nonpretentious

To Pee: Door open, Door shut

Shirley Anne — Fri, 30 Jul 2010 19:01:33 +0000

Hi, I’m Shirley Anne and I’m here to write about sex. Well, I may write other things, but mostly I’m here to write about sex. Therefore, if you’re under the age of 18, this post is not for you. If you do read it, well, I disclaim any responsibility for your corruption. P.S. Remember, Shirley Anne says, “Never leave home without condoms.”

Guys, if you are spending the night (or, some part of the night) with your girlfriend, date, or one night stand, you’re going to have to pee at some point.

While peeing is natural, I should clarify: I’m talking specifically about the after-sex-pee, not the pre-sex-chit-chat-pee you take while you’re watching tv and pondering how you’ll make your move.

Anyway, most of you will head to the bathroom after the romp and pee, which you should always do after sex (it’s healthy). But many of you will head in there like you just conquered the universe, claimed it with your penis, and start peeing with the door wide open! Look at you, marking your territory! That romp better have been amazing for you to feel that good about yourself.

The question is, should you pee with the door open after sex?

I have some thoughts on it. First, if you are a one night stand, shut the door while you pee. Don’t think just because you managed to make us shake and erupt (hopefully) that you own the place. You’re there for the night and you’re leaving. We want to remember that eruption, not the way your hairy asses looked heading to the bathroom nor the noises that came out of you while you peed (the hairy ass is hard enough to push out of our minds, but it’s manageable because you head to the loo while we are still distracted from the recent orgasm–or we’re too angry to notice your hairy ass because we didn’t have an orgasm). Also, you might want to curb those noises as a general rule, fyi. Oh, and if you forget to shut the door, and remember mid stream: don’t rush back to close it and dribble your pee around our bathrooms. Just finish up at that point.

If you are dating someone but it’s not official, you should shut the door UNTIL you know she’s cool with it. How will you know? If she stops shutting it, you can too. Or, ask her. But pay attention to the way she answers. If she’s hesitant, shut the door. If it’s a quick and definite “of course,” go for it.

If it’s a girlfriend/boyfriend, shut it sometimes. The problem with relationships is that sometimes people become so comfortable that they pee in front of each other, fart, and unbutton their pants when they eat too much. That’s a great feeling! Until it gets nasty. If you want your relationship to feel closer to new than finished, don’t get too comfortable. Yeah, leave it open, make your bodily noises, etc. But sometimes act as it you still have to earn each other’s desire.

That said, I gotta pee.

Love always,
Shirley Anne

This Week’s Recommended Reading

nonpretentious — Fri, 30 Jul 2010 16:00:51 +0000

We read a lot. Here’s what we think you should be reading this week.

The Afghan War Diary (AWD) from Wikileaks
You probably already know about Wikileaks, and may have a strong opinion about what they do. Whatever that opinion may be, this shit just got real with the largest leak of top secret war documents since the infamous Vietnam leak, a.k.a. The Pentagon Papers.

Exercising While Intoxicated
We bet you were one of those arrogant hoity-toities who thought it was impossible to drink 13 beers and run the San Francisco marathon. Well, this guy made you look pretty stupid, didn’t he? And then he made you look smart again, as he puked, stumbled, and blacked out across the finish line during his shockingly innovative endeavor.

Lapham’s Quarterly
We subscribe, and you should, too, but if not, please do not let this site slip under your radar. It’s tagline is, “A magazine of history and ideas.” Boom! You’re smarter and cooler. Go out there pick that hottie next to you with your amazing knowledge of history and ideas. At’ta boy/girl!

Second Student Sues School District Over Webcam Spying
Yes, that is where we went to high school. At least, Melissa and Kim.

(500) Days of Weezy
(h/t to The Awl for pointing this out to us.)
Who doesn’t love Lil’ Weezy? Well actually, a few of us here at nonpretentious can’t stand him. Nonetheless a few us also like ladycops. Let’s just call it a fascination with Weezy, he is gangsta after all and so are we. But don’t get us wrong, we will snitch on his ass, we ain’t going to the pen for nobody.

Matt Erickson’s Top 100 Songs 65 – 61

Matt Erickson — Thu, 29 Jul 2010 16:04:54 +0000

65. Head East Never Been Any Reason

’70s hangover raunch rock meets flowing-robes-and-lasers keyboard wanking. Imagine if Rick Wakeman joined Humble Pie. Then they wrote a song about a woman with “sweet lovin’” better than cocaine. It shouldn’t just not work – it should be a disaster – but thanks to a cowbell, near-”Born to Run“-level energy, and a hall of fame chorus (it’s the one that goes, “save my life / I’m goin’ down for the last time!”), it’s the 1975 anthem that is satisfyingly of-its-time. Plus, I think everyone in the band gets a turn singing. I don’t know much about Head East, other than that they should defeat Go West in the first round of the greatest one-hit-wonders bracket. Anyone heard the rest of the album? From Flat as a Pancake (1975). (Downloads from 20th Century Masters: The Millennium Collection: Best Of Head East)

64. The Chameleons UK Second Skin

allmusic.com says it’s “widely touted as ‘the best song Julian Cope never wrote.’” While that isn’t true (it’s actually the 64th best song he never wrote), it is better than anything he did write. And while his band quickly imploded, The Chameleons would go on to become the best band there ever was. From Script of the Bridge (1983).

63. Big Star The Ballad of El Goodo

I bought this because the critics told me to, and at first I thought they were overrated except for this song (which also made me fear I’d bought a Christian rock record). Then over the next two months, 19 of the 24 songs on #1 Record/Radio City took turns being my favorite (pretty and slightly off-kilter 3-minute pop songs, sung with stomachfuls of regret, thoroughly ignored by FM radio, who was busy playing BTO). Then I bought Third/Sister Lovers and began to prefer that album’s shattered beauty. But nowadays, this is the one I want to hear most of all. Put it on a mix following a dark & stormy song, then just listen to the first ringing guitar chords cut through the silent wake. So I did have it right the first time. From #1 Record (1972).

62. Guns ‘n’ Roses November Rain

I just re-watched the video and the death of Axl’s wife remains unsolved (although I like Wayne Campbell’s plea for a sequel to the video, “December Slush,” where Axl’s wife gets crushed by a huge hail nugget). Personally, I think Kurt Cobain did it. In retrospect, this song was the last grand statement of hair-rock, the monster ballad that mourns the end of monster ballads. I remember when I woke up one morning in 1991 and everything on rock radio sounded different, and what was cool was something completely new, and what had been cool the day before suddenly became the furthest thing from cool. “November Rain” is that era’s epitaph – what “All Apologies” would be just three years later. From Use Your Illusion I (1991).

61. Queensryche Silent Lucidity

OK, don’t laugh at the title before hearing the song, like some certain friend of mine. This is dead serious: the song includes robot-narrated instructions for lucid dreaming:

“[Visualize your dream]
[Record it in the present tense]
[Put it into a permanent form]
[If you persist in your efforts]
[You can achieve dream control]”

I tried this for a week in 2008. Of course, I didn’t have a job. Writing down your dreams takes 45 minutes or more, and you have to do it right when you wake up or it quickly evaporates. Once you start to remember it, you realize how many details you remember, and it gets out of hand. Queensryche probably has the luxury of doing this; they start work at 11:00 at night. On the other hand, I soon got a job, which made me forget my dreams.

By the way this song is one of the best CD-mix-closers ever. If “November Rain” is the “Stairway to Heaven” of ’80s hair rock, this is its “Comfortably Numb.” From Empire (1990).

Honorable Mention:
Big Star Kangaroo

The other, later Big Star, when Alex Chilton wrote some great pop songs then smashed them to pieces. This is the post-industrial wreckage of their old love songs, a misshapen bag-o’-glass and guitar strings, with caterwauling shards of melody spinning out like shrapnel, refracted through a smoggy haze that slowly pulls itself forward like a post-leg-amputation Terminator. It’s fucking beautiful. From Third/Sister Lovers (1975).

List so far ~

100. Elton John ~ Funeral for a Friend
99. Dave Schramm ~ Hammer and Nails
98. The Bob Seger System ~ 2 + 2 = ?
97. The Young Generation ~ The Hideaway
96. Le Pastie de la Bourgeoisie ~ Belle and Sebastian
95. The Cars ~ Drive
94. Moose ~ The Only Man in Town
93. Wire ~ French Film Blurred
92. King Crimson ~ Starless
91. The Only Ones ~ The Whole of the Law
90. Daniel Johnston ~ Grievances
89. The Rolling Stones ~ Rocks Off
88. Wipers ~ Youth of America
87. Heart ~ Alone
86. The Stone Roses ~ Sugar Spun Sister
85. Joe Pernice ~ Bum Leg
84. My Bloody Valentine ~ To Here Knows When
83. Gene Clark ~ Some Misunderstanding
82. Electric Light Orchestra ~ Can’t Get it Out of my Head
81. Ride ~ Vapour Trail
80. Rush ~ 2112
79. Pere Ubu ~ Final Solution
78. Gary Wright ~ Dream Weaver
77. John Hiatt ~ Cry Love
76. The Go-Betweens ~ Clouds
75. Asia ~ Only Time Will Tell
74. The House of Love ~ Man to Child
73. Talk Talk ~ After the Flood
72. Seal ~ Prayer for the Dying
71. Brian Eno ~ Spider and I
70. Red House Painters ~ Mistress
69. Boy Meets Girl ~ Waiting for a Star to Fall
68. Metallica ~ Fade to Black
67. Chris Bell ~ Speed of Sound
66. The Soft Boys ~ Queen of Eyes
65. Head East ~ Never Been Any Reason
64. The Chameleons UK ~ Second Skin
63. Big Star ~ The Ballad of El Goodo
62. Guns ‘n’ Roses ~ November Rain
61. Queensryche ~ Silent Lucidity

Honorable Mentions
Laura Cantrell ~ Hammer and Nails
King Missile ~ Sensitive Artist
Eric Carmen ~ Make Me Lose Control
Bone Thugs-n-Harmony ~ Tha Crossroads
Coldplay ~ Speed of Sound
Big Star ~ Kangaroo

I Touch Their Poo: Morning Person

Justin Klugh — Thu, 29 Jul 2010 14:29:21 +0000

I used to wonder how adults could get so much done in 24 hours. I used to wonder this from a sauce-stained recliner, half-conscious, with an Xbox controller falling out of my hand. ”Movement” in general seemed like a bit of a reach. To do it with a purpose outside of “Please reconnect controller to your Xbox console” seemed like an overzealous romp into the unknown realm of the productive.

of course, one is apt to be more useful than a corpse when their self preservation, rather than just the early afternoon of a given summer’s day, is on the line. When I see my name signed on for an 8 am dog walk, it used to be met by an unsettling wave of dread as I realized I’d already stayed up until 3:30 playing “The Last Stand 2.”

"IF I DON'T DO THIS THE ZOMBIES WIN," I explained to my furious landlord.

Sooner or later, you’ve got to decide what’s more important: Getting to work on time, or SAVING THE DAMN WORLD FROM WAVE AFTER WAVE OF THE UNDEAD.

Inevitably, I learned that until the real ones come (and they are coming), work trumps zombies. There’s no way to explain why you are late to your boss using the phrase “zombie apocalypse” without someone demanding that you contact a therapist and possibly a sleep specialist.

That’s how adults get things done. They are up in time to correctly utilize the words “Good morning,” without some jokey “What do you mean morning?” response. Ha, ha. We get it. ”Time of day” humor is always at its richest when applied to real world situations. You are a legend of comedy, sir.

"I also have jokes about the weather and sports teams!"

The first time I woke up to walk Jimbo and Miley I trundled down a few blocks in gym shorts, flip flops, and crescendoing rage, doused in a decent layer of sweat and “morning smells” (Not having to adhere to human standards of appearance is a welcome, welcome perk of the profession). It did not go well. I dropped their food. I accidentally turned on the TV. I set off the burglar alarm. In the business, we call this “fucking bullshit.”

The actual stroll was a stumble through the sizzling pits of hell. We baked like turds in the sun and my temperament was not ideal for a survival situation. My goal became to crawl back to the homestead with living creatures still at either end of the leashes.

But, as time went on, I appreciated these walks more and more. They got me out of bed at a reasonablehour and made sure there was still a chunk of the day left, even when my responsibilities were complete. No more “Sorry, we’re closed,” or “We stopped serving breakfast,” or “Happy Hour ended three hours ago; your beers are $9 each again.”

This is coming from someone who only had experience with the darkest portions of the morning, when websites are conducting maintenance and the crackheads outside my window are harmonizing nicely on that song they just composed about chasing the moon through a hedge maze.

Now, mornings aren’t just the purgatorial midpoint of unconsciousness. They’re the energetic–sort of–hatchling of promise. I could start the next great American novel today (I won’t), or find a job (I wish), or suffer a debilitating injury that turns me into a superhero (Doesn’t happen in real life).

Though its safe to say NOBODY tells Optimus Prime when he can eat his waffles.

I just say this because there’s plenty of people reading this who still think mornings are for suckers. But I’m telling you: Frozen waffles are so much better when you eat them at the same time of day as the people on the box. Being up early has a sense of self-satisfaction that I usually get when I’m buying produce or repeating some intelligent thing ver batim that I read on the internet a few hours ago. There’s always that chance that maybe today will be the day I do all 90 things I assumed I could fit into a single Wednesday.

Like any ritual, or toe fungus, it grows on you.

The trick is to not let your newfound satisfaction throw you off your game. That’s exactly what the zombies are waiting for.

Cover // Original Verdict: Goodbye Girl

Melissa Sachs — Wed, 28 Jul 2010 01:40:51 +0000

To remind you, a few weeks ago I presented this cover versus original debate for “Goodbye Girl.”

The cover by James Mercer of the Shins for Levi’s Pioneer Sessions (email address required for download)

Or, the original by Squeeze.

When it comes to cover songs, it’s kinda perfect that the Shins covered Squeeze’s “Goodbye Girl.” At least, for me.

You see, contrary to popular opinion (read: what my sister thinks), I didn’t always have what some may call ‘pretentious’ taste in music (read: how my sister describes it). In middle school, I loved Boyz II Men and Ace of Base. In high school, I followed the trends and listened to classic rock, 80s pop, jam bands, and the Fugees. I loved the Fugees. Heck, I still love the Fugees. But while I’m on the subject of my (cringe-worthy) high school listening habits, I may as well admit that I’ll probably die knowing all the words to the Indigo Girls‘s greatest hits (thanks to my summers at an all-girls camp), the Rent soundtrack, and the Rocky Horror Picture Show soundtrack.

After high school, my taste in music changed almost as predictably as my political outlook and almost as frequently as my declared major. Throughout my college years, I tried out 20s bebop, 90s indie rock, 70s punk, Motown, and all types of singer-songwriter. Eventually, I figured out what I liked in each genre. I started to have preferences and pick favorites. Words like ‘jangly,’ ‘twee,’ and ‘bubblegum pop’ entered my vocabulary as I searched for things that sounded like the Kinks or The Shirelles.

Which is how I came to know The Shins, whose music is definitely “in the style of” that I described above.¹ One of my favorite mixes that I ever made features “New Slang.”² Remember that song? It was one of the band’s earlier hits that became even more famous when it was included on the Garden State soundtrack in the summer of 2004. No matter how pretentious you want to be about it, the commercial success of the movie and the soundtrack introduced lots of people to pretty awesome, ‘indie pop’ music.

Thanks to my friend, Matt Erickson, 2004 was the same summer that I first heard Squeeze’s “Goodbye Girl.”³ (Notice: There’s a reason why you all should listen to Matt Erickson’s Top 100. I can attest to his good taste!) As the world was (re-)introduced to The Shins, I was (re-)introduced to this band that I knew from the Reality Bites soundtrack (which was also on repeat during my camp years). I was also introduced to other gems that I never would’ve heard if not for Matt’s recommendations.⁴

So, it’s kinda coincidental that James Mercer covered “Goodbye Girl,” especially for Levi’s Pioneer Sessions. Like how the Garden State soundtrack reminded people about the Shins and Nick Drake (Nick Drake’s “Northern Sky” was also included on one of Matt’s mixes), like Matt’s personal recommendations to me, Levi’s Pioneer Sessions will introduce a whole new generation of people to rock, soul, rap, and pop songs that may have otherwise gone unnoticed.

And, now, to announce my verdict… Let me preface it by saying, Matt Erickson’s right. Matt Erickson’s (pretty much) always right.

Matt’s right that Squeeze’s version on the Singles – 45s & Under reigns supreme.

Contrary to what Matt commented, however, I *did* link to that version when recommending the song for downloading.⁵ Although it may sound like I’m criticizing him, please note that I emphasize this only to prove that I’ve soaked up whatever he has thrown out.

Plus, ever since that fateful summer in 2004, Matt and I have been sharing music recommendations. While my musical taste has changed over the years – mostly thanks to his influence, along with Fortuna Köln, Kiren, and a few others – I’m certain that Matt knows that I’ll always have a penchant for pop and a soft spot for catchy. And, Squeeze’s version is the ultimate in catchy pop.

Lost in Starvation: Blackened T-Bone with Root Beer BBQ Sauce

Justin Klugh — Tue, 27 Jul 2010 12:29:45 +0000

So maybe I did just start grabbing all these recipe cards off the rack in the grocery store because the cute girl standing next to me would think I was a renowned home cook, and not better known for routinely exploding my kitchen or putting something on the stove and then sitting in another room for 45 minutes as the apartment fills with wrong-smelling smells.

But the Blackened T-Bone and its impossible sauce were going to take more from me than any recipe before it, which is to say, the paint by numbers chicken recipe my mom wrote on an index card I made last week.

"I know the bottles under the sink are brightly colored, honey, but don't drink them."

It wasn’t until I was standing in the kitchen with the ingredients assembled that I realized I needed to marinate the steak for an hour beforehand. Well, I’m hungry, so we’re just going to skip that part. Also I don’t have any olive oil. Actually, let’s just do this:

ACTUAL INGREDIENTS

6-8 oz. grilling steak
2 tbsp. olive oil
1 cup root beer
1 cup ketchup
1/4 cup orange juice
1/4 cup lemon juice
3 tbsp. Worcestershire sauce
3 tbsp. brown sugar
2 tbsp. molasses
1 garlic clove, minced
1/2 tsp. ginger, onion powder, and black pepper
1 tbsp. hot sauce

INGREDIENTS I USED

The steak
1 cup root beer
1 cup ketchup
1/4 cup orange juice
3 tbsp. Worcestershire sauce
3 tbsp. from sack of sugar I discovered in top cupboard; may have been here when we moved in
2 tbsp. “Log Cabin” $1.79 maple syrup (same thing as molasses, right?)
None of the seasonings
Too much hot sauce

The first problem I ran into was–wait, this is supposed to be cooked on a grill?! I looked out the window at the tailgating grill my friend had left on our porch several weeks before. We had joked about getting incinerated straight off the deck and into the crack alley below, but it was only funny because he knew what in god’s name he was doing, and the chances of that scenario unfolding in reality were pretty small.

I opted for the oven. It seemed the only way to keep people alive. For once.

I spent ten minutes wondering if the one measuring cup I found in a drawer could be a tbsp., as it had no label or indication of its size. I looked at the bottom, which just read “30.” That as no help. As I usually do when I’m panicking about my igornace of something I should know by now, I turned to Wikipedia, and as it usually does, it came through.

After combining it all in a “medium sauce pan,” I went on to drop the stirring spoon several dozen times, spewing an increasingly viscous sauce onto more and more of the floor/stove/my pants. I was forced midway through to sprint into my room and change. Yeah. It was that intense.

As my roommate went to make use of my preheated to 400 degrees oven for his nightly frozen chicken, he asked what in the hell I was doing, as I stood over what I assumed was a table spoon measuring cup, slamming my fist into the back of an impossible bottle of hot sauce.

“I’m making a sauce,” I replied. I looked across the apartment to where my soiled cargos were slung up on the couch, realizing that the results of my time in the kitchen were resembling a violent crime scene more and more.

"No, no... THAT'S the blood. THAT's the ketchup."

Eventually, I had my cow slab painted just the way I like it, and into the oven she went. Once again, it certainly made the apartment smell better as it cooked, and this was after I had gone out of my way to buy a $0.99 air freshener to cover up the smell of the garbage we couldn’t take out because we didn’t have any garbage bags.

Paired with a side of sauteed asparagus and instant mashed potatoes (“IDAHO SPUDS” none of this other crap), this was a fine-tasting meal. My fear was that the meat would be undercooked, or still mooing, and to be honest, I don’t have an extensive enough palate to know what this was supposed to taste like. But it was certainly edible, and I avoided both starvation and a crippling kitchen accident for another night.

Success.

Blackened T-Bone with Root Beer BBQ Sauce: So good I ran into another room and took my pants off.

Next week: Rude Chicken

This Week’s Recommended Reading

nonpretentious — Fri, 23 Jul 2010 16:01:10 +0000

We read a lot. Here’s what we think you should be reading this week.

Dissecting ‘Inception’: Six Interpretations and Five Plot Holes
It’s gotta be 1 or 2 right? Who knows, but this will keep you talking for a while, or at least get you to spend another $10.50 to figure it all out.

Dr. McNinja
Known for grotesque, manic violence and Mexican boys riding velociraptors, but what happens when his gorilla receptionist wants a kitten? If you guessed “hilarity,” you are pretty close to what the answer is.

Phillys Report at ThatBallsOuttaHere
Sure, of course we support our own writers and their other projects. But this just isn’t shameless cross promotion, we also like to laugh. Justin makes us laugh. Let him make you laugh, let him let the Phillies make you laugh.

2 Sentence Review: Diary of a Teenage Girl (An Account in Words and Pictures)

Jackie Jardine — Fri, 23 Jul 2010 04:59:20 +0000

Having recently discovered this multi-media gem from 2004 at one of my favorite thrift stores for a mere $2, I’m pleased to find Phoebe Gloeckner’s graphic novel/journal-entry style documenting the pubescent sex-capades of her fifteen-year-old character Minnie Goetze and her subsequent loves, losses and intense loneliness so all-consuming that I read Diary of a Teenage Girl cover-to-cover in one day. Gloeckner’s edgy, inherently feminist, auto-biographical Diary captures the confusion and uncertainty of typical teenage life in sharp juxtaposition with the drug and sex-laden cultural fabric of the 1970’s with a relentless pen, leaving a raw personal narrative further enhanced with graphic detail from a struggling child’s perspective of what could only be described as extreme, emotionally intense adult situations.

I Touch Their Poo: Ladies Night

Justin Klugh — Thu, 22 Jul 2010 14:29:02 +0000

Instead of join a conservation work force in Australia, I wake up every morning and attach leashes to dog collars. So when I run into people I know, its all the more bemusing to them that I what I do. When it happens to be someone I made out with at a party, it becomes all the more obvious that my profession isn’t “professional jetcopter pilot, but I dabble in globetrotting archaeology” like I may or may not have said it was.

Chester the 19-year-old spaniel and I were hanging out in Rittenhouse Square when just such a person, Carly, and some dude with forearms that indicated he had spent the day overpowering twelve-year-olds, turned the corner, headed straight for me. Carly and I had a “friendship” that ended when her alarm clock went off the next morning, so there was no need to try and put on a show.

Trent McCooligan, at your service.

But with Chester as small as he is, from her side of the fence, it would appear that I was just spending my Sunday evening standing in the foliage that borders the park with my hands on my hips, commanding some unseen life form to “… just poop already.”

“Hi, Carly!” I greeted her enthusiastically. I was in a hurry to get to the part of the conversation where I could explain myself. ”I’m walking this dog down here, not lurking in the bushes.”

Below, there was an undeniable “CRUNCH”, and I quite rationally assumed Chester had finally taken the step that had shattered all of his bones. Realizing that no, I had just stepped on a dead leaf (though Chester had managed to wrap his leash around his face and stared up at me pleadingly to remedy the situation) I looked back up and she had gone. Actually, the street was totally empty.

And, as I do every time I suspect I'm the last person on earth, I immediately considered the location of the nearest McDonald's to eat McFlurries right out of the machine.

Honestly, I don’t even know for sure if it was her.

As I said last week, when people do offer commentary at me while I am on the job, it will often be to the dog. But when people do speak to me (and they do) , it is always with questions to which I do not know the answer. And that have to do with the dog.

A couple of older ladies business casual-ing their way out of the high class restaurants approached me as I was exiting the square and assuming Chester was once again taking his final breaths on this earth. They stopped to admire the “puppy” and I was forced to bring the caravan to a halt so they could watch him hack and weeze. It was “just darling,” apparently. These women were clearly unfamiliar with the behavior of actual puppies.

PICTURED: A creature not seconds from an undignified coughing fit.

“Is it hard for him in this heat?”

“It’s getting hard to distinguish which types of weather are the hardest for him,” I replied. But this was actually true. Come on, this dog is a poorly timed car horn away from his heart exploding. I’m sure “weather” as a general concept is not very accommodating to his health, when anything from a torrential, merciless blizzard to a dandelion blowing in the wind could spell the end. I mean, look at him. You can practically see the last grains of sand falling through the hour glass.

A week or two ago, I was looking for a lost house key on the street with Chester on my hip (He is carried for about 85% of his “walk”) when some heavily muscled torsoes with t-shirts on them stopped me for a bit of impromptu convo.

“You walk dogs? That’s your thing?” one of them asked.

I nodded. They looked at each other.

“You must get so much ass,” the other breathed in awe.

I looked at the women they were with and felt bad for her, but she was probably grateful for some kind of diversion from them soliciting her for a three way for the last hour and a half. My nod was a lie, however, as “getting ass” was not anywhere on the job application I signed. Its a challenge to get a girl to talk to you with a sack of dog diarrhea in each hand.

Lost in Starvation: Honey Baked Chicken

Justin Klugh — Tue, 20 Jul 2010 16:00:37 +0000

Cooking, for me, has always been the duty of an unfortunate third party. Growing up, there was mom. When there wasn’t mom anymore, there was a college cafeteria. When there wasn’t college anymore, there was the girlfriend. And when there wasn’t a girlfriend anymore, there was just me. In the kitchen. Alone. Staring inquisitively at a recipe card and wondering if I can get away with paying the delivery guy in quarters.

On a recent visit, knowing my lack of culinary muscle, my sister attempted to school me in the ways of our mother’s Honey Baked Chicken recipe.

“Easiest thing in the world,” she said, not allowing a pause for me to ask her important questions such as “What is that?” and “Why is this big metal box so damn HOT?”

Her subtle, concerned glances did not go unnoticed; but very soon, I was back on the East Coast with a lesson under my belt.

All right. Let’s get this epic disaster started.

AAAAAAAAAAAAA!

1/3 C maragarine–melted
1/3 C honey
2 tbsp mustard
1 tsp salt (optional)
1 tsp curry powder
Chicken

Can I substitute French dressing for mustard? Fuck it, I’m going to.

There aren’t too many things on this index card, and most of them I actually have, thanks to my mom sending a travel bottle of honey and a little plastic baggie of curry powder home with me on my last expedition to the ‘burbs.

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Arrange the chicken in shallow baking pan. Combine all other ingredients but chicken, mix, and pour on chicken. Bake 1-1 1/4 hours. Good with rice.

My first problem with any recipe is that I see it requires more than three things I don’t have in my kitchen and I crumble under the pressure. At first I think, “Well, these are mainly just spices, and spice bottles are so small.”

Do you have any idea how expensive that spice rack in the grocery store is?! People are shelling out $3-4 for paprika?! How do you rationalize that? Why don’t you go home and eat another bowl of dried pasta for dinner, knowing that its food and it will fill you up as you try to grasp just how boring and tasteless your diet is like a normal person?

See, the problem is, I assume people will stomach the same crap I can/do. That’s the whole point of this, I guess. That and to quell some of my more deeply-buried fears.

THE NIGHTMARE IS REAL

The assembly required went pretty well, and about 15 minutes into the cooking process, the kitchen began to fill with aromas reminiscent of my childhood and not disgusting—two brand new accomplishments for that particular room. This chicken was cooking.

At this point during my usual misadventures with a chicken, it’s still squawking in there. I often have to wait 20 minutes before it even explodes. Clearly, as the kitchen smelled of warm honey and spicy curry, I was doing something correctly; rather than the bloody stench of blood and feathers that usually fills the air.

So, an hour went by, and that chicken still seemed a little soft. I poked it with a spoon. Cautiously, I turned the heat up on the oven from 350 to 400.

“That ought to char this bitch,” I thought, but shouldn’t have.

Surprisingly, the extra 15 minutes I gave the clucker did it well. Maybe that’s saying more about my oven than the creature, or my skills. But the truth is, I knew it wasn’t going to be as good as mom made it. I just wanted it to be food.

And it was! It was food that I could chew and swallow and be in my stomach without making me it’s John Hurt. That alone was a success. But the fact that it tasted good made me think that perhaps I could handle a bigger, better, task with a much more scrumptious payoff.

Next time: Blackened T-bone with Root Beer BBQ Sauce. Yeah. Gettin’ ballsy. Now, to turn off the oven.

... damn it.