On Second Thought . . .

that song kinda sucks.

*

What we're bringing to the party tonight, assuming the roads get better:

Double Bastard for me; some type of red wine for Jess
Charlie's Cornbread, modified to include asiago, habanero and chipotle (a mere hint)
Mushroom, jicama, baby spinach salad with homemade roast red pepper and jalapeno dressing

Since we really want to get back in time to sleep in our own home, we're not going too crazy. But we well celebrate nonetheless with Macarena and Ana.

Side note: I was able to a big bag of habaneros today for a buck. I mixed the rest with some chipotles, various vinegars, red sea salt, and white vinegar to make my first successful hot sauce.

My face was burning. I was not wearing gloves. At one point I had to break and give Jess instructions in the even that my cooking killed me.

Now that's a hot sauce.

*

Speaking of hot, I do have the yellow underwear.

For those who don't follow my facebook page, I've been searching for a pair since it's a requirement that we wear them tonight. Something to do with Columbia, good luck, and Macarena's twisted fashion sense.

I wear see the new year in while wearing canary yellow boxers. This better bode well, Columbia!

The Greatest Song of the 20th Century

I've been vaguely miserable for a few weeks, and the holiday season pushed me further into arctic saturnalia.

But I was giving a nice long run to Portsmouth, NH today and drove back south against the solar glare.

As I pulled into the parking lot, the greatest song of the twentieth century came on the radio, and I was suddenly happy. I rushed into the W and started joking with Billy. I've also lost something of my sense of humor, so Billy seemed downright shocked to see me hamming it up.

"Goo Goo's back!" he squeeled.

And I told him it was because of that damn song.

Everything about the song held meaning for me. The slightly embarassing name of the band, the chantish lyrics, which express not a trace of wit or imagination, but, I would hold, genuine longing and spirit.

The drummer plays with a rough joy that occasionally spills out and threatens to go off rhythm.

The female harmonies, particularly on words like "wall," soar to a near cloying height.

It is the optimism of a time past. For me, as soon as I heard it, I was instantly in the back seat of my mother's Big Bird yellow station wagon, reclining on the pleather seats and watching the green lawns. Not the most peaceful or colorful times, but still, times more peaceful.

I felt myself choking up. Right now, I can barely listen to it. The nerves are raw.

Ah, the old sweet melancholy bliss of the holidays.

So, here it is. The greatest song of the twentienth century, embodying frustration, expectation, blindness, and (perhaps) unconscious insights.

Pellet Fuel

My brother forgot about me last week, but delivered a generous Home Depot gift card early this morning.

I joked with Billy about having to walk through Home Depot past the gas grills and fryolaters and tool belts and reclining patio chairs right up to the pallet of wood pellets.

"Yeah, Merry Christmas," he said. "Pellet fuel."

"Welcome to adulthood," I said.

*

The flannel Billy gave me already has a rip at the sleeve. It is a truth of the W: the W ruins all. Glasses, jeans, shirts, coats. Anything that might be rended gets rended. It is time, sped up, despite being, phenomenologically, a place of delay and weary slowness. Molasses dripped over the space of stars! Let's get dramatic! Woo heeee!

I hobbled along on my bad knees. I ate liver with bacon for lunch. I took a razor and sliced lids off forty boxes. I bleached a toilet. I filled a dumpster.

*

For New Year's Eve, I made a roast pepper vinaigrette that I spiced up with a roast jalapeno. At first, it was too spicy. More so than I expected and too much to be pleasant. But then, with a mere thimbleful of white vinegar -- and I wasn't expecting this -- it transformed and the heat of the jalapeno was pushed way to the back, as a mild aftertaste, and the taste of the bell pepper, spitted on a knife and burner roasted, came to the fore. There was an accent of lemon, and balsamic and garlic sauteed in olive oil. It was peppery and sweet and tangy. And I'm hoping that it will go well over baby spinach, toasted almonds, and mushrooms.

All the cooking I've done recently has only made it clear how much I don't know. I'm at the point where my naivete shines through and I find myself wishing for a grandmother who could have brought me into a tradition. Not just a mutt hodge-podge of things various and superficial, but a rich, yeasty, malty tradition coming from earth and trees and backyard wells. Too romantic? Well, in a sense. But it comes from a feeling of rootlessness -- of a lack of foundations.

America! America!

Set the gas tanks on fire. The cold is here and the cold is gone.

Giftering

My mother bought me a Tony Hawk hoodie for Christmas.

She left the tag on, which she never does, and I take this to mean she is either becoming absolutely forgetful or that she wanted somehow to maintain her pride after only buying me one gift.

No matter the cultural signifiers. Although it's my size, it doesn't fit well. Perhaps I can find it a new home.

*

I had been telling anyone who listened that all I wanted was a Viking drinking horn. I don't know why this got into my head, but that's what I wanted.

It's only now that I got online to look them up. Although there are cheap models available, what's interesting is that there are craftsmen who specialize in making them, and there seems to be a whole collector's market out there willing to pay hundreds for elaborate pieces. There are contests, judges, organizations!

Maybe I should start crafting them myself.

And while on the topic, my ale continues to ferment in the carboy, and we're on day four of a fourteen day fermentation period. After that, the ale gets transferred to bottles for another two weeks, and then the tasting party!

I'm not sure how it will turn out. My sense is that the foaming brown substance bubbling away in the carboy is going to be delicious, and will warm up a late winter's day.

*

Jess bought me the Amy Sedaris book I Like You, which I find inexplicably funny and I laugh at it until my sides hurt. Not much makes me laugh like that. Billy bought me a flannel shirt with a hood sewn in. It has already become my comfort shirt.

Recovering the Train

At Starbucks, trying to get back into working on the novel, after the week plus layoff.

They are playing some awful music on the speakers -- among the worst I've heard. Repetitive, bland hip hip.

I'm right under the speakers. It was the only available table. I can't drown out the bad music.

Here are the next ten songs on my playlist.

1. Paul Bowles (spoken word), "The Sheltering Sky"
2. Dizzy Gillespie, "Jump Di-Le-Ba"
3. Mission of Burma, "Go Fun Burn Man"
4. Kate Bush, "Cloudbusting"
5. Kraftwork, "Chrono"
6. Guitar Wolf, "Jett Beer"
7. Jackie Wilson, "Whispers (Getting Louder)
8. Saint-Saens, "Piano Concerto #2"
9. Wire "The 15th"
10. Arcade Fire, "Neighborhood #3 (Power Out)"

Guitar Hero

Eddy told me he went to the mall and saw some kids playing Guitar Hero.

"They were amazing!" he told me. "They sounded just like the real band!"

I tried to explain the game to him, but he said, "Yeah, but these kids sounded just like the real band. And I'm not kidding. They were good."

A Holiday Message

Patrick the Swedish philosopher sent the following message to his friends the other day. Thought I would share, since it makes a great deal of sense.

Be nice and understanding of everyone! Eat as much as your grandmother would have wanted you to eat. Don't worry your family with any of your problems. Give thoughtful presents. Put on your best clothes, and use a Windsor knot for your tie.

Ibogained

or wait.

Overproof rum. Kale.

Um. Garlic.

Nah.

Woo hoo.

Muffins.

Um. Bacon.

*

The Menu:

Saranac Winter Beers, mixed
Smokey turkey and ham
Good bread.
Roast garlic soup, this time in turkey, rather than pork stock. Topped with gruyere.
Gorganzola in phyllo.
Blackened stringbeans.
Squash.
Salad with goat cheese, bacon, and maple vinagrette.
Various crackers with various cheeses.
Rhubarb and strawberry pie.

Here We Are

Christmas Eve.

After work today, I went to a local Mexican place with three of my co-workers and two local contractors: guys who've been in the game for years.

They told me about the time they hired a hooker in Tijuana and how one of them got her from behind while the other got worked on below.

"I didn't want no fucking specks of you know what on me," he confided.

I explained to him why Budweiser was a woman's beer and how there's nothing wrong with that.

He told the waiter not to bring him any more pink straws and he called him Tattoo. He was a short Mexican guy, and Billy and I felt sorry for him so we went out of our way to be polite.

*

The Boss called, stoned.

"Have you seen my work phone? I think I might have left it in the truck."

I paused.

"Sorry. I'm a little confused. How can you be calling me if it isn't from your phone."

He paused.

"Shhiiiiiitttt," he said, laughing, and then hung up.

*

Spiced rum. Cats. The family asleep.

*

Jess's work sent her a box containing a precooked turkey and ham, as well as some good cheddar.

I had never seen a precooked turkey, and figured it was smoked and we'd have to heat it up.

So, I drew out my boxcutter and sliced the box open tonight, getting ready for the heating instructions so I would know how early to wake up the next morning.

I pulled out a turkey loaf smaller than Bubbs, our cat. Holy shit. So, a precooked turkey isn't a turkey at all, but a loaf of turkey. Like deli meat. I should have figured.

I called Jess downstairs and broke the news to her gently.

"I just hope I can find good bread on Christmas," I told her.

She looked at the turkey roll, like it was a grub.

*

The Dufflebag and I spent three hours last night working on the wort.

Not wart. Wort. Pronounced wert.

That's the stuff you put in a carboy, with yeast, in the hopes of someday bringing forth beer, beautiful beer.

Socks filled with caramel barley. Hop pellets. Irish moss and hydrometers. Ask Dufflebag about it. He'll tell you.

I'm so new to the process that I didn't know if I was supposed to put the cap on the fermentation lock.

I was.

*

Before leaving, we noticed some twenty odd people in the driveway.

We live in a small town.

They were wearing elf hats.

I opened the door and there they stood. A few kids, a few teens, some older folks. Carollers.

They began to sing to us. Dufflebag hid, and blushed.

The dog, Slappy, ran to the door. The cats looked.

As they continued to sing, I gestured to the Dufflebag. "We've got to get out of here."

He ran and got his coat, and we fled.

In the rear view mirror I could see the carollers. They were chasing us, and dancing in the cold streets.

*

I needed to buy a present for my Dad.

First, I had to feed the Dufflebag.

It was nine o'clock.

We went to Wendy's, and waited. So long that the guy in front of us gave up, and the some other guys, and finally us, and we all walked over to Burger King, where we waited as well, although the line moved, and we ate awful vomitous food.

"See!" the Dufflebag pointed out, "Fast food can be good."

"Oh yeah," I said, trying not to betray my disgust. Good stuff! Vomitous, ugly, insipid food. Food for children. Food for cretins. Food for Dougie!!!

*

Oh hell. It's Christmas. Here we are.

*

. . .