Ben-Hur

Wallace will outlive the war, but I will not. Early will write his memoirs, but I will not. The Georgetown Pike, after the covered bridge has burned, I will fall there not to rise again.

Pictures of Success

Colonel Truex brought me the order today. We are to decamp in a fortnight. Impending doom and damnation. And all of the whiskey is gone.

The adjutant had received word that few men could be spared from the siege of Petersburg. I would be relying on Ricketts' division, the thousand or so hundred-days' men that remained to me, and whatever of my wits I could muster. The whiskey was gone and not coming back.

Early would have his ransom.

Pizza for breakfast

I like making pizza dough, at least I think I do, because it is inexact. Imprecision is allowable in its making. The product of the effort will be more yeasty, a little light on flour, more bubbly, too salty, or overly sweet, but the imperfections are expected in the homemade version. A wide breadth is allowed from Cook's Illustrated perfection to the time I mistakenly used self-rising biscuit flour, or topped it with American cheese. Mistakes in the recipe could even become a source of pride over time, with guests commenting on the particular twist that the cook accidentally gave to his now-specialty.

It also brings the joy of chemistry, melding unlike things in varying amounts of powders and liquids to produce a warm, pleasant, rising growing mass that is almost alive. The ball of dough is expanding as I write, softly inhaling and pushing upwards towards the kitchen towel ceiling. It's difficult to leave it alone for the time it needs to rise. I can't wait until the dough is ready to be eaten as pizza, but I cherish the process of putting it together and my central role in its parenting.

Initialisms, among other things

I had a capacious thirst from having walked the streets of downtown Washington, D.C. for several hours. I bought a large, capacious bottle of Gatorade sports drink, which was in the process of trying to write itself out of existence by changing its name gradually but perceptibly to only 'G'. Why have for your product's name a recognizable, concrete thing when you could transition your "branding" to a meaningless abstraction? This was the question Gatorade had asked of itself and answered on its own, without assistance. It was in this way similar to the public radio distributor American Public Media, soon to become a trio of letters whose bond and claim to a corresponding meaning were irrevocably severed. This may not seem important, and yet it is. The fashion is for abstraction, high-mindedness without deeper meaning. Not that consumer products are an area from whence to derive a great deal of meaning, but it feels like we have started a car rolling down a hill without any plan on how to stop it. George Orwell said it best.

I wanna hold her hand And show her some beauty Before all this damage is done

This year I:

-Got two jobs
-Moved to the Washington DC metro area
-Became a vegetarian
-Visited three new states (Wyoming, Utah, Idaho)
-Heard some great music
-Ate some great food
-Had some great talks with some great people

What more could a person ask for?

They say california is a recipe for a black hole

I have been on a serious Rilo Kiley kick for at least a week. Blame it on cranberry sauce, which I was making last Wednesday, and it was lovely, had the house to myself all day and just listened to tons of music and cooked odds and ends of supplemental Thanksgiving foods. I love those days, maybe once a month. Silence and solitude and making something out of nothing. Insofar as there is stress in my life, these are the days when it is released, when you might say I channel and release tension from my shoulders into the food I make.

As for Rilo Kiley, they are everything. Sweet, cutting, country, rock, peerless lyrics, great music. Three Rilo Kiley songs:

Jenny, You're Barely Alive

My Slumbering Heart

Portions for Foxes

are these sentences true?

-Barack Obama sometimes appears to be naive and politically tone-deaf. This may derive from an abundance of confidence.

-Rick Perry is full of bluster and often seems confused.

-Herman Cain talks a good game, but he suffers from a dearth of ideas.

-Michelle Bachmann spends so much time trying to seem authentic that whatever substance she had to begin with has long since eroded away from constant burnishing.

-Were Newt Gingrich to become the Republican nominee, Democrats would be dancing in the streets.

Winter trains part 3

There might have been a sense of community in the broad atrial waiting area of the station, but it was quickly drowned out by the survival instinct that emerged among comfortable people who are slightly alarmed. Lines formed quickly at the handful of fast-food/coffee places and people scarfed pizza with wary eyes trained on their neighbors, eating as a dog does: quickly and too efficiently to relish the alimentation. Sulking overcoated patrons trudged everywhere to and fro or circled shark-like for the remaining seats on the benches. Smart ones read to stave off impending madness, with ever-more erudite reading fodder glimpsed around every corner.

I was reading Tony Judt with two different frowns. Alternately I displayed my public-transit-has-forsaken-me-never-will-I-see-home-again grimace, and then my furrowed-brow-because-Tony-Judt-is-postulating-a-complex-political-idea-in-clear-and-readable-prose-and-I-am-striving-to-understand frown. I have discussed with my significant other that I ought to stop frowning when trying to understand something or flesh out a thought because the expression is frightening at close range. Maybe I'm often puzzled. I do feel the need to manifest what's going on in my head to the world at large. I furrow my rather prominent but nonetheless brow and try to work out a sentence that might express what I'm thinking.

Winter trains part 2

Our train that was set to depart at 6:25 had not physically reached the station until 6:45. The people turning and sheepishly working back through the Lowell deluge after the official boarding announcement were Newburyport commuters with a scheduled theoretical departure of 6:45. What cheek to think they would leave the station within 10 minutes of on-schedule. Their delay was heard fading as I shuffled the platform with the horde, and it gave me a vague sense of justice served. The perverse mind of the frozen delayed commuter; his misery is actively seeking company, and he condemns those who aren't foundering with him yet.