February 1, 2012: It's a week later, and I'm still coughing like a smoker. People say that at this point I should get some antibiotics, but I'm not going to let their negative vibrations influence the coalescence of my mind-body healing process, no matter how much it pains them. (Frankly, I'll hack myself dead before I kowtow to the insanity of their short-sighted aleopathic healing, especially without insurance!)
Still, as you can plainly see, I carry on -- through thick and thin, through hack and tickle, through green phlegm and yellow ...
This episode -- perhaps in celebration of Groundhog's Day, and perhaps not -- I thought you might enjoy hearing the abbreviated responses to some of the more pressing questions being importunately posed by you -- the loyal Blah-ugh! reader and often inebriated fan. Writing the Blah-ugh! has given me something akin to celebrity status -- (of course, authoring that dynamic new humorous e-novel SPACE CASE, which is available at Amazon and Barnes & Noble, has also helped spread my juices, especially in the Bible Belt). People are constantly asking me questions -- some related to past Blah-ugh! entries, some related to my beliefs and dislikes, still others referencing the size and description of my genitalia in relation to my first name, (which as you all know from a previous Blah-ugh! entry (http://jarretliotta.blogspot.com/2011/07/name-game.html) translates to mean "Ye who wields an enormous spear of justice").
I thought I'd address a few, contingent on my precarious ability to keep sitting upright in my chair. For starters, someone asked why, in my recent list of my Top 40 Favorite Songs (http://jarretliotta.blogspot.com/2012/01/jarrets-top-40.html), the Rolling Stones weren't represented. This was largely because of all the crap they've recorded, but also because I tend to grow tired of even their many great hits. Of course, I do adore many of them very much, including "Emotional Rescue" and "Under My Thumb." Asked to name a favorite, it would probably be "Ruby Tuesday," but "Paint It Black" is close behind.
Another question I've been asked is why I don't write/print some of my poetry in my Blah-ugh! As many of you know, I'm first and foremost a Poet -- even before I was cutting lawns and handing out sale flyers, I was capturing the colorful rhythms of this good earth with my textural, tantalizing quatrains. My verse is not only exquisitely whittled, stark and potent, in many cases it also rhymes. And yes, the day will soon come when I post some of my better, more enduring works -- particularly those I couldn't publish anywhere else. For now, I can only share with you a teaser to tempt your temporal lobe -- it's called ...
"Poem 69"
Smell the flower
Sweet and sour
Another question that keeps coming up involves why I eat such large meals right before I go to bed, especially when I'm sick. I really don't have an answer for this, except to acknowledge my primal gluttony. Part of my sick healing, however, involves not antibiotics, but the conscious satisfaction of obscure food cravings, which I feel expedite the healing process. Tonight, I was absolutely sure I needed an eggplant parmegian sandwich, and while there remains a good chance I'll vomit it up all over my pillow tonight during what has become a regular 3 a.m. coughing fit, I don't regret a thing.
But I have to go now and try to make myself throw up properly, before bed. Goodnight, my Darlings! I'll be thinking of you ...
Showing posts with label vomiting. Show all posts
Showing posts with label vomiting. Show all posts
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Beware of the Irish!
March 17, 2010: So, I see the Irish are up to their old tricks again. I think we all saw that coming. But be honest -- can any of us really put trust in someone with red hair?
I remember the first time I saw a leprechaun. He wasn't happy and dancing, like in the movies. He was grumpy and hungover, which I saw firsthand accounted for a sickly green pallor. And when I asked him about the pot of gold lore had promised, he got all huffy, made some rude Celtic comment and tried to hit me with his Shillelagh.
No, the Irish are a dangerous lot. Don't be fooled by all those tearful songs about roses and lassies. These people would just as soon chase you down and stuff you full of shamrocks, than guide you to Dublin.
So now we're devoting yet another March 17 to the insane drunken escapades of people who can't keep their own country united. (I mean, are they Catholics or Protestants or what?!) Please understand, this had always been my favorite date on the calendar (not because Italy declared independence in 1861, but it's the same date Ringo released "Back Off Bugaloo" in the UK), until the Irish started honing in on it and ruined everything.
As we speak, millions of them are probably swarming down Fifth Avenue in New York, like fervent homosexuals on Harvey Milk Day, smiling Irish eyes and painting the streets green with their vomit, carrying on like the whole world had been scripted by John Huston.
And I'll do you one further -- I have a very plausible theory that the Irish are really just ordinary Englishmen. In fact, I don't believe anyone over in the UK can really tell anyone else apart, and that they even confuse Australians and South Africans with Scotsmen.
Well, I've said my piece, but I warn you to beware. Watch the roads with one careful eye shut for the goings-on of little green men. They're out there, I swear it, and you never know what these "lucky" people are going to try next ...
I remember the first time I saw a leprechaun. He wasn't happy and dancing, like in the movies. He was grumpy and hungover, which I saw firsthand accounted for a sickly green pallor. And when I asked him about the pot of gold lore had promised, he got all huffy, made some rude Celtic comment and tried to hit me with his Shillelagh.
No, the Irish are a dangerous lot. Don't be fooled by all those tearful songs about roses and lassies. These people would just as soon chase you down and stuff you full of shamrocks, than guide you to Dublin.
So now we're devoting yet another March 17 to the insane drunken escapades of people who can't keep their own country united. (I mean, are they Catholics or Protestants or what?!) Please understand, this had always been my favorite date on the calendar (not because Italy declared independence in 1861, but it's the same date Ringo released "Back Off Bugaloo" in the UK), until the Irish started honing in on it and ruined everything.
As we speak, millions of them are probably swarming down Fifth Avenue in New York, like fervent homosexuals on Harvey Milk Day, smiling Irish eyes and painting the streets green with their vomit, carrying on like the whole world had been scripted by John Huston.
And I'll do you one further -- I have a very plausible theory that the Irish are really just ordinary Englishmen. In fact, I don't believe anyone over in the UK can really tell anyone else apart, and that they even confuse Australians and South Africans with Scotsmen.
Well, I've said my piece, but I warn you to beware. Watch the roads with one careful eye shut for the goings-on of little green men. They're out there, I swear it, and you never know what these "lucky" people are going to try next ...
Sunday, October 4, 2009
I Love The Food Network
October 4, 2009: It's no small statement to say that Food Network has changed my life.
It all began in the summer of '08. It was a kinder, gentler time, before the fast-paced ways of modern life sought to squelch the stable serenity of level-minded, short-thinking people like myself. Our family was crossing the country, as people were wont to do in those days, except we were doing it backwards and this confused all of us.
My little girl took sick with the grip in Albuquerque, so while the rest of the family went out foraging for food and entertainment, we stayed in the hotel and watched the Food Network for 12 straight hours. It was a remarkable time. In between fits of vomiting, my seven-year old described her preferences for certain shows, her appreciation of Bobby Flay and Guy Fieri, and her suspicions surrounding the glossy veneers of both Sandra Lee and Paula Dean.
It wasn't long before I was hooked, and by the time we reached Boulder, the kids and I were completely absorbed in that summer's battle for the Next Food Network Star. (Aaron McCargo won, and while my daughter preferred Adam, and I, Lisa (despite her awful mock commercial in Vegas, and that austere Nazi haircut), the race card clearly settled the difference in a close three-way race. (Lisa, incidentally, is conspicuously absent from the Food Network's "Where Are They Now?" web page featuring the Season 4 finalists. Coincidence? I don't think so! I think we all remember her oft-aired remark in the commercial for the final show -- "There's no room for error!" But was she actually saying "error" ... or "Aaron!" The question remains for many of us: Was this attractive, short-tempered, Nazi-coifed cook a racist? I'll leave that for you to decide ...)
But as if all that intrigue and action weren't enough, inspired by the awesome work of Mr. Fieri, we made four sidetrips to different Diners, Drive-ins and Dives he'd reviewed, and while one left my son vomiting in the car through most of New Jersey, it was an exciting and heart-warming chance to touch the earth upon which Guy had tread. I consider him the Chris Toelken of the kitchen.
My personal FN favorite remains Alton Brown, whom I consider a genius of his craft. His pancake recipe is a weekly staple of mine, and I've twice had outstanding results with his chili. My daughter considers him a "nerd," and while he gave me the creeps when I saw his first show on smoking, I've come to love him as a sort of garrulous gay uncle with no patience for anyone who doesn't use kosher salt.
I also admire Bobby Flay, though he dismissed me when I yelled across the room at him at the Mohegan Sun. Despite almost always losing his Throwdowns and Iron Chef battles, he's clearly a wealth of knowledge and dour New York-style sensibility. (And speaking of Iron Chef, how can you not love how the Chairman (whom I'm convinced doesn't even really know anything about food, but is just a fun guy) introduces each ingredient in his Martial Arts-style scream.
Of course, not all is good at FN. Paula Dean is the cooking equivalent of a greasy spoon, and while I loved her observation that cooking is a way of showing love, her recipes are vapid at best. Emil is a sham and a marketing concoction, as are some others whose cooking, knowledge and creativity, when held up to the likes of Brown, Flay, Fieri and other pros, shines an embarassing light on the Network. (I won't even comment on Lee's bizarre contribution.)
But despite the poor-taste offerings often pushed in the daytime, the FN continues to make food, and its preparation, the veritable artistic sporting event I enjoy it to be.
We're already hunkering down for The Next Iron Chef shows, and will be there when both Guy and Alton start their new seasons. I love the Food Network. I only wish I could force my eyes to vomit, in the Roman tradition, so I could keep watching more!
It all began in the summer of '08. It was a kinder, gentler time, before the fast-paced ways of modern life sought to squelch the stable serenity of level-minded, short-thinking people like myself. Our family was crossing the country, as people were wont to do in those days, except we were doing it backwards and this confused all of us.
My little girl took sick with the grip in Albuquerque, so while the rest of the family went out foraging for food and entertainment, we stayed in the hotel and watched the Food Network for 12 straight hours. It was a remarkable time. In between fits of vomiting, my seven-year old described her preferences for certain shows, her appreciation of Bobby Flay and Guy Fieri, and her suspicions surrounding the glossy veneers of both Sandra Lee and Paula Dean.
It wasn't long before I was hooked, and by the time we reached Boulder, the kids and I were completely absorbed in that summer's battle for the Next Food Network Star. (Aaron McCargo won, and while my daughter preferred Adam, and I, Lisa (despite her awful mock commercial in Vegas, and that austere Nazi haircut), the race card clearly settled the difference in a close three-way race. (Lisa, incidentally, is conspicuously absent from the Food Network's "Where Are They Now?" web page featuring the Season 4 finalists. Coincidence? I don't think so! I think we all remember her oft-aired remark in the commercial for the final show -- "There's no room for error!" But was she actually saying "error" ... or "Aaron!" The question remains for many of us: Was this attractive, short-tempered, Nazi-coifed cook a racist? I'll leave that for you to decide ...)
But as if all that intrigue and action weren't enough, inspired by the awesome work of Mr. Fieri, we made four sidetrips to different Diners, Drive-ins and Dives he'd reviewed, and while one left my son vomiting in the car through most of New Jersey, it was an exciting and heart-warming chance to touch the earth upon which Guy had tread. I consider him the Chris Toelken of the kitchen.
My personal FN favorite remains Alton Brown, whom I consider a genius of his craft. His pancake recipe is a weekly staple of mine, and I've twice had outstanding results with his chili. My daughter considers him a "nerd," and while he gave me the creeps when I saw his first show on smoking, I've come to love him as a sort of garrulous gay uncle with no patience for anyone who doesn't use kosher salt.
I also admire Bobby Flay, though he dismissed me when I yelled across the room at him at the Mohegan Sun. Despite almost always losing his Throwdowns and Iron Chef battles, he's clearly a wealth of knowledge and dour New York-style sensibility. (And speaking of Iron Chef, how can you not love how the Chairman (whom I'm convinced doesn't even really know anything about food, but is just a fun guy) introduces each ingredient in his Martial Arts-style scream.
Of course, not all is good at FN. Paula Dean is the cooking equivalent of a greasy spoon, and while I loved her observation that cooking is a way of showing love, her recipes are vapid at best. Emil is a sham and a marketing concoction, as are some others whose cooking, knowledge and creativity, when held up to the likes of Brown, Flay, Fieri and other pros, shines an embarassing light on the Network. (I won't even comment on Lee's bizarre contribution.)
But despite the poor-taste offerings often pushed in the daytime, the FN continues to make food, and its preparation, the veritable artistic sporting event I enjoy it to be.
We're already hunkering down for The Next Iron Chef shows, and will be there when both Guy and Alton start their new seasons. I love the Food Network. I only wish I could force my eyes to vomit, in the Roman tradition, so I could keep watching more!
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