On Mark Bittman

I think the term "asshole" is probably the most offensive of all insults. Think about it. To be called an asshole is to be called a hole in somebody's gluteus maximus or ass. "You hole in the ass!" See what I mean? "You intestinal lip!" "Kiss me, you puckering sphincter from which stinking coils of brown excrement emerge!"

That being said, I think Mark Bittman, New York Times columist and author of The Minimalist Cooks Dinner, is a total asshole for making me spend two miserable hours preparing his mediocre "Linguine with Tomato-Anchovy Sauce" without instructing me how to properly remove anchovy meat from the fillet's skeleton. Do you know how many bones are in a single anchovy? Lots. Minimalist, my eye, you asshole.

Watch Your Ass Online

Funny story. As many of you know, some of us more...narcissistic bloggers put trackers on our pages to get the skinny on who's visiting. Now before you panic over your obsessive refreshing of a pretty blogger's site, there aren't any names associated with the program. We basically see your city and what brought you. Basically. Creepy, I know, but once you know that they know that someone from your city is repeatedly viewing their busty self-portraits (see "Boob Envy" by I Shoulda Been a Stripper), a profound calm replaces any sleaze-bag anxieties.

A few weeks ago, I was routinely checking my stats when I noticed a surge in traffic from Facebook. Not so unusual. All my posts are routed to Facebook, and a lot of folks view the ol' blog from there. The only problem was that I hadn't published anything that day, and the post they were visiting was rather old. My initial reaction was dreaded alarm. Something I'd written must have finally come back to haunt me, and in a way, it did. I was already considering damage control. A little sleuthing uncovered anchor man Fred Cantú's Facebook profile as the source of my new visitors. Some of you might remember a picture I had shared of Cantú's floating head for one of my Austin Pictorials. It was a sticker on the rear window of someone's car I was idling behind. Uncle Fred had seen it, uploaded it to a Facebook album, and kindly linked to my blog. Thanks, hoss. I immediately befriended him, and found, much to my amusement, his quick return to my blog in what my most malicious fantasies determined as a "how the shit did he find me?" sort of perplexity. Now you know, Freddy.

The story's not over though.

Shortly after my and Fred's virtual spotlit dance, the driver of the vehicle with the Fred Head sticker left a comment on the Pictorial post. Normally, I'd simply be amazed with the smallness of this world or more concisely, Austin, but I distinctly remember weighing the ethical dilemma of posting a photo of a stranger's car with a stranger's license plate online for the world to see. And the world does indeed see it. You'd be surprised how many international visitors an insignificant blog receives. So anyway, the scales tipped, and I chose the Dark Side with an affirmative, "Fuck it. I don't know this guy." Who cares if some anonymous Fred Cantú aficionado gets axed to death by a crazed blog reader? Not me. He was a good sport about it, but his information never showed on my statistics, so like I am to Fred, "Sluggo" is to me, and I am perplexed by his whereabouts. Except for this morning. Apparently the man lives nearby, for once again, I was caught behind him at a stoplight, only this time, I uncomfortably squirmed at the notion that he might recognized me, pull me screeching from my car, and pound the potpourri-scented shit from my precious body. The light greened without incident, and Sluggo and his Fred Head left me reflecting on the moral of this story: watch your ass online.

If you want a Fred Head sticker, visit Fred's Facebook profile. Proceeds go to Haiti.

Public Speaking Deux

Ah, another semester, and I am able to exercise my favorite discomfort: public speaking.
It's not really my favorite. In fact, I hate it. I ran into a regular student a few days after a class visitation, and without bringing up the subject, she volunteered that everyone in her class began making fun of me as soon as I exited the room.
"Everyone laughed at you when you left," she said as I stepped into the crowded elevator. "It was, like, so weird."
She was joking of course, but she confirmed my all along fears that I appear uncomfortable to students. Why else would she choose my one irrational weakness (besides zombies) to attack? I only have 15 classes to suffer through this Spring, two of which are at 7:45 in the sleepy-eyed morning. Suggestions? I've got the regular breathing thing down. I don't fidget, and I speak with authority, but inside, inside I am an anxious disaster. Sigh.

An Organic Rant sans logic

I've been reading The Family: the Secret Fundamentalism at the Heart of American Power by Jeff Sharlet, and in doing so, I've realized a terrible, terrible truth: me an' my kind (that's you) are all pillars for a greater scheme that has tricked us into both complacency and outrage. Let me explain. Reality TV, social networks (blogs included (unfortunately)), and sensational media = dull-eyed lethargy. We're drugged by alcohol, pharmaceuticals, and fast food. We're seduced by product, product, product. Buy, buy, buy. And we do. All the while, makers of these poisons, be they moral or chemical, swim in the profits of our victimization, which leads me to my next point of trickery: outrage. Some of us awaken to this molestation of wellness and snarl and spit at it via angry blogs or just general bitching. Some of us write what many would consider paranoid or subversive or radical literature through the very means of distribution we are picketing. Others are more practical and organize juggernaut groups that become the interested process which initially turned angry chins. Some become hippies. These are, of course, my own conclusions, my own experiences which I am applying to what Sharlet published. The Family, according to Sharlet, is a vast network of very influential Jesus enthusiasts who think that said deity is a capitalist who loves most and works through His most successful vessels to establish a theocratic new world order of total Christian control. In doing this, these lawmakers, CEOs, and foreign dignitaries can iron out any wrinkle of society in any way they see fit. Think national socialism (aka, Nazis). I know the rule of losing the argument at first comparison to Nazis, but fascism is a clear influence for the Family, and their leader, Doug Coe (Jesus' main man), has used Nazi Germany as not a moral model, but an example of achieved totalitarianism. Anyway, my outrage is a farce best represented when applying the information from this post to a little number I wrote on what I call "social capitalism" a few months back. There I was celebrating my social innovation* by suggesting that the prosperity of a few could do wonderful things for us, the huddled masses, and all I've done is fall in line with the Family's ideology that the elite should govern over all the rest. The only thing I didn't touch on is that Jesus wants it that way. Folks, the implications are huge! Am I the perfect citizen for a world being controlled by a powerful...cult, for lack of a better word? How did I come to be an advocate for covert religious force? How was I programed without realizing it? Was it through the conditioning of my parents? My grandparents? Maybe I'm just not appreciating that modern times have granted us the luxury of over-thinking, of paranoia. Or maybe I am appreciating the opportunity afforded to me by simply stepping back, looking at my place in society and realizing, "What the fuck?!" I don't know.
I'm only halfway through Sharlet's book. If it's worth having an opinion by the end, perhaps I'll bring it up again.



*In rereading my social capitalism post, I was pleased to see the irony of my mention of "the Fuhrer." The pieces are there. Shaping them into a greater picture is the challenge, and it takes time.

Consumerism

Do you ever want to choke people? I do. Sometimes I think I’d enjoy life better finger painting in a cave, my only possessions a club and bone flute. Naturally, I’d have to drag my girlfriend in there with me, but she’d adjust.

HEB (grocery store)
“Did you find everything okay?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Would you like any of our basket items?”
“No.”
“Everything’s just a dollar.”
“No.”

Regal Arbor Theater
“Are you a Regal Card Club member?”
“No.”
“That’ll be seven dollars.”
Regal Arbor Theater concessions counter
“I’ll have a 20oz bottle of water.”
“That’ll be four dollars and 25 cents.”
“Four dollars and 25 cents?!”
“Yeah, I think that’s our biggest rip off.”

Barnes and Noble
“Yes, I’ll have a large black coffee.”
“Would you like anything to eat with that, a cookie or a scone?”
“No.”
“Are you a Barnes and Noble Card member?”
“No.”
“Would you like to become one and save 10% on all your purchases?”
“Just give me the goddamned coffee or I’ll murder you.”

I didn’t actually say that last part, but my heart sang it.