Saturday, May 26, 2012

Approximately How I Feel About Salads

They're alright. I mean, you could do better than a salad, unless it's a really good salad, in which case maybe you couldn't do better, because salads have stuff other things cannot provide. If you have a salad, you won't find all of the qualities of a salad improved upon in the form of a steak. You'll have a steak, but you'll also have a negative salad. Because you traded in your salad. But then again, some salads are weak and not worthwhile. So which salads are the best ones to choose? That's up to you. I like expensive salads, but I don't like the expense required to obtain one. So salads, they're okay. Because they have good things and bad things. They could be better but could also, obviously, be worse. The thing is when you're eating a salad is that if you were eating something else, you'd be doing what most everyone else is doing, because most of the things people eat aren't salads. Usually they're eating breakfast food, or chicken.

Dressings are good for salads in the way that gas is good for cars. A salad cannot physically move anywhere without dressing. It can't move anywhere with dressing, but at least there's something alive in there. Chicken, as Conor stated, is really good in salads. But don't worry about justification, because if you're eating a salad, most likely nobody cares. Most salads are eaten without anyone giving a single fuck. The eater of the salad may have a sense of comfort from having just eaten a salad, but then again, who is he going to tell? Because that could only come off as conceited. There are some really great things about salad, but there is nothing terrible about salads. They fail to break you down while building you up however much you allow them to. But you could allow them to not build you up at all, if you put a lot of fatty items in them.

Fruit salads, those aren't even salads. I'm talking about a meat salad. Where you put chicken and beef and pork together, with a mixture of nuts and maybe one specific type of lettuce. Chase down your throat with milk and you'll get the fullest nutritional value.

Some things about salads aren't even worth talking about; like the forks. Salad forks are special forks. What other food items have put in the work to split one of the three main silverware items to split forms for the purpose of accommodating that single item? Answer: soup. Soups and salads are special because they necessitate additional silverware. So, that's something that other foods (chicken, ice cream, toast) cannot claim. Now I know what you're thinking: what about butter spreaders? We shouldn't count those because butter spreaders are a staple of country club dining, but are best used for crackers and they already have butter knives to ... oh, I almost forgot steak! Soup, salad and steak. That's six silverware items on your plate!

Salads have contributed to society.

--Eliot Sill

Conor - Exactly How I Feel About Salads

Salads are decent! Sometimes I'm like 'man, I really want a salad,' and sometimes when I think about what I want to eat soon, salads don't even cross my mind!

I only sortof want to eat this
For those of you who just tuned in, this post is about salads.

According to the first thing that comes up when you google "salad definition" a salad is a dish of raw leafy vegetables, often  tossed with pieces of other raw or cooked vegetables, fruit, cheese or other ingredients and served with a dressing. That's true! If you want more factual information on this stuff, the wikipedia page on salads is exactly as boring as you think it is.

There are tons and tons of different types of lettuce and leafy vegetables that can serve as the foundation of a salad. Don't really worry yourself about picking a specific kind! Pretty much no matter what you choose I bet it's going to end up tasting like a salad. Salads are hard to fuck up. I guess if someone had a gun to my head, and was demanding lots of specific information on the ingredients that would make up my ideal salad, I would end up choosing a crispy kind of lettuce, but hey. I don't really care.

Chicken is good in salads if you find yourself with a salad but you're also like "I'm kind of disappointed by what I'm about to eat." Chicken somehow justifies the salad.

Raisins! Man, raisins are really good in salads in turns out. Some people like cheese in their salads, but seeing as how I don't like cheese to begin with, liking cheese in my salad would be silly, because salads don't improve cheese. Salads don't really improve anything.

Oh shit. Ooooooh shit.
Salads do provide me with a socially acceptable way to consume lots and lots of Italian dressing, though. I would drink this shit straight, if my parents would continue to buy it after they discovered that we were running through this salad dressing so quickly because I was drinking cups of it a day. I don't think they'd do that. Dressing, man, fuck. It is unreasonably delicious. Except for that bullshit ranch dressing. Italian, balsamic vinaigrette, raspberry vinaigrette, these are all solid choices. Drench the whole thing in dressing. Negate any possible opportunity to feel good about yourself because you had a salad for dinner or whatever. Screw that, you had a side of salad, the main course was whatever the hell makes up salad dressing. That's a subject for another day though.

After writing this I actually do want a salad. I'm surprised by this. I want a salad in a theoretical sense. I'm about to go to bed, and when I wake up I bet I'll end up wanting something better than a salad for lunch.

Such as really anything other than a salad.

Salads: B-
Dressing: A

Monday, May 21, 2012

Jesse Hendrick - I Didn't Really Want To Play Bass Guitar But Now I'm Pretty Much Cool With It

Okay, so, bands are one of those things that we always talk about but they never really happen. Kind of like how me and Kyle always talk about how sometime we're going to go to the civil war museum, but we never actually go because it costs money to get in, and plus Kyle has a job now. Like, it's a good idea, but it just never really comes together.

So anyway, speaking of Kyle, he called me because Sam Allen bought a drum set on Craigslist for like a hundred and fifty bucks, and since we always talk about starting a band he figured, hey, now we actually have a drum set, so why the hell not? So of course, I was like, "hell yeah, I'll be in a band. I'll play the guitar and sing."

But Kyle tells me that he's playing guitar, which is shitty for me because I was going to have to borrow his guitar anyway, so now I can't even be second guitar. So I tell him, "hey, that's cool, I'll just sing then."

But unfortunately for me, Sam Allen knows this chick who is apparently a really good singer and I guess he already decided that she's singing, because, after all, he's the one with the drum set. Plus, Kyle says, they're just thinking that a chick singer would be way better.

So I'm sitting here watching my spot in this band kind of close up, because all I can really play is drums and guitar, and I was thinking of some kind of backup plan, like keyboard or something, when Kyle says, "we were thinking you could actually play the bass."

Now, I've seen enough bands to know that the bass player is usually the guy in the band who sucked too much at guitar to actually play the actual guitar, but I wasn't going to complain to Kyle because I didn't want Kyle to decide that maybe they didn't really need me in the band after all.

"Yeah, I can totally play the bass," I said, "and I can probably, like, sing some backup vocals too, or sing the ones where we don't want a chick singer."

I slipped that last part in so that I can maybe move up to singing if we want to play some covers or if Sam Allen's chick turns out to be a bitch.

Now, I don't actually own a bass guitar, or a guitar that has strings on it, but that's a whole 'nother story, so when we had our first band practice at Sam Allen's house I just borrowed his bass. At first we just jammed for a while, and I was super bored because I don't really know how to play this thing that well, and so my parts were pretty much just watching Kyle's hands and playing some of the notes that he was playing, which was actually sort of difficult even though this thing is just like a guitar except that there are only four strings and it's way quieter.

We did that for, like, 30 minutes, and I really wanted to stop jamming but I didn't want to say anything because I didn't want to seem like I was going to be a drag on the band, and I was sort of hoping that maybe if I didn't say anything Kyle and Sam Allen would forget to look at me and they wouldn't notice that I was pretty much just playing quarter notes of whatever Kyle was doing the whole time. Then our jam got interrupted because the doorbell rang and it was the chick singer, who came in and didn't introduce herself to me at all, which was fine because I was still kind of pissed that she took my spot singing and I think Kyle was a little pissed that she was so late.

So now that everybody was there we started to play some cover that the chick and Sam Allen were really excited about but I had never heard of it and I think Kyle had only listened to it like once before practice.

After running through like half of it, Sam Allen and the chick were shouting at Kyle because I guess he kept fucking up on parts, and I thought to myself, hey, maybe playing bass isn't such a bad deal, because I definitely am fucking up way more than Kyle but nobody even cares. Plus while they were arguing I even figured out how to make the bass all fuzzy and awesome sounding and then I could hear my playing way better and even though I was still just playing quarter notes I thought it sounded pretty rock star.

After practice we decided to hit up Kyle's, which is a bar, and not the actual Kyle's actual house, and there was some band playing but I didn't even hear their name. So anyway I was drinking a Blue Moon and Kyle was drinking PBR, because that's his favorite, and I was watching the band, and I realized that the bassist was definitely not just playing quarter notes. Actually, he was totally shredding. I don't think his amp was up high enough, because I could only hear him when I was really listening for him, but his grooves were totally awesome. It made me think to myself, hey, some people are pretty good at this bass stuff.

So anyway, Sam Allen let me take his bass guitar home, and even though I don't have an amp for it I've been playing it a bunch just for practice. I tried to look up that song we were learning but I couldn't remember the title of it so I just made up bass parts to songs I used to be able to play on guitar. They were still pretty much just quarter notes, but hey, everybody's gotta start somewhere, right?

Jesse Hendrick

Sunday, May 20, 2012

Urushiol, my love

robert langellier

Poison ivy, not so different from drugs, after all.

First I make a sacrifice, of my body. I don't need my lower legs. I'll sacrifice those. With drugs I guess it is your liver, or your lungs, or your brain. But something must be offered, and I think I'll offer my lower legs, yes. Those curvy ankles and flat calves and tops of my feet. Those appendagal luxuries, I don't need them. Once I've made those concessions, my legs already lost in my mind, there is nothing left to fear.

Poison ivy is euphoric. The sensation of scratching those desperate itches, as calming as cigarettes, freeing as drink, as high and the hallucinatory bliss of a psilocybin trip. Oh yes, yes, the energy is nearly sexual, an epidermal orgasm. I feel the burning waves rippling and undulating up, down, up, down across my ankles and begging for more, more, more scratching, heavenly scratching, never stop, no, more, harder, yes!! It is climactic relief, release of catatonic liberation urges. The freezing hand hovering above the screaming skin, finally freed to tear into ecstasy, opening holes, wide holes, wide new holes in feeling. All in exchange for a little seeping blood, a tiny expense, and we consider it a supreme nuisance. So what of a little scar, a little red bump textural tattoo, a gleeful admittance of all the gleeful fun I've had itching in my room? Let it be, spread. It will grow with my ecstasy.

And what of this little drug? this little thing that moves on me and takes over my legs and the movements of my fingernails? It is double-bonded urushiol ripping out the undersides of sensitive, sensitive, once so definite, spirited, vigorous, durable skin. Urushiol— that is, the ugly pale-yellow heinous culprit responsible for the big bad bumpy rash. Responsible for all the good relief. It's the same little liquid in ivy, sumac, oak, all the same, just in different shapes, slightly different feelings. It is just a drug, and I've spent much of my life running from it in the same way that I've run from the other drugs I'm told are bad for me. And even when I've been high, even when I'm scratching those desperate itches, I've still avoided it, convinced myself it hurts, that it isn't good, like denying that going to the bathroom is one of the singular best isolated sensations of my day. Those tiny climaxes that masquerade as villains. I won't buy it.

And the thing, the thing with poison ivy is, I am rewarded for my pleasure. With each sacred itch comes another, it spreads. And then there is even more pleasure, even more euphoria enveloping my skin, until one day I may be inflamed, encased in a red bumpy cocoon of my ecstasy, from my burning ankles to the hot lobes dripping from my ears. It will be a transfiguration, truly, from the hard shell of smooth healthy skin, to the transcendent embodiment of burning, bleeding pleasure. I will be simmering, simpering, red and warm in that hot, hot feeling.

This is a real band.

Rap and bluegrass, my friends. Who says I can't like rap?