Just adding to the list

"This is where we used to hang black people."

"Why is one of the chickens black and white and the rest are brown?"
"That's my Obama chicken."

"His name makes me think of the cartoon."

"N!@@er."

Reese Witherspoon's character in Sweet Home Alabama had it right when she said, "people need a passport to come down here." Venturing into any portion of Alabama outside a few "metropolitan" areas should require not only the aforementioned passport, but a check of one's sanity as well. Rural Alabama is a study in the accuracy of sterotypes, and sadly the argument that the racist stereotypes are few do not hold up to any kind of scrutiny.

The racism that is still so very pervasive among some in the deep south amazes me. These folks work shoulder-to-shoulder with people different than them and once they are free from earshot the things they would never say to that individual's face fly. Race, creed, political affiliation, religious persuasion, sexuality, all these things become fodder for their hateful words. And how is all of it prefaced?

"I'm not racist, but..."

That phrase right there irritates me more than any other because it's a dichotomy. Those words only prove the idea that the speaker is indeed racist because, for whatever reason, the speaker feels as if it absolves them of the hate they are about to spew. It doesn't. It doesn't absolve anything.

Everyone is racist, whether they admit it or not. It is not in human nature to not be racist in some way. I could give countless examples, but I have neither the time nor the inclination to do so. My head and my heart are weary from this trip into the heart of darkness that is my home state. All I will say is that this latest episode and introduction to some more of the residents of this place only go to the list of reasons why I hope that one day we will bid it adieu.

(And yes I am aware that racists are everywhere. I even know them to exist in the great frozen utopia to the north. But speaking as one that has changed their address 31 different times in 10 different states and three different countries, it seems far more prevalent here than anywhere else I've ever been.)

Home Sweet Home

The marathon is over. Much to share. No energy to do it right now. And there's a rather important football game about to start.

Even deeper

Headed deeper into rural Alabama. That dreaded area known to locals as L.A., "Lower Alabama." On the plus side, we will be stopping at Priester's and I might just have something to share.

Maybe.

Possibly.

Give thanks

Happy Thanksgiving everyone. Except you Canadians who did all this a month ago and that fact only shows how superior you all are. Except we have this to go with our Turkey Day and you don't:



Hosers.

Southbound and down

Thanksgiving.

In-laws.

Rural Alabama.

Avenge me.

Captain Caveman!

And son.



(I kept asking him where my eye was. He obliged by jabbing me in it. At least I got the shot.)

And now a musical interlude

Snicker.

Something seems off.

The wife is off of work all this week.

That means she's home.

In the middle of the day.

I'd better call and cancel my afternoon lap dance.

Pig-wrapped, pig-stuffed pig

The pig loving carnivore that I am is already dreaming up ways to improve on this one. Something a little more red in the neck if you know what I mean.

The final countdown

Europe |MTV Music

I find it absolutely remarkable that with only five days to get the ruddy thing thawed, people were at the local grocery store buying frozen chunks of bird. Are they stupid, or just sadists? Do they not realize that the chances of getting that thing thawed out Turkey Day are slim? In the refrigerator you need at least a week on the safe side. Maybe they are employing the "put in under a trickle of water all night" method? And even if that's the case, what are they doing to boost the flavor of that tom? Won't be able to inject a whole lot of flavor in such a short time. But it is far more likely that they are just going to leave the thing out on the counter and hope for the best.

I won't eat at those houses.

Roasting whole birds is stupidly easy, but people act like it's more difficult than rocket surgery. I think the problem comes from the fact that the average American (and Canadians a month earlier) only do it once a year. Anything that you do only once a year is likely going to swing wildly as to the success of the the end product. So, how can we up the odds of success?

1. Make a few birds throughout the year, don't wait until the holidays.
2. Keep a notebook or jot things down in your cookbooks so you know what works and what doesn't.
3. Birds usually go one sale right before and immediately after the big day, take advantage and stockpile for those others you'll make later on.
4. Get a chest freezer if you don't already have one. (How else are you going to keep those extra birds?)
5. Start planning a month in advance of the big day. Running around madly the week before trying to get things ready is only going to add to your stress.
6. Make as much of the rest of the meal ahead of time as you can. Reheat or finish off those little last minutes things while the bird is resting.
7. LET THE FRAKING THING REST! Unless you like turkey floss.

For me, things are tracking and on schedule. The 27-pounder in the fridge is already showing that it'll be ready come the big day. The hard part is the fact that it's so big that I doubt I can squeeze it into my big orange cooler, so I'll likely end up putting it in the brine within an ice chest (unless I dismantle part of it). Then of course there is the issue of having to transport the blasted thing 100 miles to the in-laws and cooking it there.

Is it too late just to order Chinese?

Pecking order

I can't deny it. I know my place.

Feelings of inadequacy

"Oh my flying spaghetti monster."

"What?"

"Don't look."

"Don't look at what?"

"It's... it's not working."

"What'd you say?"

"IT'S NOT WORKING!"

"That's not possible."

"Well look for your damned self then! It's just sitting there... lifeless."

"Did you wiggle it?"

"What kind of stupid fraking question is that? Of course I did."

"Maybe it'd help if I blew on it?"





_{"i already tried that."}






"What?"






"I said I already tried that!"





"Well, I'm out of ideas. I mean if you tried by yourself and it still doesn't work when I help you..."

"I played with it too much."

"Don't be stupid. You can't play with it too much. That's an old wive's tale."

"This has never happened to me before."

"I know baby, I know."

"I think I'll go cry now."



Rest in peace old friend. January 2006-November 2008.

Sage advise

Head cold

Had we lived somewhere with season I would only get one or two a year, instead of the third I've had since the weather has "changed" around here. I say "change" because as anyone that has lived in the deep south can attest season only change from fucked messed-up to really fucked messed up. All. Year. Long.

Give me the high Sierras again!
Give me the Pacific Northwest again!
Give me a corner of a 20-acre plot in Alberta, or some pithy apartment in BC for crying out loud!
Give me anywhere that has seasons!

Please?

The faux outrage is amusing

Brought this:



And this:



And this:



And so many other videos, tweets, and angry mommy blogs all over teh interwebs that to track it all down would cause things to break. Motrin has obviously caved and issued this apology on their website:

Which brings me to the point where I lose subscribers and get angry e-mails and comments. (If I do, oh well, I ain't in this for the popularity.)

Are you fucking kidding me? This is what has so many in a tizzy? Seriously?

Well as the saying that was so popular in my Army days goes, "suck it the fuck up and drive on." This is nothing compared to the daily ridicule that is handed out to dads. This isn't even close. And what's more damning is the fact that when advertisers take a second to realize that they've wronged dads in some way, we never get an apology.

Where was your outrage when Pizza Hut suggested that dad's are just bubbling oafs that can't cook a meal?



Or when Fidelity portrays dad as someone that would lord a win over their child?



Or how about all those adverts all over everything proclaiming to be "mom tested" or "mom approved" or "engineered for mom" and never make any mention of dads?

You see the problem is, this outrage points to a gross double standard. What's good for the goose isn't always good for the gander is it? We ganders are denigrated and insulted on a daily basis by the media and very, very few express the outrage that was wrought upon Motrin. All this anger was directed at what is largely nothing and now this whole thing has been blown so out of proportion that's laughable.

And those of us with testicles get nothing, but that's ok, ain't it?

Sharing My Secrets Sunday

Ketchup. Catsup. Catchup. Whatever you call it, chances are your kids use this one condiment more than just about any other. When you're little it's that one thing that can make the most evil of vegetable or most vile organ at least momentarily bearable. It's divine atop burgers, the basis of many types of barbecue sauce, and the french fries' perpetual best bud.

And it's stupidly easy to make.

A standard ketchup recipe goes a little something like this:

6oz tomato paste
1/2 cup light corn syrup
1/2 cup white vinegar
1/4 cup water
1 tablespoon sugar
1 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon onion powder
1/8 teaspoon garlic powder

Combine all ingredients in a sauce pot, bring to a boil, and then simmer for twenty (20) minutes. Yields about 1 1/2 cups.

This will produce a ketchup that is vastly superior to anything you'll buy off of some shelf and way cheaper too. But, as simple and delicious as it is, it needs improvement.

For starters, the light corn syrup has to go. Take a gander at the label of just about any light corn syrup on the market and the number one ingredient in is high fructose corn syrup. (Many manufacturers are moving away from using HFCS and it is possible to find light corn syrup without it.) Changing what you use as the sweetener in your ketchup will change it's flavor the most.

I've tried many different things. Pure maple syrup is nice and makes for a unique sauce. Molasses and dark corn syrup both bring a deep and dark richness to the batches I've made. Simple syrup makes things rather plain Jane, though still excellent. But, my hands down favorite substitute, and the one I swear by, is honey. Using honey that comes from your local area will lend a uniqueness not found in other places. In fact, I also use honey in place of the tablespoon of sugar that is called for. (I've also replaced dark brown sugar for the regular sugar before.) And if you decide that you don't want something as sweet, cut back a few tablespoons.

The second place where we can tinker and make things our own is in the vinegar used. Now I wouldn't recommend breaking out the good balsamic for this application, but I have tried rice wine, red wine, and apple cider varieties. Rice wine vinegar lends a subtle acidity, while red wine offers a really nice pungent punch to things. I tend to prefer apple cider vinegar though. To me it brings a little different sweetness to the finished sauce with a little bite on the back end.

The final thing that we could play with is the spices used. The minuscule amounts called for in the original recipe scream for improvement. Up the amounts by all means, but don't be afraid to add a little sumthin-sumthin as well. Cayenne is particularly nice (and evil).

When you play with your food, you make it your own. Recipes are merely guidelines to start you on your way. The moment you change something, take notes so that when you hit on something that you and your family like, you can come back to it easily.

And for the love of Pete stop buying ketchup.

She won't survive

30 outside. Wife thinks it's cold.




Should the fates align and we actually get to bid adieu to the deep south and move to somewhere that actually has seasons, she's going to freeze to death. Good thing I have a lot of mass to give off heat for her to snuggle with.

Graceful

She is nothing if not graceful that woman of mine. For someone that studied a martial art that stressed balance in all things she is incredible.

At being a klutz.

People are quick to jump to the conclusion that I must beat her for all her injuries. She sports bruises like southern republicans sport bow ties afterall. But the absolute truth is she is somehow the kind of person that could find the sharp corner is a round, padded room. So it is of little surprise that she called me on the way home from hockey the other night to let me know that she'd hurt herself.

"I did something stupid."

"What'd you do?"

"Something stupid."

"I kind of gathered that from the way your voice is half laughing and hiding shame. So, what am I about to call you a dumb ass for?"

"Well, I was walking to the shower after the game and I think I broke my toe."

"How in the hell did you manage to break your toe walking to the shower?"

"I wasn't watching where I was going and I tripped over a skate."

"Dumb ass."

I have no doubt that it's broken. Right now it's a lovely shade of purple overall and swollen. For those curious enough, it's the toe next to the pinkie toe on the left foot. Butters managed to step on it four times in thirty minutes. All she could do is inhale sharply and grimace. I taped it to her middle toe as that's all that can really be done short of putting her in the official "ask me how I did something stupid" boot.

But what can I do, I love her.

Shameless pandering

I need you.

My fragile ego is calling out to you.

The above shot is in the running for picture of the month for September at All Day I Dream About Photography.

Leave a comment there Vote for "Week 3 - Down" (previously Week 3 Stormtroopers) and I'll be giddy.

I may even dance a jig.

Please.

kthxbai.

Gorrbly, gorrbly

The Swedish Chef was always my favorite (still is). And speaking of turkey, the honey and buttermilk brined test bird turned out fabulous.

Lest we forget

Veteran's Day was officially adopted as such on November 8, 1954. Prior to that date it had been known as Armistice Day and it was originally intended to honor veterans of the First Great War. But through the hard work of the people of Emporia, Kansas the day became one to honor all those who have served.

And all is often forgotten.

Far too often we become complacent towards vets. Oh sure, it's hard to overlook the war wounded vet saluting as the flag passes by, or those in uniform walking through the airport, but chances are you're overlooking vets every single day of your life.

Far many more individuals have served in uniform that have never fired a round in anger than have. You pass more people every day that wore their uniforms proudly and never visited a combat zone than have.

Those that served quietly during times of peace deserve every bit of recognition that their brothers and sisters that have faced the horror of warfare do. On this day remember everyone that has worn the uniform, even though you'll probably never know them or their sacrifice as they pass you by.

On star crossed hockey fans

It never ceases to amaze people that yes, we do indeed have hockey in Alabama. In a state where ice is a rare thing the game has flourished for more than thirty years now at the collegiate level. Semi-pro teams have come and gone, but UAH Charger hockey has remained constant.

With that longevity comes a number of distinctions, among them one of the successful coaches of all time, Doug Ross, and one of the oldest programs around. But you'd never know it as we're still looked at as an oddity by all of college hockey.

But things are slowly changing.

We've got two players that've made the bigs. Scott Munroe was the first to make good. Scottie was a brick wall during his time at UAH, and he's done very well for the Phantoms. The Flyers have been slow to take great interest in Scottie, but he was called up a few times last season. The raw deal for Scottie is that the Flyers have passed him over on the hopes that someone of obviously lesser talent would do better, so he lingers with the Phantoms.

Jared Ross, the son of former UAH coach Doug Ross, set numerous school records. Graduating with honors in Nursing, Ross went on the play in the minors, ending up with the Atlanta Thrashers club team, the Chicago Wolves. Chicago did Jared wrong from the word go playing him very little. A trade saw Jared back with teammate Scott Munroe and the Phantoms did well. Jared distinguished himself as the leading scorer on the team last season, despite being out an entire month due to an appendectomy, and the Flyers have noticed. They've called him up a few times, but like the Wolves, they've been stuffing him onto a 4th line where he has no help.

But notoriety doesn't stop there.

We've got this kid named Wyatt. Wyatt's a sophomore with a strong stick, lightning glove, and guards post to post like it's his only mission in life. That crease is his house, and he protects it well.

But Wyatt hasn't seen much play time. Before his freshman season even got started Wyatt did a number on his groin. (Guys, you only need to know this, it's cringe worthy believe me.) But Wyatt has seen one game now, if only an exhibition where he only faced down a total of eight shots all night. It's not that Wyatt isn't a good goaltender, he just has the lousy luck to be behind another excellent sophomore goalie and "Lucky the Leprechaun."

And then there's the issue of his parents.

No one gets to pick their parents, that's one of the innumerable facts of life, but Wyatt's parents are wonderful to their son. They've supported him in ways that not many other parents could, going out of their way to help him and his siblings. They're hockey parents to be proud of, and most certainly deserving of the simple ability to watch their son play.

However, I'm sad to say that my fellow fans of the only NCAA Division I hockey team in the south aren't so understanding. Wyatt's parents are, in a word, celebrities.



This past series UAH honored the parents of the players at what was the first official home game of the season. But, what's peculiar about that is the fact that in the eight seasons that I've been going to the games, I can't recall one time that the university has honored the parents in this manner. By academic year during the first intermission they honored each set of parents. From the rafters the people driving the spotlights attempted to find the parents of each player, but failed miserably. But when they reached the sophomores, and got to the "R," they had no trouble finding their target.

I fear that the university is trying to capitalize on who Wyatt's are. I know that the athletic director went so far as to ask one of the fellow photograpers at the game to shoot pictures of them. For what purpose has yet to reveal itself.

I find it absolutely reprehensible that this is happening to a couple of parents that should be allowed to watch their son and support his team in peace.

My favorite shot from this series

This shot just speaks to me on a lot of levels. I love it and don't care if others don't.

At the Veeb

Sitting in the VBC, ganking their wi-fi (I'm one of the official photographers, I'm entitled aren't I?) getting ready to shoot another night of hockey. Took over 250 last night, expect to do more tonight. Kind of nice being able to come in before everyone else and revel in the silence of this place. Silence that is ruined by the UAH Pep Band.

Stab him with your skate!

Hockey tonight. Got to go shoot. No time to write. Wish there were though, I gots things on my mind.

To much to do, never enough time to do it

1. Have to finish cleaning house. MIL and SIL coming.
2. Plan Thanksgiving bird, make turkey stock. Seriously, it takes this kind of advanced preparation to pull of the perfect bird.
3. Hockey game to shoot. The bad boys from Bemidji, Minnesota are coming to our pond and it's the last game I get to shoot since there isn't another home series until January.
4. Stop this stupid list and get to it....

Still high

What got me? What set off the geyser? A lot of things. But speaking as a dad, this:

"Sasha and Malia I love you both more than you can imagine. And you have earned the new puppy that's coming with us to the new White House."

Even in light of the historic nature of that moment, he was putting his love for his children out there before everything else. That's class.

So, the national question becomes, what kind of puppy?

And I cried

"Well, I don't know what will happen now. We've got some difficult days ahead. But it doesn't matter with me now. Because I've been to the mountaintop. And I don't mind. Like anybody, I would like to live a long life. Longevity has its place. But I'm not concerned about that now. I just want to do God's will. And He's allowed me to go up to the mountain. And I've looked over. And I've seen the promised land. I may not get there with you. But I want you to know tonight, that we, as a people will get to the promised land. And I'm happy, tonight. I'm not worried about anything. I'm not fearing any man. Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord." -Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

I'm not a religious man by any stretch of the word, but let it be known that less than thirty minutes ago, on the fourth day, of the eleventh month, of the eighth year of the new century, that I broke down in tears at the joy of this moment as those words echoed through my head.

Dr. King, we've finally reached the promised land.

Rewind

It seems that there a lot of new folks stumbling across the trash I write, and I'm thankful for it, but there's one or two that've been around for a piece that hasn't noticed a thing or two. For her their benefit, I want to point everyone back to where we started this journey:

The Grunt Heard 'Round The World (part I)
The Grunt Heard 'Round The World (part II)

Because she they didn't come along until this:

Triple Crown of Suck

Maybe she they won't have reason to kick my ass now.

See what happens when I open my big, damn mouth?

I don't particularly think that I write all that well. Looking at the pool of parents that blog I am most certainly the kid sitting on the deck while all the adults are enjoying the pee free water during adult swim. I tend to swing rather wildly from snarky to uninteresting to flat out confusing when I put thought to blog. One friend that is soon to be a published author in her own right has even gone so far as to say that what I write here is often very disjointed. So why is it that I post something that took hours to get through thanks to rage and tears that somehow it resonates with people?

570 isn't anything special. It's just me. Honestly and unabashedly me. It's the me that would write every day if it weren't for the spawn that drives me batshit crazy my darling baby boy. It's the me that few ever really take the time to get to know.

But for reasons that escape me, Mr. Lady took notice of me and nominated me for October's Perfect Post award courtesy of Petroville and Suburban Turmoil (oh, the irony). I respect and admire the ever loving hell out of Mr. Lady. She's one of those talents that delights and inspires. She's a great writer, wonderful soul, and good bud. And now thanks to her, I got this:



Thanks Mr. Lady, even if I don't think I'm deserving of such praise.

Loafin

Loafin, for benefit of those that don't speak proper redneck, is the act of wandering around, usually on the weekend or on a day off. The purchasing of goods and services may be an element of the act itself, but certainly isn't a requirement, nor is any discernible plan. A good day of loafin need only get you out of the house.

Today's loafin has left all involved wiped.

Barnes & Noble, Dick's Sporting Goods, Target, lunch at Five Guys Burgers and Fries (Bacon cheeseburger with grilled mushrooms, grilled onions, and A-1, so good but I so don't need it) New Balance store, Sunglass Station, Fossil, Mountain High Outfitters, and Publix. Ugh.

We didn't even make in home until two hours after Butters' usual nap time. This wouldn't have been a problem if we lived in a locale where things were actually open before noon on a Sunday. But, thanks to living deep in the heart of the Republic of Alabamastan, we have to wait to do everything until after the crowds are let out of church because heaven forbid retailers make it easier on those of us that don't go to church. This inconvenience is a pain in the ass and it just leaves everyone wiped out for the rest of the day.

Luckily I put a shoulder roast and a bunch of liquid smoke in the crock pot before we left this morning, so at least there's faux BBQ to look forward to.

But right now I desperately need a nap and there is no rest for the wicked.

No Witch at my door

Trick-or-treaters avoid my door. Maybe it has something to do with the foul stench of evil and rotting corpses that permeates the area surrounding our front door. Or maybe it's because I unscrew the "always on" light outside our apartment door. Nevertheless our door goes unknocked upon October 31st.

Except last year.

Last year there was an urgency behind the knock at the door. Even with the light unscrewed there was enough illumination from the street lamps that the top of a witch's hat could be spied through the peephole. Cautiously cracking the door, prepped as I was with my best "get the hell away from my door," before me stood a reflection dressed in black and green. My own eyes stared back at me.

"Trick-or-treat, Daddy."

But this year there was no surprise visitor. There wasn't a need to madly search for something to drop into my child's bucket. The only thing that crossed my door this Hallowe'en was a specter of sorrow and loneliness.