26.7.21

america 2021.

My deep cynicism about this blog and about blogging in general will be placed on pause for the next 30 days as I attempt to document what must certainly be an especially unique moment in time, as if all moments in time aren't unique: in the middle of a global pandemic, the general dissolution of capitalist illusions, and the beginning of the climate change endgame, I'm irresponsibly taking a pollution-spewing commercial flight from one of the "hottest" Delta variant hotspots in Europe to one of the, get ready for this, "hottest" places in America. See that, hot/hot? It's like riding a bike. 

Anyway, please see Instagram for the aforementioned documentation. Here's a bit also. 

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It's not even noon yet but this morning's input has already generated a multitude of sputtering emotional outputs and my flight is still 3 hours away. The first of these outbursts occurred at 09:52, when I arrived at Station Sloterdijk underslept and on high alert only to discover that in the time it took me to leave the house and catch a bus for a 12 minute ride, my arch-nemesis the NS had cancelled most of the trains to the airport. The point of even going to Sloterdijk in the first place is its "ease of connectivity" to the airport.

Maybe I'll write again about the NS, but my loathing is a flavor of hatred so monotonous and unproductive that there's almost no point in indulging it. For now, we'll just say that I managed to catch the last train from Sloterdijk to Schiphol before things got really shitty. Then, cue all kinds of feelings about being at the airport, a familiar place, where almost nothing works the way it used to. I did feel gratitude at being an experienced traveller who is mostly sighted, mostly mobile, and mostly accustomed to the basic idiosyncrasies of European travel so that I could truly focus on being stressed out about pandemic-specific details. 

But, it all went kind of fine, some of it felt even quicker than usual, even though true efficiency continues to be made impossible by those people who seem surprised to find themselves at the airport, caught completely off guard by a request for their boarding documents or ID. Then: I saw right in front of me a mother looking at her teenage boy's face the way only a mother can, searching for clues, ready to accept any or all of the information they hinted at, and for a moment I understood what I was doing today. AWWWWWWWWW.

Then, you know, you see a couple fellow passengers not wearing masks properly; you engage in a few of those standard "in case I don't see you again, goodbye forever" conversations with loved ones; you feel all the feels about being sober at an airport for the first time in many years, ect ect ect. Is like bad carnival ride. 

Turns out not much has changed about the actually being on a plane part of flying. Boarding seemed faster due to a revolutionary new "five rows at a time instead of ten" technique. You could still only understand/hear half the announcements. It's still impossible to figure out how to get your futuristic Entertainment Screen out of your armrest. Cabin crew come by less frequently, and talk less because nobody can hear or understand anybody else. 

There is still no room to do anything at all except pray for a wormhole or some other non-lethal deus ex machina escape mechanism. I guess I'm going to have to turn to movies pretty soon. Only 6 out of 9 hours left on this flight. 

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4.7.21

the tree was inside it all along, part 2.

Just to be clear, because I used to hate it when I would find a blog that would talk about addiction struggles and then the blogger would disappear for two years: today is 17 months without alcohol. 

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30.6.21

the tree was inside it all along, part 1.

Sorry, I'm just grimly fascinated by the completely detached way Wikipedia lays this out, as if it's not one of the most crippling challenges that has ever faced we humans.

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In her final book, Neurosis and Human GrowthKaren Horney lays out a complete theory of the origin and dynamics of neurosis.[10] In her theory, neurosis is a distorted way of looking at the world and at oneself, which is determined by compulsive needs rather than by a genuine interest in the world as it is. Horney proposes that neurosis is transmitted to a child from his or her early environment and that there are many ways in which this can occur:[10]:18

When summarized, they all boil down to the fact that the people in the environment are too wrapped up in their own neuroses to be able to love the child, or even to conceive of him as the particular individual he is; their attitudes toward him are determined by their own neurotic needs and responses.

The child's initial reality is then distorted by his or her parents' needs and pretenses. Growing up with neurotic caretakers, the child quickly becomes insecure and develops basic anxiety. To deal with this anxiety, the child's imagination creates an idealized self-image:[10]:22

Each person builds up his personal idealized image from the materials of his own special experiences, his earlier fantasies, his particular needs, and also his given faculties. If it were not for the personal character of the image, he would not attain a feeling of identity and unity. He idealizes, to begin with, his particular "solution" of his basic conflict: compliance becomes goodness, love, saintliness; aggressiveness becomes strength, leadership, heroism, omnipotence; aloofness becomes wisdom, self-sufficiency, independence. What—according to his particular solution—appear as shortcomings or flaws are always dimmed out or retouched.

Once he identifies himself with his idealized image, a number of effects follow. He will make claims on others and on life based on the prestige he feels entitled to because of his idealized self-image. He will impose a rigorous set of standards upon himself in order to try to measure up to that image. He will cultivate pride, and with that will come the vulnerabilities associated with pride that lacks any foundation. Finally, he will despise himself for all his limitations. Vicious circles will operate to strengthen all of these effects.

Eventually, as he grows to adulthood, a particular "solution" to all the inner conflicts and vulnerabilities will solidify. He will be either

In Horney's view, mild anxiety disorders and full-blown personality disorders all fall under her basic scheme of neurosis as variations in the degree of severity and in the individual dynamics. The opposite of neurosis is a condition Horney calls self-realization, a state of being in which the person responds to the world with the full depth of his or her spontaneous feelings, rather than with anxiety-driven compulsion. Thus the person grows to actualize his or her inborn potentialities. Horney compares this process to an acorn that grows and becomes a tree: the acorn has had the potential for a tree inside it all along.

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terror management theory.

Haha Wikipedia: 

According to terror management theory (TMT) neuroticism is primarily caused by insufficient anxiety buffers against unconscious death anxiety.[32] These buffers consist of:

  1. Cultural worldviews that impart life with a sense of enduring meaning, such as social continuity beyond one's death, future legacy and afterlife beliefs, and
  2. A sense of personal value, or the self-esteem in the cultural worldview context, an enduring sense of meaning.

While TMT agrees with standard evolutionary psychology accounts that the roots of neuroticism in Homo sapiens or its ancestors are likely in adaptive sensitivities to negative outcomes, it posits that once Homo sapiens achieved a higher level of self-awareness, neuroticism increased enormously, becoming largely a spandrel, a non-adaptive byproduct of our adaptive intelligence, which resulted in a crippling awareness of death that threatened to undermine other adaptive functions. This overblown anxiety thus needed to be buffered via intelligently creative, but largely fictitious and arbitrary notions of cultural meaning and personal value. Since highly religious or supernatural conceptions of the world provide "cosmic" personal significance and literal immortality, they are deemed to offer the most efficient buffers against death anxiety and neuroticism. Thus, historically, the shift to more materialistic and secular cultures - starting in the neolithic, and culminating in the industrial revolution, is deemed to have increased neuroticism.[32]

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Neuroticism 

28.2.21

a small victory.

This was something I wrote on Instagram that I will put here also in an attempt to remind me that I can also just write without a 2,200 character limit.

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Loath to do this here (also loath to begin any sentence with “loath”) but there is supposed to be a public component so here it is. It’s hardly controversial to declare that the last 365 days have been generally unprecedented in our lifetimes. It might be slightly more controversial to declare (possibly hyperbolically) that the value of modern hyperbolic language has kind of been exhausted, that we’re so far off the scale of normality in 2021 that there’s barely any point in exaggerating for effect anymore, because hey, whatever it is, THIS COULD BE THE YEAR, you never know. So i am not exaggerating when i say that I never ever fucking imagined that one day I’d be declaring, in “public”, with a nebulous mix of pride and embarrassment, that I haven’t had any alcohol in 370 days. And that it would be 100% true. And that it would be accompanied by such a pure, non-rationalized feeling of liberation and relief. I never believed that “sober people” were ACTUALLY happy about not drinking, I thought for sure it was something they had to desperately brainwash themselves into believing. It feels wrong to say I hope I never become the non-drinker that always turned me off of non-drinkers, but it’s true, I do hope that. And I know I’m also fucking that up with this post. But I will squirt out one more cliche and cheesy thing before mercifully stopping and never posting about this shit ever again: if you are tired of your relationship with alcohol and want to change it; if it is making you more miserable than carefree: once you stop for a while, at least months, for me it was certainly more than 3 months but who really knows, there is a switch that will eventually flip where the genuine relief of not being dominated by alcohol and the genuine dread of falling back into that increasingly relentless and horrifying cycle are more powerful than any anxiety you might have or imagine having over the grim-sounding “life without alcohol”. And when it happens, this switch will feel natural and normal and unforced, unexaggerated for effect. Do it now while there are no social events to struggle through.

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29.4.20

"public" victory.

This post is for all my goutish homies out there who need to read about potential treatment.

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Ho there. Day 85 of not drinking. Also Day 85 of Serious Gout Battles. My last official "flare" was 4 April 2020 or so, and while it didn't reach the incredible heights of March 2020, it hurt enough to where I couldn't easily go up and down tiny wooden Dutch stairs and i started taking colchicine for a couple of weeks.

A word about colchicine: I think my next gout flare would have to be more than medium-bad before I ever take it again. It is such murder on your stomach and bowels and general mobility that it's really only worth taking if you're in unbearable pain. I didn't realize the mobility effects (overall muscle pain, stiffness, fatigue) the first time I took it because my foot was unusable and I was just basically in bed for two weeks, couldn't walk, stand, etc anyway. The pain did kind of go away relatively quickly after I started colchicine, I want to say three or four days.

This was all a bit confused by the fact that, on the day I went to see my doctor to get the colchicine prescription, I hurt my back trying to protect my foot, and ended up in bed for another week. So I just felt shitty and immobile anyway and assumed it was the gout that was causing it.

So this 4 April flareup, I felt equally immobile while taking colchicine and I wasn't until I stopped taking it and a few days later I felt "OK" again that I truly realized how bad it was making me feel. I say I felt "OK" again, but I mean, you know, 50 years old instead of 80: I really had a difficult time getting out of bed or standing up from a sitting position while I was taking it.

So for the next flare, which I sincerely hope never happens, but you know: I'm just going to try and hydrate my way out of it and see what happens. Right now I'm drinking 2 liters of water a day, I should be drinking 3, but 2 is really plenty challenging enough.

Since I've stopped drinking alcohol I'm able to drink more coffee every day, which is supposed to be productive for gout/uric acid trouble. I have two cups of black coffee in the morning and one in the afternoon, would love to be able to sneak another one in there but we'll see. I already pee 59 times a day.

And: the real reason I'm here today blogging: nutrition. I guess it's time to get serious about this, so I will use the shame of public ("public") failure as a deterrent.

BREAKFAST
Two cups black coffee (0kcal)
Two whole wheat tortillas (240kcal)
1/2 avocado (130kcal)
1 tbsp (40g) esfenaj (60kcal)
1 liter water with pure cherry juice

Esfenaj: https://beaufood.nl/esfenaj/

SNACK
1/2 avocado (130kcal)
20g potato chips (125 kcal, OK, yes, no need to comment)
500ml water with pure cherry juice

POSSIBLE DINNER
1 whole wheat tortilla (120kcal)
1 tbsp chipotle hummus (60kcal)
1/2 avocado (130kcal)
1 handful spinach (10kcal)
500ml water with pure cherry juice

ACTUAL DINNER
3 small potatoes (300kcal)
2 tbsp ketchup (25kcal)

SNACK
50g coconut yogurt (70kcal)

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3.4.20

jicht, episode 3.

Hi there! Lots sure has changed since our last post, but we're going to focus on one of the things that hasn't changed: I still have gout! I haven't really done anything wrong this time, still no drinking, that means it's been 59 days of no drinking, which is something. Anyway: here's what I've been doing to battle this round of the G.

Day 1: Friday
mild pain, enough to know I should order some more colchicine.

Day 2: Saturday
about the same

Day 3: Sunday
a bit worse

Day 4: Monday
a bit worse, bad enough to start colchicine
a bit too much sugar consumed Monday night

Day 5: Tuesday
Officially a gout flare

Day 6: Wednesday
alkaline drops added to 2 liters of water, magnesium, vit C, and colchicine

Day 7: Thursday
3 liters of water added and very little movement

Day 8: Friday
Improvement

Day 9-11
Continual improvement and reduction of therapeutic methods, including stopping colchicine on saturday

Day 12 Monday
Yeah, not so pleasant again. Returning to:
3L water, 2 doses of poison water, magnesium, vit C, colchicine


26.2.20

intake.

Gout 90% in remission, foot still pretty much sucks. It's back. It's been 3 weeks of doing everything right. Decided to thoroughly crash this space and document daily pill swallowing. My last day of drinking was 4 Feb 2020 because I keep forgetting, that's 25 days ago.

Tuesday 25 Feb
2 MSM, 2 VITC, 2 MAG, 3 MEL.

Wednesday 26 Feb
4 MSM, 4 VITC, 2 MAG, 3 VITD, 1 VITB, 3 TUR.

Thursday 27 Feb
NOTHING YOU STUPID ASSHOLE

Friday 28 Feb
3 MSM, 4 VITC, 2MAG

Sat 29 Feb
1,0mg COL (9am). 0.5mg COL (11:30am)

Sun 1 Mar
0.5mg COL (9am), 0.5mg COL (9pm), 2MAG

Mon 2 Mar
0.5 COL (6am), 0.5mg COL (3am)
Water: 1 liter.

Tue 3 Mar
0.5 COL (9am), 0.5mg COL (5pm), 2MAG

8.2.20

2020 vduck lifestyle challenge.
















So hey, I really mean it this time. No realllllly.

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Yep. A feeling initiated in December 2019 by having my first-ever tooth extraction and exacerbated by a slow healing process and a fucked-up-feeling hole in my mouth afterwards that makes me think of Chet Baker almost every day (and not in a "man, how about that solo on "Autumn Leaves" way). I find myself finally spurred into action by my second gout outbreak in three years, this one much worse than the last already-shitty-enough one, and by today, day three of that bullshit, I think I've decided that my pretty-committed 2019/2020 slow-motion suicide approach to living has, ironically enough, outlived its usefulness. I was kind of hoping that it would all end quicker and a lot less painfully than this.

So: in the absence of a better plan, I am going to try and take care of myself for a bit. I mostly just never want to have another gout flare-up in my life. "Details forthcoming."

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6.2.20

#1 with a bullet.

I was just kind of mindlessly wandering around out here amongst the smattering of "recent" posts, my manner of wandering vaguely recalling a dog sniffing one of those meandering but purposeful-seeming paths around its own backyard: not totally engrossed in the endeavor, but not completely disinterested either...lots of pooping and peeing happened there over the years, lots of olfactory history. Good times.

Welllll, ok....my wandering didn't start out totally mindlessly: I was looking to see what the last recipes I'd written down were, because to say "I haven't been cooking much over the past year" is quite an understatement. But, right now, in a cautious nod towards survival, I'm trying to improve my vegetable intake.

So yeah, looking for recent recipes, blah blah, but then I came across this non-food post from August 2018 about why I shouldn't play A-2, and suddenly was struck by the fact that A) at the moment all I really feel like writing about at all is poker, and B) no matter what else has happened....in spite of, or even in fact maybe even BECAUSE of everything that's happened....I can at least say that, well, I'm a much better poker player than I used to be.

Which, looking at the numbers, would only make sense. When I wrote this post about being card dead 18 months ago, I was kind of embarrassedly complaining about the amount of poker I'd been playing, sheepishly admitting to having recently played just over 10,000 hands, a number that seemed unfathomably obsessive/compulsive. How did that even happen? Just didn't seem possible. At the time, I chalked it up to it having had "a lonely, fixated couple of months," and that I needed some escapism (?).

By now, February 2020, after some similarly-themed months, I have played just over 80,000 hands. And because my current environmental conditions remain ripe for abuses of compulsive escapism, I'm bringing my online poker career to an end for a while.

Yes, I know, great idea. But! As I retire, I am not only the #1 ranked "play money" player in the Netherlands (so now, not just in the "Skilled" league, but the "Elite" league, the highest, fuck yeah), which I have been for a couple of weeks now, but THEN OVER THE WEEKEND GET THIS I was ranked #40 in the world for about half a day. At the time of that ranking my bankroll was around $44,000,000, painstakingly cultivated from initially grinding it out in 100k or 500k tournaments and then graduating to 1M and 2.5M tournaments over about a month's worth of playing.

When my bankroll was 44M? I'd also won 120M in the past week. I'd gritted my teeth and tried a couple of 10M tournaments, won a couple big ones, lost a few more. Which means that in a furious hopscotch of one step forward two steps back, I'd also lost 80M in a week, my bankroll hovering in a range from 20M to 40M.

Two days later, all I had left (pictured above) was $761, I'd run dead cold for a logic-defying 3 hours in a row between 1am and 4am, and instead of taking the #1 piece of advice about what to do in that situation, which is to stop playing if at all possible, I tilted my way down to nothing, so hour by hour I was plummeting down the global leaderboard as winning players passed me on their way up, my sudden and halfhearted dream of making the cut for the PokerStars 2020 Hall of Fame (Top 25 in the world) dashed because, by the end of 24 hours of incredibly bad luck and equally bad decisions, I didn't have enough money left to even sit at a tournament table, and I'd banned myself from buying any more chips.

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And this? This is why we don't play with real money. I am terrrrribly suited for being a real poker pro because of my pathological desire for risk and my addiction to what we call "action". I get bored if I'm running too good, I get reckless if I'm card dead for too long...basically still no discipline. Real players define ranges and stick to them no matter what is happening.

BUT. I did come up with a little cheat sheet to keep myself as in line as possible. A real poker player seeing this list will go "no duh", but I have to say I think I've actually learned it now, the hard way, by losing everything I'd built up over weeks in a matter of hours, multiple times, and I can say (with the exception of the ridiculous 3-5 offsuit that cracked my A-A on a shove in my last big money game): when I stuck to these tips below, I generally won.
  1. Don't play stupid hands. There's a reason 7-5 offsuit is not in most people's standard ranges. Until very recently I don't think I ever really believed how often you can win with A or K high even if a flop completely misses you. It kind of happens all the time. In contrast, if you limp in with 7-5 and don't catch a piece of anything, you are generally pretty fucked unless you feel like pumping out a committed bluff, or there's no betting and everyone just bingos their way to showdown.
  2. Really don't play stupid hands if you're not in position. It has slowly sunk in that things like pot control and fold equity are real things, and that position becomes more and more important as you become more aware of how to manipulate other players.
  3. Pay attention to stack sizes. Relatedly, opponents' diminishing stack sizes mean they are more likely to go all-in at some point with their best hand possible, so don't be betting speculatively if you just know it's getting to be about time for them to make a desperate move, this is how you end up saying "fuck I'm stupid" as someone forces you all in with J-7 offsuit (but see rule 1). Also, if you're the short stack, recognize that someone with a deeper stack will more likely call your shove with any two cards.
  4. Hand reading. I used to think it was a dark art, one of those things you just see Daniel Negreanu do on the YouTube. I now realize that if you play enough, your intuition starts knowing when shit just doesn't feel right; like when what looks like a post-flop C-bet is just a bluff, because there's no way someone who raised pre-flop hit with any of those shitty cards you're looking at, OR, conversely, they have pocket pairs, which is almost always the answer when your alarm bells start ringing about "these bets not making sense", especially if you know the player is generally tight. 
  5. Really, don't call somebody's all-in just because they're tilted or you're tilted or because they just wear you down or because you're curious to see what happens. There's no shame in refusing a shove 10 or 15 times in a row if someone's trying to bully you.
  6. Believe people until they give you a reason not to. That sounds like some hippie bullshit, but what I mean is that, way too often, I myself make the paranoid assumption that people are trying to bluff me when in fact they have given me no reason to think that. This is probably the biggest mistake I make right now most often. So I go to showdown with a marginal hand and they really do have the nuts. Stupid, but it's funny how much poker reflects your real-life personality sometimes. 
  7. Given all of the above, playing A-2 is usually OK, as long as you fully recognize that it's A-2, not A-J and you are aware of your position. Just after I wrote this, I realized that I had enough chips left to sit at a cheap tournament (shrug emoji), so I decided to see if I could illustrate any of the above to myself. Lo and behold, this happened:













Yes, that is me playing A-2 from the button. can't remember what happened pre-flop, I imagine I opened to $1200, 3 big blinds. The BB called, SB folded. Flop comes Q-K-9, two diamonds. BB bets a mysteriously small $400 into a pot of $3600, I raise $1200, he calls.














BB checks on the turn, I bet $2400, he calls. I make my flush on the river. A-2 wins. Why did this work? Because I got lucky. But there was no point at which I should not have raised, and I was in position, so this was a mix of good luck and not fucking things up.

Kbye, poker!!!

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7.1.20

that's the spirit.

Fourteen years is a long time to have done just about anything, right? I mean: what are ya, a QUITTER?

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8.12.19

and the answer isssssssss.........

Nothing. That's all folks, we're done here. Thanks for having paid any attention at all. Catch you on the flippity-flop.

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23.9.19

season finale.

Recordbreaking year, 2019. So end-of-Thelma & Louise-style recordbreaking that I decided not to even document huge swaths of it. But now I find myself going back to New Smyrna Beach and thought hey, heck, etc: if the Season Finale isn't reason enough to squeeze out a few words and a picture or two, then what will be.

24.5.19

note to self.

Find dressing for my watermelon-edamame-peanut salad idea. Maybe it's just Chef John's peanut vinaigrette.

(EDITOR'S NOTE: Yeah, you, um...didn't invent this. Maybe the peanut part. Sorry.)

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15.3.19

take a ride in the sky.

Yeah I made this up, there's no such thing. Should have olives too but the requester of this recipe thinks he doesn't like olives. Or ginger. Or beans. Or chickpeas. Or, or, or. Sauce/pasta ratio is approximate.

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puttanesca alla siciliana/arizoniana.


2 good quality anchovy filets
3 tbsp olive oil
1 large carrot, chopped small
1 fresh red chili pepper, seeded and finely chopped
3 large cloves garlic, very thinly sliced or chopped
2 cans high-quality Italian tomatoes
24 raisins 
1 tbsp raw sugar
3 or 4 tbsp capers, drained and chopped if large 
zest of one small orange, or half of one large orange, duh, minced fine, and maybe a little juice too if it's a delicious orange
pinch smoked paprika
Salt and pepper to taste
450g spaghetti or bucatini

A few leaves of basil, torn
A handful of flat-leaf parsley tops, chopped
1/2 cup hazelnuts, toasted, skinned, salted, and chopped roughly
1/2 cup Pecorino or Parmesan, grated

Melt the anchovies in the olive oil. Add the carrot and saute for 5 minutes, add chili pepper and garlic and saute for one minute, not burning your garlic. Add tomatoes, raisins, sugar, capers, orange zest and smoked paprika, simmer for 15 minutes or until carrot is not crunchy and tomatoes taste good, if you buy good tomatoes 15 minutes should be enough. SALT TO TASTE, shit is already salty because of the anchovies and capers. Cook pasta in well-salted water. Serve with parsley, basil, hazelnuts and cheese on top, crushed red pepper on the side. Serves....3? 2?

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10.2.19

ohhhhhhhh.

Guys, I know what happened: I slowly replaced my hobby of almost talking about my feelings with Texas Hold'Em and Fortnite. And then completely didn't write for 5 months. No wonder I was so fucked up! I'm fine now!!!

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9.2.19

let's say we did.

On the other hand, VDuck was always an exercise in how to almost but not quite write about the biggest thing that was going on in your life. Why, I don't know. Balls, probably. Missing balls.

But riiiiight, one great thing about VDuck being disguised as a food blog is that we the writer could  always rely on the necessary daily inspiration of cookingggghhhhhhkkkk to force us to tap out some narcissistic sentences and then obsessively/compulsively revise them until we'd wasted most of the day and oh yes we'd also eventually emitted some sort of something: something pointlessly, uncommunicatively oblique or not. At least it would be a record that something happened. Mostly in our stupid mind, we the writer.

Thus I will start there. Pardon my continuing on as if nothing is amiss. That's just how we do.

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So (flips/tosses hair), anyway, guys? Imaginary guys? This is something rilly great that I totally invented, and it's totally worth recording BECAUSE GET A  LOAD OF THIS: IT'S A VEGANIZABLE CROSS BETWEEN TUNA NOODLE CASSEROLE AND MAC AND CHEEEEEEEEESE!!!!!!!!!!! (Imagine these words being screamed in the hideous death voice of the bear creature in Annihilation),

Mkay well anyway. It really was something. It isn't really trying to be either TNC or MnC but gives you the feeling of both. And it's pretty fucking healthy without trying to be. The creaminess comes from the starch from the pasta and from white beans, and the tang comes from lemon and from sourdough breadcrumbs. Yeah yeah whatever. Here's the shorthand notes:

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baked noodles with fennel and white beans

so you make one recipe vegetarian zuppe di sedano from Giuseppe's Sicilian/Sardinian cookbook
ok i know
i hate recipes where the first step is to make some other recipe
but this is pretty brainless, it's basically a simple vegetable soup with almost a whole thing of celery. head? head of celery? you leave out the pork eyeball or whatever his version calls for.

add 400g cooked white beans
boil
add 400g whole wheat small and fun noodles of your choice, i used elbow. you should use something that things can go inside. anyway that sounds like a lot of noodles but they need to suck up all the soup.

leave overnight
in the morning you will see that those evil noodles have indeed sucked up the soup
it's pretty good to just eat right now if you're curious.

but then you roast one bulb fennel with one sweet onion and 3 cloves of garlic for like 45 or 46 minutes.

add salt and pepper/TASTE FOR SEASONING
add the minced zest of two lemons
top with grated pecorino and sourdough breadcrumbs

bake at 200 for 15 minutes
THANK ME LATER BITCHESSSSSSSSSSS

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immediately germane.

But. And. It's really rather, I don't know, upsetting to feel so foreign and uncomfortable writing here. It underscores the seemingly paradoxical clarity with which I Have Lost My Way. Like, you''re lost, totally lost, mayday mayday, and suddenly you come upon an impossibly giant, roaring river you certainly don't remember crossing, you'd remember that wouldn't you, and then, oh look, there on the other side of it you spy exactly the place where you came from. How stupid. I was literally just having the thought "you used to have hobbies, right? Or, a hobby?"

I guess it was this, or this was one of them. How healthy, to have a hobby consisting of almost daring to write about your feelings (I guess really writing about them is what your Drafts folder in Gmail is for). Anyway, being here, I am now experiencing "conflict", or, my pretty normally conflicted state is being pushed stumbling into the spotlight, for many reasons, the most immediately germane of which is that this was (I now realize) a surprisingly important thing I did that kept me me, and now it feels impossible to do, or at the very least not very plausible. So in typical fashion I am of course deciding that the easiest thing to do would be to keep not doing it.

And, yet. Or, but. Some connective word tissue. Continuing to do nothing is not how you get to "doing something". Plus. regardless of all that, I don't think I want it to end like this. This blog. Well who would want anything to end like this, in a slow and unspectacularly repetitive death spiral of redaction, retraction, more bad action words. That's a rhetorical question about the boring death spiral. So there will be writing attempts.

And oh hey I turned 50.

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13.1.19

my visit to america.























As you can see, it was "pretty exciting". Also the weather.










30.9.18

what to expect at your first AA meeting.

As if going to an AA meeting didn't feel like enough of a boring, put-me-in-a-box-I'm-done cliche (although, how is this more boring than just continuing to fail at "drinking in moderation" I ask you completely rhetorically), I came back feeling something like buoyancy (struggling for properly oblique reference, should just mention Jay-Z), lifted by a surprising, hopeful recession of my usual weighty cynicism about the whole endeavor. I told a couple of people "how it went" (amazing how quotes destroy any honest emotional content), putting some real effort into "conveying the details", etc. 

Then, (surprisingly, still) somewhat content, I slipped into wondering if I'd had a "normal" experience or not. Cinematically tapping my pencil against my brow with a (surprisingly?) hollow sound and/or nibbling lightly on one of the arms of my glasses (is this enough adverbs? I'm never sure) to indicate thought (Editor's Note: physiologically possible? Sounds awkward, doing both), I spent a little time on the Google, which revealed that not only was my experience completely "normal", it was "normal" enough to where (thank you Mysterious Higher Power) I didn't even get the opportunity of struggling through writing creatively about the basics in an original way: several hundred other people had already uncynically included all the pertinent hopeful surprises. I guess this is the most representative of them. In terms of the uncynical facts of what happened, my meeting was pretty much exactly like that. Maybe it'll be easier to say something original about my second meeting.

Then another helpful friend sent one of DFW's rather mercilessly bleak summaries of what I guess is "one way to look at" the cliched AA cycle:
“....the Crocodiles say they can't even begin to say how many new guys they've seen Come In and then get sucked back Out There, Come In to AA for a while and Hang In and put together a little sober time and have things start to get better, head-wise and life-quality-wise, and after a while the new guys get cocky, they decide they've gotten `Well,' and they get really busy at the new job sobriety's allowed them to get, or maybe they buy season Celtics tickets, or they rediscover pussy and start chasing pussy (these withered gnarled toothless totally post-sexual old fuckers actually say pussy), but one way or another these poor cocky clueless new bastards start gradually drifting away from rabid Activity In The Group, and then away from their Group itself, and then little by little gradually drift away from any AA meetings at all, and then, without the protection of meetings or a Group, in time--oh there's always plenty of time, the Disease is fiendishly patient--how in time they forget what it was like, the ones that've cockily drifted, they forget who and what they are, they forget about the Disease, until like one day they're at like maybe a Celtics-Sixers game, and the good old Fleet/First Interstate Center's hot, and they think what could just one cold foamer hurt, after all this sober time, now that they've gotten `Well.' Just one cold one. What could it hurt. And after that one it's like they'd never stopped, if they've got the Disease. And how in a month or six months or a year they have to Come Back In, back to the Boston AA halls and their old Group, tottering, D.T.ing, with their faces hanging down around their knees all over again, or maybe it's five or ten years before they can get it up to get back In, beaten to shit again, or else their system isn't ready for the recurred abuse again after some sober time and they die Out There--the Crocodiles are always talking in hushed, 'Nam-like tones about Out There--or else, worse, maybe they kill somebody in a blackout and spend the rest of their lives in MCI-Walpole drinking raisin jack fermented in the seatless toilet and trying to recall what they did to get in there, Out There; or else, worst of all, these cocky new guys drift back Out There and have nothing sufficiently horrible to Finish them happen at all, just go back to drinking 24/7/365, to not-living, behind bars, undead, back in the Disease's cage all over again. The Crocodiles talk about how they can't count the number of guys that've Come In for a while and drifted away and gone back Out There and died, or not gotten to die.” 
Not having gotten past the first 59 pages of IJ myself, it's hard to say how much of that is complete fucking-with-you sarcasm, I mean, is this the author's voice or a character's voice, etc. Devil's advocate and whatnot. Or reverse Devil's advocate. Author hangs self, strongly suggesting that he "may not have had all the answers". Do I really have to find the book and start over again I ask uncynically.

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