The thing to do is stutter, flutter, cutter your tortillas into chip-size, circles or triangles. You can make your own corn chips, by frying, or baking. That’s a personality thing. I mean some people can’t stand home-frying and some people fry everything they eat.
It isn’t my place to draw you in like a scar.
It isn’t my place to say fry over bake, bake over fry, but obviously baking the chips is more healthy and less messy.
Like Greg Oden I bake. And, when depressed, I prefer to eat like I dream–alone.
Option two is the bag of chips in this photo, above the tortillas. They are ready for the oven, for the beans and cheese and jalapeno, oh my.
I hope for holy criminals who battle boredom, Brit-knees, other B words.
I hope for viable reasons to forsake godly thoughts.
I hope you know to NEVER fucking microwave nachos. I beg you. I beg.
I hope this chip thing is clear now.
You need a good chip. Don’t go chip-skimping on me. This is your foundation, OK? I mean if you were going to start an opiate addiction and you asked my advice on logistics and quality control and so on I wouldn’t hand you a starter balloon of some cut-up talc stuff from Baltimore, like MonKee, or that Blue Tar from the 1980s. Ok, poor analogy. I was getting off subject for a moment there…What I mean is you are probably only going to get married like three times in this life, so be careful. Wait. I am saying don’t build your house on sand, my friends. Unless it’s a sand castle, then I guess go ahead.
The first miracle Jesus ever did was water to nachos (or wine, I forget), so I think we understand the Man’s priorities.
9 miles this morning, a modified YASSO (all with 90 second slow jogging break between surges).
6:00 mile pace X 3min 6:00 pace X 3min 6:00 pace X 3min 6:00 pace X 3min
6:00 pace X 6:00 6:00 pace X 3min 6:00 pace X 3min 6:00 pace X 3min
6:00 pace X 3min 5:45 MILE.
Whew. Seriously. I was in a floating womb of pain near the end, off this planet for a few minutes. My head did the whoosh-whoosh-clang. My legs a concept of vanishing. Pain is an odd sweet experience. In Murakami’s running/writing book he says, “You are going to feel pain. But the question is: are you going to suffer?” I did not suffer, unless pure throttling electricity is a type of suffering–LIFE.
I had to play Missy Elliot really fucking loud on the stereo to finish this workout. I never run with music so this should prove that I did indeed Get My Freak On today.
(I generally don’t like music)
Hey, does anyone have a spare couch RIGHT BY the start of the Boston Marathon I could sleep on, night of April 19? I am driving to Boston, running the race, driving home. I actually have a place to stay in Boston, but I am wondering how I am going to get to the start line. Well, this will be an adventure.
HTML GIANT turned me onto the Australian indy press, Falcon Vs. Monkey, Falcon Wins and the new issue of Torpedo, a homage to Richard Brautigan.
Interesting issue. It has:
1. an opening letter by Brautigan’s daughter, Ianthe. I found this letter touching though a bit defensive. It seems Ianthe is simultaneously pissed and pleased that Brautigan’s works haven’t established themselves in academia. As an academic (oh god no!), I never really understand what writers desire, and/or fear from the university. Academia is not some abstract beast, or a wall painted vividly beige. Academia is a small classroom of 18-20 year olds, with a few retired men (often attorneys), elderly women (for example–I have a 91 year old student in my fiction I class this semester), and so on. Then me, showing them authors and work and methods of craft, discussing writers excitedly with the class, letting the students work together on a variety of exercises and activities to discuss these writers–their lives, work habits, CW techniques on the page, etc.–and then these students use this energy, recognition of artistic skill and method, and apply it to their own writing, to improve. They desperately want to improve, get it? What exactly is so horrid here? And, by the way, like many, many, many of my colleagues, I teach Richard Brautigan.
2. a brief collection of Brautigan’s actual poems and flashes (They called these things “Brautigans” at the time–pretty bad-ass huh?). This is an amazing read, all of it.
Me reading my lunch-time lit mag…
3. a stuffed envelope of art prints, really funky, well done, all inspired by Brautigan poems and stories. Kick ass. Did everyone else get these?
4. pages of writers influenced by Brautigan and obviously trying to write like him. The last part is a bit lame, but to apply an overused and meaningless sports cliche: It is what it is. The editor wanted respect and genuflection, so that’s what we get, Brautigan knock-offs. Most are so derivative they hold no great magic. That’s Brautigan’s brilliance, this intangible truth whirling about the page like a mayfly hatch: a mix of oddness, sadness, time-passing by, a keen eye to nature’s small blessings, and an understanding of social (humans interacting with humans) absurdity.
I am not trying to be an ass here. These writers are worthy, and I myself have (and do at times now) mimicked Brautigan. It is a form of respect, and also a yearning. But the intangible, by definition, is as tough to catch as flies in a landing net.
(one of my Brautigan knock-offs here.)
(BTW, I just liked getting mail from Australia. That was cool.)
And I did really enjoy Josephine Rowe’s poetry. And Brian Evenson and Ruby Murray (Melbourne based writer) were the strongest prose selections.
5. the editor’s own work in the magazine. I’m not saying, but I’m just saying, right? Worth a friendly blog discussion, but I won’t be the hypocrite at this church kegger. I co-publish a lucrative literary magazine with a corporate partner, and I included my own work in the award winning first issue.
Oddly, I got into a good blog-writing groove for 14 minutes while listening to this artist.
Let’s end this fucker with a prose poem by Alexandre Pope.
Meaning of Life # 36
“Mr. Brautigan submitted a book to us in 1962 called Trout Fishing in America. I gather from the reports that it was not about trout fishing.”
Cloud of mechanical flower, sunny California. Of knobby nose, of cinder. Of clank. Because we have to deal with all of this—to metaphor or not to. Must sleep (cannabis) and wake (coffee) and live each day (with Baudelaire or newspaper or moth-eaten laundry mat love note) and sleep again (alcohol). Among the cast-less and the prayer-less, who don’t even grasp sun-clatter, the shaped voice of clouds. Hoop cheese and port wine. Blackberry zephyr. Hymnal of floppy hat, of bullfrog. A woman’s words as spring, summer, fall. Within the looped cast, the meander of raccoon tracks. October 25, 1984—a Thursday morning. See it mayfly, its curling hatch. Like fog or fog-horn or fogged-over steel. Waterlog heft. Underwood on a picnic table. Empty bottle. Full revolver. He will lift them, every one, soon as another young man stops him on a streetcar and asks, “If you don’t keep them, why go fishing at all?”