The birth of a sandwich

A long time ago, 80 years to be exact, there was a hot dog vendor.  He sold hot dogs in the streets of Philadelphia.  One morning before leaving for work, he decided to pack himself a piece of steak for lunch.  He planned on cooking the steak on his hot dog grill.  That afternoon during the lunch rush, one of the customers saw the steak on the side of the grill.  He said, “I’d like that steak, please.”  The hot dog vendor said, “Oh, I’m sorry.  The steak is not for sale.  I was going to eat it for my own lunch.”  To which the customer replied, “Well, I want that steak, or I won’t even buy a hotdog!”  The vendor thought about this for a minute and finally agreed to sell the man the piece of steak.  So, he cooked the steak on the grill.  When it was cooked, he chopped the steak up into small bits and put them into a hot dog bun.  This was the world’s first Philadelphia Cheesesteak!  (The cheese came later, of course).  That hot dog vendor’s name was Pat.  Pat brought a steak with him the next day, and the same thing happened!  A new customer demanded the steak!  So, once again, Pat cooked the steak on his hot dog grill, chopped it up, and put it in a hot dog bun.  The next day, Pat brought two pieces of steak and they both sold!  Pretty soon, Pat became known for his special steaks!  The lines in front of his hot dog cart became longer and longer.  Pat quickly realized he had found something BIG.  With enough money saved, he opened up his store, ‘Pat’s KING of Steaks’.  Business was booming!  What started as a small hot dog stand became a business that gave the city of Philadelphia a signature sandwich.

"Legends..." reflection, 1/13/10

I just watched Legends of the Fall,
and I associate with the character of Tristin.
I, too, feel a wild bear or beast burning inside me.
He had unquenched issues that he quietly carried everywhere.
But deep down, there was a wild madness that,
despite his desire to love Susanna,
forced him to retreat.
Not her fault he had a bear's voice in his head.
He had to go away and deal with his anger, fear, passion,
and urge to live so much he could taste Death plainly.
And after he quieted this voice,
he was able to return.
But she had moved on.  On paper.
She still loved him.
"He was a rock that everyone broke themselves against."
Except for Isabel Two.
Somehow, she could see into his soul,
and his soul did not run with the bear's voice when she did.
She was quiet, peaceful, natural, and deep.  Beautiful.
I almost cried when...
-well actually multiple times (hey- it's a great movie!)-

I know that feeling and far off look Tristin has in the 'hot tub' with Susanna.
I don't don't care for politics and much of the concerns outside my 'ranch'.
He asks, "Am I and the people around me damned?"
Does he ever find peace?

Finding Eden, intro

He stands below moss covered roots, rising up from the ground, some as big as cars.  Looking up the hill of the forest, he is silent.  Still.  Hunting.
The peyote had caused him to vomit for an hour or so, but he viewed the sickness as an expungance of innocence and ignorance.  The end of a life provided by, the beginning of a life provided for.  Colors enriched, sounds acute.  He would become an animal here.

Finding Eden, excerpt

I’d like to track down an animal.  A boar.  I’d like to study it in the wild while I eat nuts, fruits, and fish.  Shitting liquid, swatting bugs, staring at the moon like it was a blazing sun in my sleep-deprived, hunger-driven eyes.  My tanned skin has hardened into scales over sinew muscles.  I’d like to lash a knife to the end of a long stick.  It’s a stick that’s actually already saved my life.  Not because I had needed it to defend myself or to hunt in the past.  No, this stick was the only stick I’ve found straight enough to be strong.  There’s no use in curved and crooked sticks except for firewood.  With hope and resources at an all-time low, it was upon finding this stick that I am revived.  I don’t know that there is, in fact, a boar in the forest nearby, but I’ve seen dung larger than deer's  and occasionally heard rustling in the bush loud enough to be bigger than any squirrels at play.  I am hungry.  I am thirsty.  And most of all, I am scared.  Yet my body has taken on a twitch and strength I have never known.  I’d like to be able to find a spot in which I could overlook my scene and watch for the boar.  It eats plants over here and drinks at that pool in the afternoon.  I’ve tried sneaking up behind it but it can either hear or smell me, or both.  I can’t get within 30 yards of my prey.  Much too far away to throw a javelin.  I would look at my makeshift spear and snap it over my knee.  Fuck you, stick! What good can you bring?!  Now, holding the knife alone, I can feel it’s murderous power.  If I could make the animal come to me, I might be able to…

I’d like to set up walls somehow in the forest, to lure the boar down a specific path.  What would I make them out of?  No, that would be too much work.  No, let me collect a bounty of the things the boar likes to eat and pile them under a tree that is easy to climb.  What of my human smell though?  I would cover myself in mud.  Like Schwarzenneger in Predator, I would think with a humored raise of an eyebrow and wild fold of an eyelid.  I would sit on the branch above the pile and wait.

I think my muscles would get so stiff!  I would be drifting in and out of sleep after waiting for hours.  I am the most excited and the most terrified I’ve ever been at the same time.  Boars are not small or gentle animals.  If I jumped on it’s back, my thrust would need to be unwavering and pinpoint.  What if it stood at an angle that would be difficult for me to fall on?  What if I needed to shift my body before I jumped and the sound of my shifting caused the animal to run?  What if I bury my knife into its neck bone and the animal does not die?  Would I try to contain the wounded beast and most likely get a hoof or tusk embedded somewhere into my own body?  Maybe I’d just try to track the blood droplets until I came upon a heaving boar, lying on its side, ready to die.  I would pull the knife out of it’s neck and it would scream and writhe in its own blood.  I am scared to stab it again, lest it gain energy and go off running again.  Its eyes are rolling and both drool and blood are spilling from the mouth.  I conclude that a hunter does not allow its prey to bleed out in front of him.  Where should I make the kill shot?  Through its eye socket?  I wince at the thought.  Should I try to jam the knife through its skull?  Is that even possible?  Maybe I could try to widen the neck wound or even slit its throat?  No, I felt how thick a boars skin and fur are on my first kill attempt, and it doesn’t seem like slicing would be an effective method.  I think back to my Cutco knives and wonder how their patented ‘Double-D’ edge would fair against boar’s fur…  You know what would be good is some spiked brass knuckles!  I look down at my hunting knife and wish it also had knuckles and spikes.  No such luck.  The ear!  That’s it!  I wince again and swallow down the bile of what would may have been a reflexive vomit.  I stand over the animal, near dead already anyway.  My right hand is covered in sweat, blood, and boar’s drool, but the tendons popping from under my skin tell me that my grip on the knife has never been tighter.  Do it.  CRUSH. The animal’s spine arches and contorts.  I twist the knife inside its ear and skull.  It grinds like the clatter of an unsolved Rubik’s Cube and the animal haggles out its last wet breath.  I vomit before I can look away.

Skinning the boar takes hours.  It does not come off in one long sheet as I had hoped.  Maybe more seasoned hunters are able to make this a seamless process, but for me, it is agonizing.  The animal looks disgusting, and only my hunger keeps me from hating it.  “Swine”.  It sounds like a curse word in my head. 

It is sundown.  I’d like to have a controlled fire and even have a makeshift spit over it.  The animal has been prepared, but I’m constantly swatting flies away from it.  I swat more out of a sense of pride than of food safety.  Fuck- there’s no way my little spit will be strong enough to hold this entire animal.  I am starving.  My stomach had wretched out any and all traces of food during the skinning process, and it ceased to feel twisted; Now, it burned with its own acid eating away at my malnourished and ill-equipped body armor.  I grip the flesh of one of the boars thighs and saw off the entire leg.  I am angry and defiant, weak and crazed.  Dropping the leg on top of its own body’s carcass, I find half of my straight stick and carve one end into a long thin point.  The animal is well past dead, but I jam the spear through the leg like I had to kill it all over again.  Right into the fire.  I stand with my arm outstretched because my face burns from the heat.  My hand is burning too.  I need to find a better way to keep this over the flame.  Two rocks are perfect.  Leaning the spear against one rock, the meat hangs just above the flames and I am able to sit another rock on the bottom to keep everything in place.  The meat sizzles and pops.  It sweats a thousand times more indulging than a Boston Market rotisserie and propels me into a maniacal dance around the fire.  Maybe it’s in celebration?  Maybe it’s to ward off any predators that may come and try to steal my cooking feast?  Maybe I’ve actually gone mad?  How long do I dance? 

I pull the stick out from the two stones and nearly drop it into the fire, burning my hand even on the bottom of it.  Two massive leaves wrapped around the pole like ‘hot hands’ hanging on a kitchen hook.  I dip the handle end of the stick into the shallow water to cool it, but the meat is still smoking and sizzling.  My brain does not register that this means it is too hot for me to consume and I inhale as deep as I can, “BOAR S’MORES, BITCH!” and dive into the meat.  My mouth scalds and the meat does not tear easily.  I scream but won’t let go.  My lips liquefy into molten flesh-goo.  A slab tears off and touches my cheek bringing tears.  I swallow after half a bite and my throat seems to seal up behind the lava I’ve forced down it.  I think this would be the only sensation that keeps my mind from believing it can regurgitate the meat.  A primal roar comes out of my chest, through my burned esophagus, and out of my upturned and open mouth, reaching the moon itself.  The forest quivers.  The animals hide.  The waters recede and the wind moves in my direction.  I am Man.

Capricorn

Christmas dinner farts smell like Halloween Jack-o-lantern guts.

New Year’s day baby hangovers stampede our septum like a Christmas morning baby savior. Sometimes tears.

Birthday bitter reminders eeked out like New Years Eve’s hollow reasons.

Valentine’s Day ephemeral arrows infect like the snow cloud that a Capricorn rides until February sleet gives way to cold spring rain.

Sangria 3-step

Sangria with a 3-step beat

Spilt on a wooden table that has no finish.

Their heels clack and toes whisk up dresses,

Who would even notice the wine?

Light is a stained glass window at this hour anyway.

Black hair,

She is a blood orange flower,

He is a wasp insistent on tasting her nectar.

Hold me, you devil.

Who do you think you are, now spin!!

5 little picks at the end of each guitarists fingers,

strum, stream, and blur.

Eyes and ears from the young, old, and the less-able feast.

Spin her again! Once more for me!

And her petals flash as entrancing as an octopus’s tentacles,

as menacing as a peacock’s full spread.

The masterful guitarist’s sweet soul pouring over the bar

Plays the solos of her legs, his hips, the chorus of their eyes.

Their fiery dance plucks each string.

Let no one be fooled,

The pushing wasp is not in control here.

This bar,

This spilled wine,

This evening’s remaining sunlight is for her.

And she blooms in it.

The young girls put her between two pages of a book,

The young boys bashfully struggle to understand and master such a beauty.

A familiar chord progression nods,

a look and a touch for him to have his final attempt.

Ba-chacha, ba-chacha, ba-chacha.

Sun spots burst and dress frills flurry with each departing spin,

he glides and dips behind her,

darting to see if she will dizzy.

The wasp has smelled a summer flower and,

For a dance,

wishes he was the golden bee.

One beat, two beat, three! Cha!

Middle-school mishchief: End-of-the-day toilet prank

One of my best friends in 6^th grade was a kid named John Schaller. We had a blast together. One of our favorite stunts was to leave for the bathroom right before the final bell would ring. We would go into the bathroom and crumple up 3 balls of toilet paper before running them under the faucet. Also, we would fill up a small cup of water, and one of us would bring the tp balls and cup of water into a stall. As soon as the final bell rang, there was a rush to use the bathroom before heading to the busses. Once someone walked in, the prank began..

“Hnnnnhhhh!-Errrr”

“John, are you ok in there?”

“I don’t know- hrrrnnnhhhh!- Plop!” John would be making grunts and groans in the stall followed by dropping in the smallest of the wet TP balls. This would, of course, draw smiles and curious and/or disbelieving looks from whoever was at the urinal or sink at the time.

“Hrrrnnnhhh!!!! PLOP!” The second ball making a bigger sound.

“My friend has been in there for about 20 minutes. We think it might have been the chicken nuggets today. How you doing, buddy?”

“Last one, I think. Hrrrnnnh!! Ugh- it’s a big one! HRRRNNNHHH!”

At this, the prankster inside the stall would throw the final ball into the toilet, creating a loud splash and simultaneously throw the cup of water over the stall door, hopefully hitting our target victim! Good times :)