Thranduil Cosplay Music Video (Lady Gaga Parody)

I Did a Recipe Thing!

I was thinking about Chicken Marsala, and came up with this.  It turned out AWESOME.

Poulet  Porto

3 skinless boneless chicken breasts, butterflied and separated into 6 pieces

1 lb mushrooms, sliced thick

1 garlic clove, minced

3 green onions, minced

1 cup Port, divided

1 cup chicken broth

1 cup flour

1 tsp salt

¼ tsp pepper

½ tsp nutmeg

½ cup butter, divided

1 tsp corn starch

In large electric fry pan, melt ¼ cup butter on medium high heat until frothy.

Combine flour, salt, pepper, and nutmeg in a large ziplock bag.  Dry chicken; shake in flour mixture until well coated.  Fry chicken in butter, 3 minutes per side, until nicely browned and juices run clear.  Remove to warm platter and set aside.

Add remaining ¼ cup butter.  Fry mushrooms, garlic, and onion over medium high heat until browned.  Increase heat to high.  Add ¾ cup Port and deglaze pan, stirring until Port simmers.  Add corn starch to remaining Port and chicken broth, blend well.  Whisk into gravy and stir until thick.  Lower heat to medium, return chicken to the pan and simmer 2 minutes or until warmed through.  Serve with roasted rosemary potatoes or gnocchi.

Yeah, okay, so I was thumbing through Facebook and came across George Takei's post about him inadvertently offending someone.  WHAT THE HELL.  Do people just sit around and wait to get offended by someone?  Does it make us feel better to ride that specific high horse, just so we can kick the rodeo clowns as we go by?  Do we not recognize that the clowns - the comedians - make us laugh by shoving the truth in our faces until we realize how ridiculous we are?  Why must we take everything so SERIOUSLY???

Yesterday, I was listening to Mark Marron's podcast in which he interviewed Robin Williams in 2010.  His introduction to the podcast was hard to listen to (you could hear his voice breaking as he spoke of Williams in life), but the interview was astonishing.  Williams and Marron spoke about comedy, about the business, about the comedians who have died, about what motivates them to tell the jokes and do the impressions they do, about their philosophies about comedy, about drug and alcohol abuse, about depression and bitterness.  My takeaway from this was that Williams was hurting, a twisted, frightened soul, who never let that fear translate itself into cruelty or selfishness.

And then I flip through the news this morning to see that Robin Williams' daughter Zelda had to quit social media because people were being cruel about her father committing suicide.  What is WRONG with this world?  What is wrong with PEOPLE?  Why are we such shits?

It seems to me that there are three types of people on the internet:

1. People who work and communicate
2. People who lie in wait, ambushing innocent funny people by saying they're offended
3. Trolls

You know what?  If you fall into 2 or 3, you can kiss my ass.  Get off the internet and bug people IRL where you can actually get physically punched in the face, and stop hiding behind your computer screen, you fucking bullies.  And if you don't think you fall into 2 or 3, if you keep telling yourself, "Well, this stuff DOES offend me!  How can they be so insensitive to (fill in the blanks)???" or, "I was only joking, jeez, it's not that important," GUESS WHAT.  You're a bully.  Shove a hot poker up your ass a la Edward II.

Very few of us live past 100.  Hell, few of us will live past 80.  (I know I don't want to.)  Do we really want to spend our time hurting other people, or making them feel less of a human being because they said something flippantly in passing?  I know 2 and 3 seem like two opposite ends of the same spectrum.  Balance, bitches.  Let's treat each other how we would want to be treated, YES, just the way Jesus told us to, and CUT IT OUT ALREADY.

I shall sit back and wait for nothing to happen.  Nothing ever changes.

In other news, the beans were excellent.

All right, so let's try some Boston Baked Beans.

At least, that's what I was thinking last night when I got home from my folks'.  (Thanks a lot, Tipsy Me.)  So I pulled out a bag of pintos and put them in a pot to soak.  This morning, though, when I accessed this recipe, I realized I'd already goofed ... I'm supposed to be using Great Northern Beans, or some other big white bean, not pintos.  Oh well. A good cook's all about improv, right?

So they're boiling right now, and I'm thinking that they're making my house smell like an industrial kitchen - not the good kind - and second-guessing my choice.  Boston Baked?  Mexican?  Cuban?  Portuguese?  What am I DOING???

I'm also thinking about my manuscript - specifically, about my protagonist, and the two people to whom he is sexually attracted.  Is it narratively feasible to give him the hots for a man and a woman?  Will anyone believe it?  I mean, he's a pretty screwed up kid anyway, what with the nicotine and pot and booze (though, arguably, considering what his family is like, you can't be too hard on him).  How believable is it to have a perfectly 50/50 bisexual man as a main character?

I've also got, knocking around in my head, another fic idea, based on a Belgariad fanfic I wrote about a kazillion years ago, and that guy's definitely bisexual.  Is this something that can be readily accepted these days?  Between the fabulous George Takei and the same-sex marriage kerfuffle, I'm fairly certain the Geek Community would welcome a bisexual character with open arms (look at Torchwood, for pete's sake).  But would a publishing company consider it marketable?  That seems to be what they go for.

And another thing.  Why do I constantly write stories with a man as a main character?

Urgh.  Off to stir the beans.

Here Comes Christmas!

How can you hate the Holidays?

 I understand the average wanker's bad childhood experiences or a Holiday-related trauma. (Do you think John McClane ever enjoyed Christmas again?) But you've got to be pretty self-absorbed to hate Christmas, Hanukkah, Thanksgiving, and Kwanzaa.

 The Holidays are about community - about giving of oneself, about thinking about others. Cooking for them, entertaining them, buying them gifts, spending time with them. Sure, we don't all have perfect Norman Rockwell families. There are going to be frictions and fights and disagreements and pettiness. But we're all so wrapped up in our own skulls that all we're thinking about is the hassle, the traffic, the extra work, the extra money, the family drama.

 Why don't we see those things - which are admittedly something to dislike about the Holidays - as obstacles to overcome, ways to make ourselves think, try harder, knuckle down and Nike it, put ourselves into someone else's shoes, get out of our own damn ways and become better people? Why is it such a hassle to put a dollar in Santa's red bucket, buy your Mom that sweater she's had her eye on, create, cook, and serve a delicious meal for the people who mean something to us, hang that fucking tinsel and garland and make the house look garish and barbaric and fun?

 I admit that a lot of the "fun" has gone out of Christmas. Kids these days (lord, I'm old) are very spoilt and used to getting what they want when they want it. (Remember the lousy rants on FB last year of "I didn't get an iPhone 5! I hate my parents, worst Christmas ever!!!"?) Frankly, I blame the parents, not the ads on TV. I don't think commercials or catalogues are any more obnoxious and obtrusive than they were forty years ago. The problem is, parents aren't willing to accept the fact that they're not their kids' buddies and they can't cater to their every whim. Kids are going to whine for what they think they want. They have to learn that they're not going to get it. And yes, they're going to learn that on Christmas morning. You know what? Good. Let them learn disappointment. They need to get used to it. But you know what else they need to learn? How to give gifts. How to do for others. How to set the table, make the dressing, clean up afterwards.

 Part of the joy of the Holidays is the satisfaction from seeing all your work put to good use. The hours spent decorating the house? Result: your niece's eyes light up when she comes in and she starts to clap her hands in delight. The days and labor of putting together a really kick-ass turkey dinner? Result: the house smells like Heaven on the eighth day of Creation, and everyone eats with gusto. The effort of putting on a Holiday party? Result: a house full of noisy, happy, sometimes slightly tipsy people getting to know one another and strengthening the ties that bind soul to soul. Tackling said post-fete house? Result: A still-decorated, quiet, clean house, and the ineffable, unbreakable, private and glorious reward of pouring oneself that celebratory glass of wine and putting one's slippered feet up.

So quit hating on Christmas. Get out of your own damn head and fucking DO something for someone else. 

I've said it before and I'll say it again: Happiness isn't about our own pursuit of it. It comes with the satisfaction of doing things for others. Sounds backwards? Yeah, I know. The good stuff always is.

 So unwrap a candy cane, put on your Santa hat, and go to the mall. Don't do your shopping ... go to Starbucks, and pay for the latte of the person behind you. Trust me. Start throwing that Joy to the World crap around, and you're going to make someone's day. You'll nourish their soul, and by so doing, nourish your own.

Renewed Ramblings from a Borderline Freak

Let's just dive right in.

When you write - whether it's a short story, a poem, a blog post, or an article, you're reaching inside yourself and showing a part of yourself to the world ... and that reflection that we stare in, when we edit or re-read or criticize, shows us ourselves. That's why we like to write, I think. I know that other people have venues that they use to creatively show themselves to the world. Actors act. Painters paint. Musicians play. Singers sing. I'm a writer - not a very dedicated one, true, but I am a writer - and I used to write.

When I write, I see myself. I reveal aspects of myself to the reader. My mood, my voice, my thoughts, my opinions about the world and life and other people and the state of modern morality - out it comes. It's like lancing a wound, popping a zit, removing a splinter, having a good dump. Something disgusting comes out and it's a relief. "Aaaah," the writer says; "that felt so good!" Then we make the mistake of turning around and looking in the toilet, or examining the pus and blood or splinter. That's when we make a face and wish we didn't have to do this.

 "Oh my god," we groan. "THAT was inside ME??"

Don't get me wrong. Not every little repulsive thing about a writer comes out in every little thing the writer writes. Wouldn't that be awkward, to show that kind of crap in a note to your kid's school teacher? Or a report at work? Or a performance review? A half-decent writer knows enough to not poke the needle down too far, squeeze too hard, push and grunt too enthusiastically. You can't go about expressing your deepest and most secret thoughts about rape or racism or meal worms all the time. You make other people uncomfortable, make them not want to be around you, make them dislike you for not being like them, for deviating, for practicing emotional and intellectual strip-teases for an unappreciative public.

I have an incredible respect for writers who throw their work out in public for open criticism and study. TV writers (Dan Harmon comes to mind), opinionated comic strip artists (like Bill Watterson), stand-up comics (Greg Proops), avant-garde novelists (Cormac McCarthy) pop their zits, dig out their splinters, take their intellectual and creative dumps in public, and let's face it, everyone's a critic. Quite honestly, I'm not sure which kind of critic can hurt the most - the intellectual, worldly, practiced dilettante with pronounced opinions, or the knuckle-dragging, Honey Boo Boo-watching Luddite who blindly follows one political party and has never had an original thought in his or her life. The Harmons and the Proopses and the McCarthys keep squeezing and digging and pushing out art, alternately blowing kisses to the world or giving it the finger, while the Wattersons decide Enough Is Enough and bow out, igniting their catharses in private.

And what happens to those artists - writers, painters, actors, whatever - that don't squeeze and lance and push and evacuate? Well, we fill up with infected puss and feces. We become toxic waste dumps of frustrated emotion. It spins and snowballs and burgeons and swells, until our battered souls can't keep from cracking. It leaks out - people wonder what's wrong. It manifests as such strange and dark things. Binge-drinking. Cutting. Hearing voices. Anti-socialism. Nail biting. Recurring nightmares. Depression. Anorgasmia. And the more packed with garbage we get, the more parts of us splinter off and ooze psychoses, the less we want to tackle the build-up. Lancing ourselves would produce a tsunami of malodorous, greasy, bile-laced offal, and we would not just be exposing that shameful detritus to the world .... we would have to face it too. We'd have to turn around and look at the mess we made, the stinking, disgusting offspring of our souls. We would have to face up to the fact that, not only was this crap inside of us in the first place, we allowed it to swell and grow and metastasize until our souls become unrecognizable.

 The images we make of ourselves for others to admire are just that: Images. They're put up to hide the crap in us. The more crap we collect, though, the image becomes more and more fragile. The illusion becomes harder to maintain. We spin out of control and at times feel we're falling; we have to hide in stairwells or bathroom stalls until the panic subsides. We lose the lifeline that keeps soul moored to body. We spend more and more time away from ourselves, and away from people who make us be ourselves. We keep promising ourselves that we'll pull ourselves together, start writing again, balance our check books, do our personal filing, confront our spouses with our issues, but we keep putting it off because it will just reinforce to us how broken and chaotic we've become. We would rather drink a six-pack in our pajamas alone at home and watch videos on YouTube. It's easier than admitting failure to ourselves, our families, our coworkers, our friends.

 How do writers break this cycle? I don't know. I guess I'll just have to keep writing to find out. And when I go back and re-read this, I will be looking at the bloody splinter, the pus, the feces I've just pushed out. Disgusting ... but it is what I am.

It has been a while, hasn't it? Here it is, 2013, and my life has changed in ways I never imagined. I am the mother of a college student. With a straight A average, thankyouverymuch. I am a homeowner. First-time on my own. I'm so far in debt it's swimming round my eyes, but this house is MINE. I'm a first-time dog owner. We have the most adorable little Corgi puppy named Roxie. Rigby's dead. Pippin might as well be. I've gained 20 pounds. Life ... is very strange. I've gone through four jobs, and though my current one is my favorite, I desperately need something closer to home. Why is it that, just when I start getting comfortable, things change? On the other hand, I am a VERY different person now than I was right after the divorce. I'm more comfortable being single - kind of prefer it, really. I guess I'm pretty content right now. And considering what my life's been like the past ten years, I'll take that.