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 |    Not for the faint of art. |
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Complex Numbers A complex number is expressed in the standard form a + bi, where a and b are real numbers and i is defined by i^2 = -1 (that is, i is the square root of -1). For example, 3 + 2i is a complex number. The bi term is often referred to as an imaginary number (though this may be misleading, as it is no more "imaginary" than the symbolic abstractions we know as the "real" numbers). Thus, every complex number has a real part, a, and an imaginary part, bi. Complex numbers are often represented on a graph known as the "complex plane," where the horizontal axis represents the infinity of real numbers, and the vertical axis represents the infinity of imaginary numbers. Thus, each complex number has a unique representation on the complex plane: some closer to real; others, more imaginary. If a = b, the number is equal parts real and imaginary. Very simple transformations applied to numbers in the complex plane can lead to fractal structures of enormous intricacy and astonishing beauty. ![Merit Badge in Quill Award
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| https://www.theatlantic.com/family/archive/2019/06/big-houses-american-happy/591... Are McMansions Making People Any Happier? Homes have gotten bigger, but Americans aren’t any more pleased with the extra space. Let's get this out of the way first: When the headline is a question, chances are good that the answer is "no." And second: What the hell is this obsession that article writers have with happiness? Is it a uniquely American thing, perhaps having something to do with the infamous phrase in the Declaration of Independence? But according to a recent paper, Americans aren’t getting any happier with their ever bigger homes. “Despite a major upscaling of single-family houses since 1980,” writes Clément Bellet, a postdoctoral fellow at the European business school INSEAD, “house satisfaction has remained steady in American suburbs.” As a corollary to that first sentence, people aren't getting any less happy, either. Could it be that there are other issues involved besides that ever-elusive, undefinable "happiness?" Why, yes. To be clear, having more space does generally lead to people saying they’re more pleased with their home. The problem is that the satisfaction often doesn’t last if even bigger homes pop up nearby. “If I bought a house to feel like I'm ‘the king of my neighborhood,’ but a new king arises, it makes me feel very bad about my house,” Bellet wrote to me in an email. So, it's not all that important what you have, as long as your neighbors (literally, in this case) don't have more. And there we have one of the biggest problems with America (and, presumably, other countries) today. I once met the guy who was, at the time, the richest motherfucker in the world. His estimated net worth was something like $5 billion, which seems laughable now - but, even accounting for inflation since then, $5 billion is a lot of money. We happened to be taking the same elevator, and I recognized him. It was certainly not mutual - I was, and remain, nobody special - but we nodded amicably at each other. That was the extent of our interaction. I didn't compare myself to him. Some people have been dealing with this by going, in my opinion, too far in the other direction, purchasing and living in what's euphemistically known as "tiny houses," but I'll continue to call "trailers," because that's what they are. Then the race is about seeing who can live in the smallest trailer, of course. That becomes the new status symbol. I understand there was even a "reality" show about it, which played up the concept, because it was probably funded by trailer manufacturers. I also remember hearing that a lot of the people who ended up in those closets got fed up with the situation really quickly. Presumably, it works for some people, but I wouldn't be one of them. I'm... happy... with my perfectly average-sized (probably more on the small side nowadays) home. Which, I'd like to add smugly, is paid for - that's what's important to me. Bellet sketches out an unfulfilling cycle of one-upmanship, in which the owners of the biggest homes are most satisfied if their home remains among the biggest, and those who rank right below them grow less satisfied as their dwelling looks ever more measly by comparison. He estimates that from 1980 to 2009, the size of the largest 10 percent of houses increased 1.4 times as fast as did the size of the median house. This means that the reference point many people have for what constitutes a big home has shifted further out of reach, just as many other lifestyle reference points have shifted in an age of pronounced wealth inequality. "Unfulfilling," indeed. You know, there two basic ways to deal with something that doesn't make you happy: a) change the situation or b) get used to it. Of the two, (b) sounds more... well, fulfilling... in the long run. This vicious cycle used to be called "keeping up with the Joneses," for obscure historical reasons having something to do with the ubiquity of the name "Jones" and how the saying wouldn't work as nicely with the other two high-frequency names in the US, Smith and Brown. You're perfectly happy with your used Chevy until the neighbor gets a new Cadillac, so you run out and buy a BMW on credit. The neighbor responds by leasing a Mercedes. This goes on until one of you either gives up or declares bankruptcy. Screw that. Find happiness in other places. Or give up on the concept entirely, because happiness is, by nature, fleeting, and requires constant effort to capture once again, much as you keep having to set the treadmill higher to get the same exercise value out of it. Paradoxically enough, giving up might be what finally brings you happiness. |
| https://blogs.scientificamerican.com/beautiful-minds/authenticity-under-fire/ Authenticity is one of the most valued characteristics in our society. As children we are taught to just "be ourselves", and as adults we can choose from a large number of self-help books that will tell us how important it is to get in touch with our "real self". It's taken as a given by everyone that authenticity is a real thing and that it is worth cultivating. "Everyone" except me, apparently. One big problem with authenticity is that there is a lack of consensus among both the general public and among psychologists about what it actually means for someone or something to be authentic. Are you being most authentic when you are being congruent with your physiological states, emotions, and beliefs, whatever they may be? Or are you being most authentic when you are congruent with your consciously chosen beliefs, attitudes, and values? How about when you are being congruent across the various situations and social roles of your life? Which form of "being true to yourself" is the real authenticity: was it the time you really gave that waiter a piece of your mind or that time you didn't tell the waiter how you really felt about their dismal performance because you value kindness and were true to your higher values? My father wasn't exactly a paragon of virtue. Like most people, he embodied those values we call "good" as well as those we call "evil." While I think, on balance, he was more of the former than the latter, there were things about him that I consciously chose not to emulate in my own adulthood. Somewhere in the 90s, he started showing symptoms of dementia. Fortunately, the worst of those symptoms didn't appear until after my mother died in 1999. Until then, while she languished in a nursing home with her own version of dementia, he'd visit her every day, bringing her fresh food from the garden, or just sitting with her for a time. Though when they both had most of their mental faculties, sometimes he could be cruel, at the end, it was all kindness. Which one was his true self? A lot of people seem to think that someone who is mostly kind, and then does something evil, well, that means they're showing their "true colors." And a lot of people with Alzheimer's do become hateful - for whatever reason, they lash out, lose their filters, or generally act like assholes. And my father did, sometimes. But usually, he was concerned about other people. I'd visit him in his nursing home - I couldn't do that every day like he did with my mom, a thing that still eats at me sometimes - and he'd offer to share his meager rations, or give me his coat if I'd come in on a warm day wearing a t-shirt. Yeah... he'd literally offer to give me the shirt on his back, and at that point, he didn't even know who I was. As far as I'm concerned, that was his "true colors." So, that's how I choose to remember him - that, and his abiding curiosity and love of scientific investigation. A sailor by profession, he went to college later in life, earning a degree in, of all things, chemistry. He taught himself to read Russian so he could understand the science coming out of what was then the USSR. Point is, though, the times when he was unkind were just as much a part of him as those positive traits; I just make the decision to usually focus on the good parts. I don't always pay myself the same courtesy. As long as you are working towards growth in the direction of who you truly want to be, that counts as authentic in my book regardless of whether it is who you are at this very moment. The first step to healthy authenticity is shedding your positivity biases and seeing yourself for who you are, in all of your contradictory and complex splendor. Full acceptance doesn't mean you like everything you see, but it does mean that you've taken the most important first step toward actually becoming the whole person you most wish to become. It's probably a good thing that I try to be aware of when I'm being an asshole. More, I try not to be an asshole; it's just that sometimes, it happens. Because being aware of when you're being hateful is the only way to work on being a better person. I would argue, then, that it is impossible to not be authentic. Yes, even if you're a character actor. That makes this "authenticity" thing a semantically null concept. But that doesn't mean you can't learn to improve yourself in the direction you want to go. If you don't give much to charities, for example, you can make the decision to do so in the future - and then do it - and you go from "someone who doesn't give to charity" to "someone who gives to charity." It's sometimes that simple. Other things, like learning to control what one does when one is angry, well, maybe that takes more work. But one is no less "you" than the other. |
| We’ve spent a lot of time in the stereotypical Hawaiian climate these last few days, but today, as a grand finale to our final Summer Sprint, I want to bring you to a place a little colder: the summit of Mauna Kea. When measured from the ocean floor where the mountain began as a baby volcano, Mauna Kea is the tallest mountain in the world. The peak is regularly white with snow and the observatories on the summit enjoy clear views of the sky since they are above the cloud line. The mountain is a hub of science and spirituality, and a constant beacon of strength and protection over the island. Today, write about an experience that wowed you. When was the last time your jaw fell open? Where were you the last time you felt awe and admiration? As best you can, share your experience in a way that your blog reader can feel the same wonder you felt. I have trouble with elevation. This is, I think, related to my problems dealing with pressure. Not, like, work pressure - I dealt with that just fine, thanks to my old buddy Al Cohol - but actual atmospheric pressure. Like I said, I can't dive because I'm unable to equalize pressure, and water pressure increases very quickly with depth. I spent my early life at or near sea level, and most of my adult life at a paltry 500 feet. Occasionally, I'd take a trip to the mountains around here, but even those top out at less than 1500 feet. Driving across the Rockies or the Sierra Nevada, though, there are elevations that make me gasp for air, even while just sitting in the car. After some experimentation, I found that this usually happens at or around 9000 feet or more. Nevertheless, I've exceeded that elevation multiple times, on purpose. Last summer, Nerd Camp was around 10,000 feet in the mountains of Colorado. I haven't been to Mauna Kea, but I saw it from the summit of Haleakala, also about 10,000 feet. But the time that sticks out in my mind was one New Year's Day, while crossing from Nevada into California. When I travel, I generally try to avoid interstates. While they're a triumph of civil engineering, they're not conducive to the kind of travel experience I crave, one that focuses on the journey rather than the destination. When I tell people I once took two weeks to cross the continental US, they seem shocked - using interstates, it's no more than 30 hours from sea to polluted sea. There are basically two crossings via interstate from Nevada to California. The northern route starts around Reno, and crosses at Donner Pass, the infamous location of arguably the US's most famous cannibalism. Donner Pass tops out at about 7,000 feet - easy, even for me. (The other route goes from Vegas to L.A. and isn't important to my narrative.) But there are other ways to get across the Sierras, and on this particular New Year's, I was heading for one of them. I don't know the elevation of it, but it's definitely higher than Donner Pass. I'm not even sure of the route; it wasn't US 50, but something else. I have it recorded somewhere, but can't be arsed to look it up. I'd left Vegas in the early morning, and spent the short, near-solstice daylight hours driving northwest through Nevada. I started feeling like crap - turns out that what happens in Vegas doesn't always stay in Vegas, especially if it's a virus. No, not that kind of virus; get your mind out of the gutter. This was like a cold, or the flu, but somewhere in the middle - not easily shaken like a rhinovirus, but not severely debilitating like influenza. This got worse as the day progressed, and the sun descended toward the Sierra Nevada. Stopping for dinner in Hawthorne, I paused to watch a rocket launch just as the western sky turned to rosy gold. It was about then that I knew I was ill. Still needing to make it to central CA before midnight, I just kept going. I got stopped by a Nevada cop somewhere near Carson City, and the cop read me the riot act about one of my headlights being out. I hadn't even noticed; I hadn't been driving at night for most of this particular trip. He stopped short of giving me a ticket or searching my vehicle for contraband that he wouldn't find, so I almost feel bad that he certainly came down with whatever it was within a couple of days. Almost. This delayed me further, so it was full dark by the time I crested the Sierra Nevada. Full dark, that is, except for the stars. I could see them even through the windshield, against the loom of my one working headlight (yeah, officer, I can see the road just fine, see?) So I stopped. Reeling from exhaustion - nine hours or more on the road, ill, and down off the adrenaline you feel when a cop pulls you over, even when you know damn well you don't have anything illegal and weren't speeding - I gasped for air, a scarce commodity at whatever elevation that was. Over 9,000 feet, almost certainly. Alone on the road, chilled, shaking, I turned off the car's lights, leaned back on the hood, and beheld a diamond-studded infinity. That's the thing about those high elevations - there's less air to muddle your view. Also, it's colder, so there's less water vapor, which is responsible for much of the atmospheric haze. It's like there's nothing between you and the stars but the frigid vacuum of space, and that's very, very close to being the truth. I was in a hurry, and I probably shouldn't have stopped at all. But how could I not? For probably 20 minutes, until I just couldn't deal with the lack of temperature anymore, I looked at the sky, often cupping my hands against my temples so as to block out any silhouettes of trees in my peripheral vision. After a while, seat warmer cranked up to full, I started coasting down the western slopes of the mountains. Ended up infecting half of California on that trip. So if you live in California and got laid up by some nasty cough thing for a couple of weeks in early 2014, well, that was my fault. Sorry. Worth it. |
| From South Point, we head north to visit the volcano responsible for building the island. Kilauea has been continuously erupting for the past 36 years. We board a small boat and motor to the place where the lava spills into the ocean, boiling the water and erupting steam into the air. The lava flows are slow and deceptively innocent, but their power to destroy is great and we are careful not to get too close. Our guide reminds us, however, that equal to the lava’s power to destroy is its power to create. In your blog today, share something unexpected. Have you been surprised by someone or something recently? No. Well, sort of. Speaking of Hawai'i. I mentioned my friend on Maui in yesterday's entry. Well, he's not there anymore. I mean, it was never going to be a permanent gig for him, but he left earlier than he'd originally planned. Upside: more money. Downside: Not Maui. It's unfortunate, because I was kind of hoping I'd get to visit there one more time, but alas, if I do, I'm going to have to pay tourist prices everywhere. So, a bit surprising, but nothing earth-shattering like, say, a volcano. I've observed an erupting volcano, as well, but not in Hawai'i. The one I saw was on Montserrat, in the Caribbean. No lava flows; lots of ash. By the time I saw it, it had been spewing ash for several years, ash that had buried both the island's airport and its primary town, each on opposite sides of the cone. The population of the island had been reduced from something like 13,000 to closer to 3,000, with the refugees mostly having been relocated to the US and the UK, with some going to nearby islands. "Equal to the lava’s power to destroy is its power to create." One of the most important realizations I've ever come to was the understanding that creation and destruction are really the same thing. Not opposites; not "two sides of the same coin," but the same thing, depending on how we look at it. Someone tosses a coin, and you call heads or tails, right? You desire a particular outcome: heads, or tails. Then the coin comes up one or the other, which is either the one you wanted or the one you didn't want. Whether we call something "creation" or "destruction" depends entirely on the value we put on one or the other. You're cold, so you want a fire. So you burn some firewood. That destroys the wood, but at that moment, what you value more is the heat of the flame. To make the firewood, you, or someone, had to destroy a log. That log could, perhaps, have been used for fenceposts or a house; but at that moment, the more valuable use was firewood. To make the log, one had to destroy a tree, which was providing shade, oxygen, maybe a home for creatures; if the tree was already dead, it was still contributing to the ecosystem. And so on. Drop a nuclear bomb on something, and you destroy it, right? Well, sure, but you are also creating something at the same time. A crater, radiation, a shock wave, etc. It's a matter of perspective, and perspective alone. Sure, an argument can be made that it might take a year to create, say, a skyscraper, while it only takes minutes to tear it down, but what we call "destruction" can take time as well, so that's not a pure distinction. Rome wasn't built in a day, or so they say, but neither was the Roman Empire fractured in a 24-hour period. Sure, you can get into the philosophical argument (backed up to some extent by science) that nothing is created or destroyed, just transformed, but that's not my point - form can be created or destroyed. Or, as I'd argue, both at the same time. Hawai'i - the Big Island - is the newest of that particular chain, but it won't always be. The Earth's crust there is sliding over a geological hot spot. A while back, that hotspot created Haleakala and the rest of Maui. Before that, it built Oahu. And down the line, to Kauai and beyond. And right now, off the coast of the big island, the next Hawaiian island is being formed. Even on geological timescales, change is the only constant. |
| We’re taking a trip today to the southern most point in the entire United States. South Point on the Big Island of Hawaii is a popular daredevil destination where brave souls leap from the cliff into the churning ocean below. Are you (or were you ever) a thrill-seeker? Do you visit carnivals or theme parks? What do you do that gets your heart pounding? Have you ever had a brush with death? "Brave" is not a word I'd use in this situation. Nor is "souls," but that's not really the point. Risky behavior is a part of life. It's probably an evolutionary thing, but you know by now how I feel about spurious "we evolved to be that way" arguments. Regardless of why we're like that, I've noticed that risky behavior, on its own, is not what's rewarded in humans. It's taking the right risks, and being successful at it. Being successful at the wrong risks invites public scorn. People who drink "too much" based on some arbitrary standard, for example. We think nothing at all of the public health costs involved with people climbing rocks, jumping off cliffs or out of airplanes, hiking in the wilderness, participating in extreme sports, etc., but watch someone drink too much and all of a sudden it's all "I don't wanna pay for their life decisions." Recently, there was this chick who got herself lost in the vast, unexplored wilderness of... Maui. Surviving for over a week on scraps and droplets, her disappearance made national news, and the entire country breathed a sigh of relief when she was found, leg broken, but alive. Weighed less, but hey, who doesn't need to lose some weight, right? Meanwhile, a dude disappeared on the other lobe of the same island. I only found out about this because I had a friend on Maui; it was nowhere in the news. Guy died. I guess men are just expendable and not worth the search effort. My same friend is a hang gliding enthusiast and a scuba diver. You'd think both would be big on Maui, but it turns out that only the scuba thing is; most of the high spots on the island are part of the national park system, and there's a countrywide ban on hang gliding in national parks. This is silly any way you look at it; scuba is way riskier than hang gliding. It's too bad, because I'd totally take up the sport just to glide off Haleakala. I tried scuba diving, but my ears just won't accommodate the pressure changes. Point is, we as a species absolutely suck at assessing and managing risk. Hence, you get people who "hate" flying because the plane might crash, but don't even think twice about speeding to the airport if they're late; and you have orders of magnitude more chance of dying in a car crash (even without speeding) than you do of dying in an airplane mishap. Are you (or were you ever) a thrill-seeker? Not really. Not out of fear, but just a matter of "what's the point?" Do you visit carnivals or theme parks? I did quite a lot of that when I was younger. Loved roller coasters. But that was more because I was fascinated by the dynamics involved. I always did see the world from an engineering and physics standpoint. What do you do that gets your heart pounding? Climb a flight of stairs. Okay, I'm kidding. I'm in pretty good shape, these days. Have you ever had a brush with death? I've been close to dying at least three times, maybe four. Mostly from illness, though. There might be other times when I nearly died and didn't even know it. Life is inherently uncertain, and I'm not really afraid of death; I'm way more concerned about being maimed or being otherwise unable to function the way I'm used to. There was one time I was swimming in the ocean off the Carolina coast, and I found out the next day someone else had been munched by a shark somewhere close by; I'm not sure that really counts, though. Way more people are killed by cows than by sharks, and I've been around herds of future hamburgers. No, I don't get thrills from taking risks, or even from beating odds. That may sound strange coming from a self-admitted gambler, but I don't gamble for the thrill. What excites me is learning new things. And, of course, feeling superior to the idiots who throw themselves off of cliffs. |
| Today, we are visiting one of the most sacred places on the Big Island - Waipio Valley. The valley was home to many early Hawaiian Kings and chiefs because it was well-protected and the land was extremely fertile for growing native taro plants. Today, the switchback road into the valley is so steep, only the most adept drivers with 4-wheel drive vehicles are able to visit the valley’s base and the pristine beach. Native Hawaiian people still farm the land in the same way they did hundreds of years ago. The cultural roots in this place are profound. Where do your cultural roots run the deepest? Where is your family’s ancestral home? Do you feel most connected to the place you grew up, where you live now, or somewhere else? Short answer: no fucking idea. Long answer: When I was a kid, in rural Virginia, you couldn't kick a clod of dirt without dislodging an arrowhead. I always had this idea that the place had been a Native American village. It was the perfect spot for it: right next to an estuary of the Potomac, also accessible by land. Later, I found out that it was, indeed, a Native center of population. John freaking Smith himself described the place. The tribe that lived there was part of the Powhatan confederacy - you probably heard of them if you know anything about the non-Disneyfied story of Pocahontas - and the Potomac itself is named after them. Descendants of this tribe finally got state, but not federal, recognition recently, and my friends and I donated a good number of artifacts to them. Their ancestral home was my childhood home, which is mine now by inheritance, and I couldn't imagine doing anything but honoring their legacy by gifting them these bits of history. Archaeologists continue to explore the site. Nothing earth-shattering, nothing anyone would have heard of, and I've been pretty careful to keep it off the news. And not much is left; the flat parts have all been farmed since before I was born, and the hilly parts are covered in trees that get timbered every generation or so. There had also been a minor Civil War battle in that location, and in addition to the arrowheads and other artifacts, we found a lot of Civil War relics: buttons, bullets; in one spectacular find, an actual saber in an actual scabbard. That's my only real connection to history. My genetic legacy is anyone's guess, and I'm not interested in doing one of those intrusive DNA tests that probably aren't very accurate, anyway. My light skin and blue eyes betray, as I've noted before, some sort of Northern European ancestry; I don't really care to know more. It makes no difference to who I am now, and I feel no more connection to anywhere in Europe than I do to, say, Nigeria. As for my adoptive legacy, well, that doesn't matter much either, but I'm starting to piece together some things that are probably better off unknown. Again, nothing to do with who I am now. I've mentioned before that I love travel. I've been all around the US, and a few other countries, and there are places that stick with me: the desolation of the Mojave, the cool blue of the Caribbean, the white peaks of the Cascades, England's hill country, the stink of the Niagara River, Maui's Haleakala, the Maya Mountains of Belize with their hints of an ancient civilization. Virginia is my home, be it Tidewater or Piedmont. More than that, though, I'm more interested in what connects us than in what divides us - and what connects us is the ball of mud we all live on. I want to see more of it. |
Looks like it’s my turn to host your final Summer Sprint of June  This week, we’ll be exploring my home island: the Big Island of Hawaii!I’ll be taking you to visit several special places over the next few days, but before we go, there’s one major rule you should know: “Take nothing but photos and leave nothing but footprints.” It is a well-known legend that anyone who removes lava rock from the island will be cursed by the guardian goddess, Pele. All manner of ailments and misfortune has befallen those who’ve taken sacred lava rocks off the island, often so disruptive to their lives that they’ve been led to mail their theft back to the island in an attempt to placate the goddess. In your entry today, write about superstitions, legends, and curses. Are there any legends in your culture that you take to heart? Are you superstitious? Do you believe in Pele’s Curse? New York City is home to well over 8 million people. This sprawling metropolis - the Platonic ideal of "metropolis" - concentrates that many people into just over 300 square miles, or, if you insist, a bit less than 800 km2. That's a lot of people. And the diversity is stunning - it's the world, concentrated. One particular neighborhood in Queens - called Flushing - is dominated by people of Chinese origin. I mean, everyone knows about Chinatown in Manhattan. Entire movies have been made about the place. It's world-famous. But no one seems to know or care about Flushing, the end of the 7 line, a stop on the LIRR, a few square blocks that might as well be Beijing. I mention this because Flushing is one of the cheapest places to stay in NYC. While a hotel room in Manhattan could cost upwards of $200 in the off-season, rates in Flushing are pretty close to what you'd find in, say, Paducah, KY. I know this because I've stayed in Paducah, too. And with its proximity to the NYC subway system, one can be in Manhattan in less than an hour. It's also very close to La Guardia airport and the place where the Mets lose. Anyway, point is, all of the hotels in Flushing are owned by people of Chinese origin, and none of them have a fourth floor. Anyone familiar with Chinese culture will find this unsurprising. As I understand it, the number "four" in Mandarin or Cantonese is very similar to the word "death." I'm no expert in Chinese languages, but this is what I've been told. Consequently, "four" is considered bad luck, so the floors are numbered 1.. 2... 3... 5... like some Monty Python skit. It's tempting to scoff at this cultural oddity, but hold on a minute - New York is also home to world-famous skyscrapers, buildings containing dozens of floors. And most of them, built and owned and maintained by people of European ancestry, skip the 13th floor. So, basically, shut up. The Western superstition surrounding the number 13 is ancient and well-known, though stories of its origin are uncertain. Personally, I think it harks back to the Mesopotamian culture that pretty much kick-started Western civilization. Sumer basically invented civilization, which can be defined as "the art and science of living in cities," and they also had a great influence on how we count. But they positively sucked at fractions, so they used a numbering system that minimized the need for anything that isn't an integer. We still count time in the Sumerian way, with a base-60 division of time. Hours are base-12, while hours themselves are divided into 60 minutes of 60 seconds each. 13 is just out of bounds; it's a prime number with no integer divisors, and it freaked the Sumerians right out. Hell, the fact that we have special names for "11" and "12" is evidence that we aren't as base-10 as we like to think we are. In a world that made sense, those numbers would be like "oneteen" and "twoteen" or some such. Thirteen is the first "teen" number in English, betraying its origin. Not as interesting as the association of a certain number with death, perhaps, but the result is the same: an abiding superstition embedded in the entire cultural zeitgeist. I've gone on about all this because 1) I attended a beer festival earlier, and am still a bit drunk; and 2) it speaks to the very human need for superstition. There are cultural superstitions, and individual ones. For instance, when I gamble, I always wear a Hawaiian shirt. I suppose these days the proper term is Aloha shirt, but mine are actually made in Hawai'i, not Taiwan or Hong Kong. Not that there's anything wrong with that. Point is, if I lose, I switch to a different Hawaiian shirt. It doesn't "work" or "not work;" it's just my thing. There's no logical reason for this, or for most superstitions for that matter. Hell, I live with several cats, including a black one. Her name is Robin, and she's a good kitty. She crosses my path several times a day, and yet, I don't feel especially unlucky. What's important is that we acknowledge and try to be understanding of the superstitions of cultures that are not our own. Not because bad things will happen, but just out of courtesy. So yeah, don't take lava rocks from Hawai'i. That culture has suffered enough, what with all the haole invading their islands, despite all the care they took to avoid pissing off Pele. We can't say we're entirely rational; how can we judge another culture's irrationality? I guess what I'm saying is: Shaka, brah. |
| What is your secret love that most people don’t know about? Don’t reveal anything you wish you really keep secret, and please, don’t say it’s writing. Step out a little here. It can be anything, anything at all. For example, I love the weather, no matter if it’s raining, snowing, windy, hot, cold, whatever, that day. Long story that I won’t explain here, but I love the weather. Halle Berry. Especially in the cat suit. Seriously, though - I think I'm pretty open about my likes and dislikes, especially here. I don't see any reason to keep these things close to my chest; I never bought into the whole "don't show emotion" bullshit. If I don't show emotion, it's because I'm either playing poker, or I'm not feeling emotion. While I prefer it that way, I'm still human, not Vulcan. Pity. Now, if I had a thing for something that was forbidden, then I'd keep it a secret - but in that case, it would stay a secret, even here. Nah, for the most part, I recommend being open about these things. I don't mean you have to be rude about it like I sometimes am ("Budweiser? That's not really beer." "No thanks; eggplant is disgusting.") I should probably tone that shit down when someone's just trying to be nice and offer me something. Sure, some likes are embarrassing, and rightly so, like having a love for "reality" TV or those ugly-ass big-head figures they sell in comics retailers. But if that's you, own it. Don't let me or anyone else pressure you into liking something you don't, or vice-versa. And not everything is binary. I don't like IPAs, in general, but there are occasions that I enjoy drinking particular ones. Like if I'm eating barbecue, especially if it's in a small town in the middle of the desert and it's a ghost pepper IPA. There are some things I neither like nor dislike, but simply accept as a fact of life, like tomatoes. I just can't work up any kind of emotion about tomatoes, either way. They're just... there. Put one on my burger, or not, and I won't give a damn. Everybody has secrets. But for me, my preferences aren't one of them. |
| We write, we’re all writers. What subject would you like to write about, but haven’t yet. Genre? Type of character? Location? What? Tell me why. "Write what you know." This advice is overstated and misinterpreted probably more than any other exhortation to writers. Taken literally, you'd only write about things that you've done or said, or that happened to you. Science fiction would be a vast deserted wasteland. Steampunk would be nonexistent. Fantasy would be incredibly boring. As for murder mysteries... well. We'd all know what you did. Don't listen to this advice. It's relentlessly limiting, like "never end a sentence with a preposition" or "don't start your story with unattributed dialogue." I'd turn it around, personally: "Know what you write." But I've ranted about this before, I think. I'm going to talk today about writing what I know. What I know - what I studied in school, and what I built a career on - was the design of roads, parking lots, drainage systems, water distribution networks, and sanitary sewer lines. There's a lot of fiction out there centered around professions. Law, medicine, police, detective, forensics, politics, journalism... there's even a good bit, mostly in the realm of science fiction, about the sexier branches of engineering: aerospace, for instance. But when it comes to the kind of engineering that you interact with every single day? Nothing. Hell, you don't even think about all the work that's gone into the design of a simple residential road. This is a good thing, from my perspective; that means the engineer has done their job right. You notice only when you have to drive through a puddle because someone misplaced a decimal point in the storm drain calculations, and then you curse us all. Oh, there's a reason for this lack: there's not a lot of innovation involved, nor conflict. No drama. I mean, there is some, and I know this more than most, but it's not the kind of drama you'd watch on TV - unless a dam breaks or a sewer main explodes or some such, the stakes aren't exactly high. So I always thought, well, maybe I'd find a way to raise the stakes. Still not sure how, or I'd have done it already. And it's not like I want to build a writing career on it; I'm too busy learning all kinds of things so that I know what I'm writing about. But I'd like to do it just because it hasn't, as far as I know, been done. |
| You are going on a long trip. I know you’ll take toiletries and clothes. What else has to go with you? Give me a list of 3 things you must take with you and explain why these are necessary. Ah... welcome to my life. Well, not my entire life, obviously. I only go on long trips once or twice a year. I know, I know... "only." So let me describe some of my necessities for such trips. 1. CPAP machine This should be self-explanatory, but, short version, so I don't die. Long version: Like many other people, I suffer from sleep apnea. It was probably a contributing cause for the heart attack I had 5 years ago, along with snow-shoveling and other hard work. (I'm certain that pizza, cigars, booze, pretzels, and a sedentary lifestyle had absolutely nothing to do with it.) So after I recovered - which didn't take long, thanks to modern medicine that I can no longer afford - I did the whole sleep study thing and ended up with a CPAP machine. The improvement happened overnight. Literally. Only real downside is that I can never sleep anywhere that doesn't have an electrical outlet. This is not a problem for me, as I utterly despise camping, and this gives me the perfect excuse to never suffer through another camping trip. Another, more minor, downside is that it relies on a humidifier, and the humidifier requires distilled water. I can bring some with me, but for any extended trip I need to know there's a store somewhere that sells the stuff. Incidentally, I blew a lot of money on a home generator for the specific reason that if there's no power, I can't use the CPAP, and the power has been known to go out here for a week at a time - and I live in a city. Okay, it was also to keep the foundation drain sump pump running and maybe also so the internet stays up, but if anyone asks, it's for medical reasons. I don't know what I'm going to do in Scotland - the outlets are different there, and I can't assume I can just pick up distilled water at the corner store. Nor can I schlep three gallons of the stuff in my luggage. Well, I'll figure something out. 2. Credit cards One of the greatest inventions ever. I don't have to carry wads of cash, with their attendant worry about being searched by the police and having the cash confiscated. Note that I'm not worried about being robbed - just stopped by the cops. Also, always carry a backup, in your shoe if necessary. Cards can be replaced easily - and your liability for purchases you didn't make is limited - but it takes time and you don't want to be stranded in Nebraska without any means of payment. Well, you don't want to be stranded in Nebraska, period. And no, I don't carry a balance on the things. I use cash-back credit cards so it's a net gain for me. But this isn't the entry for financial advice, so I'll just leave it with this note: credit cards are not evil; they're tools that can get you in trouble if you use them wrong, and be an immense benefit otherwise. I have credit cards that work internationally so I don't even have to be too concerned about currency exchange. 3. Laptop I know people who think that a vacation means getting away from the internet. To me, this is bullshit; the internet is awesome, because it lets introverts like me connect with people without actually having to deal with them. And a dumbphone won't cut it - how the fuck do you write anything of any length on a phone? So I lug my gaming laptop wherever I go. It's heavy. I deal. Then the only trick is finding internet connections, which isn't usually a problem domestically. Note to self: look into satellite connectivity whilst abroad. There are other necessities, I suppose, such as medications, and some bags to carry everything in. But those are the three biggies, in no particular order. Oh, and another thing I learned: Always Carry Backups. Batteries, CPAP supplies, the extra credit card I mentioned, your GPS (a map is a sufficient backup for that if you're one of the select few, like me, who know how to freaking use one), etc. A note about maps and GPS: you hear a lot of technophobic shit about GPS devices. They lead you into lakes. They get you turned around. They're unreliable. Bullshit, all of it. People got lost all the time when using paper maps, and anyone who drives into a lake is a goddamned idiot. You can't follow GPS blindly; that can get you into trouble even if you don't end up soaking. They're technological and scientific marvels, yes, but use your freakin' brain, too. |
| Which 'semi-famous' Hollywood star would you like to meet? Why? When I say semi-famous, I don't mean a major film star. I mean someone you've seen in several movies, but never in a starring role. So no Matt Damon's or Sandra Bullock's please. Example: I'd love to meet Michael Pena. I've seen him in a lot of movies, he's a good actor, would be nice to meet him, talk to him and learn how he came into acting. Would also like to know his interests and hobbies. By the way, I have met Michael Flanagan (Director and writer of Oculus), and Katee Sackoff (starred in Oculus, and was Captain Starbuck on the 2004 Sci-Fi version of Battlestar Galactica. Sadly, I didn't really get to talk to them, since I was their server while working in a small micro-brewery. Wait, Katee Sackhoff is into craft beer? Well, now, that elevates her from "kinda want" to "massive crush." Consequently, I'd have to go with Katee Sackhoff. Though she played a villain in The Flash who was over-the-top melodramatic. I mean, the chick in that show was hammier than a Smithfield smokehouse. Okay, but seriously, I don't get the whole wanting to meet celebrities thing. I mean, I guess it kinda worked out for Adam Duritz? Story goes that this song was an ode to actress Monica Potter, and after it was released (20 years ago, gods help us all), Adam (the lead singer, with the dreads) actually managed to hook up with her for a while. Not sure if it's true, because I can't be arsed to follow Hollywood gossip. Only reason I know about it at all is that Adam Duritz is a fucking genius, and this song in particular is brilliant, so one day I decided to track down its genesis. So I throw my hand into the air and it swims in the beams It's just a brief interruption of the swirling dust sparkle jet stream Well, I know I don't know you and you're probably not what you seem But I'd sure like to find out So why don't you climb down off that movie screen Anyway, I don't generally engage in celebrity-worship of any sort. There are people I admire, but sometimes when you meet your heroes, they turn out to have feet of clay, as it were. I'd rather maintain my illusions. And yet, if I bumped into Duritz on the street (or at LAX like my friend Mike did once), I'd have to at least say "thank you." But movie stars? Between all the make-up and acting ability, combined with a minor case of face-blindness that I have, I'm not even sure I could pick one out of a crowd. Nah - stay on that movie screen, and we'll be fine. If dreams are like movies, then memories are films about ghosts You can never escape, you can only move south down the coast |
| https://www.bbc.com/news/health-47440622 Your heart can be damaged after a sad event and it may be your brain's doing, experts believe. Teen angst, vindicated! Dr Jelena Ghadri and colleagues at University Hospital Zurich looked at what was happening in the brains of 15 patients with broken heart syndrome. Brain scans showed up noticeable differences compared with scans from 39 healthy, control patients. There was less communication between brain regions involved with controlling emotions and unconscious or automatic body responses, such as heartbeat. The more I learn, the more I think that the commonly stated dichotomy between mind and body is bogus. It started with my mother. (Cue Sigmund Freud.) Mom was diagnosed with ulcerative colitis before I was born. They treated her for that for decades. And then another doctor looked at her and said, "It's not ulcerative colitis; it's Krohn's Disease." As I understand it, they present with similar symptoms, but the treatment is different. But it was too late for her; she'd been damaged. Why is this relevant? Because it also affected her mind. Maybe it was the stress of living with a difficult condition, or maybe it was the treatments, or perhaps a combination, but as she grew older, she just wasn't right in the head. Eventually, this led to dementia and her ultimate death. Now, today, I just read that scientists are investigating a possible connection between streptococcus infections and certain types of mental illness. And then, of course, there's this. And yet, people continue to treat mind as something separate from the physical. I know it certainly seems that way sometimes, but to me, what goes on in one's brain is undoubtedly influenced by what's going on in the body. The reverse is more clearly true, but it's rather obvious that chemical and electrical processes can influence one's thoughts just as surely as they can damage organs or make changes in one's body - adrenaline prodding muscles into action, for example. Anyway, back to the actual article I linked. Dr Ghadri said: "Emotions are processed in the brain so it is conceivable that the disease originates in the brain with top-down influences on the heart." The idea of the heart as the seat of the emotions is ubiquitous in our culture. It predates the advent of modern medicine. There's some poetry in that - every cliché starts is life as profound poetry - but it's clear that, from a purely medical standpoint, it's all in one's head. And yet, according to this study at least, there's a connection there; everything in the body is interconnected. I'm far from an expert at medical matters, and even farther from an expert at issues of emotion. So, really, I don't know how to interpret all of this. It's just something to think about - if you can stomach it. Consequently, I'll just post the literal video version of Total Eclipse of the Heart. |
| In this scenario, money is no object, so you can buy anything you want. Only thing is, you can’t buy this for yourself. What will you buy, and who will you buy it for? Be creative here! As important as money is, there are still some things it can't buy. Love, for instance - though you can purchase or rent a reasonable facsimile thereof. You can also buy beer, and that's close enough for me. Another thing that money can't buy is creativity. You can tell me "be creative" all day, and even pay me money to try, but no matter what, I'm not going to be creative. It's just not in me. So, being stuck in the mundanity of materialism, it will come down to a choice between stuff or experience. I've seen reports that experience sticks with a person far more closely than stuff does. So, even with all the stuff available for sale, I'm not sure that I'd want to buy anyone stuff. Worse, I can count the number of people I'd bother buying anything for on the fingers of one foot. Everyone I know falls into one of three categories: 1) has everything they need and can get anything they want; 2) doesn't accept gifts from the likes of me; 3) I don't know well enough to do anything for. I mean, sure, I get stuff for some friends for their birthdays or the winter solstice holiday, but expensive shit is right out. So, pick a close friend, find out where they most want to go in the world, and send 'em there for a few weeks, all expenses paid. That is, if money is indeed no object. It's always an object, though. |
| https://www.atlasobscura.com/articles/cross-continental-origins-of-beer-yeast Beer: Bringing the World Together. The researchers found that Saccharomyces cerevisiae, the species of yeast that has been used to brew certain beers for thousands of years, is in fact a mixture of yeast strains found in both European grape wines and Asian rice wines. And so, they write, there would be no ales or lagers if not for the cultural exchange of fermentation technologies between Asia and Europe, possibly on the Silk Road. There exists a sake brewery  here in my hometown now. I've been all over the country, and this is the first one I've ever seen. Naturally, I paid it a visit.Sake is known as "rice wine" here in the English-speaking part of the world, but something about that never sat right with me. It's a fermented beverage, yes, like beer, wine, cider and mead. But the definition of beer is basically a fermented beverage made from grain, while wine is a fermented beverage made from fruit. Thus, cider is actually a wine... and sake could be considered a beer. Mead, being made from honey, which in turn is processed by sting bugs from flower pollen, is in a class by itself. My trip to the sake brewery shed a bit of light on this terminology glitch. Wine tends to have a higher ABV (alcohol by volume, which measures the relative amount of ethanol in the elixir) than beer. The ABV of sake also tends to be on the high side, while the ABV of cider tends to be closer to that of beer. It appears that this is the source of the terminological confusion. So, what controls ABV? Well, mostly, it's the yeast. As I understand the process, ethanol is produced by yeast when it processes sugar. In wine, that sugar is already in the fruit; for beer, a preliminary process converts the starch in the grain into sugar. Thus, anything with sugar or starch in it can conceivably become the source for delicious nectar - but some will be better than others. Barley is the go-to grain for beer; obviously, most wine is made with grapes. Some beers have other grains added. Some wines have other fruits added (I once had a pineapple wine on Maui, and it was delicious). As the yeast performs its magic, eventually enough alcohol is produced that the yeast actually finds it toxic, and fermentation stops. It is also possible to halt fermentation at a desired alcohol level; this is done, for example, when local laws prohibit anything above a certain ABV. It is also possible to do things later to increase the concentration of the alcohol; taken to an extreme, you get distilled beverages such as whiskey or vodka. An early stage of bourbon production, for example, is called "beer." This is not a particularly drinkable beer, and has not had hops introduced, but it's the fermentation product that will later be distilled into amber deliciousness. So, basically, yeast eat sugar and pee alcohol, and when the pee builds up enough, the yeast starts to die off. For the vast majority of the history of fermented beverages, people didn't know what yeast really was. It took microscopes to figure that out, and those weren't invented until the 17th century. By comparison, fermented beverages have been around for at least 10,000 years. So... SCIENCE! Thus, different strains of yeast can be isolated now, and some of them have a higher tolerance for ethanol than others. The researchers sequenced the genomes of these strains—two ale, one lager, and one that contained both beer and baking strains—and compared them to a panel of every publicly available yeast genome from around the world, plus those from additional strains in their lab. You're doing the holy work, scientists. Keep it up. I should add, because the linked article doesn't really go into it, that there are basically two varieties of beer: ale and lager. The difference? The kind of yeast used. Each has its own preferred temperature. Ale lagers, as I understand it, are more tolerant of a higher alcohol content; therefore, ales tend to have a higher ABV than lagers. (Ale and lager each have many subcategories, of course, but those are the two parents of the family tree, as it were.) So now I'm wondering what happens if you use a wine yeast for beer or vice versa. Can't be arsed to look it up right now, but I'm sure someone's looked into it. After all, it's a topic worthy of much study and contemplation, preferably after tipping back a few. |
| https://www.artofmanliness.com/articles/sunday-firesides-the-power-of-liminal-sp... The summer travel season is upon us, and many people are looking forward to spending time in desired destinations. Yet there’s also something special, but easily missed, in the process of getting there — the flights, the road trips, even the layovers at airports. Look, I get the point of the article. I even agree with it, mostly. But the only saving grace of layovers at airports is the booze. The article at the link above is in line with what I said a few days ago: that there is no destination; there is only journey. Ralph Waldo Emerson said that we find “enlarged powers” and “poetic creativeness” not “in staying at home nor yet in traveling, but in transitions from one to the other.” He called these experiences croisements – crossings. Only pretentious people resort to French. But I'll give RWE a pass on that; he has the right to be pretentious. I like to refer to them as liminal spaces. Only even more pretentious people use the word "liminal." But I especially love a long road trip. I love feeling that no one knows exactly where I am. That I’ve slipped the structures of my ordinary life. This part, now - it resonates with me. I don't have much to escape from, but I sure do like to escape to. Only quibble is what with GPS and license-plate readers, They know exactly where you are. Well, whether you agree with these authors about airports or not, I think that cultivating the right attitude helps with travel stress - yours and everyone else's. The right attitude can change from person to person, but it involves accepting where you are and what you're doing, even if it's sitting there waiting for them to call steerage class passengers to board an airplane. Even if they charge $20 for a goddamn martini. |
| What's the worst part of cleaning up after a big outdoor barbecue? The annoying sound of crickets when I look for someone to help me do so. You know, crickets? Because all my "friends" are gone and my voice is echoing in the vast empty nothingness, but crickets don't echo; they just chirp annoyingly. I already said "annoying," I know, but that's to underscore my point. Anyway, I don't like to clean. I mean, I don't think many people do, but they do it anyway because they feel shamed into doing so. Not me. I'm shameless. I do have to make sure there's no food or scraps lying around outside, because then I get trash pandas. But I get trash pandas anyway. One evening, I was out on my deck playing a game on my laptop (I don't mind being outdoors so much at night, provided it's warm enough) when I stepped inside to relieve myself. I mean, sure, I thought about just going off the deck, but even I have my limits. Anyway, in the 30 seconds or so that I was gone, raccoons happened. I came back from the bathroom to find that a trash panda had pulled the screen door open, slunk inside, and commenced scarfing down my cats' dry food. I looked at the raccoon. He looked at me. He laughed. No, really, I swear, he just fucking laughed at me. Then he took another big bite of kibble and darted out the door. One of these days I'm going to fix the latch on that door. Not that doing so would stop a raccoon. (not mine but it conveys the idea) |
| The barbecue is almost over! How do you entice your guests to leave without basically kicking them out? So many possibilities.  Pay the cops to drive over with sirens on. They'll scatter like roaches. Threaten to strip naked, whilst being drunk enough to make it a credible threat. Run out of beer - though this is a bit of a Pyrrhic victory, as it will leave me with no beer. Maybe hide a reserve stash first. Start telling my repertoire of "dead baby" jokes and "guy with no arms or legs" jokes. Instigate a political and/or religious argument. Suggest we play Monopoly. Ask for help with the cleanup. Blast Justin Bieber on sound system. On second thought, this may violate the Geneva Convention. |
| A good barbecue always has some great music...make a five- to ten-song playlist of some perfect summer tunes to play for your party. And/Or, if you could pick any one band/artist to play in your backyard, who would it be? You probably don't want me picking the barbecue music. I've noticed that for most people, happy, upbeat music makes them smile, while sad songs make them depressed. For me, sad songs make me smile, while happy music makes me stabby. My ex-wife used to give me shit about this. Happy songs also seem to me to be very simple, while I appreciate the complexity of more thoughtful music. I'm also very lyrics-focused. It surprised me when I found out that some people don't even listen to lyrics. To me, they're the point of the song. Songs without meaningful lyrics - no, they don't have to be deep, just something other than nonsense - just don't register for me. Having very little musical talent myself, I don't always pick up on the melodic nuances in a song. Usually, I can tell if it's in a major or minor key, and the genre of the music, and sometimes I can even tell what instruments are playing. But words? Words are kind of my thing. I spent one summer analyzing the lyrics to American Pie, for example, and I think I've even figured them out. So for a cookout, I'd probably pick songs about the end of summer, or about being just about anywhere else. I noticed one day while on a road trip that I have a disproportionate number of songs about travel on my playlist. I didn't plan this; it's just that many of my favorite songs involve being or going somewhere. This will probably put a damper on everyone else's good time, so maybe let someone else pick the songs. Most people seem to think it should simply be background noise, while I actually care about the tunes themselves. Meanwhile, let me give you an example of the kind of thing I'd play, and you can decide for yourself. As an aside, I had a... moment... today. As I've mentioned before, I've managed to go to the gym every day (save for a week when I was out of town) for several months, now. Mostly, it's a chore, but I do it because I started to feel some improvement, and it's supposed to be good for me. But that doesn't mean I like it. Far from it. It's an exercise (pun intended) in trying to do unsatisfying things that might lead to a better life for me. Today, though... I leveled up. That is, I was able to notch up the weights on the machines. This made me feel pretty good about things. But then the gym's music system cued up Stevie Nicks' Edge of Seventeen. I don't know if it was her voice (I've always wanted a windup Stevie Nicks to sing me to sleep every night), or the relentless 16th note guitar, or the familiarity of it, but it made me feel... strange. I thought about what emotion I was feeling, running through my usual repertoire: depressed, sad, guilty, schadenfreude, irritated, frustrated, blank, anxious, weary, etc. None of them fit. And then it hit me: this was a feeling I usually only get after a couple of beers, but I haven't had anything with ethanol to drink for a week. Happy. I was fucking happy - if only for a few moments. Later today, I have a doctor appointment scheduled. That should fix that. |
| What are some of the outdoor games/activities that'll be happening at your summer barbecue? Lawn Darts. It helps to weed out the slow and/or unlucky, thus improving the gene pool. While I don't do barbecues these days, I do attend events at breweries. Many of these events are essentially great big outdoor [shudder] barbecues. There are two games that always show up at these beer festivals: Giant Jenga and Cornhole. Giant Jenga is just like Jenga, only they use 2x4s. I've never played it (or the miniature version), but it looks like a fun thing to do when you've been drinking. The "getting out of the way of the collapsing tower" part is my favorite bit to watch. Cornhole, the game that awakens my inner Beavis, is basically just an inclined slab of plywood with a hole in it. You're supposed to chuck a beanbag through the hole, or something. It's like horseshoes, only you don't get the evolutionary benefits as with lawn darts. I think the beanbag is actually a cornbag, hence the name - though why someone thought "cornhole" was less juvenile than "beanhole," I'll never know. Me, I'd rather find a place to set up my gaming laptop, or find a group to play D&D with. Provided, of course, we can go inside or at least find some shade. |
| This week's theme is simple...you're having a backyard barbecue. For Monday's entry, what meats, side dishes, and beverages are you serving? Do you have a go-to dish you like to prepare? I used to do the backyard-barbecue thing. Well, technically, it's a back deck barbecue thing; my backyard is 90% poison ivy and 10% snakes in the weeds. Yard work is, well, work, which I'm just as allergic to as I am to poison ivy. Plus, it's... outdoors [shudder]. But now, as a single man who's working on weight loss, my grill sits covered and neglected. At this point, there's probably spiders under there somewhere. I don't mind spiders, but I also don't want to put my hand into a web of the little fuckers. It's not worth it to mess with the grill for a mere 2-3 ounces of food; I could grill a bunch and stick the bulk in the fridge for later, but what's the point? Reheated grill food is crap. Let's make one thing clear, though: when I did barbecue, it was definitely meat. Not zucchini. I hate zucchini. Well, that's not fair; I'll eat zucchini if it's properly prepared; at least I consider it food, unlike eggplant. Eggplant (that's aubergine for you folks across the pond) isn't actually food. It has a nice purple color, though. Apparently, it's a popular emoji. I don't understand why. I don't speak emoji. You know what's really good grilled, though? Asparagus. If you like asparagus. I used to have a special pan to hold it on the grill. Anyway, meat. Before you go, "Well, no wonder you're trying to lose weight," understand that the problem with meat isn't the meat; it's the fat. I only ever liked lean meats. Plus bacon, and you have to basically do yoga to cook bacon properly on a grill, because the process is so convoluted. So for grilling, I was always an old-school purist. Steak - preferably filet mignon (I have expensive tastes, in case you haven't noticed) - or chicken, minimally marinated, in small quantities. I've done burgers too, of course, but those little bastards like to fall through the grill slats; they're a pain in the ass. For the side, well, corn of course (that's maize for you Brits - this language barrier is a pain in the arse, too). As for drinks, well, beer, of course. And not the horse piss they sell by the case at convenience stores, either. I'd go to one of our many local breweries or taphouses and fill a growler or five with whatever interesting brew they have available. Or, well, wine will do, also. Really, teetotalers, gluten-freeks, and people with veganism or other eating disorders might not appreciate my barbecues. |
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