America Is Not a Christian Country

“Let the one who is thirsty come” (Revelation 22:17).

I realize that this is often repeated; but with all that is ripping this country apart (not even at its seams), with a “Christian” president and other "religious" elected officials bent on preserving guns, closing borders, ostracizing others, and smoking and exhaling only themselves and their egos, I would like to point out, once again, that America IS NOT a Christian country. Many of its values are no longer represented in any of the world’s great religious or belief structures and practices… Not even Satanism (which, as I understand, has a powerfully selfless component). America’s leaders are building their own religion (of self-aggrandizement, of greed, of malnourished righteousness, of humorlessness, of controlling expression, and exhibiting fundamental meanness). America is a disparate collection of polls representing some of the worst of and in us. “The time is out of joint,” and our dislocated priorities will leave another mother’s son destroyed, another father’s daughter violated, another friend erased, another horrible headline and another horrible headline and another.

Politicians proclaiming their belief in Christ are deceivers to the core.

Gun rights advocates, NOT CHRISTLIKE!

Anti-immigration supporters, NOT CHRISTLIKE!

Violators of women and children, NOT CHRISTLIKE!

Self-centered, egomaniacal Tweeters, clearly NOT CHRISTLIKE!

So, what are they? Imposters, swindlers, charlatans… And what do they truly worship? Themselves. So what do we call them? Evil (and not even in the Satanic sense).

These are evil people enabling evil people to perform atrocities for evil agendas be they Christians (in America), Jews, Muslims, or Buddhists (in Myanmar). Evil is as evil does.

And if you don’t like that I proclaimed your belief structure and its adherents as “evil,” prove otherwise. I know you can.

Mixing Disparate Blogs

This is likely to be a very rare mixing of my two blogs, "Daily Reamer" (https://dailyreamerkeller.blogspot.com/) and this space devoted to the personal, the political, and the pepper.

Of the thousands of original cartoons I have of Reamer Keller's, this one touches upon the political -- a pronounced statement of conservative (read: simpleminded) narrow-mindedness (redundancies implied).

Valentine from Trump

Just issued holiday press release from Prez Trump: "On this 'terrific' Valentine's Day, I would like to send a big heart-shaped box of Russel Stover Private Reserve chocolates to all my 'winning,' 'amazing,' 'tremendous,' and 'huuuge' supporters. To the 'stupid,' 'weak,' 'loser,' 'zero,' and 'out of control' Demoncrats, fake media, and just about everyone else, these 'bad' neon goo-stuffed chocolates." [Written using 12 of Trump's most often used adjectives.] Happy February 14th!

Fear U.S.A.

The original from the 70s and my update:

It's a mad, crazy, cracked world... and here's proof:

Our daughter has been poring over old issues of Cracked magazine (preferring it to Mad... or Crazy) and discovered this parody 'toon of Doonesbury. In November '91, nine years before the Simpsons' prediction, Cracked foresaw a Trump White House.

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.