I am supposed to have written a tribute that was to come out this morning...but I totally cannot concentrate on it. I got it half done, and then I break down.
Where's an Incan Monkey god when you need them?
Friday, May 29, 2009
Thursday, May 28, 2009
...but a good idea is a good idea?
I think I just accidentally propositioned a gay man. The Gays are a fine people, but I don't happen to swing that way. Do I attempt further communication, hoping to clear things up, or wait and see how he takes it?
(Sigh: it's sentences like that last one that get me into trouble in the first place. Luckily for me, besides a hip fashion sense and an ability to circumnavigate the ocean using only the stars as references, the Gays are known for a good sense of humor, so if fortune holds I may be okay.)
Here's what happened.
Someone I know needed a new "Internet" name since her co-worker was causing workplace hate on her. You've probably been there. As long-time readers know, I am be the bestest namer EVER, and would even consider halting my takeover of the world if I were allowed to simply name everything that happens/births/emerges from now on.
I jumped at the chance to supply the new name, but not knowing the woman very well (we only just met), I didn't have a lot of knowledge about what the name needed.
She ended up going with someone else's choice, and after initially attempting to insinuate (okay: flat-out claim) that the winning fellow sold poisoned milk to school children I gave up graciously (more or less) and congratulated him.
He responded, and I couldn't help throwing back a bitter comment that I felt like a Beauty Pageant Runner-up: fake smile, trying not to cry, and desperately hoping there were nude pictures of him out there somewhere.
I really knew nothing about the guy, despite his huge character flaw of beating me he seemed pretty cool, so I checked out his site, where I made the discovery that he was gay.
Suddenly my "desperately hoping for nudie pics" comment took on a whole new slant. I'm pretty sure (by context) he will know I was continuing the analogy of Runnerupdom, but best be prepared, yes?
(And yes, this whole thing played out on Twitter. You had to even ask?)
(Sigh: it's sentences like that last one that get me into trouble in the first place. Luckily for me, besides a hip fashion sense and an ability to circumnavigate the ocean using only the stars as references, the Gays are known for a good sense of humor, so if fortune holds I may be okay.)
Here's what happened.
Someone I know needed a new "Internet" name since her co-worker was causing workplace hate on her. You've probably been there. As long-time readers know, I am be the bestest namer EVER, and would even consider halting my takeover of the world if I were allowed to simply name everything that happens/births/emerges from now on.
I jumped at the chance to supply the new name, but not knowing the woman very well (we only just met), I didn't have a lot of knowledge about what the name needed.
She ended up going with someone else's choice, and after initially attempting to insinuate (okay: flat-out claim) that the winning fellow sold poisoned milk to school children I gave up graciously (more or less) and congratulated him.
He responded, and I couldn't help throwing back a bitter comment that I felt like a Beauty Pageant Runner-up: fake smile, trying not to cry, and desperately hoping there were nude pictures of him out there somewhere.
I really knew nothing about the guy, despite his huge character flaw of beating me he seemed pretty cool, so I checked out his site, where I made the discovery that he was gay.
Suddenly my "desperately hoping for nudie pics" comment took on a whole new slant. I'm pretty sure (by context) he will know I was continuing the analogy of Runnerupdom, but best be prepared, yes?
(And yes, this whole thing played out on Twitter. You had to even ask?)
Monday, May 25, 2009
The most horriblest thing to ever happen
Warning: do not read this entry if you are easily distraught and emotionally frail.
I have this this, this thing that I love to do. Call it comfort food....TO THE MAX. I take a regular box of Kraft Macaroni and cheese and prepare it normally. (Or, if I'm really lucky, I spring for the deluxe box. Yes it costs more, but you don't have to monkey with the powder, butter or milk, and the final product is so much smoother.)
Anyway, after everything is made, I add a smidge more milk and butter (for lube), and then go to town. I usually add cheddar, and if we have it Swiss, and heck: anything I can find. Then, I throw in black olives (if I have them), green olives (ditto), both all chopped up, maybe some grape tomatoes; I kinda go to town. One time I even added some refried beans. (Didn't really work, but it was worth a shot.)
Most importantly, I add some kind of meat. whatever is left over. Maybe I cut up that last piece of chicken or pork chop. Sausage is a real treat, although I like to cut it up and render it in the oven first, because A) little black flavor bits! and B) gets much of the fat out, which can mess up the dish. And of course, if the gods are with me, bacon.
I throw everything in a Pam-sprayed pie-tin, and then I crush up....something into a Ziploc bag, add some of that Parmesan you use on pasta, a tiny bit of melted butter, and sprinkle a little more melted cheese and the crumb topping all over. (Or if I'm feeling really decadent, I'll lay slices of Swiss on top or those mozzarella pull apart sticks.)
The whole thing goes into the oven until I can't stand it any longer, and I pull it out. I like the inside creamy, and even more important, the outside all crunchy with flavor. Usually I have a helping before it's done (can't wait), and then slip the dish back in the oven (turned off) until I'm ready for the second helping, which is to die for.
Cut to tonight. I bought the Kraft deluxe box almost a month ago, but somehow managed to save it for a special occasion. (Honoring people for Memorial Day...duh.) I had two cans of black olives that somehow survived in my room. (All I can say is that it's a good thing there is no can opener in here.)
A few days ago my dad made bacon, and I HEROICALLY hoarded it, going without a bacon and cheese bagel, which is the equivalent of Gandhi sleeping between two seventeen year old virgins every night to test his purity. (It's true; look it up.)
To top that all off, my mom got me my own can of green olives the other day: the stars were aligned. We had every cheese known to man, I had hoarded a few more, and I was set to go to work.
Now, when I say "hoarded," specifically when referring to things that go in the refrigerator, I am speaking of my mom's new "basket" system. Since we often eat at different times and different things, and since certain foods, if not nailed down, have a tendency to simply disappear, my mom thought putting four baskets in the fridge, each labeled with a name, would solve the problem. When she divided some foods up they went in the basket, and if I buy something for me, that's where it goes.
Sounds perfect, right?
[Cue horrific PSYCHO violin music]
Cut (back to) tonight. I had the deluxe box all made. My olives were cut up nicely and dry. I found medium cheddar and sharp cheddar (already shredded!), my hoarded brie, mozzarella sticks and some sort of cubed Colby jack from Hickory Farms. There was even some pre-shredded fiesta blend of four cheeses; the kind you buy in the grocery store for taco night. To top it all off, our Parmesan wasn't the Kraft powder kind that's pretty low quality, but actually shredded and delicious.
BUT SOMEONE STOLE MY BACON!
IN CASE YOU MISSED THAT LAST SENTENCE, SOMEONE TOOK MY BACON!
To recap: this wasn't bacon that was for everyone, and I counted on it but came upon bad luck. That has happened to me more times than I care to remember, but life goes on. No, this was bacon specifically mine, already cooked, and not eaten--WHICH IF YOU KNOW ME, OR BACON, IS REALLY REALLY HARD--and to top things off--IT WAS IN MY "BASKET" IN THE FRIDGE!!!!!!!
I mean, what is the point of having a Hyperion Basket in the first place if people can just take bacon out of there all willy nilly? Did you know that in some cultures you can legally kill a man for taking your bacon. (Okay, not really, but wouldn't that be a just and fair law? Who but child molesters would be against it?)
So here I am, ready to assemble the greatest Macaroni and Cheese casserole one can possibly make not completely from scratch, and I am thwarted by the missing bacon. I'm not going to sit here and tell you I cried. But I cried. (In my defense, they were tears of rage.)
Now, you might be saying, "Hyperion, by your own admission you've gone without bacon in your mac'n'cheese bake before. It's not the end of the world."
True enough. There have been times without bacon. Surely the wonderful black and green olives would be enough to console me in my hour of need. But you're forgetting one important fact.
The pain of no bacon is great, but the pain of expected bacon THAT DOES NOT ARRIVE is so great as to be like gangrene of hope. All that is left is amputation. Of your dreams.
Sniff sniff.
So I don't have bacon. In a few minutes I will go into the kitchen, going through the motions like a man in a loveless marriage, and pull my baked dish from the oven. The Keebler Club Cracker-crust (with that little bit of butter and Parmesan and just a touch of pepper) will give off heat and color to impress the most heartless of food judges. My dish will smell delicious, and taste like ash in my mouth.
Oh, and to make matters worse? I just remembered there is sliced provolone I forgot all about.
I have this this, this thing that I love to do. Call it comfort food....TO THE MAX. I take a regular box of Kraft Macaroni and cheese and prepare it normally. (Or, if I'm really lucky, I spring for the deluxe box. Yes it costs more, but you don't have to monkey with the powder, butter or milk, and the final product is so much smoother.)
Anyway, after everything is made, I add a smidge more milk and butter (for lube), and then go to town. I usually add cheddar, and if we have it Swiss, and heck: anything I can find. Then, I throw in black olives (if I have them), green olives (ditto), both all chopped up, maybe some grape tomatoes; I kinda go to town. One time I even added some refried beans. (Didn't really work, but it was worth a shot.)
Most importantly, I add some kind of meat. whatever is left over. Maybe I cut up that last piece of chicken or pork chop. Sausage is a real treat, although I like to cut it up and render it in the oven first, because A) little black flavor bits! and B) gets much of the fat out, which can mess up the dish. And of course, if the gods are with me, bacon.
I throw everything in a Pam-sprayed pie-tin, and then I crush up....something into a Ziploc bag, add some of that Parmesan you use on pasta, a tiny bit of melted butter, and sprinkle a little more melted cheese and the crumb topping all over. (Or if I'm feeling really decadent, I'll lay slices of Swiss on top or those mozzarella pull apart sticks.)
The whole thing goes into the oven until I can't stand it any longer, and I pull it out. I like the inside creamy, and even more important, the outside all crunchy with flavor. Usually I have a helping before it's done (can't wait), and then slip the dish back in the oven (turned off) until I'm ready for the second helping, which is to die for.
Cut to tonight. I bought the Kraft deluxe box almost a month ago, but somehow managed to save it for a special occasion. (Honoring people for Memorial Day...duh.) I had two cans of black olives that somehow survived in my room. (All I can say is that it's a good thing there is no can opener in here.)
A few days ago my dad made bacon, and I HEROICALLY hoarded it, going without a bacon and cheese bagel, which is the equivalent of Gandhi sleeping between two seventeen year old virgins every night to test his purity. (It's true; look it up.)
To top that all off, my mom got me my own can of green olives the other day: the stars were aligned. We had every cheese known to man, I had hoarded a few more, and I was set to go to work.
Now, when I say "hoarded," specifically when referring to things that go in the refrigerator, I am speaking of my mom's new "basket" system. Since we often eat at different times and different things, and since certain foods, if not nailed down, have a tendency to simply disappear, my mom thought putting four baskets in the fridge, each labeled with a name, would solve the problem. When she divided some foods up they went in the basket, and if I buy something for me, that's where it goes.
Sounds perfect, right?
[Cue horrific PSYCHO violin music]
Cut (back to) tonight. I had the deluxe box all made. My olives were cut up nicely and dry. I found medium cheddar and sharp cheddar (already shredded!), my hoarded brie, mozzarella sticks and some sort of cubed Colby jack from Hickory Farms. There was even some pre-shredded fiesta blend of four cheeses; the kind you buy in the grocery store for taco night. To top it all off, our Parmesan wasn't the Kraft powder kind that's pretty low quality, but actually shredded and delicious.
BUT SOMEONE STOLE MY BACON!
IN CASE YOU MISSED THAT LAST SENTENCE, SOMEONE TOOK MY BACON!
To recap: this wasn't bacon that was for everyone, and I counted on it but came upon bad luck. That has happened to me more times than I care to remember, but life goes on. No, this was bacon specifically mine, already cooked, and not eaten--WHICH IF YOU KNOW ME, OR BACON, IS REALLY REALLY HARD--and to top things off--IT WAS IN MY "BASKET" IN THE FRIDGE!!!!!!!
I mean, what is the point of having a Hyperion Basket in the first place if people can just take bacon out of there all willy nilly? Did you know that in some cultures you can legally kill a man for taking your bacon. (Okay, not really, but wouldn't that be a just and fair law? Who but child molesters would be against it?)
So here I am, ready to assemble the greatest Macaroni and Cheese casserole one can possibly make not completely from scratch, and I am thwarted by the missing bacon. I'm not going to sit here and tell you I cried. But I cried. (In my defense, they were tears of rage.)
Now, you might be saying, "Hyperion, by your own admission you've gone without bacon in your mac'n'cheese bake before. It's not the end of the world."
True enough. There have been times without bacon. Surely the wonderful black and green olives would be enough to console me in my hour of need. But you're forgetting one important fact.
The pain of no bacon is great, but the pain of expected bacon THAT DOES NOT ARRIVE is so great as to be like gangrene of hope. All that is left is amputation. Of your dreams.
Sniff sniff.
So I don't have bacon. In a few minutes I will go into the kitchen, going through the motions like a man in a loveless marriage, and pull my baked dish from the oven. The Keebler Club Cracker-crust (with that little bit of butter and Parmesan and just a touch of pepper) will give off heat and color to impress the most heartless of food judges. My dish will smell delicious, and taste like ash in my mouth.
Oh, and to make matters worse? I just remembered there is sliced provolone I forgot all about.
Saturday, May 09, 2009
Latest Injury Update - Clue?
Not only did one ankle go down, they both went down, simultaneously! I am not even kidding.
Actually, it gives me some clue as to how this may be happening. Long-time readers know that for years one ankle or the other would inexplicably suddenly just go down, making walking difficult or impossible, and of course very very painful.
The injuries themselves are not inexplicable; I know what I have, finally, but how the "event" that would trigger each episode has always been a mystery, as is the duration of the incapacitation. 48 hours, a week, 2 weeks, 8 weeks.
Anyway, this morning I had fallen asleep, but was still in half-sleep. My right ankle had been hurting a bit since last night, but it was more feeling sore. I was watching it carefully. So, I'm half-dreaming and suddenly I feel both ankles pop at once and then tremendous pain. I was asleep during this, so I didn't really register was actually going on, but then I wake up two hours later and it's so bad I have to pull out the plastic jug. (And if you don't know what that means, I'm not tellin'.)
For the longest time the episodes are always "discovered" by me upon waking. I speculated that perhaps I was "twisting" the ankle muscles isometrically against the mattress, perhaps caught (because of my giant feet) while my body was turning from one position to the next. (When not dreaming I turn all over the place. Even dreaming I often will awaken for 1.2 seconds, only long enough to change sides.)
I know this sounds like a crazy theory, and I'm not an expert in kinesiology or neurology or...I'm not even sure what the other related fields would be. (What more proof of my non-expert status do you need?)
But to me the force metrics seems to work. My feet are gigantic, and stuck on this tiny mattress I am shoehorned to begin with. (Sorry for the preposition. My pain medicine just wore off and if I don't get this written right now quickly I won't do it.) If one foot got caught under the other leg, or I just turned with too much torque, I could see twisting the ankle against the relatively immobile mattress until the of my body made the shift. I wouldn't know I did it until awakening, because I'm asleep.
(As I was only half asleep earlier today, perhaps that's why I felt the pops, although it doesn't explain how I could twist both at the same time, assuming the theory was correct. Maybe I was involved in some sort of nefarious plot to stop the Nazis. Who knows?)
***
As a follow-up that has nothing to do with anything, Carlos called on the way back from the Casino. He wanted me to hang out at Denny's for an hour or so and meet his woman. (I'd say girlfriend, but for all I know they got engaged or even married at the Casino.) Truth told I didn't like the idea of hobbling all the way outside, but he was going to pick me up and let me sit in the backseat of an SUV with my feet up, and I could put my ankles up at Denny's, too, so all in all it didn't seem like such a risk.
So then just a few minutes ago Carlos calls. "We're on LaGrange. What turn do we take?"
LaGrange? Can't think of any streets around here called that, especially near the exits. "Wait, are you ON LaGrange or IN LaGrange?"
"Dude, I told you, we're in LaGrange. We are on 85."
"Carlos, 85 doesn't come near Columbus. You're way north of here. You're 50 miles from here."
"Really?"
"Yeah."
"Well, I told you we'd come visit. We'll still come down."
"No, dude. You're 50 miles from here, but you're halfway home. (To Atlanta.) You don't want to backtrack all that way. Just keep on to home, and I'll see you another time."
It's just as well; tomorrow is Mother's Day, and if I am not 2 levels worse than now (Meaning Mobility is reduced to almost absurd levels and pain is through the roof), than I am going to figure out a way to make it to the big Mother's Day dinner. In the meantime, it would be beneficial to rest, and ice as much as possible all night. (Of course, the only problem with that plan is that ever time I would get up to change ice packs I do more damage to the ankle. Might be better to ice just once, for as long as possible, and then otherwise just keep the ankles elevated all night. (Insert inappropriate joke here.)
I feel like I should wrap up with something; a conclusion, an closing anecdote, a denouement. This is why I suck at blogging and so rarely do it.
I guess the best I can do is to say to Carlos (who doesn't go online so will never see this): thanks for trying, dude.
And what really sucks? He was going to drive through McDonald's and bring me a bunch of Mcnuggets. I could use a bunch of Mcnuggets right now. Or some bag-fries.
Actually, it gives me some clue as to how this may be happening. Long-time readers know that for years one ankle or the other would inexplicably suddenly just go down, making walking difficult or impossible, and of course very very painful.
The injuries themselves are not inexplicable; I know what I have, finally, but how the "event" that would trigger each episode has always been a mystery, as is the duration of the incapacitation. 48 hours, a week, 2 weeks, 8 weeks.
Anyway, this morning I had fallen asleep, but was still in half-sleep. My right ankle had been hurting a bit since last night, but it was more feeling sore. I was watching it carefully. So, I'm half-dreaming and suddenly I feel both ankles pop at once and then tremendous pain. I was asleep during this, so I didn't really register was actually going on, but then I wake up two hours later and it's so bad I have to pull out the plastic jug. (And if you don't know what that means, I'm not tellin'.)
For the longest time the episodes are always "discovered" by me upon waking. I speculated that perhaps I was "twisting" the ankle muscles isometrically against the mattress, perhaps caught (because of my giant feet) while my body was turning from one position to the next. (When not dreaming I turn all over the place. Even dreaming I often will awaken for 1.2 seconds, only long enough to change sides.)
I know this sounds like a crazy theory, and I'm not an expert in kinesiology or neurology or...I'm not even sure what the other related fields would be. (What more proof of my non-expert status do you need?)
But to me the force metrics seems to work. My feet are gigantic, and stuck on this tiny mattress I am shoehorned to begin with. (Sorry for the preposition. My pain medicine just wore off and if I don't get this written right now quickly I won't do it.) If one foot got caught under the other leg, or I just turned with too much torque, I could see twisting the ankle against the relatively immobile mattress until the of my body made the shift. I wouldn't know I did it until awakening, because I'm asleep.
(As I was only half asleep earlier today, perhaps that's why I felt the pops, although it doesn't explain how I could twist both at the same time, assuming the theory was correct. Maybe I was involved in some sort of nefarious plot to stop the Nazis. Who knows?)
***
As a follow-up that has nothing to do with anything, Carlos called on the way back from the Casino. He wanted me to hang out at Denny's for an hour or so and meet his woman. (I'd say girlfriend, but for all I know they got engaged or even married at the Casino.) Truth told I didn't like the idea of hobbling all the way outside, but he was going to pick me up and let me sit in the backseat of an SUV with my feet up, and I could put my ankles up at Denny's, too, so all in all it didn't seem like such a risk.
So then just a few minutes ago Carlos calls. "We're on LaGrange. What turn do we take?"
LaGrange? Can't think of any streets around here called that, especially near the exits. "Wait, are you ON LaGrange or IN LaGrange?"
"Dude, I told you, we're in LaGrange. We are on 85."
"Carlos, 85 doesn't come near Columbus. You're way north of here. You're 50 miles from here."
"Really?"
"Yeah."
"Well, I told you we'd come visit. We'll still come down."
"No, dude. You're 50 miles from here, but you're halfway home. (To Atlanta.) You don't want to backtrack all that way. Just keep on to home, and I'll see you another time."
It's just as well; tomorrow is Mother's Day, and if I am not 2 levels worse than now (Meaning Mobility is reduced to almost absurd levels and pain is through the roof), than I am going to figure out a way to make it to the big Mother's Day dinner. In the meantime, it would be beneficial to rest, and ice as much as possible all night. (Of course, the only problem with that plan is that ever time I would get up to change ice packs I do more damage to the ankle. Might be better to ice just once, for as long as possible, and then otherwise just keep the ankles elevated all night. (Insert inappropriate joke here.)
I feel like I should wrap up with something; a conclusion, an closing anecdote, a denouement. This is why I suck at blogging and so rarely do it.
I guess the best I can do is to say to Carlos (who doesn't go online so will never see this): thanks for trying, dude.
And what really sucks? He was going to drive through McDonald's and bring me a bunch of Mcnuggets. I could use a bunch of Mcnuggets right now. Or some bag-fries.
Friday, May 08, 2009
Ode to Bag Fries
You know how you pull away from the Drive-Thru, determined to make it home without eating your food ('cause you're civilized and shit), but you see those fries flirting with you, peaking out of the top all slutty and inviting, and the smell is intoxicating, and maybe just one?
You know how when you dig your fingers down into those hot salty fries sticking out of the top of the bag, and the fries are fresh and still too hot and you burn your fingers a little bit on the oil but you don't put the fries back, because the pain is one of those good hurts that make the fries taste even better?
Yeah, me too.
She likes 'em hot and oiled and she craves the pain.
Friday, May 01, 2009
You DON'T mess with Hyperion's Friends
A few days ago my friend (and occasional football scout) Wordnerd had a particularly nasty run-in with a co-worker. You know the type: he's attending night school to get his DoucheBag degree. The incident involved purposely not holding an elevator, and rather than confront said d'bag, Wordnerd appealed to her net-friends to curse the man properly.
There were a few misfires, but most of the curses were pretty good. And then there was mine.....
Thoughtfully, I have pasted them below. Again, keep in mind: this man is a total jack-ass.
April 27, 2009 at 5:58 pm
There were a few misfires, but most of the curses were pretty good. And then there was mine.....
Thoughtfully, I have pasted them below. Again, keep in mind: this man is a total jack-ass.
April 27, 2009 at 5:58 pm
May sand fleas infest your underwear drawer.
May your favorite professional sports team get caught in an orgy with the team you most hates.
May your bicycle get stolen by a ten year old girl, who comes by daily to taunt you over it, and regularly kicks your ass just to maintain her dominance.
May a video of you and a goat (a literal goat) surface on You Tube.
May the goat be unattractive.
May you be raped by pit bulls.
My incontrovertible video evidence show that the pit-bull love was consensual. May this evidence show up on You Tube.
May the pit bulls be unattractive.
May you find romance online with a younger woman, who actually “gets” you, and may you eventually meet her and fall in love with her and leave your family for a shot at true happiness.
May your new love be nine months pregnant and in the hospital ready to deliver, and may you meet her mother for the first time, and realize she’s someone you hooked up with in college, the girl who’d just dropped out one day and nobody knew why, but there were rumors she was pregnant, and I think you know where I’m going with this…..
DON’T F**K WITH WORDNERD, ’cause I can make all this happen.
Betrayal Painting - The backstory
I was asked about a painting I featured at the beginning of my Top Ten List of Betrayal Quotes.
Here is the painting:
The painting is called "Phryne Before the Areopagus" by Jean-Leon Gerome.
You're gonna wanna check out the Wikipedia Page on Phryne. One of the better stories you'll read this month. (And I say that on May 1st. Yeah. I went there.)
Here is the painting:
The painting is called "Phryne Before the Areopagus" by Jean-Leon Gerome.
You're gonna wanna check out the Wikipedia Page on Phryne. One of the better stories you'll read this month. (And I say that on May 1st. Yeah. I went there.)
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