Margaritas!

    One of the perks of my many years of good, clean living™, is the massive, near-endless amount of knowledge I picked up in my misspent days, weeks, months and years.  Perhaps the most important pearl of wisdom is that the best margaritas are not the result of arcane measurements or some such silly nonsense where things like spoons, cups and math are involved. In fact, I think you'll find that just dumping crap into a blender, tossing in some ice, and hitting the Go button is pretty much all you need. 

    Anyway, what you see here is the finely-honed result of years and years of trial and error, and, since blender-drink season is upon us, and for those of you keen on the science of it all, here is how my recipe works.

    First, toss in several thunks of fresh strawberries and grind until they stop screaming. 

    Then, add three or four glugs and a splash of tequilla, followed by two or three glugs of triple sec and two glugs of lime juice (all units should have an "ish" on the end as well). 

    Finally, with two hands, add four crashes of ice and blend until it's a margarita. 

    Drink.  And repeat as necessary until you pass out and wake up with a mouth full of floor.

    Apparently, this works out very well.  Of course, you'd have to ask Emily, though, since she's the one who's been drinking them with "no" help from me. 

-DP

Putting the Ass in Texas...

This is Don McLeroy, the dentist-cum-Chairman of the Texas State Board of Education, and he's belching out some Grade-A, Texas-sized insanity.

Yeppers, folks. "Stand up to the experts."

In fact, when you get on a plane, go into the cabin and stand up to the experts who have all that science and knowledge and know-how on how to fly the fucking plane and tell them that you want to fly the thing yourself.

Or, when your incisor explodes and you need to have it repaired, stand up to the experts and fix the thing because dentists, with all their years of education and practice aren't worth a piss.

Stand up to the experts!

Creationists are among the most-dishonest people on the freakin' planet, and idiots like this joker in Texas are the ones squawking about teaching your children the "science" of a world not even remotely scrutinized by actual science, but fueled by a two-thousand year old fairy tale and dogma that resembles something out of a Flintstones episode more than, you know, actual freakin' science by those pesky experts in their fields and their years of study and research and evidence.

God damn these imbeciles.

Now, I agree with Phil Plait that we can be thankful that the First Amendment remains largely in tact contrary to what this Bible-thumping dentist would demand. America does not need to be a theocracy. In fact, I can't imagine the horrors of a world where the planet's most powerful nation becomes one. And, quite simply, the world does not need another god-soaked nightmare.

Anyway, as always, PZ Myers has considerably more. Thankfully, he has the ability to keep his emotions largely in check when it comes to these window-lickers and their 6,000 year-old planet earth. I don't have the patience for god-slurping nimrods bent on brainwashing America's youth with an archaic (and scientifically impotent) myth about a two-thousand year old piece of Israeli yard art.

Oh, and Texas? You're going to let a freakin' dentist tell you what your kids should be learning? Really?!?
-DP

Yay, babies!

    Here at Emily's place in Indianapolis, there's a sweet, little family growing.   


    The funny thing about these little, jelly-bean-sized eggs is that, at first there was just one egg in the nest; then, there were two.  Then, the second egg wandered off to leave only the one again.

    Thankfully, for the finch family, the second egg came home after some egg-based carousing (that kid is going to be trouble.  I just know it), and, finally, a third, more-speckled, egg completed the collection of inevitable hungry mouths to feed.

    Of course, being a dumb bastard and all, I have no idea when these eggs are going to hatch.  In fact, I am not even sure if they are going to hatch.  The weather here in Indianapolis has been a little sprawling in terms of temperatures with lows in the bottom 40's at night, and, out on the deck where this bird-brained family decided to lay down some roots, the afternoon high out there has been in the triple digits.  So, there's a pretty good chance the finches are going to have some poached children.

    Then again, they're on the edge of the deck, tucked into a little wedge of shade between posts and away from the sun-baked house, so they might actually be cool-ish...  maybe.

    Anyway, I have no idea when these little dudes are going to escape those little calcified prisons and embrace the big, birdy world, but I'm hoping I'll be here when they do to snap some Day One shots of the chirpy little bastards.  I'm also having a hard time getting mommy finch in the nest since she tends to scamper the second anyone gets near the door, and it's just awkward enough to make it impossible to remotely trip the shutter.

    Ah well...  We'll see how they turn out.  I'm hoping they wake Emily up at all hours. 

-DP

Shout Out!

    At the moment, I really don't have enough time to put together much of a post, but I didn't want to be an idiot and neglect to wish someone a very Happy Birthday!

    So, Rebecca, as you are out and about cruising the backroads of this information-super-cul-de-sac, I do hope you stop by and smile knowing that I am wishing you a happy, happy today, and if there isn't cake in your future, I'll cut someone. 

    Happy B'day!

    Now, get the hell off the computer and go and enjoy the day!

    Carry on, citizens.

-DP

       

Celebrity Sunday: Special Monday Edition!

I wanted to have fun with this week's celebrity photo. I'm also not sure why I have such a hard time getting these things posted on, you know, Sundays, but I imagine it has something to do with my brain being stupid and stuff. For me, Sundays are good days to do nothing more challenging than drooling at shiny things.

Anyway, I wanted to mix it up a smidge for yesterday's celebrity thing, and post a picture to see if you all can guess who it is.

So, I'll let you kids guess for this week. Next week? I promise I will have this up on Sunday.

-DP

Currently Blown Away by This.

Here's a great video on the WolframAlpha Computational Knowledge Engine. It's pretty amazing what it can do.

Give the video a whirl, and then stress the thing yourself.

Crazy.

-DP

This will end well...

    This will end well...

TOWN OF ONALASKA, Wis. (AP) ―A picnic open to the public at a park in La Crosse County will offer free brats and hamburgers and an invitation to bring your gun.

[...]

[Hubert] Hoffman says the picnic is open to everyone, including children and those who don't want to bring a gun.

The gun rights advocate says it's a way to let the public know that openly carrying a firearm isn't dangerous or risky.

(full story)

    Now, I really don't mind people who own guns.  In fact, the way I see it, it's their right, and I'm fine with that.  What I don't get is this strange urge people have to actually go all cowboy and walk around with a gun on their belts when they really don't need them.

    I'm sure Hubert here hasn't really put too much thought into this, but openly carrying a firearm at a picnic may not be dangerous or risky, but let's say Hubert [or a gun-toting acolyte] is stumbling home drunk one night with his trusty shootin' irons on his belt, and a group of his most frightening stereotypes is walking toward him. 

    Now, I know this is a bit fallacious since I'm kind of assuming a lot here, but in that scenario, I think there's a lot of risk.  This group could overtake Hubert, swipe his gun, and, if they don't know how to use it, kill themselves or each other.  Or, if they do know how to use it, they could use it to commit a robbery.

    Or, Hubert could be so impaired to the point of letting his fear get to him, and he could gun down a group of perfectly innocent human beings.

    Or, he could also blow away a group of people intent on mugging him.  

    So, it's not so much about the gun owner being responsible, it's about assuming the gun owner is responsible and capable of assessing whatever situation his or her gun-toting self may find out there in the big, uncontrollable, chaotic society. 

    Personally, I think people watch too many movies.

-DP

Ain't No Ignorance Like Catholic Ignorance.

I have to admit, I get a right, rousing kick out of this silly man's rattling about me not being "fully" human because I don't believe his silly book of fairy tales.

What should I, as an atheist, say to someone whose thinking is so choked by ignorance and superstition and mythology and fear?

I know. Cardinal? Would you like a cookie?

-DP

Thunderbolts and lightning, very very frightening...

    As you can see in the picture here, I almost got zorched today while out shooting pictures of the storm that blazed through this little corner of cheeseland.  Granted, at best guess, that little blast of lightning was a fill two or three-hundred yards away, but it washed out the whole world in eye-frying white and made such a sharp and ear-splitting crack that I actually jumped.  


    In fact, it might have made my fillings tingle.  I can't be sure since, not only was I taking a picture of lightning blasting a hole in the earth over on the next block, but, in my pocket was a cell-phone that had, at that second, started vibrating with an incoming text-message, and well...

    It may just be too soon to talk about the terror and fear I felt.  If I drink a lot and leave the lights on, I might just make it through the night.

    Anyway, one of the things that surprised me was how little of that explosion of light my camera picked up.  As you can see, the bolt of lightning is actually pretty clear, and you can even see another bolt faintly feathering out a little less than half the way up on right edge of the image (and don't forget the bonus lightning up there on the top.  Sweeet!).

    The reason for the lack of blazing, eye-frying light in this shot is because my lens was stopped all the way down to a near pin-hole f/22.  That's pretty tiny.  To prove to you just how much light there was when this little jot blazed its way to terra-firma, it was crazy dark here when the storm rolled in as you can see from the streetlight in the bottom center of the picture.  And, if you need further proof, you can find it in the bigger image here.  If you look in the upper left corner of that photo, you'll see a smattering of little white dots.  Those are raindrops that have been backlit and frozen in place by the flash of lightning.

    Now, as for that black smudge in the picture, my guess is that it's a bird of some sort saying "WTF?!?  Is my ass on fire?"

    Oh, and the text?  Well, it went something like this:

Me:    I almost got nailed by lightning.  Got a neat picture though.

Her:   Dork!  You're no good to me fried!

-DP
 

She Gets By...

    So, lately, I don't know what it is or why, but it seems everyone is hopping on the 30 posts in 30 days blogging bandwagon.  On the one hand, it seems like a fun little challenge and a great way to get the intellectual gears spinning and grinding.  On the other, well, finding things to write about, especially this time of year where most are looking forward to the always approaching and wonderful tomorrow of summer, is almost impossible.  It's on the horizon, and it's almost too easy to get lost in daydreams of sun-baked, beach-bound antics and such.  For example, even as I write this, the one thought consistently bouncing off the walls inside my head is that of simply lying in the grass beneath a shady tree with a cold drink and a good book on a hot summer afternoon.

    Now, this whole challenge isn't really for me at this point in my current "I'm-being-a-slacker-and-not-blogging" frame of mind.  For a while now, I have been enjoying not writing here day-in and day-out, but I'm getting back into the daily scribbling/babbling frame of mind again, and I just don't need to face that sort of challenge at this point in time.  Still...  Seems like fun.

    The thing is, Emily is the latest blogger I know who is diving into this wordy world and taking up the challenge, and she's looking for some inspiration, tips, pointers, advice or insight on not only writing every day, but also managing to be relevant in her entries.  So, you know the drill, head over and offer up some encouraging and helpful words.  She's a brilliant writer with loads of talent, so I'm pretty sure if you told her to write about something like chewing gum and Swedish Fish, she'd find a way to make you smile.

    One of the questions I've been asked (not by Emily, but by a lot of you) is along the lines of: How do you stay relevant and post like you do?

    The thing is, I don't.  In fact, the whole notion of personal blogging with relevance to anyone other than myself has always kind of confused me.  I just struggle to be coherent.  I mean, yes, I do get streaks where I stumble upon news stories and things in my life that spark thoughts and ideas and feelings and whatnots, but I also write personal little snippets that could have happened yesterday or five years ago.  I don't like rules when it comes to writing, and I tend to do what I can to snap them like little breadsticks.  In fact, I've always just had the most fun breaking out of whatever little pixelated frame this blog attempts to build around itself.

    For example, if this blog becomes humorous, I trend into something more serious with current events ripped from today's headlines like a bad Law & Order episode.  If it becomes to serious, I try to think of something funny to scribble about.  If I start slapping up too many long and tediously read entries, you'll get a flurry of little blurbs, etc., so on, and so forth.  If it's happy, it can be sad.  If it's angry, it can be...  umm...  happy.

    Of course, those things aren't carved in stone, and the changes tend to be more a sense of direction than anything, and they've always been subtle.  The thing is, write what you want.  Find your voice.  Find yourself.  And, most importantly, love what you do.

    The worst thing that ever happened to me on this blog was to find myself in a sort of rut.  There actually was a day months ago where I wanted to write something but didn't as a result of it not "fitting" into whatever theme it was that grew like a freakin' weed and tangled itself around the words on this blog.  That's when I knew that rather than writing on this blog, I found myself writing for this blog, and it was just all messed up at that point for me.

    So, don't let that happen.

    Write whatever comes to mind.  As cliché as it is, take a notepad to bed with you and try to write down the last thing you think about every night.  It doesn't take much.  For instance, if the last thing you think of is the image of two ants fighting over the carcass of a dead bee, write it down and wake up trying to find a way to craft that into a fantastic metaphor for whatever it is you wish to write about.  If you think in less grizzly terms in the sleepy hours, try to imagine what your pets do when you're conked out.  Really.  It's all there in your world, and your readers want to know about it (that's why they read what you write).

    Then, there's life.  Everyone wants to read about the lives of others.  There's something in our tangled internal wiring that drives us to want to know what someone else is doing and thinking.  The world becomes a smaller place when you throw your ideas down upon a page that is accessible by a massive number of this planet's population.  For instance, if I write about my love of vicodin and red candy, someone in Egypt or Ireland or Fresno is going to read it, scratch their heads, and go about their lives with that little nugget of utterly pointless knowledge.  Most times, I'm sure, that's the last they think of it.  Then again, they may find themselves in a conversation and it might come up.  It might spark a thought or a memory of a thought.  The conversation will then turn, and it's that little, miniscule level of influence that makes this whole blogging thing so damn fascinating.

    Oh well...  I'm sure I could probably ramble on and on and on about this whole writing and babbling thing, but I'll inevitably find myself spinning in circles, and that's just too damn boring. 

-DP

Fire? Dude... Let's jam!

Apparently, they were testing the fire alarms where a band was practicing, and, wouldn't you know it? The drummer, as drummers are wont to do, picked up a beat, and the whole thing turned into a slick little jam.

I like it. The video is a little sloshy, but the tune these kids crafted seems pretty fun. Unfortunately, the whole point of a fire alarm is to make people not want to listen to it and subsequently move away from the offending noise. Now, hip-hop will appropriate the wailing, shots will be fired, and I'm sure a general apathy will sweep through humanity as these alarms will lose their repulsivness. So, clearly, a more obnoxious fire alarm must be created.

Perhaps something with a country twang?

Way to go kids. You've ruined noise.

-DP

Celebrity Sunday: special Monday Tuesday edition!

All I can say is whoops.

I don't know what happened. I turned the simple task of posting a single celebrity picture over to the staff here to do while I sit back and busy myself with Sunday mojitos and chips of unknown origin, and they let me down. They didn't even remind me during our usual Monday-morning beer-pong/brainstorming session.

Trust me. They're currently being beaten within an inch of their worthless lives, and their bonuses and vacation days have been excised from the corporate workings here. I have also set my sights on their pensions and retirement funds should they even think about letting another Sunday slip past without reminding us all of the high price of fame.

So, to make it all up to you, here's an extra-special picture, and you know that little fart you let slip thinking that no one noticed?

Well, guess what?

Barry Manilow noticed because Barry Manilow notices all, and that's why he's famous and you're just someone who was foolish enough to think they could squeak one out and get away with it.

-DP

Time Passing, Passing Time...

    So, right now, I'm loafing around with a sleepy noggin', and I'm waiting on the phone to jingle, bangle and clank (It really doesn't ring as it should).  So, what better time to belch out a bloggy item for my little mind to giggle itself silly over? 

    Yesterday, while I was happily clacking away at my keyboard, writing like a furious little beastie (okay, I was chatting, Tweeting, Bookfacing and probably surfing for one-eyed, Amish pirate, mud-wrestling videos), my email notice popped up, and I opened it up to find this:

Hello I was just serarching google, and I saw you online, and I just wondered what is your title with your company? what daily tasks do you perform? Do you have any high pofile clients that I would be impressed with..? Hope you don't mind me asking, I was just curious, since you had a good looking page. Thank you...Mark

    Imagine my glee...  Someone is interested in what I do, and...  and...  and...  They want me --sweet, sunshiney, little me-- to impress them!

    Oh, sweet joy!

    First, Mark (oh please, let me call you Mark), Hello!  I'm thrilled that you stumbled upon my "good looking" page as a result of your serarching.  Now, I have no idea what is involved in this whole serarching on google thing, but it sounds so much more complicated than simple searching.  Do you get all sorts of funky, in-depth, meta-packed results with your serarching antics, and if so, where do I get the plug-in for that? 

    Nonetheless, let's not drag this out here, okay?  I understand you're an important person who needs to be impressed, and, if nothing else, I aim to please.  Would you like to see me juggle?

    Right, right...  You're a busy man.  Let's see about those questions.

    My title?  My company? 

    The easy answer to that would be to say that I am currently under "contract" with Julius K. Mellonplonk Import/Export LLC., and my position there is currently that of the head "medicine dispenser." 
    
    You see, on the first Thursday of every month, several crates of umm...  we'll call them "sponges" arrive from China, and a great many of these "sponges" are somewhat worn out from the trip.  As you can imagine, three months in a shipping container with little food, little water and no place to poop can lead these "sponges" to develop no end of precarious and, sadly, sometimes deadly health conditions.  However, thanks to my expertise with antibiotics, bleach and heroin, these sponges are hastily mended and ready for their careers in their new American lives.  Be it making tennis shoes (do you like tennis Mark?  I could never get into it personally), live-in domestic servants, diamond cutters, gardeners, or "entertainment" for the next Republican National Convention, these "sponges" need to be back on their feet (at least the ones that have learned how to walk) and out the door and into the workplace as soon as humanly possible.  After all, commerce and industry never sleep.

    Thankfully, I've learned that "sponges" heal incredibly quick.  In fact, the young ones perk right up and show you a toothy, hopeful smile when you do something as simple as give them a Jolly Rancher and a pat on their spongy, little head.  Plus, they really like American cartoons.  But, I digress...  I'm sorry, but I just love talking about my job, Mark.  To see those happy, thankful faces when you nurse a "sponge" back from the brink of death is something words simply can not describe.  It's hard not to become a little attached.  Even the bitey ones are cute as buttons.

    My duties, as I said, usually involve dispensing medications, but that's not the only thing I do.  I also hose out and scrub the DNA from of the insides of the shipping container while making sure to wipe the prints from the outside, I make coffee for the higher-ups, and I also weed out the "sponges" who are sick beyond my meager skills and put them in the blue shipping container bound for Canada (socialized medicine is really the only way to save some "sponges").

    Clients?  Well...  Obviously, I can't share that information with you, Mark.  It's not that I don't want to impress you.  Believe me, I do.  It sounds very important to you.  Unfortunately, this sort of importing has kind of been frowned upon since the Emancipation Proclamation for reasons beyond my grasp.  However, many corporations are not afraid to bend the rules, and a few have even gone so far as to open factories in the homelands of these "sponges."  In fact, you'd be surprised at the demand for this ridiculously cheap "sponge" labor.

    Finally, Mark, thank you for taking the time out of your seraching to stop by, and thank you for sharing your thoughts on my page.  It means a lot to me that you like it.  And, if there's anything further which I can help you with, please don't hesitate to ask. After all, we strive to be a customer-oriented industry that still maintains its next-door neighbor appeal. 

-DP             

What... the... I... can't... Oh my... The stupid is burning me!

I don't know if words can sum up the sensation of my brain smashing itself against the insides of my skull when I watch even the first thirty seconds of this video:

Really...

Mustard?

Elitist?!?

Hamburgers without ketchup is now a threat to one's manhood in the beady eyes of Sean Hannity and Laura Ingraham?!?

I don't really recommend watching the whole collection of pathetic, imbecilic, twisted and mind-numbing rambling from these chirpy, little right-wing nuggets. I mean, really... They're saying Obama is an "elitist" because he wanted Dijon mustard on his burger?!?

So what?!? If the president wants some sort of Franco-surrender-sauce on his burger, he should damn well have it.

I'll bet that un-American douche-nozzle Sean Hannity eats those un-American potatoes as a result of his dirty, drunk Irish heritage, and that... What the fuck is an Ingraham? Is that some sort of Flemmish lace-licking Belgian twat-waffle? That broad is probably wearing shoes made of fascist Italian leather straight out of Mussolini's sweatshops. Bitch, please...

-DP

The Tale of Captain One Nugget and Mysterious Man Boulder.

    It's not everyday that I find myself thinking about another man's testicles.  However, today is one of those odd days where that sort of thing is somewhat appropriate. 

    You see, Editor Jeff (Jeff Simmermon to all you non-AOL washouts), as it turns out, has testicular cancer.

But still. Ain’t THAT a bitch. I’m going to lose one of my testicles,
sooner rather than later. And I’m not even going to get to lose it to a
hungry octopus, or at the tip of a pirate’s saber, or some other cool
way. Just to one of the most common, curable cancers in the world.

    So, you know what to do.  Follow the link-thingy, and offer up some suggestions on what Jeff should do with his excised man-nugget (I personally think he should have it bronzed and fitted with some clockworks so he could keep it on his desk and always know what time it is). 

    Or, you could just wish him luck and remind him that this world needs his words much more than it needs his balls.

    Good luck, Jeff.    

-Dan

Hard...

Now, I have been suckered into watching American Idol because of this woman, and well... One of the best songs I've ever heard was done by this Kris Allen kid and his guitar.

She Works Hard For the Money.

I was pretty stunned by the thing. Sadly, he doesn't really belong on the show. He's not glam or poppy, but he's got a better grasp of music and theory than anyone on that show. His changes in this version are just sublime.

-DP

Email Glitch.

My email is getting a little overly censorial, and it's taken to sending everything into the purgatory of my spam folder. So, if you've sent me something, and I've not responded, rest assured that I will be getting around to it.

Try not to take it personally.

-DP

Rolling to the White Coats.

    Today is yet another ramble to the doctor's office.  This time, it's at the Big Hospital with all the gadgets, gizmos and machines that go bing.  I will show up, an army of white coats will scrutinize me, poke me, prod me, and I'm certain more than one muffled "hmmm" will rattle its way through the herd, as, per usual, they try to figure out the mess that can be me.

    Oh!  And the jokes!  They always try to bring in the funny with hopeful humor, but they fail so, so badly, and I tend to unload the bleak but funny things on them with wild abandon.  For example, when one doc suggested scotch to help me sleep, I countered by saying that scotch used to work, but I've since moved on to auto-erotic asphyxiation with a plastic bag over my head while watching Amish midget porn (considering that my doctor is a seventy year old woman, these topics are dandy fun).   

    Nonetheless, it's always a smidge tedious.  Actually, it's more boredom than anything.  The questions over the past decade haven't changed, and the responses seem to simply stay the same. 

    Perhaps the biggest problem is the whole "let's see what hurts" aspect of this excursion.  Knuckles and sundry joints will be squeezed and twisted, there may be screams, and in the end, I will hobble away feeling worse than when I walked into the place.  And, to top it all off, medications --wonderful and fantastic cure-alls crafted by forrest creatures whose magics are old and powerful-- will be prescribed, and my hopes will be lifted.  Then, they will be dashed upon the rocks when the pharmacist tells me "Umm...  your insurance doesn't cover this." 

    So, this Tuesday should be a lot like a Monday.

    Aside from that, I have no idea how productive things will be here today.  These doctor appointments tend to throw a monkey-wrench into whatever works are trying to work in the inner-workings of my tattered nugget of a brain. 

    So, if you don't hear from me after the assault and battery, have a great and dandy day, folks, and I will babble here when I can. 

-DP 

At which point, I whimper and gripe...

    First, let's get the ugh out of the way...

    I freakin' hurt today.  I feel like I was involved in a gruesome petting-zoo mishap involving a goat and an elephant (there may have even been giblet-kicking donkey, but it's all a blur).  I was playing my guitar yesterday, and I tend to dance and move and get that whole rhythm thing goin' on, and, although it's fun and stuff, it's also kind of hard on the arthritic parts and pieces.  The ankles, knees, hands and fingers and tongue are all a little sore.  I also think I may have broken a toe, but I can never be sure of these things.  Thank goodness for Vicodin.   

 
    Now, next order of business:

    Here's a picture of a bunny in mid-flight.  No.  It's nothing special.  Unfortunately, you can't see Harding hot on his fluffy, little cotton ass since he's just out of frame, and I'm slow and stuff. 

    It was all very funny.  Harding spent a great deal of time sneaking up on the bunny.  And, the whole time, the bunny was watching him intently.  Then, when the realization that death was upon him hit, the bunny tore off in a blur, and Harding chased after him...  kinda...  for a second.  You see, when they hit the bushes, the bunny ran right through them, and Harding, for whatever reason, turned and veered off hard to starboard to run a wide arc around the patio.  I swear, if he was a kid, he'd have had his arms out while making propeller noises.  I don't understand it.  Normally, he will run down any rabbit he comes across.  He likes rabbits.  They're yummy.  So, for a blood-thirsty carnivore to blow off his favorite meal, it was a little odd. 

    However, after his little outburst was finished, he returned to his little hovel beneath the pine tree to continue his surveillance of the grassy part of the yard.  And, once there, he just sort of huddled himself together and looked at me as if to say, "See what I did there?  Yeah.  I meant to do that.  Contrary to your stupid human opinions, I don't need to eat all the time!"

    Finally, to wrap this up, I found a blog that you should all be reading.  It's my buddy Paul's blog.  No.  It's not this Paul, or even this Paul.  It's an altogether different kind of Paul.  It's a Paul you can call Earl.  Or, you could probably get away with calling him "Wölfgang mit Umlaut." 

    He and I go way, way, way back, and a large part of my sense of humor is the result of the madness that falls from his melon.  I haven't the foggiest idea how many years it's been since he and I sat down to contemplate global domination, but thanks to all things Bookface and whatnot, the muddy paths of our individual lives have once again crossed. 

    Sadly, this also means he must be destroyed.  As good of a friend as he is, he clearly knows too much, and well...  let's just say that you need to enjoy his blog while you can. 

    Okay.  I think that covers everything.  Any questions? 

-DP

Celebrity Sunday!

It's a spankin' deeee-lish Sunday morning here today. It's sunny, sixty-something odd degrees, and I'm thinking that, from now on, every Sunday, I am going to post a picture of a random celebrity. After all, celebrities remind us of how our lives are complete failures, and what better way to start the week than by hitting rock bottom on Monday morning and realizing, Hey! Things can only get better from here!

So, for the inaugural Celebrity Sunday post, what could be better than a frosty Morgan Freeman happily bitterly enjoying a delicious bundle of fluffy, pink cotton candy?

Not much, my friends.

Yum-O, Easy Reader. Yum-O.


-DP

Ahhh... May! You make me lazy.

    Of the brazillion and one things I have to do today, perhaps the one thing most trudging through my brains at the moment is the idea of doing absolutely nothing.  I've already passed on a 5am photowalk/jaunt/saunter scheduled for today since, well, the only time I shoot pictures at 5am is when I've been up all night and bored to tears.  If there's a sunrise, I am there, and though today would have been a good one, I just said to hell with it.

    Moreover, I've had a tiny hunk of pork belly curing in my fridge for the better part of more than a week, and I should get to putting the coals and the smoke to that.  I've never made bacon from scratch before; however, at the time I started it, the idea seemed like a somewhat decent one.  I mean, it's freakin' bacon, after all.  Bacon is yummy.  If I can make my own bacon, well...  I may feel a little like Prometheus bringing fire to the masses. 

    Of course, since this is my first attempt, and since I'm going by nothing more than my many years of collected culinary wisdom a rough guess, I'm pretty sure I will screw it up, contract food poisoning, and spend the better part of the next month reading War and Peace on the thunderbox.  Then again, strange things tend to happen when I make food things.  They kind of work.  For instance, while visiting Indy last week, I made a pork roast that I just need to thump my chest about. 

    Now, for most of you, that's probably not that huge of a deal.  However, for me, and for reasons I've not yet been able to grok, this was only the second hunk o' pork I'd ever roasted.  I mean, I've roasted chickens and I've made a myriad of other pig parts, and I've eaten tons of various roasted things, but I never make a roast pork loin on a whim with no recipe, in a foreign kitchen, with a puppy peering at me, for one single, somewhat-fussy eater averse to all things gravy, onion and mushroom.  So, it was a smidge daunting.  But, I'm down with challenges, and she's got the pizza place on speed dial, so there wasn't too much pressure.

    So, first I gave the hunk of pork a quick trim to remove the unappealing silvery bits, and then concocted a marinade of thyme, four or five cloves of minced garlic (yay!), sea salt (stolen), pepper (stolen), and the juice from four tiny Mandarin oranges (bought!).  And, into the fridge it went to sit and contemplate its future for a few hours. 

    Then, an hour or so before cooking, I dumped into the ziplock bag with the marinading hunk o' pork a couple of gurgles of Balsamic vinegar followed by a nice, happy shake before setting it on the counter to, once again, contemplate its fate like a Gitmo detainee on Waterboarding day. 

    After that, it was sear-sear, then into a 375-degree oven for about an hour. 

    It was stupid simple and crazy yummy, I think.  The little bits of garlic and thyme roasted into a nice crust of zippy little flavor bombs of yum, and the splash of remaining marinade I dumped into the pan reduced down into a tasty au jus that fit perfect drizzled over the top of the roast after it had been sliced into much more manageable medallions. 

    Then, the whole thing was served up with some beans and garlic mashed potatoes that I, apparently, manage to make pretty well. 

    Overall, the general response from my wonderful host was for her to call me a "food snob" several times over.  So, I suppose that's a decent sign that I didn't do a half bad job. 

    Now, in other news, I've meandered my way through this post, and I've distracted myself from the day's tediums and tortures.  I'm a bit of an achy wonder at the moment, but the weather is improving and the sun is beaming and the flowers are blooming.  Hell!  Even the grass is green, and I think, off in the distance, I can hear the groan of a lawn mower.  It's a little more welcome than the grunts and barks of a neighborhood filled with snow blowers, but this is Wisconsin, and it's May, and snow is still on the proverbial table.  So, I'd better not speak of it any more.

    Anywho, I hope everyone is having a dandy weekend.  If the weather is not there for you, well...  It will be before too long.  And hey!  Before you know it, I'll be bitching about the heat and my allergies to cutting grass. 

-DP   

Hard to say...

    I'm in a somewhat lousy mood today, and my mind is utterly and completely blank.  Really, all I've got at the moment are dusty cobwebs waving in the cool breeze inside my skull, and not much is firing up there.  So, I'm going to type and babble and shake my head around to see what can fall out.  Hopefully it'll be something shiny.   

    For those of you who have been asking, I had a damn fine time in Indianapolis visiting Emily.  As you can see by the photo, Emily's clearly happy to see me too.  Hoosiers have strange ways of saying hello, I think.   

    Aside from that, I've been told that we are no longer calling this latest media-fueled pandemic "Swine Flu."  Instead, we are calling it Hamthrax.  Pass the word along and update accordingly.  And, please!  Remember to panic and be afraid.  It will help prepare you for the inevitable zombie outbreak. 

    In other news, I am half-plotzed on Vicodin.  It's a Friday night.  I've got nowhere to be.  And, I feel like I went twelve rounds with Big Mark the boxer (at least, I think he's a boxer.  If not, I just got my ass kicked by a really cool guy with a nice blog that you should all be reading).  I think this Wisconsin weather didn't get the freakin' memo that it's spring.  I mean, yes.  The weather is a little warmer and it's not snowing, but it's also all over the map (get it?  Weather all over the map?  I'll be here all week.  Try the veal and tip your waiters and watresses). 

    Okay.  I think I've clacked enough on this little box o' buttons, and I need to do some serious drooling at the tube.  Hope everyone's got a good weekend on the agenda.  If not, this may be a good weekend to run down those escaped convicts you've been itchin' to nab.  Good luck!

-DP