Happy Tryptophan Hangover Day!
(aka the day after thanksgiving)

From a the brine/flavor injector recipe I just sent My Old Friend:
"Shoot that bad boy like a gangsta -- twice in chest, once in each leg."


Let us now pray for St. Tom (Turkey). He died for our sinfully delicious dinner.


Actually I did say a little prayer before I put him in the oven. After two years of accidental turkey jerky, we finally got a decent bird. Amen!

The recipe, for those who care:

14 1b turkey

Flavor injection
1/2 c olive oil
1/2 T pepper
1/2 t cayenne
2 T dried oregano
1 T garlic powder
1 T sage

Optional:Grind dry ingredients in spice mill before
adding to oil. Combine, stir until salt dissolves. Let
sit while turkey brines (at least 4 hours).

Brine
2 G lukewarm water
2 c kosher salt (maybe less?)
1/2 c sugar
1 T garlic powder

Mix in pot until salt dissolves. Should taste like
Pacific Ocean waves. Yah, not a common measure but if
you know, you know. Not aggressively salty.

Rinse bird, place in plastic garbage bag (I know,
getting all ghetto up in here), pour brine, twist bag
closed, then put THAT bag in another bag, fill with
ice, twist closed. Place in cooler for four hours.

After remove bird, pat dry, shove a halved lemon and
some celery tops in his cavity, load up injector w/
the top layer of flavor-infused oil which by now has
seperated from spices (avoid getting spices in
injector, as they'll clog the needle.) Shoot that bad
boy like a gangsta -- twice in chest, once in each
leg. The oil will ooze out in a pleasingly disgusting
way. Use that ooze oil to baste the turkey. Baste with
more flavored oil if desired. Put on roasting rack/pan,
and pour broth or just water in said pan to catch
the drippings which will eventually become your gravy
base.

~4 hours @ 325 till breast is 180
10 minutes on broil to crisp skin
Remove from oven and for the LOVE OF GOD, DAD! let it
sit for another hour before serving.

* * *
So that's the basics. You really could do one or the
other-- brine or inject 4 hours ahead-- but I was
trying to cover my ass so I did both. And you could
feasibly go to town on the injection with a more
daring spice mix, but I'd leave the brine pretty
simple.

Other alternate titles:
Old
Dated
Awkward
Silly
Catchy*
525600 minutes (Movie's Runtime)

From the moment earnest-documentarian-guy-who's-name-I-can't-even-recall started singing on his bike, my friends and I just exchanged knowing looks and burst out laughing. Oh, I feel sorry for the obvious Rentheads seated before us, who smiled in anticipation as the first notes of "Seasons" were sung. And worse yet, in the last reel, when my friend blurted out "I figure one more person dies and this movie's done."

Yes, asshole factor 5 on her part. But crimmeny. What a missed opportunity. The only movie ever to tell you what to do instead of dropping $10 for a ticket: RENT.

F#CK (ooh, another alternate title), everything was so off about this movie. Who to blame? I applaud getting the original actors instead of the latest flavors from the"Now: That's What I Call Crap" CD collection, but they seem so very long in the tooth. And I even know people who live the bohemian lifestyle, for whatever that means, that are well past their 20's and this still seems wrong. And the performance art scene. GOD. I've been to painful performance art protests, and this was an even more masochistic exercise. Seriously. Filmboy should thank his fricking lucky stars to be rid of Maureen.

And the dancing at Bucca De Beppo (sorry, I'm no New Yorker, I don't know of Life Cafe)... did they name check Sondheim in the list? Blasphemy. The music in Rent is adult-contemporary "rock" at it's finest, and the lyrics are equally as predictable and cliche.

Maybe it'd resonate more on stage, with all the dialogue sung ala (sorry here it comes) Le Miz. Why is it that post 50's, film musicals seem to work better if they have some device that contextualizes the singing? Taking place in a performance setting, ala Caberet, or a dream sequence ala the reworked Chicago.

And speaking of gritty cities, again, I'm not a New Yorker, but nothing about this film's NY felt either stunningly stylized, or grittly(?) authentic. Actually, nothing about this film looked good. Who the hell was the cinematographer? He shoulda been canned for the Bonnie Tyler/Bon Jovi music video segment from Santa Fe ALONE. Lord. Much as I bitch about Baz Luhrman's "theatrical cinema"-- seriously, take two dramamine before each screening-- at least his Moulin Rogue has a clear, cohesive visual style. Oh composition, where art thou?

Sigh. That said, MAN, did we have fun tearing that movie apart over dinner. And yes, I think I might get used copy of the Broadway soundtrack for my friend's holiday present**-- the one who heckled the film-- but genuinely liked the songs. She's weird that way.

**Yah, with all the leftover holiday ducats I got chinging in my purse.

Cuz I'm broke.

The shirt's coming to cafepress, look for it.

*Fricking "Seasons of Love". We were singing it to each other in the parking lot, mockingly, but damned if it's not stuck in my head to this day.

One of the conversational detours from this wkd.

Some of you might recall a couple years ago when scientists where successfully "growing" human transplant parts on animals. A mouse with human ear popping out of it's back, yadda. So, why the hell can't they grow chickens with nuggets on them? So this isn't even cross-creature experimentation-- this is what? A chicken with huge warts? Tasty, tasty warts? Just mutant growths that farmers shave off? Like wool to sheep, so nuggets to genetically engineered chickens.

Come on. It could happen. No chickens killed! Just... harvested!


(Actually I think I read on boingboing.net that they'd taken the animal out of the equation and started cloning and growing chicken meat. In a pietry dish. Kinda eww, ne?)

Recently, I was illogically happy to find a non-starbucky cafe in downtown Sac w/ free wi-fi, free jazz, and fre-aks behind the counter. Okay, couple of dudes w/ gauged out ears and a goth girl. Felt like a little bit of the Bay Area in my new/old hometown.

Seemingly "deviant" dresscode aside, seriously, I live in Mall-landia, so finding any independent buisness w/ actual customer service is a rarity. And tell me when's the last time you dragged your tired ass into a chain java house and they took the time to suggest what you might need? My involuntary yawning at the counter yielded a helpful recommendation: "Citrus infused oolong? Aromatic, not too much caffeine?"

I know, I'm tripping on a bag of tea, but swear to god I got better attention to my well-being there than the last time I saw my doctor. "Wham bam thank you ma'am! Another patient out in less than 10 minutes!" Fricking jiffy lube approach to healthcare. I know I've used that carshop analogy earlier, but it still works, people.


Wow, my brain was at 50% when I first wrote this

What's up, G?

Aw very sweet! Musta found me thru Friendster via M. Teresa. Good people, them.

(Well, this beats the usual spam subject line mish-mash of breast+hot+health+viagra...)

Aloha, sailor!


This is part of an art test I did recently for a potential client. I feel like I'm jinxing myself by posting this at all, but enough of my superstitions*. That's supposed to be a "caricature" of me in the clients "tiki/luau-kitcsh" style. YES, I'm blessed myself with better boobage. Quiet, you!


'Ways, I hope they dig it, but who knows. I'm approaching The Hustle like dating. Try your best to be what you want them to be w/o compromising yourself, don't get your hopes up. If it happens, cool, if it doesn't, that ain't your fault, you just weren't what they were looking for.

Ways, I'm very job-non-commital now. I'm doing small gigs all over town, not particularly enamored w/ any specific one. I'm an art "whooaah."

Huh. There's gotta be a better relationship-analogous name for my current attitude. Perhaps it can be found here:
New Monogamy.

Ok that has nothing to do w/ my work sitch, I just found the article amusing.


*UPDATE: I didn't get the gig, and I know exactly why. Hahah, I'm an idiot.

Recently I was accused of allegedly stealing art... from myself. I watermark my work on a certain online gallery site w/ the url to my primary, porfolio site. So suddenly the PowersThatBe from the former banned me. Self plagiarism! Very funny! Very Fogerty!

Except that I really can't send potential clients to a site that exclaims that that I'm "banned". So needless to say I can't WAIT for them to resolve this already. I understand they are protecting their a$$es as well as mine... from myself.

Konono No1


What started out as a sitdown, indoor "jazz" (riiiight...) concert turned into a dance marathon...to the DEATH!

You know it's bad sign when someone approaches the festival director asking when the show's gonna end... and he SHURGS.

Thank god we brought water.

Ahinama! Guess who's drumming again!