June 2005 Archives

There are many things a man must do in his life. Bridges to cross. Battles to fight. The role of the male in the modern world has changed drastically from that of the men from even 100 years ago. The term "metrosexual" is proof enough. I do not mean to say these are necessarily bad things, but what does one do to set themselves apart? How do you say to your peers, "I am a man among men" when there are no hard distinctions left any more?

There is but one choice.

The path that lies before me I have walked before, well over a year ago. It is a path of patience and self-discipline. It is a way to a new understanding of not only myself, but of others. It is a standard to be held high so that all may know that I am a man among men.

Ladies and gentle, the white trash mustache is coming back and when it gets here, it will rock you, as Klaus Meine so eloquently put it, like a hurricane.

I think I'm a pretty laid back guy. All-around decent human being. I don't bitch people out. It's not my place to judge. But what do you do when others do not extend the same courtesy, either to you or your fellow man? Do you sit idly by and let it happen or do you take action?

No. I will not give you names. Do not bother to ask.

So, this is a recipe of my (somewhat) own creation. I based it off a recipe I found online that, while I enjoyed, I felt was a little too heavy on the palate. So, I decided to lighten it up a bit. That said, this pairs really well with a garden salad with a vinagrette. Let me know how it works out for you and if you make any changes. Food is dynamic art, not static.

Matt's Fruit Salad Pork Chops

Ingredients:

• 2 boneless pork chops
• 2.5-3 tbls chives
• 3 strips bacon
• 4oz crumbled bleu cheese
• 1/2 good sized Pink Lady apple

Preheat your oven to 350-degrees. Cook the bacon until crispy. Set aside on a paper towel to drain while you prepare the rest. Peel the apple and core it. Dice it into 1/4-inch cubes. Crumble the bacon and mix it in a bowl with the bleu cheese, apples, and chives. Stir loosely together with your hand.

Butterfly the chops and place about a handful of the mixture in the middle. Some people find it handy to pin the chop shut with a toothpick. I don't do this because I'm a badass. Any remaining mixture you have, place on top of the chop for decoration because though I know you don't have any class, you can try and fool your dinner guests. Now, cook for 25 minutes.

Tips:

• I've found that buying pre-crumbled bleu cheese makes for a better stuffed chop. The pieces tend to be more uniform in size than when I've hand-crumbled the cheese so you don't get a mouth full of bleu cheese. Bleu cheese is good, but a mouthful of it at once and you're not kissing anyone goodnight. A fringe benefit of being single, I can eat handfuls of this stuff.


• Cut down the cooking time for a more tender chop. I like mine cooked all the way through, though. So 25 minutes should work depending on the size.

So, that's that. I really would like comments if anyone tries this and likes or hates it. Like I said, let me know if you have any modifications. I'd like to see what you can come up with. It goes well with a nice table red wine though a fruity white might work even better given the heaviness of the cheese and bacon. Enjoy!

So, I've begun preliminary work on building an application of my very own. This is definitely going to be an 'in my spare time' project, but I think it's something that would be useful. The idea is, basically, to create an intuitive interface that would allow less computer-oriented instructors to easy and quickly build esthetically pleasing tutorials online.

The web is a powerful tool for education, but the vast majority of instructors don't have the necessary skillset to develop quality onine materials. Hence, eTutor. I'm researching technologies now to see if the main idea I have is even possible. It will, of course, be open source. There is also an idea for a quiz module and a colleague suggested tapping into the CMS market for assest management. Anyone interested in jumping on board? I think I might take this to SourceForge.

This city is angry.

It is as angry as the desert it's built upon. As angry as the orange trees ripped from their tropical homes and moved here only to be paved over so a city could be named after them. As angry as the people who have the unfortunate luck to be born Here.

It is people wrapped up in themselves and their world. It is disregard for common sense and decency. No one moves Here. They're born Here and, before they can leave, The City swallows them. It makes them a part of It before they even have a fighting chance. It is a living thing. A failed experiment seeking revenge on Its creator. This place is hate and anger.

There is no water here. Over a century ago, It was sand. Sand from the bottom of the Rocky Mountains to the beaches of Santa Barbara. It was hot and barren then just as It is now. Empty. Someone had to force water here; had to divert it from 500 miles away. Water wants nothing to do with this Place.

There are no cute, Jewish girls who don't call you back. There are only cars with tiny people inside. People on cell phones desperately trying to make sure their voice is heard and their existence validated while the swerve recklessly across two or three lanes of traffic. People that look exactly like everyone else in this prison of a city. People that could give a fuck about you unless you have something to offer them.

There are no distractions from It because It is the Distraction. It pummels you with noise. Constant sensory input from all angles. It doesn't sleep and It sure as fuck is going to make sure you don't either. It is barking dogs, helicopters, traffic, screaming, and garbage piling into dumpsters.

Every instinct I have tells me to run. Every fiber of my being knows that I should leave this Place. To go back home, crawl into bed, and hold my pillow while I fall asleep and forget I came. No one voluntarily visits a place they hate. No one wants to look at the beast that sits on the seat of their depression. Every piece of me knows I should not be here. The longer I stay, the more It taints me, filling me with the vile stench of self-absorbtion and condescension. I can feel It already. I can feel It inside me because I can't feel anything.

I hate this place because It makes me feel this way. It makes me forget everything good about life. It makes living an effort. I have to find a reason to get up. I have to want to do it. And I don't.

I want nothing more than to find a wireless network. Some form of communication. Some way of getting in touch with my reality because this Place is not it. It clouds your vision and your mind. The air coats your lungs with an oily film and you can feel It when you breathe. It stains you. Fills you with the same hate It has for you.

The short conversations and interactions I've had with my family in the short while I've been here have helped some, but I need more. I need to keep my mind off this Place. I need to forget it's a part of me until I'm on that plane ride home. Until I see it from 5 miles up when I can spit on It. When I feel like I've beaten It.

I'll look out the window and smile and say, "Fuck you. You didn't get me. Not this time." And I'll cheer silently to myself that I'm not like the rest of those people down there. I got away. I stared It in the face and walked. But someone far more intelligent than I once said that when you stare at the Void, the Void stares back at you. And while I'm celebrating, It will look back up at me and ask, with the quiet confidence of Something that knows It's right, "Who and what are you going home to?"

And it's right.

I fucking hate this place. It reminds me of all the shit I do and don't have. It brings out the worst in me. It makes me hate myself.

It's amazing how a simple 30 second question posed to your boss ends up in a 10 minute discussion that makes you feel validated, intelligent, and as good a person as you think you are.

Fever dreams are awesome.

For example, if you were in any sort of sound mind would you dream up that you were a midshipman on the Nina (I distinctly remember being on the Nina, not the Pinta or Santa Maria)?

And that was only part of it. There was something involving Sarah Chalke and Zach Braff. Clearly, I've watched too much Scrubs.

Get better, dammit!

Back in the day, I'd only get sick once in a great while. Two or three times a year, tops. Lately, it's been at least once a month. It's kicking in early this month.

I'm sick as a dog. Everything hurts. My gums hurt. My fucking gums! Does that happen to anyone else?

I'm pretty sure I'm running a fever right now. Cold pulp-free OJ is working, but I'm low.

I demand the woman of my dreams show up with movies! And, also, if it's not too much trouble, the faggot next door who wishes he were black turn down the bass on his shitty, top-40, unoriginal music.

Sorry. I'm just angry 'cause I'm sick.

Nothing feels right.

Last night I dreamt I was dating one of my ex's. She had two exboyfriends that didn't like me. I physically assaulted one of them. The other got scared and ran off. I think the dream is indicative of how I am feeling inside.

Later, I dreamt I was security for Mos Def. He's a pretty nice guy.

I was in a wedding this weekend. It went great. Good times had by all. A few too many good times had by one person.

I returned the tuxes yesterday for a bunch of people. A grandmother did not hear that I was, in fact, returning all the tuxes I could get rather than just mine. She called me a "dumbass" thinking I was out of earshot. Respect your elders if they respect you.

It is important to remember that depression makes you wither from the inside-out. Outwardly appearances remain the same while the storm rages inside. Like a snow globe of New York City. Except, instead of a tiny Brooklyn Bridge, there are tiny memories. And instead of being encased in transparent glass, the shell is opaque.

I need to work on my metaphors.

I tend not to sleep in my bed when things are going poorly. I sleep on the couch. This only worsens the situation, I think.

I want a hug.

I am in love with Sarah Chalke.