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“The end of an empire is messy at best. And this empire’s ended, like all the rest.” -Ran
dy Newman
And the ever sounding crashing down of the economy permeates through the market’s fruit bins and meat stands to the country club with well groomed grass and eighteen hole golf. Us, friends, together in a new pioneer of poverty (barely, but broke nonetheless). Who lack funds to continue the dreams we have, but are sufficient enough for the broke weed summer; no ceasing of movement and moment. Are to withstand the wake of current affairs in our own oblivion.
Embark with us, dear pioneer, another front and future of the grand country we live in. The backdrop, the canvas, is that of failed and outsourced factories and industries. The methods of career and work are now riddles, and inefficient in their own structure. We are to build something different, something old, and something simple in procedure. Something, but as for now (the ever important now), friends, gather together with our little monies, and celebrate the crashing down with dancing, singing, laughter, and art.
Morale!
It was amidst the fire and rubble in the wake of the Pittsburgh victory. The riot police were mounted on horses, both in shields monitoring the chaos. They had road blocks on the side streets and alleys to defer the human traffic; in hopes to feeling “in control”.
Forbes avenue was hosting riots and men were breaking through glass with their heads, ripping parking meters from the ground, setting fire to furniture. It went thick with bodies down to the Cathedral where on the lawn had yet another sofa aflame, and encircled by a chanting mass.
Chris went ahead of us, with a plastic cup of straight vodka in his hand, drinking while running a
nd eventually becoming one in a crowd of thousands. We lagged behind, us the few who were busy tying our shoes, while others pissed in their toilets to prepare for the war and celebration.
Time elapsed, we were in the center of the riots. All phone calls to Chris were incomprehensible. The noise around us was bludgeoning. Eventually, the lot of us that stuck together, made way to a curb. To all of our surprises Chris 
came stumbling in little coherence down the sidewalk towards us, and then embraced us with hugs.
On the corner of Atwood & Forbes there was another furniture fire. In the fire stood a man, keeping warm, also of no coherence. He was in a winter jacket, days from bathing, with long stringy hair, balding, and unshaven. Chris, drunk, approached the man and kissed on the forehead. We pulled Chris away, tugged him down Atwood to watch the flames engulf furniture on a wrecked car while keeping him from anymore of his drunk shenanigans.
A day prior to all of this the Man in the Fire was in a psychward. He was rummaging through trash, and speaking of airplanes and wires that were in his head to the general public. A lady in Wendy’s told the manager, where the Man in the Fire was standing outside of, about the Man in the Fire’s babel of airplanes and wires. The manager called the psychiatric institute, or maybe he called the police, either way he ended up in a hospital bed and pumped full of thorazine for the night. Like many nights.
They released him the morning of Pittsburgh’s victory. He wandered the alleys surrounding the UPMC. Found trash, ate it. He then found carboard and fell asleep. When he woke he was frigid, and surrounded by shouting and yelling. Feeling incoherent he wandered down the sidewalks, avoiding the police and their horses. This seemed out of place for the Man in the Fire, but stability was not one of his virtues. There was a fire on the street where he staggered to. He walked into the fire and stood, shuffling from the chill and thorazine.
I have thoughts, but they’re swimming too far down and they refuse my bait. So, instead, here is a piece of fiction stemming from the slow summer nights.
The next exit: that is where we will get off, that is where we will be only two minutes away from our destination, our mecca. We drove all night for this. Maybe it was only an hour. No, no, I think we’ve been on the road for fifteen minutes, or, at least, it’s been fifteen minutes since we decided to come here. We drove around for probably half an hour before that; no direction, no aim, no reason for either at that point.
Yes, it was fifteen minutes ago when someone in the car said that this is where we will go, this is where we shall find the things we have been searching for. This will be the answer to the question that all of us have been trying to spit out ever since that feeling set upon us, that same feeling that had crawled down our throats so many nights before, setting up camp at the base of our stomachs, shaking the walls and stomping on the floors of our innards, sending messages of war up to the hypothalamic regions of our minds.
“Just think,” someone suddenly says, somehow finding a voice strong enough to overcome the music that has filled every nook of the car, “we are only four minutes away; three right turns, two lights. We are one collective moving like water with no dam to stop us.” We don’t need to respond, all three of us know that we are thinking the exact same things, about the glory that will hit us with a gentle blow, rocking us back and forth on our heels, about the easy contentedness that will settle on us as a pitcher of dry lemonade on the porch of a farmhouse, ice cubes disappearing faster than we can tell a story with our hands as we point to where we got this scar and that idea, over there by that fence, some thirteen years ago.
I’m torn from this thought as I realize we’ve just pulled in; it seems while I was pouring another glass and listening to the dust crunch under my shoes idly sliding on the old wood, my hands were turning the wheel and my feet were working the pedals. I could have run someone over and all I would’ve noticed was the sting of citrus in the cut of my hand. My friends un-click their seat belts and suddenly I do not want to be here. This oasis is danger. I’d rather just turn around and drive home, because this music is all I need. I’d rather be in my warm bed, because you can’t be a fool when you’re alone. But then they get out of the car, and I know that they cannot ignore that feeling that has by now planted roots in every limb; the mind can do nothing against a body that is a slave to this feeling. I try to protest but my voice is feeble and they tell me I am fine, and I know that they are right, because I know we have done this so many times before, I just cannot get rid of the thought that it would be so much easier, so much better, if we just turned around now.
But no, my legs are already moving and we go in and we are kings of the night, and I make sure every step is strong and every breath is calm and cool, and we already know what we have come for, so we stride past the others and we take what is ours, and after the cashier says six dollars and my friend gives her a five, I know our cover is blown, I know we’ve been revealed as fools, so my mind retreats to the porch, and I turn to my friend as my mouth tries to tell a story about what happened at work yesterday but it gets caught up on a tiny detail, whether the man said, “Yes, two oranges” or if he said “No, I’ll take three,” and I realize that I am talking in circles and that my grave is ready for me to jump right in, but then suddenly I am receiving my change from the pretty cashier and I am walking out and the buzzing from the flies trying to get at the lemonade disappears with the sound of the bell on the door.
We sit down on the curb and there is no longer a need for the farmhouse. This is our porch and here we can slide our feet over the pebbles and the cigarette butts and we can listen to the sound of the crinkling plastic wrappers as we feast on our donuts, our chips, our ice cream and our slushies, our success and our serenity that seems to come so easily now every night of this summer when we drive and we get that feeling which has now made peace with our minds and has poured out of our nostrils as the smoke it came in on, leaving only until we beckon it back again, asking it to shake and tear at our insides, asking it to guide us through these slow summer nights.
Pittsburgh, pittsburgh PITTSburgh.
I like Pittsburgh. There’s the downstairs neighbor rap beats, unlit rooms, aimless walks, lost time, slow time, and my moccasins paining my feet. All the college students (I do not relate) in their garb and dress drinking coffee drinks while walking in their furry boots down the street amuses me as it would…the old man… already, and I wish I was more involved in the loop and thought process, but I fail to see the glory, and rather save the money.
But I’m OK. In fact I’m alright. With the moccasins, the furry boots, the sore feet and the “who am I?”. If that’s how it be, then that’s how it be. I like to breath within the sigh of relief.
And home now…I’m home now home now. Laying in bed, and gaining momentum or barreling down into sleep. Tomorrow tomorrow tomorrow and school again, but only ’til May. Then Summertime and heat and sweat and bees on the dandelions waiting to sting my feet while I eat hamburgers from the propane grill…I long for something different always, but I mentioned I was OK, alright even.
So I realize winter is OK… fine by me even, but it stays a few weeks to long; Lingers around and then goes away, for one day, and throws itself back in the fit for two more weeks ’til the beast is locked down behind the gate until loosed on the next roll round of our Great Planet Earth.
But that’s the seasons and their weather, and I still have yet to take it as it is and say “Glory Glory” and celebrate how clever the already is, already is.
College Food is back again and in this case, as Mrs. Higgins would say, a happy accident just occured. I just came up with this recipe as a failed attempt to make enchiladas, how fortunate for my tummy. It actually wasn’t a total failure, I just decided to give up. You see, I’ve been trying to get up the drive to make enchiladas all week, and seeing as I just had a boatload of work and exams previously this week, I thought a filling, tasty enchilada was the ticket. This wasn’t the first time I was to try and make enchiladas this week though. Prior attempts were dampened by unthawed chicken and lack of cheese. I lamented and resolved to make them on Thursday night (right now). As I was preparing the chicken for the enchilada I realized that there wasn’t as much as I thought I should have in my skillet. Sure enough, looking in my freezer, I found that there was another bag of frozen chicken there, forgotten and alone. Cursing, I frantically thought of what to do. Really, I didn’t need to make enchiladas…I mean I wanted to, but with two other setbacks this week already, maybe I wasn’t supposed to have enchiladas just yet. So I got out the other bag of chicken to thaw for tomorrow night (with an additional one this time, to make sure I had enough) and stared at the steaming remains of diced poultry when an idea hit me. I had just bought some paprika! Time to whip it out. So as I am writing this I am eating a wonderful meal of Spanish Chicken and Rice–surprisingly fast and tasty with a punch of spice. Only problem is I’m not sure why I called it Spanish Rice…I mean paprika isn’t exclusive to Spain. Well, unless you can find a Spaniard in my lineage, I doubt there’s any reason to call this Spanish Chicken, but no matter! Spanish Chicken it is! 
**As the title suggests, this is a WIP (Work in Progress), so, there is no Apprentice or Master Edition. I will compile the finished recipe after a bit more testing. As for now, here is what I can only assume will turn out to be mostly the Apprentice version. Me gusto pollo.
WIP: Chicken and Rice
Tools:
Minute Rice
Cheese of your preference (Think Spanish! Which basically means buy the pre-mixed shredded taco style IGA brand kind)
Crushed red pepper
pinch o’ salt
1 small red onion, diced
generous amounts of paprika
1/2-3/4 lb. chicken
Let’s make it!
1. Just a minute! Prepare Minute Rice according to packaging (yes, lame, I know, I did say this is probably going to be the Apprentice version…and hey! this is for college kids…)
2. Chop it up! Cut the chicken into small slivers or cubes, whichever is your preference! (I prefer slivers, if you care).
3. Sizzlin’! Brown chicken and diced onions in skillet.
4. Combine salt, paprika and crushed red pepper on chicken in skillet.
5. Dish it out! Spoon out rice and top with chicken. Sprinkle cheese on top.
6. Tiempo por comida!
Yummm, I’m still enjoying the remnants of this tasty and spicy meal. Remember, this is a WIP and will most likely be improved upon for a further issue (unless of course I get sick of it before then). Enjoy!
**And yes, you’re right! It doesn’t look anything like the picture!**
Josh Sullivan, a comic artist from St. Petersburg, Florida, is currently traveling the country, staying on a different person’s couch each week of the year. He is chronicalling his journey in a series of weekly comics/magazines, aptly called Fifty-Two Friends. Right now he’s in Week #9, having already made his way to San Dimas, CA.
It’s the sort of adventure that makes me say “That’s awesome” as soon as I read the first line of the news blurb telling me about it. While I imagine the motives and almost everything else are very different, Sullivan’s story reminds me of Into the Wild (I saw the movie, but you could also think of the book). There’s something really appealing to me in the idea of abandoning all of the norms of American society to live a life completely free of the constraints of cash, cars, and cell phones. I have many plans to take such trips some day, but for now I am left to dreaming as I go to bed in preparation of morning classes and an afternoon shift in the mailroom. No wonder I’m ready to escape. Spring break will still be too cold, and I need to spend this summer working, but somehow, someday, I will go backpacking. And if whatever this blog turns into is still running by then, I’m sure you will all be updated whenever possible.
(as in a pipedream, not illicit drug use… “illicit”)
Kurt Vonnegut’s Breakfast of Champions walks a fine line between absurd humor and scathing commentary, for in between the crude drawings of assholes and the discussions of “wide-open beavers,” there lies a blat
ant satire of politics and society (of course, the wide-open beaver sections can be considered part of that). I often find myself boisterously guffawing one moment and pondering the truths of his statements the next. Example (don’t worry about the names and such if you are unfamiliar with this book):
She was a brand-new adult, who was working in order to pay off the tremendous doctors’ and hospital bills her father had run up in the process of dying of cancer of the colon and then cancer of the everything.
This was in a country where everybody was expected to pay his own bills for everything, and one of the most expensive things a person could do was get sick. Patty Keene’s father’s sickness cost ten times as much as all the trips to Hawaii which Dwayne was going to give away at the end of Hawaiian Week.
Now do me a favor and forget politics and economics and all that for a moment: does this make any sense? Should being sick cost more than a luxurious trip to Hawaii (never mind ten times more than a handful of those trips)?
Okay, now you can consider economics, but try to do it in a different way. Maybe this wouldn’t fit into our economic model, or any model that could be derived from our current one, but I think that means that there needs to be a huge change in the way our society views things, because it just doesn’t make any sense at all.
You don’t have to be a communist to think that everybody deserves to “enjoy” certain accommodations and privileges, and I don’t understand how good health isn’t one of the most basic of those.
And now for another quote from the book that is completely unrelated. It’s self explanatory.
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