Chain Rattling

I’m trying my damnedest, but I just don’t have the "Christmas spirit." The tree is decorated, our plans are taking shape, family and friends are on the way, menus are set, gifts are magically appearing in stockings… but I can’t muster that "joyeux Noël." Sure, Christmas is America’s Viagra-induced orgy of consumerism, but charity often prevailed. This year, however, is bringing us a plague of Scroogery and Capital Vices (pun intended) that snuff the flames of understanding, generosity, kindness, and selflessness: Unbridled greed in the tax bill (enriching the rich, hogtying the middle class, and pillaging the poor); Saturnalian gluttony in the Senate and Congress (and Hollywood and academia and seemingly everywhere...); a president’s hubris that rivals the Fallen Angel’s; a lustfulness in men that gets more sinister with every daily revelation of abuses; an idleness that resigns us to this ugly, newly old America (while occasionally, lamely, lazily shouting out injustices on Facebook or blogs [read: this]); an envy that reimagines the “stars upon thars” mentality and will result in an epidemic of intolerance; and a senseless wrath that arms mass murderers and upends liberties. These behaviors undo reason (on both sides of the political spectrum) and eradicate centralism, compromise, appreciation, and promise. I’m trying my hardest to find humanity in this Inferno of heartlessness; but the men in power, in all their forms of power, are making it seemingly impossible for me to celebrate. To them ALL -- every Mitch, Paul, Mike, Orin, Harvey, Kevin, Roy, Charlie, Matt, James, Mario... -- I have a gift this year: A visit from the hooded, boney Ghost of Christmas Future. Yet, despite their humbug, their narrow-mindedness, vices, and lies, and for the sake of the season, I’ll emulate Tiny Tim and wish them all Merry Christmas and “God bless Us, Every One!" Yes, even the self-obsessed Antic Executive with the Fake Bake instant spray-on tan. [Ahhhh, now the Ghost of Christmas Past returns!]

This giant, mucus-covered, tangerine slug...

I’ve been doing everything I can to avoid responding to this insanity; but, this morning, El Supremo Orange Slimo denied allegations that he behaved inappropriately. He then tweeted about Senator Gillibrand, “[she] would come to my office ‘begging’ for campaign contributions not so long ago (and would do anything for them),” knowing full well how people would interpret “do anything for them.” I too would join the chorus of “Lock HIM up!” if one could keep a spineless tangerine slug behind bars. Instead, we should be pouring salt on this giant, mucus-covered gastropod. [For the sake of my sanity, I return to closing “the valves of [my] attention.”]

A Silver Lining?

A silver lining? After reading Billy Bush's editorial this morning, Maria texted me: "Without Trump, none of these allegations about sexual harassment would be brought to the table. He is doing a great service to the women’s movement." Every day more slimeballs slither into the swamp of insignificance... and we may have our groper-in-chief to thank. Whodathunkit?

The Rhetoric of Fathers

I keep hearing and reading a preface from fathers who share a default response to all the abuses being brought to light: "As a father of a daughter..." It's almost as if their eyes are finally opened to the great hardships their daughters have endured and/or will face. Really? Enough! I mean, as a "father of a daughter" how could you just be realizing this now? Stop using fatherhood as some excuse that separates you (as fathers) from this ancient behavior towards women and children because you have daughters. The fact that you're saying, "As a father of a daughter...," is not that far removed from looking at your daughters in a manner that somewhat objectifies them. Instead, raise your children in a way that doesn't modify their genders or identities as being the obstacles. You should be saying, "As my daughter's father, I take responsibility for how I behave. I model through example and she knows what's not acceptable."

The End of That Life

When reviewing the long list of my many all too human flaws, my health glaringly pops out. I see myself in the light or darkness of two categories: 1. I’m a lot more unhealthy than I let on (or how I am perceived); or 2. I’m exactly as I’m seen – failingly frail.

I’ve been, pretty much, sickly most of my life. As a child, allergies were my undoing and the sinus infections that were inspired by the allergens and mucus gadding about my overwhelmed little body were debilitating. I lived in the seasonal curse of a terminal flu. Hell, at 9 years old, I nearly went deaf from ear infections; and when I was 13 years old, I developed ulcers that actually took the stride from my youth.

Being that I was the malady that I was, there was no excuse; and yet, I started to drink alcohol as a teenager. The added physical grief alcohol inspired in the form of excruciating hangovers, stomach ailments (of all sorts), and a general cloudiness of being only screamed: “Really?!”

Really. I kept going because when in my cups, I was in love. Through high school, through college (where upon returning home from school that first time freshman year, my mother yelled, “You’re green!”), through my twenties (when I was so overwhelmed with working full time, going to school full time, and falling apart full time that the addition of napalmed mornings still never stopped me), through my thirties (when my sanity started to be questioned by midnight arrhythmias and daytime ectopic beats), and seemingly well into my forties as I now manage a new state of illness.

Six weeks ago, already feeling shitty, I drank my share of pints (while also hiding my physical failings) and entertained good friends on our roof into the night and into the joy of inebriation. I woke up the next morning and I was done. Achy, bent, palpitating, burnt, I said goodbye to my drinking life and I felt no remorse. Not for the pints (that I loved, loved, loved), not for the wine (that I almost desperately attached to all my meals (and loved)), not for the conversations inspired, the soundtracks created, the fights, the flights, not for the value of all the relationships formed around booze and booziness. I was done. My health demanded that I be done… my health demanded that I be done when I was a teenager; but it wasn’t until I was 47 when I finally abided.

I love to drink. I really, truly do. Alcohol seems as much a part of me as my imagination. And someday, when I’m healthier, I may choose to drink once more – a pint here, a glass of wine there… but I’ll never, ever let it endanger my well-being again.

Now, if anything, I’m saddened by all those lost mornings and days; and I may even be more despondent now that those celebratory nights in festering pubs, jammed parties, or solitary nights alone in my own firmament might be lost to fond memories.

But at 47, in sound mind, if not yet body, I, like the Dude, abide. Cheers.

The Return of Dubya?

I’m seeing a lot of posts by my liberal friends longing for Dubya and a little vomit climbs into my mouth. Do I really need to remind you? I guess I do: Sanctioning torture, unfounded wars and the war on terror, the Great Recession, the Patriot Act, Guantanamo prisoners, anti-choice, lack of curiosity, right wing judicial nominees, John Bolton (and everything that went with him),… Oh, I can go on. Now here’s my truth: I would still take him or his father (right this second) or Ross Perot or Bob Dole or John McCain (at warp 9.99) or Mitt Romney (“in less than 12 parsecs” [sic]) and all their baggage, all their jaundiced ideals, over the grotesque moral abomination that now occupies the White House. No pause. I would take them right now! Yep, now I said it too (with vomit in mouth).

For the Haters...

I hastily made this .GIF:

Where's My Pitchfork?

It’s not possible to fight both a Civil War and a World War at the same time. Since there is no breaking point for those who voted for him (if anything, they’re emboldened by his rallies, his antics, and his tweets), I’m wondering when those who didn’t support him will say, “Fuck it! Where’s my pitchfork?” Tomorrow? Next week? Maybe we’re stocking up and preparing for a global worst case scenario; or maybe we’re masochistically drawn to the entirety of this perverted entertainment as we recline on the couch with our hands down our pants; or maybe we’re running to the tool shed. No matter, time ain’t on our side. Hurricane Donald is a category 6 storm and only gaining strength.

P. S. A. Fucking. T.

Based on the College Board’s “Practice Test,” the compilers of this exam are:

A. Insipid
B. Tiresome
C. Irksome
D. Cruel

As we’re spending the afternoon reviewing the PSAT with our daughter, I’m recalling a storm of high school anxieties. Separately, we read and answer questions to the same passages and then compare results. I’d like to tout how brilliant we are (Maria, Aleda, and I are doing "aiight"); but beyond “correct” or “incorrect” is this: Holy shit, these readings are unbearably boring! And based on the construction of the questions, if you choose the incorrect answer for #23, the follow-up, #24, is bound to be wrong too.

The answer is____.

Summer is over and it's chile here...

While making and bottling sauces last weekend, the air in our home was so thick with vinegar and capsaicin that my little family (and possibly our neighbors... maybe even our block) endured an afternoon of wheezing paroxysms. So, being that I’m a bit overrun with these fruits, I’ll be sharing today’s harvest with some local East Village markets.

Chile Harvest Hoedown

In order to spare Facebook another post of my pepper porn, I'm sharing this year's crop here. This summer I am growing 31 varieties of chiles and almost all of the plants are supplied by ChilePlants.com. Here's a sampling of this morning's harvest (with some brief notes) and a taste of last week's harvest.

Top row: Devil's Tongue, Ram's Horn, and Chocolate Habanero.
Second row: Bonda ma Jacques, Brazilian Starfish, and Shishito.
Third row: Trinidad Perfume, Aji Dulce, Trinidad Scorpion, and Moruga Scorpion. 
Bottom row: White Habanero, Orange Teapot, Smokin' Ed's Carolina Reaper, and 7 Pot Douglah.

White Habanero: Pungent, fruity, and spicier than store-bought habaneros. The sauce that I make from this pepper is as creamy as its color and texture.

Trinidad Perfume: Very mild and semi-sweet with only a hint of habanero pungency.

Bonda ma Jacques: One of my "go to" peppers in every way. Versatile, abundant, not too spicy, sweet when fully ripened, and, simply, the ideal mid-range chile. 

Devil's Tongue: I've only a passing experience with this deceptively hot pepper. Citrusy (as expected) and sweat-inducing, I just made a sauce with these, so I expect the bottled version to soften.

Orange Teapot: Little demons with almost the heat of Scorpions. I have yet to penetrate to its flavor, but the plant is abundant (and beautiful).

Aji Dulce 1: Seemingly a habanero variety in taste, mid-range spiciness, and appearance; and similar to the Brazilian Starfish (see below). Still discovering this variety.

Brazilian Starfish: One of this year's superstars in every way. The plant produces an abundance of fruit; pods are meaty, sweet bell pepperish in hiding flavors, mid-range habanero spiciness, and very easy to enjoy.

Ram's Horn: Some of these peppers are as long as ten inches. Its flavor profile is similar to cayenne: relatively mild but meatier. 

Smokin' Ed's Carolina Reaper: These pods are just about as advertised. Blister-inducing heat and more heat. For some reason the Moruga Scorpions (below) are more shocking (and expanding) to my palate; but, like many of the mega-crazy-atomic chiles, this pepper should come with a therapist.

Trinidad Scorpion: Also as advertised: a profile of pain. Easy to dry and eager to destroy your evening. Hard to assess its flavor profile... but I'm trying.

Shishito: Somewhat sweet with a hint of discernible spice. Useful in every way. I even made a sauce using a ripe batch of these fingers and one, ONE, Carolina Reaper. May be among the tastier sauces I've produced so far this summer.

Chocolate Habanero (with a hint of spiderweb on the top pepper): Full of flavor and about as mean as the hottest habanero. I think I've fooled myself into thinking there are notes of actual chocolate in both flavor and odor. 

Moruga Scorpion: For some reason these pods burn the brightest. I find their heat to be invasive... yet, tasty. I've devoted a few bottles of sauce to just this variety; but I've also grilled a pod with a steak. Side by side, a thin slice of beef and a thin slice of Moruga Scorpion; and it was, sans doubt, one of the best steaks I've ever had. This chile is demonic, but it opens the senses and enhances other flavors. With this pepper you don't even need salt.

7 Pot Doughlah: These are my first ripe pods. Notes to come.

Yellow Cantina: From my previous harvest, somewhat fleshy, sweet, about as spicy as a jalapeño, and ideal for roasting or grilling.

Peter Orange: Also from my previous harvest, a beauty that also dupes me into tasting oranges. Not very spicy, but aromatic and complementary. 

Ammazzo: Little, fleshy bombs that are easily pickled. 

And this is what these peppers become (from left to right): Jacques' Jaundiced Tongue (mix of Bonda Ma Jacques and Devil's Tongue); the Chocolate Scorpion (mix of Chocolate Habanero and Moruga Scorpion); Aleda's Pierogi Punch (sweet and mild -- Trinidad Perfume peppers with a touch of White Habanero); Earl Orange (mix of Peter Orange and Orange Teapot); Shishito Reaper (mild -- sweet, ripe Shishito peppers with a hint of Smokin' Ed's Caroline Reaper); Dumb Ass (White Habanero); and Irresponsible Mix ('nuff said).

Here's a pic of my previous harvest -- the harvest that supplied the above sauces:

September the Turd.

Je ne regrette rien... except for maybe that drunk bid I placed on eBay last night, the long bike ride we took the day before (and my pained tuchus), reading the entirety of "The Light Between Oceans," binge watching "The Good Place" on Netflix (and its gross overuse of the word "literally" actually), the two pints of ice cream (ginger brûlée and raspberry) I bought at the farmers market this morning, the two waffles I inhaled for breakfast and the sugar shock I'm about to have, and... Strike that, je regrette beaucoup.

An East Village Treatise

We went away for a little bit and returned to an even newer New East Village. Among its changes in mere weeks: a Starbucks on the corner of Avenue A and St. Mark’s. [Go ahead, process that.] We fought like mad against the coming of the garbage-peddling turnstile (a.k.a., 7-Eleven) on the corner of our block… and, of course, we lost. It arrived, spread its neon tendrils and fluorescent bile up and down our block, and catered to the “slumming millennials,” upper class crusties, bridge-n-tunnelers, sweet and sensitive NYU students, local public schools, and the many stoned lunch-time construction workers reshaping our community. In other words, it’s often packed, serving its purpose, and now a fixture in the neighborhood. I would like to express a righteous indignation over the arrival of yet another shitty chain store… but after just a few days, it too is packed. PACKED! I want to be insulted; I want to rage; I want to boycott, picket, post, and protest; but that would be for my own misguided sense of what I think Alphabet City should be. This ain’t that place no more… and from what I understand, the post-post-gentrified EV is on course to becoming the most chain-friendly neighborhood in Manhattan.

The newly minted East Chainville screams, “Suck it, Brian!"

Oh, I will, but it won’t be a Grande, a Venti, or even a Trenta. It’ll be a perfectly nice, little cup of coffee from the café around the corner… the one that’s about to go out of business (like me).

I'm outta here...

I am two days away from rejoining Aleda and Maria in Nova Scotia. Being alone these past few nights has encouraged an extreme personal cuisine. Each evening, I taste my various chiles in an attempt to gauge their flavors, their subtleties, their dynamics... and it, the volcanic IT, finally erupted. This 3" yellow pod (pictured) is called the DEVIL'S TONGUE... and it licked me. Just two hours ago I halved the fruit, inspected its "oils," and inhaled the exposed flesh. [The best way to immediately discern the differences of all these many varieties is through smell.] There were citrus blossoms and a ripe habanero fragrance, but the capsicum pungency immediately kicked me in my ruddy face and I started to cry. I shook IT off and went in for a taste with my eyes shut and a full glass of wine on hand (normally the best fire-soothing companion). Lemon merengue, honey, and... Death! Or, at least, damn near death. I buckled or swooned... I'm not sure what happened because I lost a few moments. Gargling lava, swimming in sulfuric acid... I dunno. I really don't know! For the first time ever I resorted to ice cream (more than a pint!) to dull the pain and swore that Nova Scotia would be free of this kind of self-abuse. I finally need a break. Satan won!

Never Trust the Little Orange Ones

With apologies to Quentin Tarantino, this is the real "Hateful Eight." One particular pod of poison, pleasantly named "Orange Teapot" (second from right), seems like a friendly fellow; but damn him straight to Maleboge (his place of birth?): He's a duplicitous, vulgar little jerk who nearly destroyed my evening.

Two Hours Before Turning 47 and...

I’m starting to feel too old to be a question mark, but just about old enough to be an exclamation point… finally. I'm still young enough (or is it "old enough"?) to fight clichés (and often lose like I just did). My earlobes are droopy. My nose is longer and more visibly crooked. My eyebrows are thinning. [Just my eyebrows!] I almost have more grey hair than brown hair on my head. I have strange and floating white patches in my beard. My eyes are hooded (especially my right eye). I’m creaky in the morning. I’m creaky in the afternoon. I’m creaky at night. I’m creaky. I’m up to 1.75 magnifiers and I buy reading glasses by the ½ dozen because I lose or break a pair weekly. I’m starting to feel too old to wear my Bad Brains t-shirt but finally old enough to wear my Iron Maiden raglan. I like heavy metal more than ever… especially growling death metal like Dying Fetus, Decapitated, and Arch Enemy,… but I also like Abba and the Bee Gees more than ever. EVER! I go full Dancing Queen when Barry Gibb pours his disco on me. After 47 years, I’m finally comfortable in a comic book store and even more comfortable at a convention – this I can’t explain. I just now forgot the point of this post… but I’m still young enough to rack (or is it “wrack”?) my brain(s) and eventually remember.

Chile Season Begins

First venom-blooded chile to (almost completely) ripen: Trinidad Moruga Scorpion Chocolate Chile... And yes, as suggestive as this reads, I just ate (or, rather, munched) the tip. Not a sneaky little devil -- an immediate expansion of fire on the front of my tongue followed by that familiar habanero kick with a fruity peppercorn aftertaste. Not as acidic as other Scorpions I've grown/eaten and with a bursting sensation (like weak Pop Rocks) that tickles the palate. Burn lasts only minutes; definitely not an extreme heater. [I would consider the spice of this pod to be like a sarcastic, witty teenager -- sharp but clearly not mature.] I just now followed with a gulp of Umbian Rosso and my mouth is happy... which means that I am happy. Bring it on!

Start Screaming!

And now a shooting at a UPS facility in San Francisco. The climate deniers, pollution enablers, warmongers, pharmaceutical pushers, Twitter twits, and gun violence advocates may not live long enough to reap the rewards of their diabolical pursuits and cruel positions. Nor, at this rate, will we live long enough to scream into their swollen faces, “I told you so!” But just in case, start screaming.

Done

From my little foxhole, it looks like Facebook and Twitter (and the likes) are helping to shape our national, global, universal crises. I'm done. I'm absolutely, positively fucking fed up with the condemnation of the press; Sessions' impending attacks on our liberties; the squelching of enlightened thinking and acting; the unprecedented and celebrated rise of ignorance; the assault on our intelligence (in both specific and broad senses); the increased radicalization of ALL forms of religious beliefs; the renewed hatred of women, non-whites, non-conformists, and progressives of all types; and the baseless, monosyllabic rhetoric that bullies eloquence from the headlines. I'm done with social media being the catalyst, the home, the megaphone of all this ugliness. I'm done.

A Scantily Clad Victory

You're exhaling, right? Feeling relieved? Macron will win by over 60%... but I still can't help feeling somewhat defeated. In a country of rhetoric and reason, this is the best the French can do? Comparatively, hell yeah! Le Pen(urious) would've been a disaster. Progressively, hell no! I'm still holding my breath. Sorry, y'all.

Taking a Back Seat

I realize our daughter is a year away from driving a vehicle herself, traveling the same roads, finding new routes, switching lanes, paying tolls, exploring the world with the windows down,... and I'm already in the rearview mirror taking pictures while she just sits quietly in the front seat contemplating the road ahead.

The Little Thingies

Sitting on the Q train, stuck outside the DeKalb Ave. stop, the woman to my left with two children is screaming at the canned voice that announces "train traffic ahead," the Dice Clay clone to my right just unleashed a litany of expletives and then apologized to the schoolgirl sitting across from us, and in the fog of my massive headache I worry about the inconsequential things... like the fact that I woke up this morning to a world on the brink and Velveeta-the-Hut is still the president of the United States. It's just the little things that ruin my days.

President Comey

Things are so corrupt in the Trump administration and the links to Russia are so dangerously evident, that for all intents and purposes the various United States intelligence departments are running the country. For those who are worried about the Orange Jabba Slushee, his war-waging impulses, and his clear desire to push little red buttons, cease your fretting: he and his team of men, men, and more men are a gilded collection of castrati. I couldn't imagine writing this two months ago, but I think, for the time being, we're safe. Whatever you think of Comey, he's our president now.

More Than a Ride

When it comes to the teacup ride, I know my limitations. Last time I was on one, which was the last time I will ever be on one, I was waving wildly for the carny to let me off after one rotation. It was the greatest amusement park experience of our then eight-year-old's life. For aging me, round and round is so much worse than up and down.

A Flight of Fancy, of Sorts

No need to tell me how ridiculous I am. My family and I are well aware of my issues and obsessions -- comic books, especially from the 70s; action figures from my youth; magazine and newspaper cartoon gag art. But here’s another of my loves: simple, actual balsa wood model planes. Over the past 15 to 20 years, whenever shopping in a country store or town supermarket, I always look for these flimsy, "Made in U.S.A." throwbacks to my youth; and when I find ‘em, I buy ‘em out of the worry that there will be a time when they are no longer available. Here’s the display box that contains my collection. It doesn’t occupy a lot of space, but it brings me joy on a spring day like today when the idea of opening one up, putting it together, launching it in the park, and losing it in a tree is exactly what I should be doing instead of grading papers (and writing this post).

Lessons I Learned This Week

Two lessons I learned this week thanks to a couple of good friends: 

1. No matter how liberal my ideals, no matter the strength of my pluralistic convictions, there is a very dogmatic collective on the far, far left that will never accept me and my beliefs because I too am reduced to my appearance. To them, I might as well be a Trump supporter. Sad.

2. When you go so far left and fervently embrace the madness of limited, controlled (and controlling) rhetoric and politically correct positions, you are no longer liberal. No, you are conservative! Very, very conservative!