The Howling Fantods

This is what my copy of Infinite Jest looks like at this point. I finished this book for a second time awhile back in August, but I left it out because I had dog-eared a few passages that I wanted to think some more about. My brother was asking me if he should read this book. I bought him copies of two of DFW's short story books for his birthday in August. I told him to start there, and if he decided from those books that he liked Wallace's style, THEN he should consider reading Infinite Jest. It is an undertaking, but well worth the time and effort - unlike Ulysses, which I still haven't gotten through or The Sound and the Fury, which I DID get through but felt no reward in doing so. Finishing this book reminded me why it was one of my top five favorites. It was better reading it the second time around. Another excerpt.

"White Flag is one of the area AA meetings Ennet House requires its residents to attend. You have to be seen at a designated AA or NA meeting every single night of the week or out you go, discharged. A House Staff member has to accompany the residents when the go to the designated meetings, so they can be officially seen there. The residents' House counselors suggest that they sit right up at the front of the hall where they can see the pores in the speaker's nose and try to Identify instead of Compare. Again, Identify means empathize. Identifying, unless you've got a stake in Comparing, isn't very hard to do, here. Because if you sit up front and listen hard, all the speakers' stories of decline and fall and surrender are basically alike, and like your own: fun with the Substance, then very gradually less fun, then significantly less fun because of like blackouts you suddenly come out of on the highway going 145 kph with companions you do not know, nights you awake from in unfamiliar bedding next to somebody who doesn't even resemble any known sort of mammal, three-day blackouts you come out of and have to buy a newspaper to even know what town you're in; yes gradually less and less actual fun but with some physical need for the Substance, now, instead of the former voluntary fun; then at some point suddenly just very little fun at all, combined with terrible daily hand-trembling need, then dread, anxiety, irrational phobias, dim siren-like memories of fun, trouble with assorted authorities, knee-buckling headaches, mild seizures, and the litany of what Boston AA calls Losses -

'Then come the day I lost my job to drinking.' Concord's John L. has a huge hanging gut and just no ass at all, the way some big older guy's asses seem to get sucked into their body and reappear out front as a gut. Gately, in sobriety, does nightly sit-ups out of fear this'll all of a sudden happen to him, as age thirty approaches. Gately is so huge no one sits behind him for several rows. John L. has the biggest bunch of keys Gately's ever seen. They're on one of those pull-outable-wire janitor's keychains that clips to a belt loop, and the speaker jangles them absently, unaware, his one tip of the hat to public nerves. He's also wearing gray janitor's pants. 'Lost my damn job,' he says. 'I mean to say I still knew where it was and whatnot. I just went in as usual one day and there was some other fellow doing it,' which gets another laugh.

- then more Losses, with the Substance seeming like the only consolation against the pain of the mounting Losses, and of course you're in Denial about it being the Substance that's causing the very Losses it's consoling you about. -

'Alcohol destroys slowly but thoroughly is what fellow said to me the first night I Come In, up in Concord, and that fellow ended up becoming my sponsor.'

- then less mild seizures, D.T.s during attempts to taper off too fast, introduction to subjective bugs and rodents, then one more binge and more formicative bugs; then eventually a terrible acknowledgment that some line has been undeniably crossed, and fist-at-the-sky, as-God-is-my-witness vows to buckle down and lick this thing for good, to quite for all time, then maybe a few white-knuckled days of initial success, then a slip, then more pledges, clock-watching, baroque self-regulations, repeated slips back into the Substance's relief after like two days' abstinence, ghastly hangovers, head-flattening guilt and self-disgust, superstructures of additional self-regulations (e.g. not before 0900h. not on a worknight, only wen the moon is waxing, only in the company of Swedes) which also fail -

'When I was drunk I wanted to get sober and when I was sober I wanted to get drunk,' John L. says; 'I lived that way for years, and I submit to you that's not livin, that's a fuckin death-in-life.'

- then unbelievably psychic pain, a kind of peritonitis of the soul, psychic agony, fear of impending insanity (why can't I quit if I so want to quit, unless I'm insane?), appearances at hospital detoxes and rehabs, domestic strife, financial free-fall, eventual domestic Losses -

'And then I lost my wife to drinking. I mean I still knew where she was and whatnot. I just went in one day and there was some other fellow doing it,' and which there's not all that much laughter, lots of pained nods: it's often the same all over, in terms of domestic Losses.

- then vocational ultimatums, unemployability, financial ruin, pancreatitis, overwhelming guilt, bloody vomiting, cirrhotic neuralgia, incontinence, neuropathy, nephritis, black depressions, searing pain, with the Substance affording increasingly brief periods of relief; then, finally, no relief available anywhere at all; finally it's impossible to get high enough to freeze what you feel like, being this way; and now you hate the Substance, hate it, but you still find yourself unable to stop doing it, the Substance, you find you finally want to stop more than anything on earth and it's not fun doing it anymore and you can't believe you ever liked doing it and but you still can't stop, it's like you're totally fucking bats, it's like there's two yous; and when you'd sell your own dear Mum to stop and still, you find, can't stop, then the last layer of jolly friendly mask comes off your old friend the Substance, it's midnight now and all masks come off, and you all of a sudden see the Substance as it really is, for the first time you see the Disease as it really is, really has been all this time, you look in the mirror at midnight and see what owns you, what's become what you are -

'A fuckin living death, I tell you it's not being near alive, by the end I was undead, not alive, and I tell you the idea of dyin was nothing compared to the idea of livin like that for another five or ten years and only then dyin,' with audience heads nodding in rows like a wind-swept meadow; boy can they ever Identify.

- and then you're in serious trouble, very serious trouble, and you know it, finally, deadly serious trouble, because this Substance you thought was your one true friend, that you gave up all for, gladly, that for so long gave you relief from the pain of the Losses your love of that relief caused, your mother and lover and god and compadre, had finally removed its smily-face mask to reveal centerless eyes and a ravening maw, and canines down to here, it's the Face In The Floor, the grinning, root-white face of your worst nightmares, and the face is your own face in the mirror, now, it's you, the Substance has devoured or replaced and become you, and the puke-, drool- and Substance-crusted T-shirt you've oth worn for weeks now gets torn off and you stand there looking and in the root-white chest where your heart (given away to It) shoul dbe beating, in its exposed chest's center and centerless eyes is just a lightless hole, more teeth, and a beckoning taloned hand dangling something irresistible, and now you see you've been had, screwed royal, stripped and fucked and tossed to the side like some stuffed toy to lie for all time in the posture you land in. You see now that It's your enemy and your worst personal nightmare and the trouble It's gotten you into is undeniable and you still can't stop. Doing the Substance now is like attending Black Mass but you still can't stop even though the Substance no longer gets you high. You are, as they say, Finished. You cannot get drunk and you cannot get sober; you cannot get high and you cannot get straight. You are behind bars; you are in a cage and can see only bars in every direction. You are in the kind of a hell of a mess that either ends lives or turns them around. You are at a fork in the road that Boston AA calls your Bottom, though the term is misleading, because everybody here agrees it's more like someplace very high and unsupported: you're on the edge of something tall and leaning way out forward...

Wallace, David Foster. Infinite Jest. 1996. Back Bay Books / Little Brown and Company. New York, NY 10017. pp. 345-347.

Cold Weather Recipes

Here are some of my most recent recipes, perfect for the cold weather.

If you are having a football party, then there is nothing better than a recipe that incorporates Velveeta.

Buffalo Beer Dip

1lb Velveeta, cubed

5oz blue cheese crumbles

1/2c sour cream

12oz light beer

1 bunch of green onions, chopped

Hot sauce (pick your poison)

Easy. Put all ingredients in a Crock Pot. Turn the Crock Pot to low. I like Louisiana style hot sauce, and I use a LOT of it. Serve the dip warm with raw vegetables or tortilla chips. My dad does his Velveeta dip with Rotel and a can of Hormel chili with no beans. While delicious because it does incorporate Velveeta, I like the above better. Go Bears!

Niederbayerisches Bierfleisch (Lower Bavarian Beef in Beer), served with cauliflower puree

For the stew...

1-1/2 lbs stew beef

8oz pork belly, sliced into thin strips

2tbsp butter

2 onions, diced

3 green peppers, diced

1 medium bunch of celery, chopped

(I like the trinity for stew vegetables, but if you prefer mirepoix substitute carrots for green peppers)

12oz dark beer, such as a bock

Dried marjoram

1 dried bayleaf

4-5 fresh sage leaves

1 bunch of fresh parsley, roughly chopped

Red wine vinegar

Salt/pepper

For the puree...

1-1/2 lb frozen cauliflower, cooked

2tbsp butter

1/2 block of cream cheese (1/3 less-fat)

2tbsp minced garlic

Cream

Salt/pepper

Brown the pork belly in a fry pan. Melt the butter in a casserole on M/H and seal the beef in the butter. Add the onion, green pepper, and celery and brown briefly. Add the pork belly. Add the beer. Season liberally with salt/pepper and marjoram. Add the bayleaf and sage. Turn the heat to M/L and cover. Allow it to simmer for about 45min. Add about 1/3 of the chopped parsley. Season with a few splashes of the red wine vinegar until it achieves the desired piquancy. Cover and simmer for another 10min. Remove from heat and take out the bay and sage leaves. Garnish with the remaining parsley.

While the stew is simmering, add the cooked cauliflower to a food processor. Set to puree while adding in the butter, garlic, and cream cheese. Add cream to the desired consistency (I used a couple of tablespoons). Salt/pepper to taste.

I was going to serve the puree on the side, like a mashed potato. However, I ended up putting about 1/2c to the side of a bowl and pouring about 1c of stew around the puree and garnishing with the parsley. Fantastic!

Nothing like a good stew when the weather is like this. I got this recipe from a German cookbook. You can use any type of cured pork product instead of the pork belly. If you use ham, use Black Forest ham or some other raw ham.

Doodoos Escapes!

I got yelled at for not producing in the blog department. So. I thought I would restart by telling the story of Doodoos' daring escape from the fenced confines of my backyard.

This was a few weeks ago. After Sophie had rang the bell hanging from the back door about five or six times to be let out, I allowed her a brief escape from the apparent depravity that is my house. Poooooor dog. Cooped up all day with a doting parent (me, who fed her about half a turkey on Thanksgiving) and three cats she can terrorize. I was working on something at the time, so I sat back down to my computer. An hour or so later, I get up to let her back in, and I see that the gate is open. There is a small hole at the base of my gate, which allows rabbits to taunt my dog and then run to safety. I am not sure what happened, but I am assuming after one extreme rabbit taunting, Sophie had somehow pried the gate open (the lock sucks) and... ESCAPED.

Like I said, it was an hour before I noticed she was missing. My immediate reaction was to begin blubbering. Realizing this would solve nothing, I grabbed her leash and set out walking up and down my street calling her name. I live on a busy street, and it is semi-rush hour as I am doing this, so it does nothing to alleviate my distress, cars whizzing by at the approximate speed that could maim my precious little Doodoos. About twenty minutes pass. Nothing. Unfortunately, as it is fall, there are a bunch of dry leaves blowing about and a billion or so squirrels, so I am turning around in circles at every noise expecting to see my dumb dog chasing a leaf into oncoming traffic.

I realize I can cover a lot more ground in my car, so I go back into my house to get my keys. The real blubbering begins. Only this time, there is no rational thought that can stop it. I get in my car and proceed to make concentric circles of ever-widening radii around my neighborhood. All of my windows are rolled down. I am driving 10 miles per hour. I am crying and yelling "MEEEEEHEWWW!" out of the windows. (This is "Sophie" in blubber-speak). Nothing. I stop EVERY person I see (and there are a lot outside in my neighborhood, very walkable) to ask them in Blubber-English if they have seen my dog. My face is blotchy from the crying, and I am almost sure my grimace was scaring them. One postman offered me the helpful tidbit, "Oh, I wouldn't want my dog to get lost on THIS street, it's so BUSY!" "GWAArrrrYAH!" I cried as I drove off.

I drove for an hour around my dumb neighborhood. Somehow, I was able to stop the blubs long enough to come up with a more rational plan. I went back insidethe house and called Animal Control. BRILLIANT! No one answers. FUCK! I call the police department. "What kind of dog and what did her collar look like?" I tell the woman, and she goes off for what seems like five minutes in (I am sure) a frenzied search among her PILES of paperwork (this, the whitest of white suburbs in America where absolutely nothing happens EVER). She comes back to the phone. YES. Some woman had called in with a find that matched my description. She gives me a phone number. I call it. YES! My idiot dog had followed this woman home who was walking her own dog. Followed her for SEVEN blocks. The woman had put Sophie in her back yard for safe keeping. I spew out some sort of religious sentiment about her being a saint and in needing of immediate canonization or something. I go to pick up my dog.

Sophie is all a-wags when I get to this woman's house. I was seriously so mad. SO MAD when I got there, and I am sure still all red-faced and blotchy from crying. Then, I was led around the side of the house to the backyard, and Sophie is hunched over by the gate waiting for me, wagging her tail like no one's business. She bursts out of the gate when it is opened and does like ten frenzied laps around my left leg and gives me snuffles and snuffles. A snuffle, you poor souls that don't know, is when a dog gives your snorts/kisses on your ear. After she has snuffled enough to secure her place among the living (seriously, I was SO MAD), she trots over and jumps in my back seat. What. An asshole.

So. She has been grounded the last few weeks. I follow her outside whenever she has to potty and I wait for her to be done. That is ALL the outside time she has gotten off of her leash. The next day, I go to PetsMart, and I get her another tag made with my name and phone number. I also make an appointment to get her microchipped. I was driving home talking to my dad, telling him the story. In classic Dad fashion he says, "Well. Why don't you get her TAGS?" Thanks, Dad. You're a genius. Later that night, I get an email from him. "Can't you put some sort of CHIP in her or something?" Double thanks, Dad. Here is the most recent picture of her. This is the face she has been wearing for the last few weeks. I think it says, "give me more turkey," but a little part of me thinks it also says, "Sorry I scared you. It won't happen again."

Doggie Smell Update

Today, being the 1st, is medication day for Sophie. On the 1st of every month, she gets her heart-worm preventative and her monthly flea medicine. Sophie is on a diet. The vet yelled at me the last time I was in, describing Sophie as "looking like she swallowed a watermelon." I resented this. First of all, dogs (and other things such as babies or cats with tiny heads) are cuter when they are round. Second of all, I thought the vet would understand that she has a lot of skin, which adds at least a few pounds to her heft. I mean. Can he not SEE how much skin she has? She is all jowly and wrinkly-necked and the amount of skin causes her to have the droopy eyes of a bloodhound. Plus, when she walks, her skin rolls from one side of her body to the other giving her an especially attractive swagger. Anyway, all of this being said, Sophie is on a diet and not allowed any treats or human food. Therefore, she LOVES getting such delectables as heart-worm preventative pills or ice cubes. The flea medicine, she does not love so much. It comes in this little tube, which I have to apply at four points on the skin along her spine. This is more difficult than it sounds considering she now senses when something unpleasant is going to happen and proceeds to gallop around the house until I can horse-collar her and throw her to the ground. Once the medicine is applied, it ends up spreading across her back in this greasy streak, as shown below. Also, scant readers, you can use this picture to inspect and form your own opinion as to the presence of any sort of watermelon.

This streak will stay for a couple of days before it is either absorbed into her plentiful skin or rubbed off on my furniture. And then. It is not only gross and greezy ('z' added for special disgusting emphasis), but it makes her smell like celery, which because my house is sequestered from all fresh air in order to run the air conditioning and keep it freezing cold, it also makes my house smell like celery. Celery times 20 too, like MSG-loaded cream of celery soup. Also, because she is about due for another bathing, this smell also includes a Frito garnish. It is strangely making me crave a Bloody Mary.

Lazy

I'm starting to hate the month of August almost as much as February. I realize I have not typed in awhile, and I really think it is because I am starting to hate this oppressive heat just as much as I hate the oppressive gray of winter. My thermostat is set at 71 degrees making my utility bills ridiculous. I get eaten by mosquitoes even walking to my car. Trying to breathe outside is like drinking soup. The cicadas are about ready to lift up my house and fly away with it. I have not only had to implement a 95 degree rule on mowing my lawn, but a 105 degree rule in which I don't even leave my couch unless it's to mix another icy beverage. Plus, whenever Sophie has to go outside (which, according to the clanging of the bell hanging from my door specifically to alert me to that purpose, is every five minutes), she stands petrified at my deck door before the wall of heat and screaming bugs. I have to literally shove her outside and not five seconds later she is whining to be let back in. Also, I think I am getting claustrophobia from the lack of fresh air and the constant clouds of Febreeze I am having to spray to cover the pet stench.

I am depressed. It is making me depressed, and I just want it to be fall so I can wear sweatshirts again, and I don't have to take into account a 30 minute cool-down period every time I go outside to make myself presentable after a gallon of sweat per 100 feet of walking. I miss football, the pre-season (as usual) just isn't cutting it, and I am sick to death of the Cubs. This weather has gotten me to the point where I don't want to do ANYTHING that involves being outside even driving around in my car. When Mulva takes 20 minutes to cool down, fans blowing, AFTER I shut her down, there is a major effing problem.

Here's to the last day of August and the welcoming of September. Watch out February, you have a competitor. I am thinking that next year, my warm-weather Feb vacation will be matched with a trip to Canada in Aug.

Velvet

Every so often, I come across a song. Maybe I've heard it a million times (as in this case), maybe not, but it just kind of hits me in the right spot. Every year for the past four years for Christmas, my brother, Fatty, makes me a set of CDs. I don't listen to the radio (unless it's NPR) because the radio tends to ruin things for me. Like Fake Plastic Trees. Stupid radio, get a clue. All of my music, I kind of discover on iTunes or via Rolling Stone or Spin or I just randomly hear it. This is where Fatty helps. He has more time to dig through iTunes than I do. Maybe he feels sorry for the fact I am getting old and he wants me to "get with the times." Probably. But to that I say, happy 30th birthday in December! Anyway, this song was on one of CDs. I've probably listened to it 50 times, but TODAY I noticed it. (It takes me a long time to fully digest CDs). I am putting the lyrics here.

The Big Pink - Velvet

I've seen it in my hands, burn in my heart
Seen it in my past, back in my home
But does it make sense to see her again?
I don't, know
I felt it for some time, and not at all
Poison in my head, god love hurts
I'm not looking for love, but it's hard to resist
I don't recall being this dead

She's the only one, lost the best I had
I found her in a dream, looking for me
This heart's on fire, I'll bring myself
Up to fall, and down again

These arms of mine
Don't mind who they hold
So should I maybe, Just leave love alone
You call out my name, for the love you need
But you wont find it in me

These arms are mine
Don't mind who they hold
You're made for me, and I'll leave love alone
You call out my name for the love you need
But you wont find it in me

I've seen it in my hands, burn in my heart
I found her in a dream looking for me.
But does it make sense to see her again?
I don't, know

I can see the end of what I begun
A tale of a love, come and gone
But now my love, no promises
I won't go, falling in love

I've downloaded it on iTunes to try and do some ringtone thing, but I've grown frustrated and have since given up. I highly recommend you give it a listen, especially, scant readers, if you've ever known what it's like to have a broken heart. Oh, and by the way, I know you all love my dog, but Doodoos is stressed out this week and she had an accident in her crate, one I can't bear to type out of fear it will provoke my gag reflex. She needs some time off, so I am giving her a break on being in my blog.

Steak Dinner!

I cooked dinner for my mom tonight. After volunteering to mow my lawn, apparently out of sheer horror at the jungle I had allowed by ignoring my yard in all of its weedy and mosquito-ridden glory, she spent the last TWO days not only mowing, but hacking away branches and pulling weeds and raking and shoveling. I mean, she must have sensed the angry neighbor mob about ready to form outside of my house. I stayed inside and peeked out the window every so often to check that she hadn't been abducted by the raging, bullet-sized mosquitoes that attack any exposed section of flesh during even the most brief ventures outside my house. She did a great job. She showed me the difference between "trees" and "weeds about ready to become self-aware." Hopefully, I did something semi-worthy of her efforts.

Kansas City Strip Steak with Smashed Potatoes and Cucumber/Tomato Slaw

4 KC strip steaks

2.5lbs new potatoes

1 yellow onion, chopped

2 heaping tbsp minced garlic

1/2c heavy cream

1/2 stick butter

2 cucumbers, peeled and sliced

4 tomatoes, chopped

1 red onion, chopped

1/2c sour cream

Balsamic vinegar

olive oil

salt

pepper

A few hours beforehand, put the steaks in a brine. I always brine anything for the grill because I am not very good at grilling and the brining sort of corrects for minor mistakes by making the meat more tender. If you have some time beforehand, it's also a good idea to make the slaw since the longer it can chill, the better for the flavor coming together. Prepare the cucumber, tomatoes, and red onion. Place all of them in a large bowl. Stir in the sour cream. Add the Balsamic a few tablespoons at a time to taste. Add some cracked pepper to taste and put the slaw in the fridge. When you are ready to cook, put the potatoes in a pot and cover with cold water. Leave the skin on. It is nothing to be afraid of. Turn the oven to high until the water is boiling, then reduce heat to medium and allow the potatoes to cook for 30min. Chop the yellow onion and saute over medium heat in some olive oil for about 20min until the onion begins to brown, stirring constantly. Add the minced garlic, and saute about 5min more. Remove the pan from heat and set it aside. Prepare the grill and allow it to heat up. Take the steaks from the brine, pat dry, and salt and pepper both sides, pressing the seasoning into the meat. Once the grill has come up to temperature, put the steaks on, 4min each side for medium rare. Let the steaks sit for a few minutes before serving. The potatoes should be about done. Drain them and place them in a large bowl. Mash them with a slotted spoon. Stir in the butter and the cream. Add the onion/garlic mixture and stir. Finally, salt and pepper to taste. Pull your slaw from the fridge and all should be ready to serve.

I love Balsamic vinegar and usually making this slaw, you use regular vinegar and sugar, but I think just going with the Balsamic adds the sweetness and keeps the whole thing very fresh without any added sugar. Also, my steaks weren't perfect... 5min per side was probably closer to medium well, so above I recommend only 4min. It's SO hard to control heat on a grill, but again, the brine came through so the meat was still tender. Also, I did accomplish a nice sear so the meat ended up being OK. However, I'm not going to be the next Food Network star any time soon. These potatoes were to DIE for. I cut back on the butter from the 3/4stick the recipe recommended. They were still creamy and the garlic and onion really put some flavor in without having to add too much salt. I could eat a trough full of these potatoes. My mom went back for seconds and I almost clubbed her in a caveman-like urge to protect my sustenance.

Just kidding. Love you, Mom. My yard looks great.