Jeremy's Drunk in the Kitchen

It's late summer which pretty much means you can't walk down the street without people frantically trying to unload bags of ripe garden fresh tomatoes from their home gardens.  Seriously.  If you know a person who has even a medium sized garden they are sitting on a metric ass load of tomatoes.  They are yours for the taking.  Those and any number of garden vegetables that can be shoved into a pot and turned awesome.

Tomatoes unaware of the horrors that await them.

You know what that means, bitches?  It's sauce time, fucker.  Tomato sauce... from scratch.  As in no cans.  And MEAT.  Lots of MEAT!

Also.

NO CANS MOTHERFUCKER!

So this is an experiment.  I'm making notes so that, if this turns out good, I can replicate this again and again until the sun becomes nothing but a burned out speck in the cold, unforgiving sky.  Or if it sucks so I can bury it and never speak of it again... ever!  And I'm putting it online so that other humans can find it if they so wish because that's what people of the 21st century do!  They put their failure right out front so everyone can revel in the Sideshow of Shame. 

I'm varying a little from my standard homemade tomato sauce recipe and incorporating some elements from this recipe by Chuck Wendig that has become a staple in my household.  And, Chuck, on the off chance that you ever read this.  More recipes you beautiful bearded bastard.  More.  Fucking.  Recipes.

Also Blue Blazes Rocked.

Also I basically ripped off his recipe writing style with this rant.  But fuck it! Who cares.  NO RULES!

*pisses into pot*

*drops mic*

Um.... Okay, first rule.  No pissing into the pot.   And no shitting in it either.  Tell you what, you just put in what I tell you.  What you do besides is between you and whatever god you'll need to beg for forgiveness later.

Okay step one:  If you've accidentally just pissed in your cooking pot, throw that out and get a new one because... eww.

Next, tomatoes.  I ended up with about 9lb of the red, juicy bastards.  You may have more or less, I don't think it really matters that much.  Scale up or down as needed.

Also, take one pound of these and set them aside.  Make them feel like they narrowly avoided the horrific fate that will await their tomato brothers and sisters.  But just you wait, a much more terrible fate awaits them.  Look at them and laugh maniacally every once in a while.

Do it!  It add flavor.

The other 8lbs of tomatoes.  First we blanch those motherfuckers.  Why blanch you may ask yourself?   Weeel... we've got to peel and seed a shitload of tomatoes.  This makes it easier to peel.  Easier is good. 

Like your momma.

Next, we plunge those tomatoes into the boiling water.  Not long, maybe a minute.  Just enough so the skin starts to split and peel.  Once that happens pull them out.

No!  Not with your hand!  Get a slotted spoon you crazy fuck!

Okay from the boiling water, you drop the tomatoes into and ice bath.  That's ice and water for you lay folks who... I dunno don't know what ice and bath mean?  Shaddup.   And while your at it, put your hand in there before it blisters up.

Once the tomatoes are cool enough to handle, pull them out.  The skin should peel right off, much like what is happening to your hand right now, seriously go seek medical attention.   Okay the rest of you, the ones who didn't boil your own skin off.  Let's continue.

So its time to peel and seed.

Peel off the skin.  Squeeze out the snot and seeds.  Chop them up and throw into a blender.  Repeat.  Repeat you miserable bastard!

Okay tomatoes peeled, snotted and seeded.  Next step, blend.   Put those tomatoes into the blender and hit the blades until all you get is a weird, pink watery sludge.

Yes, it's suppose to look like that. Shaddup.

Just fucking trust me, okay.

Pour that into the pot.  Fire up the heat and bring that to a boil. 

At this point I added a few shakes of Italian seasoning, a bay leaf and a quarter cup of red wine. 

Speaking of wine, looking at the grammar and spelling its probably clear that a goodly amount of booze went into the making of this particular dish.  Whatever, you can't stop me!  Anyway, the drink of choice was margaritas.

....

Okay I can feel you judging me.  For those of you who think margaritas a girly drink, my cocktail recipe calls for a chili pepper or two along with the tequila, triple sec and lime juice.   If margaritas are a girly drink then this is the type of girl that kicks your ass at pool, nicks your wallet and beats you half to death when you come looking for it. 

This margarita, she is a spicy bitch.  Maybe if you're good and non-judgy I'll spew out that recipe someday.

She is a spicy bitch.

But right now, back to tomato sauce.

Once you have that up to a boil, step away son.  This doesn't need your help.  I mean, make sure it doesn't catch on fire but, other then that, let it do its thing.

While that is happening, BEHOLD!  The roasting pan!  You will need one large sweet onion.  Chop that up into six or eight pieces and toss it into the pan.  Then, a couple carrots skinned chopped and tossed with the onion.

Next, peppers.  Okay, its like this.  I ended up was almost as many bell peppers as I did tomatoes.  So what do we do?  We use the bastards.   Sliced and diced seven of them and tossed them into the pot.  WITHOUT MERCY! 

Aside from the six or seven smaller bell peppers, I threw a couple of Anaheim peppers in there.  I like Anaheim peppers because they are the bigger, dumber, gentler cousin of the jalapeno.  They add a lot of pepper flavor with just a touch of spice.

So grab some Anaheim peppers. Or feel the wrath of a million lost souls.

Now, remember those tomatoes you set aside.  The ones who have born witness to the death  of those who came before?  Yeah, it's time you sadistic prick.  Peel, chop, seed and toss in the pan.   Your tomato genocide is now complete.

Anyway, that all goes into the pan.  And on top of that, a decent helping of olive oil.  Go ahead, grease those bad boys up.  If you think you have enough oil, give them another spritz.

After that, a flurry of salt, pepper and Italian herbs.

Okay.  Meat.  I promised meat.  I deliver long, throbbing hunks of meat.

....
...

I was talking about Italian sausage.  Get your mind out of gutter, weirdo.  We are in the kitchen.  And there is food around.

1.5 lbs Italian sausage.  Plop them on top and send the whole mess into the oven.

The pan of roasted veggies pre-roasted.

Wait... like an hour.  This is a good time to clean up the kitchen a little.  If yours looks like mine at this point, your counter probably looks like the results of a vegetable murder suicide pact.  Clean that shit up before someone sees you, psycho.

Also, remember your pot of pink tomato juice?  By now it's probably starting to resemble sauce sorta kinda.  Well get back to that, motherfucker this is no time to slack the fuck off!

Okay so your gonna wanna add another cup of red wine.   That's if you haven't had it all you drunken fuckwad.

Next two cans of tomato paste.

What's that you say?  I promised no cans?  I, in fact, put that in capital letters.  NO CANS!  I may or may not have also added MOTHERFUCKER.

....
...

You know what, you are a horrible, judgmental prick who's going to die miserable and alone.

See?  That's what it feels like to have your shortfalls pointed out for all the world to see.

Asshole.

Okay, I forgot about the tomato paste.  You need two cans.  Toss those in and hide the evidence. 

After that a few squirts of Worcester sauce, a dash of salt and pepper, a splash of cider vinegar and another few sprinkles of Italian herbs.

You can't have too much Italian herbs.

One more thing, MORE FUCKING MEAT.

This time a whole dick of pepperoni.  Slice it in half, chop it into bits and toss it into the sauce.

Check your oven.  Your sausage should be golden brown.  The vegetables should be roasted with maybe just a hint of black on the sides.  Rescue your sausage and set it aside.  You don't want them to have any part in what comes next.

Okay remember your blender?  Well get it out again, cowboy, we are blending the shit out of some more stuff.  The whole pan, all of it gets blended into a thick, orangish sludge.  Yeah it looks like baby vomit but smells like pure roasty awesome.  It goes into the pot.

The sausage.  Chop it up and toss it in.

Continue to simmer for... well however long you wanna wait at this point.  Wendig recommends two hours.  Due to time constraints or just being hungry enough to contemplate cannibalism I've dished it out early before with no ill effects.

Give it... say an hour.  Maybe two if you can manage.

 Put it on pasta, add to Italian sausage sandwiches, pour it into a wading pool for your wrestling/ orgy championship (everybody wins) it doesn't matter.

Me, I like it on whole wheat spaghetti with Parmesan cheese on top.

And the results?  Pretty awesome.  This sauce was just a touch sweeter then the sauce I normally make.   There was just a touch of pepper to it as well.  All in all, a successful experiment.

Thus endith the lesson.

*passes out*

Tavern at the Crossroads: A shrine to the traveling writer.

This article originally appeared in the Dreaming in Ink newsletter.  

I'm going to keep things brief for a couple of reasons. First, I am Marla's victim for the monthly interview and the last thing anyone really needs in this newsletter is more of my special brand of bullshit. Go read that to get some insights into my odiferous inner self.

Also, I don't have much to say when it comes to writing this month, because I didn't get much time to do any of it. Life kinda exploded on me this month. Not in a completely bad way, mind. Not all bad anyway. Just a very time-consuming way.

But I found something weird in my travels. And I want to talk about it. So I'm gonna.

There's this strange little place off Interstate 80 in Iowa. The word 'shrine' comes to mind, although most shrines don't have toilets as their primary feature. There is a rest area in Iowa dedicated to the art of writing. I'm not sure what, if anything it means. It's probably just one of those weird little relics one finds on the road.

I'm on the road all the time, so I know my rest stops. I know them well. I've bolted into most of them with a special kind of urgency. That's what they are for. They exist so that the traveler may rapidly discharge the extra cup of coffee in a dignified, sanitary and ,this is the important bit, a not-peeing-on-a-bush-in-front-of-God-and-everyone kind of way.

Iowa takes their public restrooms a step farther. Their rest areas have themes. There's one near Des Moine that is a salute to wind power. There's another by Ames in honor of the Iowan farmer.

And there's one near Iowa city for the writers.

The first thing I noticed was the word 'Iowa' written in huge, black script on the front of a building around the size of a small house. Well that and the giant sculpture of a pen out front. In retrospect it's hard to figure out how I was able to pass by so many times and not know exactly what I was looking at.

Inside there are digital scrolling signs continuously displaying quotes from Iowan authors. There are others cut into the enclosures around picnic tables. It is every functional rest area you've ever seen... with a shout out to writers. Vending machines and deep thoughts. Water fountains and fountain pens.

I don't think I ever stopped there before this month. There's just no reason to. I travel through Iowa a lot. A LOT. Like two or three times a month sometimes. Like any repetitive task, I have a rhythm. A routine. This was not part of it.

So I don't know why I stopped in this time. Maybe it was a little present from the Universe since this month devastated my productivity. Or maybe it was the coffee. Okay, is was definitely the coffee. Maybe a little bit of the Universe. Coffee and the Universe working together. To make writers. And a rest area in Iowa to honor them.

Templum Veneris, 1st draft completed.

Hear ye, hear ye.   Or something.
On May 5th 2014, I finished the first draft of the second book in the Reconnection series.

 25 Chapters and 71,640 words.

*blows party horn*

Okay you may all go about your business.

Relax. It's not as bad as you think. It's much worse.

The much contested minimum wage bill was officially defeated yesterday.  I’ve read figures that put over 70% of Americans in favor of this bill.  And when the GOP does what the GOP has done best over the past few years, there was a real groundswell of outrage.  At least that’s my unscientific impression.  But the anger is real.  And it’s building.  And while I agree in spirit, I have to remind myself that the argument is inherently meaningless.

So everyone just relax.  It’s not as bad as you think.  It’s actually much, much worse.

I’ve heard arguments over the minimum wage from both sides for years and both sides present more or less meaningless arguments. For the record, I think any change would be miniscule.  From the worker’s perspective all a minimum wage increase really does is increase the number of minimum wage workers.  Businesses are forced to pay more in wages which they gleefully pass on to the consumer, the price of goods increases and…. ta da!  Now you have more people living at a wage far below what is reasonable in this country.  It’s like a trick where a magician takes a twenty dollar bill and turns it in to a piece of shit.  Then he takes that piece of shit and turns it into… two pieces of shit.

From the perspective of an employer, the small business suffer most.  For them, the increase in cost can be a real and maybe even debilitating blow.  Walmart will be fine.  They’ve already figured out ways to avoid little annoyances like paying employees.

A minimum wage increase isn’t the answer.  What this country really needs is good, middle class jobs.  But that’s a whole different rant.  I didn’t see a solution to the nations problems get shot down yesterday.  What I did see was a giant middle finger courtesy of the richest Americans to the rest of us.

Dear America,
Fuck You

Love, The People Who Ran Off With All Your Money

The actual statue in front of the Milano stock exchange. 

In my mind the whole debate is fighting over scraps from the Master’s table.  There are numbers everywhere.  The numbers we’re talking about here?  According the the Bureau of Labor Statistics in 2012, 3.6 million people made at or below minimum wage last year.  The operative words here were ‘at or below’ but let’s just assume everyone there made $7.25 per hour.  They didn't, most actually made less, but let's assume.  They were going to get a raise to $10.10.  We’re talking about an increase of 10.26 million dollars in total that would need to be paid out every year  Jamie Dimon, CEO of JPmorgan got a 20 million dollar bonus last year.  Correct my math, but that means that one CEO could have given his bonus (not his salary mind… just his bonus.  Just the extra money he gets for being such a swell guy) and raised the minimum wage twice.

It’s pocket change to these people. 

And in the end it doesn’t do much to raise the standard of living.

In fact with the figures in mind, I’m almost forced to the conclusion that the only people a minimum wage increase would help would be the richest Americans.  Think of it as a nice little gesture to prove that the ‘job creators’ really, really do care about America.  Like a twenty slipped into the country’s collective g-string while they pat our ass and say, “Here you go, sweetheart.  Buy yourself something pretty.”  It would be insulting, but at least we would be an entity worthy of placating just a little.

We don’t even rate that level of respect.  This is short-sighted greed and stupidity on a scale that even my cynical heart has trouble comprehending.  People without money have almost no say in government anymore that’s becoming clear.  Not only are we losing say, but those in control are actively ignoring the will of the people.

I’ve been listening to the Revolutions podcast for a while and I’ve always been interested political upheavals in history.   I know two things from what I have studied.  First, when the revolution does hit, things that seemed impossible twenty-four hours ago become real.  Second, they are violent, unpredictable monsters.  People get hurt.  People die.  Some that deserve it, most that don’t.  It sometimes leads to freedom.  It just as often leads to violent oppression and subjugation.

I like to wonder if a time traveler from fifty years in the future came to this time and warned them of the coming revolution.  Say he managed to fill a stadium with the one-percent and warn them that the guillotine blade was being greased as he spoke and it would come down soon.  What would they do different now?

I’m aware there is a game today, I’m not that far gone, although I had look up who exactly was playing.  Apparently it’s Denver and Seattle, two cities I have personal connection to but not for their professional football program.

“The sad fact is the game has become secondary to the antics and the hype.  And I can’t decide whether I’m alright with that.

The first real memory I have of the Super Bowl and its parade of insanity was in the third grade. The Chicago Bears were dancing on television and rapping in one of the most overt trash-talking incidents of all-time. The song was so flashy and spurring (read: disrespectful to the Patriots) that even the backup quarterback, Steve Fuller, had a verse.”

Dexter Manley
dexterslibrary.com

Superbowl Sunday has become one of the two quintessentially American holidays, right up there with Black Friday.  Days when the ugliest part of Americana are flaunted in front of the wold.  We display what kind of horrible, vicious, mindless consumers that everyone in the world assume we are.

Maybe that’s me.  Although the fact that people are regularly trampled to death trying to get in a Walmart in November is at least evidence in my favor.

The Superbowl is worse for me.  My lack of participation in Black Friday is viewed as an anomaly.  But to not know what happened during the Superbowl?  I can feel suspicious rising all around me.  To not care about football?  Not care about the Superbowl!  Someone check this man for signs of terrorism.

‘“This is Super Sunday!” I screamed. “I want every one of you worthless bastards down in the lobby in ten minutes so we can praise God and sing the national anthem!”
Hunter S. Thompson
After being forcefully pulled from his Superbowl Sermon on the Balcony.

I remember the first time I felt this suspicion.  It was in college around the table with some drinking buddies.  It was the Superbowl of the Wardrobe Malfunction.  The date when American was outraged at a titty covered with a pasty, but Laughed Out Loud at a horse farting in a woman’s face.  My friends were talking about it at length.  I drank and listed, for… i don’t know how long.  It was late in the night and I might have been fortified with drink.  Had I been sober I might have known just enough to understand that my ignorance on this subject would paint me as, at best, a sort of cultural idiot.

I wasn’t sober, so I asked, “What are you guys talking about?”

It stopped the conversation cold as everyone tried to come to grips with the idea that there was one among them who didn’t Know.  They explained it to me, but to this day I think they tolerated my presence in the same way on tolerates a homeless man who always sits on the same street corner, present, but not a participant in any meaningful way.

“I have watched every Superbowl.  It’s important for man to have a ritual and the Superbowl occurs once a year, on a Sunday… so at least I’m trying.”
Lewis Black.

Here we are again.   Part of me feels like I should bake a pizza, grab a beer and participate.  I don’t have to like it but just go.   Like a man with no religion who goes to church every Sunday, go and pay lip service.  Watch it for the commercials.  Lots of people do that, right?  If football is not your thing, Corporate America has spent billions to make commercial messages that will dazzle the populous into submission. 

But I probably won’t.  I just don’t have the will and, besides, there is other crap to do. 

 I don’t know what that says about me anymore or my relationship with my native land or it’s people that I don’t even feel the urge to pretend anymore.   Maybe it’s me and my natural contrariness.  Maybe there really is something evil brewing behind the Pop singers doing Pepsi commercials and endless hype around a game that could never live up to that level.

Just do me a favor.  Someone let me know how it ends.

Just in case.

Saturnius Mons, Draft #1 Completed

Let it be known that at 8:46 pm on September 12 2013, the first draft of Saturnius Mons plopped into the world.  Things haven't been right since.


Currently 90,363 words long across 27 Chapters.

Cheers!

Amazon Abuse

There's an unwritten rule among the shopping peoples who lurk the pages of the 800lb gorilla known as Amazon.com.

For there are objects so expensive that only the wealthiest in the world could conceivably afford it and so bizarre that only the most eccentric-billionaire-stereotype among them would even consider it.   For these things it is perfectly normal and accepted to leave hilarious and childish fake reviews.

I referenced the infamous Badonkadonk Tank above (The Donk!)  here's another I ran into recently.

Honeywell Ademco 944WH-M Magnet Only for 944WH

Yes for just... ... 210 million dollars (a 17% discount) you too can own.  A magnet.

Whatever the origins of this ad, the people have come out in force with their 'personal experiences' with this device.  Here were my favorites.



Daniel Haun, always the bargain hunter says:
I have been looking at this magnet for a while, but could no longer pass it up after the 17% discount. My personal space program will just have to wait.

I deducted two stars for ineffective packaging, as the UPS delivery driver could not get it loose from the side of his truck. They eventually had to just cut the side out of the truck. causing me to have to pay for repairs. On the upside, I now have a 1' by 1' square piece of UPS truck, which I use for a night stand.

Oh, also, when I set the box on my kitchen table, it pulled my fridge across the room, my car from my driveway, and the collar and tags from my neighbor's Cocker Spaniel. It compressed all of these into a Higgs Boson.

Recommended for serious hobbyists/particle physicists only. 

TechnoLady 'Diane' summed up the world's problems with her review:
 When they say "Only for 944WH" they really mean it! I bought it 13 years and a week ago (no 'Prime', Amazon- seriously!?) and tried to use it on my 944WG and accidentally created a magnetic time vortex that sucked me back into the year 2000. Unfortunately, while there,I sat on a butterfly and six months later Bush instead of Kerry is President, we're in a war with Iraq and half the country is unemployed. My bad.

So only two stars really because of time vortex but I'm giving it an additional star because of the killing I made on Apple. 

Ms described his lady trouble with:
 I was rather disconcerted that the magnet kept pulling my gentialia toward it , every girl who came to admire my magnet had their bits pulled toward the thing 


Yote provides some chillingly useful advice:
I've been looking for a way to launder hundreds of millions of dollars in drug money, and this is perfect! Simply buy it, tell them you don't want it, and return it! Plus, it's Honeywell! Need them to duck out of that government contract so your company can swoop in? You're looking right at the magnetic key to solve your problems! 

And, finally Nikon 1 accidentally ends the modern world as we know it:
After I was able to unpack this beauty, I made the mistake of taking it out in my backyard and pointing it at the sky. As I was looking around, I was suddenly knocked to the ground by a series of strong jolts. When I regained my vision I looked at the 944WH-M and saw that there were 6 communications satellites stuck to it!

My cell phone no longer worked, my neighbors were screaming about their cable TV being knocked off the air and cars were crashing into the neighborhood houses, with GPS units all reading "Recalculating Route."

Five things I learned while writing the first draft of Saturnius Mons

This is a piece written for the monthly newsletter of the Dreaming in Ink Writing Workshop.  For more information including details of how to join visit www.dreaminginink.com. 


Tavern at the Crossroads: September 2013
Five things I learned while writing the first draft of Saturnius Mons.

To be fair, as I write this, the first draft isn’t done yet.  I have four chapters left to beat in submission, but screw it, I wanted to write about it anyway.  It seems current now whereas next month, with any luck, I’ll be either working on the outline to the next book in this series, or taking a much needed break from word-smithing to let my neurons calm down and start talking to each other again.

So here it is, a little premature, but a few things I learned about myself and my process during this phase of the project.  Hopefully there is something useful in these inane scribbling that you might apply to your own writing, or at least illicits a giggle or two.

Yes, outlining is a great roadmap:
I’m ashamed to say that this was the first project that I took the time to fully outline.  From beginning to end, every chapter, every scene, everything I could conceivably plan out, was written down organized and it drove me flippin nuts.  Most of the time, it felt like I turned navel gazing into an extreme sport.   No words were being written… well no words that any other human was going to see at any rate.  Plus it was just going to change anyway when I started writing, so why bother?  Months flipped by on the calendar.  Months that could have been spent actually putting words on paper.

But I kept at it and I am so glad I did.  The outline took three months, but it probably saved me six months of frustrating re-writes, dead ends, writing in circles, rampant alcoholism and yelling at invisible enemies… etc.  I used my outline every step of the first draft and it proved to be an invaluable tool to remind myself where the bloody hell I was taking this ride.


…but you’re still a maniac who’s going to weave down side-streets to see the worlds biggest ball of paint: 
A younger, stupider me worried that an outline would restrict my creativity.  It didn’t.  Not at all.  Nope.  Nothing.  Every once in a while I came to a new scene, looked at my outline and said, “Nope, I don’t like that idea.  Screw you, Past Jeremy.  I don’t have to listen to you. YOU’RE NOT MY DADDY!”  and hilarity ensued.  There’s no controlling that, there’s no planning for it and that’s a good thing.  I kept the creative process spontaneous and free.  The only difference was the aforementioned roadmap.  I could get back on the highway and away from the gentle plucking of banjo strings…

Characters that evolve from…. bobble-heads?:
For reasons that completely escape my brain in the zero draft of this story my characters were constantly shaking or nodding their heads.  Like every other sentence.  I’m not kidding, it was weird.   My best guess right now is that it was my brain’s place holder for all non-verbal communication.
Nodding their head means they are generally happy with the situation, big smiley face!
Shaking means they don’t like this situation, grrr frowny face!

Recognizing that and forcing myself to thing, really, really think about what the character wants or do led to more pithy dialog, I feel.  Huge swaths of useless back-and-forth were cut down in the first rewrite and I think the whole story feels leaner for the loss of it.  I’d like to thing (although I have no proof) that it created more three-dimensional characters, but I suppose that opinion is not up to me.  Not yet anyway.

If something doesn’t feel right… it probably isn’t:
When I first started this draft, I had a couple of chapters where the characters hike into a mountain range of cryovolcanos in search of the missing civilization.  Even while I was writing it, something about it felt off.  The characters felt awkward, the action didn’t flow, every sentence was like yanking on my toenails.  When I went back to really look at that section I realized that I pulled my characters away from the story instead of deeper into it.  I wiped the slate clean and started a new outline for that section.  The new outline begat a new middle to the book, a middle that keeps the plot moving forward.  A middle that seems to fit the rest of the book. 

As always, the first draft always, always sucks… always:
This is a lesson that I keep learning time and time again.  I don’t know why I have such a hard time making myself believe it.   Or, more importantly, making myself believe that it’s okay.   Yes, it sucks now.  It’s suppose to suck now.  It is going to get better.  The first draft was better then the words I threw down on paper to begin with.   And when I come back to this in a few months for the big second draft, it will get even better.  If (or when) I decide it needs a third draft, that will make it even better and so on and so forth.  It’s a process.  A long, painful, frustrating process.  In the great race of novel writing, I’m still at the starting line listening to the echo of the starters pistol.  Six months into this project… nine counting the months I spent working on the characters and the outline, and I’ve still just begun.  On one hand, it’s disheartening.  On the other… well motivating isn’t the right word.  More like obligated.  For better or worse, I brought this screaming, howling word-baby into the world.  A lot of work has gone into it already, so I might as well take it as far as needed and hope to the gods that the little bastard doesn’t end up living in my basement until he’s 40.

Stupidity in Action

Maybe it's me, but I think Todd Archer Hyundai is telling me, "We chopped down a tree, covered it in useless ink and sent it to you, even though you didn't ask for it.  Now we demand that you take the time to recycle this thing that you never asked for.  Respect the environment, damn it!"

Dear Todd Archer: Fuck you. 

Love Jeremy.

Eat it.... Eat it all you fucker.

Okay, so a little game of mine is to start typing a phrase and see what the most searched terms on Google turn out to be.

For example, for some reason I decided to type in 'man eats nothing but...'  and see what the most searched last word is.

Man eats nothing but...

#4: Big Macs

So apparently there is a man who lives on nothing but Big Macs... mostly.  He says there has only been eight days of his life that he has not eaten a Big Mac including times that he was traveling and couldn't find a MacDonalds, which... where the figgity fuck was he traveling?  Antartica?  I think there's only a couple hundred MacDonald's there at the moment, but they are trying to expland into the penguin market.  Currently they are being outdone by Starbucks.  Motherfucking penguins love them some Starbucks.

Looking over the list of sites about this Don Gorske, one website proclaimed him, "America's saddest man."  Which... fuck you.  The man requires one thing in this world.  A Big Mac.   While the rest of us chase money, fame, cars, sex or whatever, this man needs a burger.  That's it. 

Sounds like the happiest motherfucker to me.

#3: Potatoes

To prove the awsomness of potatoes, a Washington man ate nothing but them for three months.  Somewhere in Ireland, an old man wept.

#2: MacDonalds:
Okay, so Supersize Me was bound to come up.  I remember watching it a few years back and.... fuck that guy. 

I mean it's kinda cool that film still has the ability to create changes in the critical fold anymore and the influence of this movie can't be understated.  But seriously?  Nobody was claiming that any type of fast food was healthy.  At all.  There was no guy who looked at the greasy burger in his hand, a look of horror slowly crawling across face face, before flinging it across the room pointing at it and yelling, "Murderer!  Murderer!  How could you cross me, Big Mac!  How... How could you!!"

It's called freedom of choice.  Enjoy it.  The way these corporate bastards are going it might be the only freedom left to us.

#1 Ramen:

What.  The. Fuck?

Okay so an eighteen-year-old girl has eaten nothing but Ramen for the past thirteen years.   I was unaware a human could live on Ramen alone for more then a month.

Ramen, as it is known in this country, is basically salt and carbohydrates.  That's it.  It's designed to help stop the pangs of hunger and provide just enough energy to keep from collapsing, all for 50 cents.  It is something people buy when they have no money.  That's it's job.

According to doctors she has the health of an 80-year-old.  All for eating a food normally reserved for broke-ass 22-year-olds.

The Edge.

I found this story a few days ago and loved the hell out of it.  PepsiCo hired Tyler the Creator to do an ad for Mountain Dew and the backlash was immediate.  People called it 'racist' and said that it 'made light of violence towards women' and both are probably true.  That's not what I loved about it.  What I really loved about it was the fact that PepsiCo got their hand bitten.

PepsiCo pulled the ad about thirty seconds after people pitched a fit, but thanks to the magic of the Internet, their little snaffu will be available forever and ever.

[EDIT]But apparently they are trying their damnedest.  Linked to one video that was already taken down at the demand of PepsiCo.  So that's.... adorable PepsiCo. 

It's included here, click it and watch it.  It's weird, yes.  It's fucking stupid.  It's borderline racist, sure.

But what is PepsiCo actually guilty of?  I don't think they set out to make a racist commercial, but it does expose the real racism at the corporate level.

It also shows, and we already knew this to be true but it's nice to have it confirmed, that they just don't have a fucking clue.

So what happened?  PepsiCo wants an ad that will be 'edgy' and 'real' perhaps 'extreme' and other dumbass adjectives that mean nothing.  They want to give their citrus-flavored, piss colored, sugar water some 'street cred.'

It's what they do afterall.  For reasons that escape me, they seem to be marketing Mountain Dew as a beverage you have while lighting your pants on fire and jumping off a skyscraper to improvise a safe landing.  This ignores the REAL Mountain Dew purists out there, I feel.  The True Believers in the Dew are men who's idea of 'extreme' consists of brushing stray cheese-doodle crumbs off their stomach.  Those are the real Mountain Dew fans.  Let's just face that right the fuck now.

But they don't want that image.  Okay.  So they hire some guy named Tyler the Creator to do an ad for them.  I don't know much about him, but I feel like I can say without fear of contradiction, that the man is a bit of a loose cannon.

But, hey, you want something 'real', 'edgy' with 'street cred', that's probably a good man to go see.  Or it's certainly a man to go see.

So he comes back with this.  Here is PepsiCo's first sin, the real racism.  If they had anybody but fat, white old men running that thing, if they had one or two black people who they listen to (don't forget that crucial piece of the puzzle.  They can't just have a couple of people who give their corporate photo a bit of color on the edges.  They have to actually listen to words coming out of their mouth) then they would have taken one look at this, arched an eyebrow, said "Have you lost your damn mind?" and that would have been the end of it.

Hell, if they had one woman there WHO THEY LISTEN TO they would have watched an ad about a waitress who gets the shit kicked out of her for laughs, turned to the guys in charge and said, "
You fucking crazy if you think you're going to air that!"

They don't have either.  That's what this ad says to me.  All they have is a bunch of old, fat white men who gathered around and heartily approved.  A black guy made it, afterall, it can't be racist, could it? They may have even liked it since it confirmed what they think they know about black people.  They slapped themselves on the back saying that, this is just what those kids today want!  Those crazy kids with their baggy pants and their rap music and pac man videogames... damn kids don't respect anything anymore.

Their other sin:  You want to be extreme?  You wanna be edgy? (Without the quotation marks?)

No you don't PepsiCo.  You want to sell sugar water and make a shitload of money doing it.  Tyler the Creator... I'm guessing he's a bit of a maniac.  He's a little out there and his world is not something you really want to put your corporate label on.  And he probably doesn't give two shits whether or not people like him.  He probably thinks that it's handy; it's quite useful that people like him, it means he gets to make a lot of money doing what he does.  But chances are he'd be doing the same thing regardless.

PepsiCo, you wanna come out where we live and stay awhile out where the real winds blow?  You wanna hawk your sewage in a bottle in a place where identity is nothing more then what brand of insanity you choose to put forth today?  Where people see humanity for the violent, evil, drunken monkeys that we really are?

I didn't think so.

If you want that image, your CEO would have to stand out front, point to the ad and yell, "Fuck yeah we made that!  We love it! Drink Mountain Dew bitches!!"

A lot of people would stop drinking Mountain Dew.  A lot of people would develop the kind of brand loyalty that would make an ad designer cum in his pants.  But they wouldn't do that, of course they wouldn't.

I realize that I basically saying that Corporate America is nothing but a bunch of soulless, greedy fuckwads which is basically like saying 'the sky is blue'

It's still nice, every once in a while, to look up and take comfort in the few constants in this world.

Martian Idol

The good news, there seems to be a... well if not serious then at least serious-esque movement to establish real human colonies on Mars.  The bad news is that our first extra-terrestrial colonies will consist entirely of reality show winners.

At least that's the vision of Mars One, a effort made by a company out of the Netherlands.  The gist of it is to send four colonists every two years to live on the planet for the rest of their lives and turn the whole event into a inter-planetary Truman Show.  Think the Real World Mars: What happens when people stop getting their radiation protection from the magnetosphere... and start being real.  Real dead.  Because of radiation poisoning.  Because Derek doesn't want to do dishes.  Oh Derek, he's such a rebel, but you don't go walking outside without a space suit!

Leading up to the departure, it seems that the colonists, instead of being picked for scientific knowledge, flight training, survival skills or... anything useful.  No, they will be voted for on television.

That's right, we are going to pick our future astronauts in the exact same way we pick our failed pop stars.

I don't know how I feel about this.  The idea of colonizing another planet in my lifetime, it's one of those things that I feel absolutely must happen.  I missed the height of human space exploration and it would be nice to see something happen, really happen on that front.  To capture the future that we were suppose to have.  Maybe flying cars are a pipe dream but permanent colonies on Mars shouldn't.   But to have the whole thing be one giant reality show?  It's like someone giving me my own brewery but telling me that the bar is being turned into a giant dance club.

I suppose in my heart of hearts, I believe that it's a good thing.  The colonization of the solar system should be something we do, not as nation-states, but as a species.  In this environment, maybe this is what species-wide communication looks like.  But...

But I can't help but wonder what people will do when they get bored of it.  Sure there will probably be some controls as to who gets to go to Mars at first.  They will be people who have proven themselves capable and able to get along well with others for extended periods of time.  But what happens when people get bored and elect some off-the-wall wingnut who's favorite... and really only activity involves booze, a jackhammer and his environment; or some Paris Hilton look-alike with daddy issues.  What happens when we, as a species start sending people up to Mars just to make the television better.

Because this is a thing we would do.  Fuck scientific exploration, we wanna watch some privileged asshole have a princess tantrum one billion km away.  And it would happen.  And we would watch it, and watch it happily.

The Blowback

It's been about a week since the bombings at the Boston Marathon, and people more or less act just as anyone predicted.  Like their following a script or something.

Terrorism doesn't concern me.  Not at it's current level at any rate.  I worry more about my fellow Americans reactions.

"Why don't they move to remove his citizenship then the door would be open for naming him an enemy combatant."  

A Plea deal ... are you kidding me. This man is a terrorist and you want to offer him a plea.. #$%$ No wonder the #$%$ holes of the world come here to kill us.

So when it was even speculated... speculated, mind you, that the guy responsible could get a plea deal, well people more or less followed the script.

Anybody wonder what is wrong with the justice system. I am all for a fair trial, I am not for years of negotiations that cost millions of tax payer dollars. All the while blaming America and making him a victim, instead of a speedy trial and public hanging.

I can guarantee you that if an American blew up a bomb in a muslime country and killed innocent people over there, he would be beheaded. Case closed.

Is the anger justified?  Sure.  It was a terrible thing and people have ever right to feel anger.  They have every right to demand the man's head and throw his body into the Tiber.

Thankfully this guy is just a criminal and not a terrorist, according to dear janet we need to watch Christians and returning service personnel because they could be terrorists. This guy is muslim and we all know that they are a peaceful ilk so once again no terrorism here.

 And what I have seen time and again is that police, politicians and military use this anger when it's still fresh.  All these people willing to forgo one man's rights in order to feel safe or justified.  Of course they never forgo one man's rights, now do they?

Hell since he admits to it. and claiming no ties to a muslim group. Whats the problem? He is one injection away from death. America has no worries from a muslim attack for his death.. LOL, HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. KILL him and place hid body in a furnace. The End

It's not that people are saying these things that worries me.  It's expected.  It may even be therapeutic.  What worries me is that people are going to take them seriously.  Policy will be enacted based on the vitriol, fear and anger immediately proceeding such an attack and we will have to live with it for as long as this republic still stands.

There is plenty of evidence to put him away. If he doesn't get the death penalty he would get butt raped and probably killed in prison. It may be better for him to go to prison since we cant legally sentence him to death by butt rape, which sounds way worse then lethal injection.

It's a sad thing when this might be the smartest thing I read today.

Open Letter to This Nation's Retailers

Dear Retail Outlets of the United States:

How are you?  I am fine.

Listen we've got to talk about my email inbox.  You all need to cut it the fuck out, mm...kay?  Seriously stop it.  It has gotten to the point where I get probably fifty emails per day from you bastards. 

Now, I understand that some marketing focus group has put it in your stupid pea brains that you must maintain CONSTANT CONTACT with your customers.  I wish I knew what sub-human was spreading such vial garbage so I could collect some holy relics, chant some words from a forgotten tomb of evil and send that creature back to the demon dimension from whence it came. Until that day, I will just have to be content with telling you all how wrong that concept is.

It seems to me we have to have The Talk.  You know what I'm talking about, right?  In some circles is called the Define the Relationship talk.   In others it is called the Last Warning Before I Get a Fucking Restraining Order talk.  It's basically the same talk either way.

Here it is.  Ours is a buyer-seller relationship.  When, in the course of my day I, for example, need a set of marital aids bearing the likeness of the cast of Firefly, I will come to you either in person or via the Internet and inquire as to whether or not you have such and item.  If you indeed have such a thing that you are willing to give me for a set price, I will then arrange for funds to be transferred to you, you give me this thing I need and I GO ABOUT MY FUCKING LIFE.

See, I feel like you don't respect me.  In the commercial hell-scape you call a mind, I feel like you see me as nothing but some dancing elf whose entire existence revolves around buying shit from you.  And any waking moment spent not shopping should be spent earning just enough money to come back and buy more shit.  Also it seems that you believe that I am so dumb that if, by some unimaginable oversight, you don't bombard my neurons with constant corporate stimulus, I will somehow FORGET that you exist!  That I would be stuck in my apartment sitting in the middle of the living room floor in hysterics because I have ALL THIS MONEY and I DON'T KNOW WHERE TO SPEND IT ALL!  WAAAA!

Let me clarify this.  I know your there.  It's okay.  I just don't need any shit from you right this second.  I'm good, thanks for asking.  If I need something, I know where you are.  I obviously found you once, I am fully capable of doing it again.

Fuck off.  Leave me alone.  Or else I will go to this other person to buy something... right up until they ask my email address too... fuck!

Love Jeremy.

Rancid Discovery

I used to love the Discovery channel, at least I think I did. I can never tell if the things I loved and now loathe changed, or if I just got older bitter and angrier. Maybe it was always this way, and I'm just now bright enough to catch on.

It seems to me though that Discovery and the History Channel have given up on intelligent programming and have gone the way of TLC replacing the last bastions of intellectual television with angry hillbillies screaming at each other.

I wonder if there is just no market for it now, assuming there ever was. I have a hard time believing that, even in a country as intellectually void as this one, there would still be enough people who want to watch something mentally stimulating as opposed to another version of the Jerry Springer show.

Either that or they are all going for the same market of slack jawed idiots that wouldn't miss an episode of Jersey Shore. It would be a sad irony, after everything that has been done to expand the options of the television audience, if choice was restricted because nobody wants to be the one to not be filling American airwaves with drunken pitched battles.

If the aliens pick up these signals, it could explain why they haven't showed yet. At least that's my hope. I don't think I want to meet the creatures that still wanted to make contact with us after we elected someone named Snookie to be a representative of our species.

Apocolypse Now... er maybe later.

December 21st 2012 has come and... well almost gone.  Assuming that the world doesn't turn into a pumpkin at midnight, we're fine.  It's all fine. 

And we knew we would be.  That's the fun part.

It's great fun making light about the end of humanity... mostly because there is no downside.  If we are right (and we have been in 100% of cases so far) humanity will continue trudging on as it has since our savanna days.

And if we are wrong... well, bugger it.  At least we had a laugh.

I've always been captivated how the End of Days captures our collective imagination and always has.  I remember reading something about ancient Rome around the time of the Christian persecutions of Emperor Nero.

Christians at the time were betting on the End Times.  Jesus' return was just around the corner and the End of Times would soon be upon them.

That was 2000 years ago and every once in a while a supermarket rag will be listing off the 'Signs of the Biblical Apocolypes!'  Also Michigain Gives Birth to Alien. 
Interstellar baby daddy demands paternity test.

The point is, every generation thinks that it's going to be the last. 

Our parents thought sure a nuclear holocaust was on the horizon.

Their parents envisioned a world lead to destruction by the Nazi party or Communism

Their parents were watching a World War that would surely signal the end.

Their parents heard the loudest sound in recorded history, the Krakatoa explosion, surely the whole Earth was exploding.

Their parents may have been escaping famines across all of Europe including the Great Irish Famine which killed a quarter of the population.

Their parents were probably a tad apprehensive about Napoleon little party wagon across the face of Europe.

Of course their parents may remember the time France and the rest of Europe were facing peasant uprisings that threatened the very fabric of their societies.

And their parent's may remember expelling the entire Arcadian civilization in Nova Scotia during the French Indian war.  Part of our fascination may be the fact that, for some, the world as they know it really does end.  A lot.

See also the Hordes of Genghis Khan.

The fall of the Roman Empire.

You have to laugh.   You have to because sometime, it really will be The End.

Even if we manage to keep from nuking ourselves or polluting the planet to the point of being uninhabitable... well the sun will explode someday.  Give it a couple billion years.

If we escape that, the Milky Way Galaxy is going to hit Andromeda causing unknown havoc in about 5 billion years.

Failing that... well eventually most of the energy in the Universe will be used up and all of Creation will undergo heat death or have the very sub-atomic particles ripped apart.

You have to laugh, really.

So raise a glass to The End.  May we always greet it with a drink in one hand, and raising a defiant middle finger with the other.  May every Apocalypse be as uneventful.

Sympathy For Immortals: December

I full and truly finished two of the five chapters I had set as a goal for myself last month.  Not a great start, but there are some factors involved, so I'm trying to give myself some slack.

First there's the fact that I was working... quite a lot.  Tons actually.  It's probably a bit of a miracle that I got as much done as I did.

The early chapters are needing to be more or less re-written.  Later chapters will be more streamlined so that all I really have to do is cut and paste and clean-up.  Sadly, or maybe not, that will become more prominent when I actually have time to write again, so we'll see when I get that far.

The schedual still stands for now with a slight nudge the other way:

December Ch 3-5
Jan. 5-10
Feb. 10-15
March 15-20
April 20-25
May 25 - ??

Still hoping to cut several chapters out of this piece and that will lighten the load a bit, definatly won't have a second draft done until June 1 at very earliest.

Sympathy for Immortals update.

I've started the second draft of my first novel. In starting to realize that this may be my trunk novel. It's random, it's disjointed, it's trying to tell a story that I might not be good enough or smart enough to tell, not yet at least. What I am doing now, it's valuable if only to learn my craft.

My goal is to have it finished by April, the commit myself to sleepers.

Sympathy For Immortals: The Great Rewriting.

The time has come for the great rewriting project.  The attempt to make Sympathy readable... perhapes even kinda good.  I'm not holding my breath, but here is the schedual I have planned out in my head.
October 2012: All the prepwork I should have done going into this project.  Despite the fact that this story has been floating around my head for well over a decade, it was a mish-mash of thoughts, ideas and vauge notions.  It was going to be a great novel.... didn't know anything about it except that it was going to be great.
Well it's exists.  It will get better.  It might even be good.  I would settle for good.
Characters need to be rounded out.
Rules need to be established concerning angels, immortality and Death.
Might even write an outline... we will see.

November 2012: Chapters 1-5
December 2012: Chapters 6-10
January 2013: 11- 15
February 2013 15-20
March 2013: 21-25
April 2013: 25-30?  Or whatever is left.

Six months.  I think it's doable.  But we will see how reality plays out.

The Infinite Loop

Even before the extinction of the human race, old highway 54 was downright dangerous at night.  The lack of recent maintenance exacerbated the problem somewhat, but no one seemed to notice, except for the one pick-up truck working it’s way through the dark.

It was being driven by a cybernetic-humanoid, a robotic entity designed to look vaguely human; it walked on two legs, had two arms and a head.  True, the CH droid had three times as many joints on the legs and arms that could extend and retract but the head was very human-like if you overlooked the metallic sheen and the rotating optical receptors.   It could still operate an old pick-up truck found in an abandoned town outside the Grid.  Most cybernetics didn’t bother much with them, but they were the only useful transportation in the Uninhabited Zone.

Analysis of the humankind-ending plague revealed that it started somewhere in this area, which made it an area of interest.  The humans living here were the first to succumb.  Towns in the area had been deserted for nearly ten years now. 

So a girl suddenly walking in front of the truck came as kind of a shock to the CH droid's CPU.    What happened can’t be well translated from digital, but within an instant the droid decided on a solution; force the vehicle into first gear, apply the handbrake, turn the wheel exactly 30.2 degrees, miss the girl, run the truck up the embankment to slow down, turn the wheel 29.57 degrees the other direction and back on the road.  As back end of the truck slid, the cyborg applied more pressure to the brakes and allowed angular momentum to slow forward inertia.  If it were at all possible to do so, the cyborg would probably have shit in it’s pants. 

When the truck stopped, the CH droid did a quick analysis of vehicular damage and, finding none, opened the door and walked out onto the road.  Servos in his head whirred as his vision switched from enhanced optical, to thermal to ultra-violet and back to optical.  There was no girl.  There wasn’t even a body, just a moonlit road weaving through the forest.

It made one last scan and returned to the pick-up.  It was able to sit down before it noticed the girl was sitting in the passenger seat.  What happened to the droid’s processors is hard to translate from digital speak, but the whirring servos was basically the digital equivalent of yelling, “What.  The.  Figgity.  Fuck!”

The woman looked at the cyborg and said, “Hello.”

“Hello.  Can I assist you in some way?” said the cyborg.  It could see that her eyes had a certain glow in them that was unknown in any species of mammal on earth.  Her skin was pale to the point of being translucent.

“I want to go home.”

The cyborg processed this and said, “Yes. I can help you.  Where is your home?”

“Drive.  I will show you the way.”

The cyborg did as it was told.   The girl did not speak she simply sat and glared at the robot. It caused occasional danger warnings to flash in the cyborg’s CPU.  It doesn’t translate well from digital speak but it’s equivalent to being highly creeeped out.  Cybernetic entities rarely understood the term uncomfortable silence, but this one was learning quickly.  Finally it said,  “I am cybernetic humanoid number 1153.  I must say that it is amazing to find a living human, in this area.  Tell me, do you know anything about the catastrophe that lead to the plague?”

“Please watch the road.  It’s dangerous” said the girl.

“I do not know if you are aware, but something happened here that decimated the human population.  Do you know anything of it?  Are there others here, others that might have survived?”

“There are no people here.  There was only Kyle.  Kyle killed me.”

The cyborg paused to process that information.  “You are dead?”

The girl nodded, “Kyle killed me.  He killed me because he thought I was a liar.  He wouldn’t watch the road.”

“I believe you might have hurt yourself.  Allow me to take you somewhere were you can get help.”

The woman shook her head, “You can’t help me.  You will die too.  Just like everyone else.”

“Everyone else?” 

“Everyone died because Kyle wouldn’t watch the road.”

“I do not understand.”

“Kyle... you should really watch the road now.”

As quickly as the girl had appeared, there was a horn blast and the pickup was bathed in light from the headlights of an oncoming semi.  The girl screamed and the cyborg calculated.  It doesn’t translate well in any language, especially digital speak, but the droid came to a conclusion.     The cyborg reached out to touch the girl and it’s arm passed right through here. just like the semi passed through the pick-up moments later.  Instantly, both the truck and the woman disappeared. 

The cyborg slammed on the brakes one more time bringing the truck to a stop.  It opened the door and started scanning the area for the girl or the semi.  Suddenly, he noticed something metallic sticking out of the embankment.  The cyborg knelt down for a closer look.  It was remains of a tanker truck, long buried and overgrown.  With some digging, words could be read, ‘Biologic Solutions.’

Ten years ago, the company reported a loss of a transport truck but failed to detail it’s cargo, a virus being engineered as a biological weapon.  Still, the CH droid ran into a problem explaining how it made the discovery.

Words like paranormal, ghosts and psychic phenomenon don’t translate well into digital speak.

 It settled for suggesting that it had inadvertently activated a lost biological data fragment caught in an infinite loop.  Upon providing a terminating condition the data revealed the location of the wreckage.