, I've been keeping up with it, off and on, ever since. In fact, you can still view the old one at http://tripod.sanslenom.com.

A few years later, my students talked me into registering with Facebook back in the days when you had to have a university e-mail address to use it. I really didn't "get" it and rarely logged in. Then, my colleagues started friending me, the status updates got more mature (or immature, depending on how dim your view of our silly puns, double entendres, purposeful malapropisms) therefore, more interesting, and I was hooked. And I know what you're thinking: "Is it time to call an intervention?"

Things might have been just fine had they stopped there. But, oh, no, Twitter just had to come along. Again, I was an early adopter who mostly just logged in, stared at the screen, wondered how in the heck this thing worked, hit the side of my monitor a couple times to see if that would do anything, and then logged back out. It wasn't until I understood that Twitter was a combination of Facebook status updates and blogging (in 140 characters or less) but with total strangers and that I had to start collecting total strangers to follow me in order to maximize my potential that I "got" it. And, now, you can't shut me up. To make matters worse, I figured out how to connect Twitter to Facebook, bought a smart phone, and have started tweeting from everywhere.

-->Begin slight digression: You know how far things have come when Windows no longer underscores "tweeting" with a red squiggly line.<--End slight digression.

My heart skips a beat every time the phone tells me something has come through e-mail or these other two social media. And maybe that's the source of my obsession. I just know that the more I post, the more other people comment, write on my wall, retweet, or reply. It's a lot like the pen pals I had when I was growing up—if I wanted a letter, I had to send one—and how dearly I wanted to get letters. There was something so much more powerful about the written word over the spoken one. And I got really good at keeping lists of things I could write about in my next letter. I was probably just as exhausting a pen pal as I am a Facebook Friend or Twitter Follow.

However, everyone has a limit. I just read an article about Foursquare posted by one of my tweeple, jeanlucr (yes, I'm now so obsessed that I read about my obsession and use lame words like "tweeple"). And I realized that this is the "game" another one of my tweeple is "playing" when he says, "I just became the mayor of Palm Beach!" Well, I couldn't pass up this opportunity, right? No way! So I went over to Foursquare.com and got an account, mainly to see if any of my Facebook friends or tweeple from Conwag are on it (uh, that would be no), poked at it a little to see if it would move, and thought about the implications: "Wow, this social network uses the location services of my smart phone to tell people where I am so we can arrange chance meetings! The more I post about where I am in Conwag, the more points I could get! Even possibly becoming honorary mayor!" I, then, remembered squealing out loud as I was speeding down a rather busy freeway when my Palm Prē notified me I had just crossed state and time lines and that it had adjusted itself accordingly. I'll admit I was Gollum with My Precious (hmmm, maybe that's where they picked up the name?) when I first got the thing.

And don't get me wrong. I still loves it.

But the idea of me metaphorically stalking myself all around Conwag and proclaiming myself its mayor plunges from mere solipsism to downright perversity, possibly even psychosis, but maybe I'm being paranoid...or grandiose?

At any rate, the bigger problem is that it does, in fact, give someone, not that anyone would want to, ample opportunity to literally stalk me—albeit, they would be stalkers of my own choosing and whom I've carefully instructed on how to find my exact location from My Prec...the phone that is constantly tracking me.

Still, I can see this quickly going awry: "Hey, I'm out on the walking trail at Bell Slough all by myself—all 103 pounds of me. Meet me at the photo blind! And while we're at it, here is my latitude and longitude, within 25 feet. Really enjoying the sunshine, solitude, and beautiful scenery, which, by the way, is also a great place to dump a body."

No, this is too much information. Information I obviously can't be trusted with (note to self: don't mention current location in blog). So I think I'll stay off the Foursquare bandwagon.

Well, you know, until all this social networking makes me even more moronic than I already am.