Just Another Blog
Monday, January 23, 2006
iPod Progress>>Dealing with Randomness

I haven't spent much time loading more music to the ipod (or doing anything else much that matters or requires staying sober for long) lately. I've made it to Coheed and Cambria on my way through the alphabetical order of filling up 60 gigs. I did, however, recently formulate a new, local procedure to facilitate and accelerate the process. One thing that strikes me thus far is how much Bob Dylan - filed under Bob - sucks. Seriously. The Burl Ives - filed under Burl - Christmas songs last longer before I hit the fast forward button. I even keep the successor Beatles playing until this point in the post. Randomly, Mark Says Alright, and I head to bed.


When someone of authority is not looking over your shoulder and when no one you don't know well is lurking about, click on this link. The theme was, "Since the Catholic Church is arguing against using Jesus in beer ads, photoshop some other ads that shouldn't have Jesus." Among other gems:

Follow the link for a chance to punch the Jesus and win an ipod!

Wednesday, January 18, 2006

Thursday, January 12, 2006

For Christmas I asked for and received egg poachers. My folks got me one, my brother got me one, and my sister got me one. Two were of the 3-egg-teflon-cup variety, and the other was a microwave version. For some reason, cooking eggs in the microwave oven freaks me out (isn't that what happened with The Hulk?), so I gave that one to my sister. I gave one of the others to my brother, and kept one for myself - feeling, somehow, that I had been scammed.

I used the poachers for the second time this evening, and I feel like I got it right after being good, but sloppy and just not quite right the first time. Tonight it came out so well that the egg timer went off just as I was spreading the margarine on my toast. Perfect timing. Yet another little kitchen toy that I expect to get good use out of. I haven't even taken my new food processor that I also received for Christmas (yep: food processor, rotisserie, egg poachers, spatulas, basting brush, blender attachment - all for Christmas. Geez, think my family wants me to cook more?) out of the box yet, so there's still more cooking stories to come after a brief word from our sponsors.


After dinner last night, I found out how easy it is to download my music files on to someone else's ipod. I dropped 546 songs into a playlist for Chase and then just dragged the playlist up to his recognized ipod, and it started updating. 10 minutes later, he had doubled his digital collection.

I lent him some Buddy Holly, among other selections from my #'s, A's, and B's. I've been listening to that tonight. I am struck by how much I like the percussion throughout. It must have been exciting to hear these kind of beats way back when. Here's something simple.

Wednesday, January 11, 2006

The dinner I cooked tonight was so good that two of my guests had quadruple helpings. I had three myself. Turns out I make a wicked buffalo goulash.

I'm pretty good with the heavy, hearty, home cooking. I may lack a certain finesse with more delicate dishes, but if you want comfort food or hearty feasting, let me play.

The buffalo goulash was flanked by a simple salad and shepherd's black rye bread and butter and washed down with some Chilean Merlot. It was my first attempt at the dish, and I nailed it.

Sunday, January 08, 2006
Fat Tulips

I can't hardly understand a single word she's singing, but I still find it almost haunting. Then it rocks a bit. And still I'm left wondering, "Where's Clare Grogan now?"

Roto Bird

I cooked my first chicken in the rotiesserie this evening. Chickens are why you buy rotisseries. Chickens are delicious, and they are dirt cheap, and you can sometimes trick vegetarians into eating chickens.

I bought a chicken that was a hair under five pounds for a nickel over two-fifty. I rubbed the chicken good with my proprietary blend of herbs and spices and stuck it in the Showtime rotisserie for about 90 minutes.

What emerged was the delightful, simple succulence of rotisserie poultry. The skin was crisped with the precise flavors of my Italian blend of herbs and spices. The outer, dark meat fell away from the bones, steaming. The nearer, white meat pulled away in white, juicy chunks. Perfectly cooked. Perfectly crispy. Juicy and delicious.

And it fed four with two days of letovers for one and some generous scraps for the doggies too -- for $2.55. The chicken is why you buy the rotisserie. The lamb, pork, roast, and other feasts that the thing kicks out are all just gravy.

Thursday, January 05, 2006
Expanded Lyrics

"Hey, baby, I'll bet that you'd look good on the dancefloor," he said to her before considering the implication that he'd soon be forced to actually join her on the dancefloor under the glaring gazes of her critical friends.

"I don't know if your looking for romance, or I don't know what your looking for..." she trailed off.

"Dirty dancefloors and dreams of naughtiness," she thought she heard him mumble below the noise of the thumping bass.
The Arctic Monkeys remind me a lot of Franz Ferdinand who was probably the worst show I saw this year. If I were drunk and at a club where I didn't know anyone, I would dance like crazy to that song.

...or if it came on at 7:15 in the morning while I was on my way to work.

I've only got the iPod loaded with 10,000 Maniacs through Bright Eyes. That's ~10 Gb & ~2,400 songs, but I've still got a long way to go to get some variety.

Tuesday, January 03, 2006
New Features

I'm not making any resolutions to write or post more or less here in 2006. I am, however, going to add some new features. In this first one - and this may prove to be a crucial part of the setup in other literary devices I choose to employ - I start by imbibing, ingesting, or inhaling some substance or substances that provide for an alteration of my mental state and then I attempt to teach you a lesson in Eastern philosophy.

The Philsopher Asks

Does the butterfly succumb to fear as she peaks the first time through her torn cocoon and sees herself suspended hopelessly above the ground in a home soon to fail, to give way to falling, knowing it is only a matter of time before she plummets terrified all the while unaware of her transformation? Or is the transformation inherently known by the butterfly who unconsiously claws, no, tears the fibers of the cocoon away while her body automatically readys for flight and the conscious of the butterfly twitches with a hint, an almost-a ... a-something, an aware-ed-ness, or almost, almost one of those things, almost something but still only on the tip of her tongue - and is that inhernet knowledge enough to send her rushing forth through a new horizon ripped wide open? What is the nature of the butteryfly?