If I Could Be A Taco, You Know I'd Be Supreme.

                                                                                

          Tacos are easily the greatest invention in all of history. But we'll get to that.

          I haven't written in a really long time. Not since I walked out of my job in early August. So much has happened, but I couldn't possibly remember or detail all of it. I'll start with some highlights and we'll see what happens:

          I had my first semester as a big-eyed freshman at Kennesaw State, and that was great. Hey, it turns out that going to college when you're old enough to actually care about it may be a good idea after all. Of course, I only took three classes so as to not overwhelm myself. Well actually, I started with four-- the fourth was an art class of some kind, and was total bullshit. The first few minutes of the first meeting of that class swerved off-path into an overheated, needless argument about a photo of a house. No, you didn't misread that. Students fighting about a house. Thomas Jefferson's house, in fact. The professor had merely done what every art teacher in every semester at every university in the world has always been known to do-- he asked a baited question.  “Is this art?” Click-- house. FIGHT.

          I don't bite at baited questions. I hated that class and anyone who was dumb enough to open their mouth that day. I eventually withdrew, but not really because of that. It was because I would have failed (first test = hardest test I have ever seen in my life!), and because I didn't want to give a five-minute presentation about a piece of architecture to a class of rabid idiots. Hell no, after that first day blowout about a house, then I get assigned an architectural work for my presentation? That's not art, that's bullshit.

          Ambiguity may have its place in a college professor's arsenal (I could never determine if he was gay, either, so it must just be his thing), but sometimes real life is not so either/or. Is a taco art? Answer: ALWAYS. But we'll get to that.

 

                                                                           

          I also had a Spanish class that I won't say much about. Elementary would be an exaggeration. But that was where my frustrations came about. I knew a lot of Spanish long ago, but with deciding to go back to college, I also decided to totally start over with the language, right back from the basics, to reawaken my old proficiency...and to guarantee a nice grade. Then on the first test, I actually lost points for using Spanish beyond what we had learned in the class. I had to compromise from then on, dumb myself down to get full, proper credit. This caused me to get bored with the class, lazy with the homework, and in the end I came out with a B, for what should have been an easy A (Bam! Emma Stone'd!); teachers, take notice. That's what happens when you punish excellence in the classroom. Cap progression, you'll see recession.

          See, after high school I worked in construction for a few months. White tees, dirty jeans and work boots became normal attire, whether I was at work or not. Due to my comfort with the Spanish language back then, I befriended three Mexican coworkers (yes, just ignore the stereotype and let's press on), each with a different level of capability of English conversation. That ranged from Jose, smoothly fluent in both, to Carlos, probably more skilled in English than he led on, to Hector, who only knew English words useful to him, meaning just profanities and the names for little hardware pieces we used on the job.                                            

          One day, using the microwave that Hector kept in the trunk of his late-80s T-bird, my three amigos made some amazing tacos with tender, succulent deer meat soaked in a homemade hot sauce, and shared them with me. I'll never forget that moment, four 'manos bonding around a microwave in the back of a shitty old car. Tacos bring people together. But we'll get to that.

                                                                                  

          Back to college-- I also endured a very uncomfortable day of the trial of an alleged child rapist. That was for my American Government class, my favorite of the semester. I went on to write an A+ report about that day of trial...but I have yet to actually receive my grade for that.

          Overall, I'm loving school so far and think I've made a great decision. But the obvious, of course, is that for as much as there is that is great, there is just as much that isn't. I still have no girl, no job, no money, and no big accomplishments I can proudly blame as the reasons for lacking the others.

          My problem is that all of my ideas are awesome. I'm always pumping out so many awesome ideas, I'm on to the next one before I can do anything with the previous one. If I could just stick with one thing before I try to hop onto another, maybe I could get something done. But reality doesn't work like that, at least not for me. We can't do everything we want to do and have everything we want to have right now. If the world had the capacity for it, and if I had enough fearless motivation to finish everything I've started, I would have a job, two or three finished screenplays, at least one novel and maybe a weird autobiography of some kind. Icon (my rap persona, thanks to Double L) would have a finished album, as would The Platinum Rule (my whiskey-slurred, heartbroken acoustic folk-punkish project), and I'd also be the drummer for a cover band. This blog would be updated weekly, and I'd probably be a successful mushroom cultivator/dealer. And maybe I wouldn't have a box of condoms in my dresser that's about as old as my lease here (Well, ok honestly, that's a ridiculous exaggeration for effect, but I'm leaving it in anyway; when I want to embarrass myself, I really go for the gold! Just like the color of those wrappers in that orange box...if memory serves).

          The world isn't like that, and I definitely don't have the motivation for it. And here's that paradox of irony that we have all been through. I can't succeed in all those things without motivation. Why do I currently lack such motivation? Well well, chicken and egg'd, ain't I?

          Here's something we all know: Looking for a job fucking sucks. Am I searching for one as hungrily as I should be? Come on, I don't even have to tell you. So what of my motivation for the job search? It's beaten down, weak, whimpering with self-doubt. Rejections do awful damage to one's ego, one's motivation.

          I've never once had a job that I didn't get from an insider's nudge. Construction? Via my crazy drugged-up uncle. Almost five years serving at a Beef O'Brady's thanks to a manager being the father of a fellow drumliner from high school days, and yet another former drumline member already being a cook there. I had a short-lived gig as a pest control guy only because a girlfriend's parents owned the business. The miserable years spent at the law firm I left in August I only got by the recommendation of a friend on the inside.

          But I don't seem to have such connections here in Kennesaw. First time ever, job hunting completely disoriented with no one to slyly wink at. And I've given up on any kind of regional or national chain. Any business that makes you apply online gets a big “fuck you” from me. Apparently I'm psychotic or something, I guess.  Every time I have to take one of those stupid psych/aptitude tests online, I'm disqualified (deemed “unqualified”) as soon as I answer the last question. Best Buy, Pizza Hut, Sears, etc... Fuck them, and fuck the people at the companies like Kronos who write those tests and set the parameters. You know, those tests that are basically just asking if you'll steal from the company, punch customers, or snitch on the managers who are stealing from the company. Where am I going wrong with these things? Am I really supposed to believe I'm too inept to make a pizza, too angry to lift a box? One test very bluntly and intrusively asked if I blame myself for being such a failure.

          What those tests really say to me is that all these companies are full of managers who don't know how to manage. I'd be happy to take their jobs from them if I could just pass the goddamn test.

          Through all this, motivation crumbles. Willpower gradually disappears. My attitude suffers, my outlook changes. All sighs are long. Everything becomes neglected by this “I'll get to it later”, been-through-this-shit-before, defeatist mentality. And I mean everything. Sometimes I don't even eat lunch. Me! Lately, every afternoon when I'm putting my socks on (did you catch that?), I think “Boy, I really need to do something about these toenails...but, well, I am already putting my socks on... So...there's always tomorrow.” Every thought is rife with ellipses.

          This is true life. Sometimes, it just doesn't go our way.

          But tacos help. Tacos help to heal. Now we're at that.

                                                                                     

          There are some things I know I can always count on to help me out of a rut, help me through a bad day, help me laugh, help me enjoy myself. Drinking whiskey, watching old Arrested Development episodes, those are a couple. And tacos.

          If I ever speak of tacos, which I quite often do, I speak with nothing but love. There is just no better experience than a taco extravaganza, whether it's after a long, rough day or a night of hard drinking. I know tacos got me. Tacos won't let me down.

          I love them countless different ways. Beef, fish, chicken, venison. Hard, soft. Homemade, Taco Bell, or a Mexican dive. I just love them.

          Tacos make me happy, no matter what's happening. It may only be a brief fling in taco heaven before I have to go back to reality, but there in that moment, I am happiest.

          Yes, we all know that taco heaven can quickly change to diarrhea hell. Don't let that stop you from enjoying the happiness while it's right there with you. Diarrhea hell is a small price to pay. We've all rolled over after a blackout binge and said “I'm never drinking again.”   Like this classy dame:

                                                                                         

          But we don't mean it, and this is no worse than that.

          Of course, diarrhea hell for me or you might be totally different things thanks to my experiences with claustridium dificile (I'm better now, and I'm not dead!). Anyway, I feel like I'm talking too much about diarrhea now, so let's just pull it back to tacos.

          TACOS TACOS TACOS!

                                                                                

          Do you have a favorite food that helps you momentarily escape the sadness of the real world, a food that shares the healing power of the taco? Tell me!

A Cowardly Exit, But With Proper Grandeur.

          I quit my job today.  Yep, I really did.  And I did it in high fashion, some may say.  Some knew it was coming, others were perhaps shocked.  Others, shocked and appalled.  And angry.  The way I chose to go out is, as you will see, morally or ethically ambiguous; many I think are proud, and I hope inspired, while others, namely, those who are stuck with my work now, are calling me a coward.  I don't disagree, because that is both true and false.
         A while back, a woman (who you will see mentioned later) decided she had had enough of the firm where we worked.  She decided to send her boss a very angry email (but blind copied everyone in the firm so we could all enjoy it).  Within minutes the entire firm was abuzz about this juicy news, everyone was hysterical.  She simply hit 'Send' and ran.  We all applauded her attempt, her getting to leave with at least the feeling of having the last word, of doing something for The Greater Good.  She left satisfied with herself, I'm sure.
          I liked it.  And I had a story to tell as well.  So I decided to borrow her strategy, which I hope will now become tradition, The Tradition of the Disgruntled.  The Final Email.  The Send-n-Run.
          I stayed up late the other night and typed my farewell message, saved it as a draft.  I waited for today.  I got out of bed, got ready for work, showed up on time.  I made sure I said my goodbyes which were the most essential, and then I waited for the most opportune time.
          Copy.
          Paste.
          ................Send:
//////////////////////////////
  Honestly, I wasn't going to do this today, but...surprise.  I quit.  But allow me to explain.
First, let me warn--for those who were here to witness it--that this won't be as nuts as Candace's email when she escaped; in her defense however, she was the third Candace/Candice to be moved to the exact same desk and soon after fired by the exact same person.  Surely she saw it coming...?  So on some level, she had reason to go out with a bang.  I never got a chance to get the history of BJ's prejudice against Candaces.  But that isn't the point here...
It's no shock that I long ago reached my breaking point here.  Anyone with eyes or ears has seen it on my face or heard it from my mouth.  But why?  What makes me hate this job so much?  It isn't the small things, the perhaps petty complaints that many of us share-- a stressful, exhausting commute, the $50+ a week for gas.  Those details can and usually will be standard with any job.  And after all, I didn't have to move to Kennesaw after our office moved to Buckhead.  Per se.  I had decided to let Jeremy (friend/roommate/former employee here, for those who didn't know) move to Kennesaw alone, since I knew he planned to quit the firm but I would still be working here.  But the day I was going to check out some apartments closer to work, I was threatened with termination.  Well, I have always hated Buckhead anyway, and why live close to a job that I was ostensibly being pushed out of?  So hey, Kennesaw, why not.
At some point I came to yawn at the threat of being fired.  I realized I had been here over 3 years, been "in trouble" probably dozens of times, yet nothing ever happened.  Why?  Because thus far, if I can say this with as little arrogance as possible, I have been needed here.  The things I have taken care of here are by no means simple.  The manager of every department, and most everyone else, knows what happens on a day I'm not here.  The endless complexities inherent in my job can be an intimidating beast, to say the least, for someone who hasn't spent so much time face to face with it as I have.
But an "I don't kiss ass" attitude doesn't get your value formally recognized by the check-signers.  But what can I say?  I don't kiss ass.  I don't shy from giving all-out honesty.  I don't cower at the limp flex of authority.  I don't respond "well" to hollow threats and bluffed ultimatums, at least not from the perspective of the one giving them.  And I never, ever, accept blame or "punishment" for a problem that either wasn't my fault, or isn't a problem at all.
After about a month of working here, I was accused of "slacking" and "getting lazy"--as one giant aspect of our foreclosure process (back then), for which I had sole responsibility for, grew exponentially right before our eyes.  Some time later, when I tried to make the case that my overall job had grown to become disproportionate to the unchanged expectations held over me, I was told I was wrong, only to see a handful of new admins working at my side in the weeks after.
And I can't count all the times I was scolded--even to the point of being accused of hiding--because I was "never at [my] desk", when fundamentally, the very job I was hired for required that I be anywhere, perhaps everywhere, at any given moment.  My rebuttal was always that if I was seen at my desk, that's probably when I wasn't working.
All of us know about my daily routine of coming to work to be blamed for the alleged loss of an overnight package, most of which are then found right where they are supposed to be, or are shown--by my little list I have to keep specifically for this ridiculous reason--to have been lost by the recipient.  People, I have even been accused of misplacing (or diabolically hiding) things that I "definitely signed for"...that were delivered when I was out sick.
Then there is my all-time favorite.  The week we moved here to the Buckhead office, my desk was searched (why?) and there were serious concerns about the discovery of some mail that I had "never" delivered.  This was the major part of why I was moved out of the Foreclosure Dept. to the Facilities Dept., stuck under John's command to be watched over.  Note how I still wasn't fired.  When the "undelivered mail" was finally produced for me, I knew exactly why I never delivered it: it was trash.  But on the big moving day in Decatur, everything on my desk was swept into a crate, to be sorted through later.  It should have already been shredded, sure, but did that really matter?  No.  But of course, who but me knew that it was nothing?  No one, because only I know how to do my job.
And herein lies my point.  I do my job, but I'm not trusted to.  If I can't be trusted, why do I still have the job?  This is how words have always contradicted actions around here.  Have they grudgingly kept me here because I have been in fact valuable?  That is worthy of pondering.
I really hadn't planned on quitting today, until a couple days ago when John confronted me with how he was told that I had been telling people exactly that.  The idiocy of those of the rumor mill inspired me.  In the sharply witty comedy Easy A, Olive (played by the brilliant Emma Stone, who I'm psychotically in love with) decides that, after noticing how the treatment given her by her misinformed peers parallels that of Hester in The Scarlet Letter, she will proudly conform (for appearances) to the image and reputation now expected of her, "giving them what they asked for".  In a stretched way, I decided something similar.  If there must be a rumor about me, I might as well make it true.
But you could have at least made it a good rumor.  Like the good old days, when everyone in the office thought I was sleeping with Meagan Zasa.  It never happened; we're best buds!  She did spend the night once, on the futon, and my devilish cat Loner made it a deliberate point to puke on her pants.  And laughs were had.
Comparatively, this new rumor was a snorefest.  And was an outright lie.  When asked if today would be my last day, I explicitly said it would not be, because of money and blah blah blah and because it would be Fair Debt Day.  I have only missed one Fair Debt during my employment (I think that's around 46), which I requested off 6 months in advance, and that was to see Beth Thornton become Beth Birberick, so obviously, there was no way in hell I would have let my request be denied.  Otherwise, with me being "the mail guy", and despite my deep, inexorable hatred of this place, Fair Debt just isn't something I would walk out on.
But now, here we are.
People have been full of advice: "Don't just walk out", "Don't burn bridges", stuff to that effect.  But it's come too far now, and I just don't care.  I needed a drastic change before insanity struck.  So I'm starting school in a couple weeks, and I'm not looking back.  Some of you offered that concern too-- "What if you need to come back to this job?"  I'd rather die poor and nameless.  "Is it really that bad?"  Yes.
Risky?  Of course.  But what is life without risk, without freedom for adventure?  What is the use of a life stuck perpetually in routine, and a negative one at that?  It isn't a life at all.  It's fucking boring is what it is.  It's working here.
I went with a group once to Cafe Istanbul in Decatur, a place with belly dancers (though disappointingly not that night), hookahs wafting sweet, flavored smoke, where you sit on the floor, try Turkish cuisine, a place where the whole atmosphere is just teeming with good times.  Two of my friends were displeased to not find chicken fingers and fries on the menu.  And this is what I'm talking about.  Why are so many of us afraid to take risks, to step outside of what we feel is safe?  Yes I know it is reaching desperately to compare any of this to trying an unfamiliar food, but admittedly, I was obligated to have at least a brief mention of food somewhere, because this piece is later going to be Entrée 7 of my long-neglected, not-so-much-about-food "food blog", Shrewd For Thought, which you can find at shrewdforthought.blogspot.com and enjoy!  Usually it is required that I be completely drunk when I write for my blog, but in this case I think my few readers (if I haven't lost them in the interim) will forgive me, given the monumental significance of what is happening for and to my life here.  The pressure of my life crisis has risen recently to a heretofore unfathomed level.  The need for change outweighs the risk of doom.
This world is designed for us to become enslaved by the necessity of that steady paycheck, so much so that even the most rebellious turn sycophantic, the most ambitious forget their every dream.  Everyone caves to fear, and so inevitably, becomes a doormat.  If that works for you, then hey, do it.  But I have always been naturally resistant to agreeing with the idea that to survive is to succumb.
So I can't take another minute of this.  I have to get out.  I don't care about what little PTO I won't be getting paid for; I don't respect this place enough to give proper notice.  Just send me that Notice of Separation.  I have been long beyond the point where there is absolutely nothing this firm could have done to repair this relationship.  The only apology I offer is to those in the Decatur office-- I in no way aim any of this disrespect there.  Mr. Drake is a great man, and the Candlers always had me cracking up, whether they knew I was listening to their conversations or not.  I've always found it unfair that the historic Candler name has to be associated with what happens over here in Buckhead.  So I feel the need to specify, I don't hate McCurdy & Candler, I hate THIS place and what it did to me.
If I love you, you know it, and if I don't like you, I'm sure you know that.  If you love me back, find me on Facebook or something.  And with that...SEE YA.
//////////////////////////////      
          And I walked.  Walked through the office.  Threw my stupid walkie-talkie in the trash...but it bounced out onto the floor.  No matter.  There's always a minor hiccup in a solid plan.  Kept walking.  Got to the door, and flicked my ID card behind me as I stepped out into the now free world.  Just like THAT.
          Ok ok...once out that door, I still had to get out of the building, and here's the truth that heroes try not to admit:  I took the stairs, and I took them with heart-pounding quickness!  I had been worried that, although I definitely wanted to do my victorious office walk-through, this could allow enough time for my boss to realize what was happening and give chase.  I did not want to be chased.  I didn't want to answer questions, or face confrontation.  I just wanted to get my Candace on and get the hell out.  Luckily, I made it out with no interference, and THEN, met the free world.  And I smiled the whole way home.  
          Cowardly?  Sure.  Necessary?  Abso-fucking-lutely.  Satisfying?  You have no idea.
          I won't deny that this plan was executed maybe a wee prematurely, being that this is only the halfway point of the current pay period.  So I may be on "The Ramen Regimen" for a while, but hey, that will probably give me something to write about, yeah?  But this was never about the consequences, it was about necessity.  It was about my life.  So regardless of the here-and-now consequences, they are only temporary.  At times, we must all remind ourselves of that.  Because what is truly worse-- temporary setbacks, or wasting the rest of your life being drowned, spirit broken, in a pile of shit?  You prove your worth by proving it, not by allowing others to tell you what it is.
          Make your own life what you want it to be.  Make anyone who doesn't want that for you kiss your ass.
               

"Maybe in the end that's all we have. The Memory Gospel."

     Sing it with me: "The best thingsss in life are freee!"  That sarcastic statement originally sang by Barrett Strong, in a song later covered by dozens of now-more-famous-than-him artists who apparently recognized a great song when they heard one, is in fact, though humorous when taken in its context, wrong.  And slightly ironic, given the overall message of the song ("Money (That's What I Want)").  The best things in life aren't free at all, not even the privelege of listening to an old Motown hit catchy enough to make even the most racially embittered wallflower want to shake hips to the rhythm of justifiably necessary greed.
     But this isn't 1959 anymore.  Nor is it 1998.  But I will still relevantly (well, perhaps) use a nostalgic example to explain what the best things in life are (Strong, look at what I'm about to do here!):  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YAOgWDLo--w.  It's the key to life: money, power, respect; what you need in life:  money, power, respect; when you eatin' right:  money, power, respect...  You'll see the light.  Do your best DMX dog-bark, remember how witty Jadakiss's lyrics used to be before he started asking so many questions (lol, joke), and let's get on with this.
     The best things in life, as it turns out, cost a bit of one or more of those three things that The Lox had Lil' Kim warn you about.  Well then, shall we analyze these aspects of life?  I suppose we shall.
     MONEY.
     Unless you have power, in the form of a gun to point at resourceful people, or respect, in the form of friendships with resourceful people, you must have money to get the items or goods that you, as a normal human being, enjoy.  This sucks.  Or does it?  Anyone can obtain a small amount of money, sometimes by hardly doing anything worth anything.  There's really no rulebook that says that strippers need to know how to dance, or dance well anyway.  Virtually anyone can take their clothes off and be rained on, right?  But what the world wants you to believe is that "nice" things cost more money.  Well in many, if not all, instances, I say this is total bullshit.  Let's examine the common liquor store...  Well, whiskey is great.  There are many tasty varieties, including Canadian Club which I had for the first time yesterday at my grandmother's house.  It goes down so silky smooth with a distinctive taste of vanilla; seriously, very exceptional whisky (CC spells it without the "e").  And if I'm at a bar and want to keep things simple, I love sipping Jack D on rocks, or in other cases Jim Beam or Evan.  Kelly Clarkson would rather gulp Chivas instead of dealing with the drama of a shitty boyfriend, and I can't help but grin like The Grinch when I'm drinking Crown with Coke and grenadine (or a new one I made over the weekend-- Bulleit Bourbon with Cherry Coke; I call it The Superb, and I had a few today before I switched to Moscato).  But if anyone in the world will be totally honest, you know it's me, and I'll do it right now by saying that I would prefer, and not just when I don't want my wallet to break a sweat, to close my eyes and pull something from the bottom shelf.  Well, let's be clear here.  I don't literally close my eyes.  What I'm saying is that my favorite whiskey is Kentucky Gentleman.  You understand my point I'm sure, but you should take note that you should never, under any dire circumstances, drink Old Crow whiskey.  Don't.  I wish I could elaborate as to why you shouldn't, but I really can't.  You just should not drink Old Crow.  It's horrible.  If you're taking my expert advice on whiskey, and your favorite liquor store doesn't stock Kentucky Gent, just do yourself a favor and walk out.  I mean, unless you have money to spend.  That's what we're talking about here, whether you have money to spend, or NEED to spend the money you have.  Really it's all a matter of opinion, which kicks into obsoletion this entire paragraph up to this particular sentence.  But no matter.  Well actually, I was just about to decide to change liquor stores the other day (for lack of Kentucky G) when I noticed that they carry the favorite "hard to find" Moscato of a special ladyfriend of mine.  With that rejuvinating appreciation in my spirit, I agreed to try a bottle of the shop owner's "favorite" bourbon, Bulleit (thus guiding me to the invention of The Superb).  Probably obviously, he just wanted to sell me a $20-something bottle of whiskey, but hey, since I had discovered a regular stock of Castello del Poggio there, I was feeling happily lenient.
     I guess basically the lesson is that you should never let a price tag convince you of a product's ostensible quality.  And/or, don't let the packaging or brand make your decision for you.  Product marketing has quite literally been worked to a science.  There is a proven brain reaction that is now known as "sensation transference", which means that you subconsciously associate a product's worth with its packaging (or perhaps, brand name).  One example I find particularly interesting is something I read in the book Blink by Malcolm Gladwell, in which the makers of Mellow Yellow adjusted the colors of the cans, adding just a slight percentage more yellow to the green color.  The drink itself was not altered.  Tasters noted a "more lemony" flavor and were displeased.  Another example of sensation transference is how I hated the "changed" flavor of Coke when it had Harry Potter on the can, but how I and most other people in the world love Coke more when it has Santa Claus on there encouraging you to love life.
     POWER.
  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9Df9KU69TKQ
     RESPECT.
     In Boyz n the Hood, the hodgepodge collage of memories of John Singleton's early life before he directed Baby Boy and weirded us all out, Laurence Fishburne gives good advice to a young, before-his-career-went-straight-to-DVD Cuba Gooding Jr., "never respect anyone who doesn't respect you".  Cuba's character Tre maybe or maybe doesn't ever take this advice truly to heart, but we can say for sure that this wisdom was lost on Gooding in real life, as evidenced by the character he was casted as in Ridley Scott's film American Gangster.  Let's just give him Jerry Maguire and forget the rest, huh?  Let's.
     No one seriously respects me as a "food writer", but that's why I don't respect you, the reader.  Perhaps the order of cause and effect is lost on us both, yeah?  Maybe I'm the Cuba Gooding Jr. of the "food blog" world, living quite literally what Rodney Dangerfield said with ironic sarcasm: "I don't get no respect".  Maybe I should take Laurence Fishburne as my father figure and adhere to his advice, but backwards and preemptively; if I respect others first, they may show me respect in return.  But no, that doesn't sound like it would work, and I would be sacrificing my "edge", right?  I'm probably right, since I usually am.  Are we to believe that somewhere hidden among that long list of low-budget cheese-flicks that are scattered along the now neglected shelves of Blockbuster, Gooding has some undiscovered gem?  With a boisterous laugh, I say to you, "No."  So I am not the Cuba Gooding Jr. of this profession, and I'm not the over-publicized, cooky Tom Cruise either.  I'm certainly not the Cameron Crowe, with his one single decent piece of work (well, let's hold onto that one before we finalize the decision, because I have actually never seen Say Anything, starring John Cusack, although, and this means nothing at all to any point I'm trying to make, I did share a high school with a pair of twins who are now in the emo band named after that film-- and I really love their song "Wow, I Can Get Sexual Too", among others, but that one is my favorite).  Maybe what I am is the underrated Jay Mohr, that guy you always hated until one day it all just clicked and you understood that you, in actuality, are a loving fan.  So we're not talking about Jerry Maguire at all, as it turns out.  We're talking about the Jay Mohr from the shortlived, underappreciated, ingenius CBS sitcom Gary Unmarried.  So maybe we don't have to start out mutually respecting each other.  Fuck your advice, Laurence Fishburne; besides, everything the Wachowski Brothers (now Wachowski brother and sister--yeah, really) paid you to say in The Matrix was vague, quasiphilosophical horseshit, sloppily scribbled together by those two Hollywood scam artists who really just needed an excuse to introduce bullet-time photography to the nerdy, jizz-on-anything-sci-fi population.  In your defense, however, it would be hard for even them to write dialogue any more atrociously gag-inducing as the utter "bollocks" they tried to feed us in V for Vendetta.  I hope George Orwell is haunting the shit out of them to this day.
     So hell, as awesome as we would like to think 1998 was, it turns out that there is more to life than the treasures laid out in the song "Money, Power, Respect".  Good food, good times, and collecting great memories, in my opinion which is always fact, are more important to one's life than all the money, power, and respect one could ever hope for, no matter how fun and slutty Lil Kim made it all seem.  Even terrible food and awkward times can make great memories.  I used to live in Barnesville, Georgia, next to an old crackhead named Ms. Ann, a 60-something year old black woman from Roberta (the only place in Georgia more country than B'ville, and there's your shout-out, KD) and I love and miss her with all my heart.  No, there is no story here about terrible food, because oh my god that lady could cook the shit out of some "soul food".  See, I would regularly do favors for her and drive her to the local crackspot in town, down at the end of an otherwise impoverished neighborhood known locally as The Hole.  One way in, one way out.  My first time parking down in the depths of The Hole, Ms. Ann told me to lock my doors, because, in her words, "white people aren't allowed in here".  Wow, great.  Unbeknownst to me as I waited in the locked car, Ms. Ann was inside the crackhouse trying desperately to convince the reigning D-boy that he shouldn't murder me, which is what he was planning to do.  Awkward times, see?  I became the only white male of that time period to be allowed in and out of The Hole without incident.  In return for all these favors that maybe I shouldn't have been doing for Ms. Ann, she would often have a wrapped plate waiting for me of whatever she had cooked that day.  And seriously, I wish everyone in the world could experience how amazing Ms. Ann's food was.
     And/or awkward times...
     Ms. Ann's commonlaw husband, Beau, was a somewhat mysterious fellow, a drugged-up Vietnam vet (remember your cause and effect) who had allegedly been to prison for killing a police officer.  But hey, he was a solid good guy, and for the most part I trusted him.  But then one day I walked into their apartment and he jumped out from behind the door and started choking me, saying "WHATCHU SAY??  WHATCHU SAY?!"  After I managed to squeal some sounds that meant "I don't know what you're talking about!" he let me go and said he was kidding, all the while Ms. Ann bellowing uncontrollable laughter.  Good food, awkward times, I tell you.  One night I ended up having to sell Ms. Ann's own two rocks of crack back to her for twenty bucks, but don't take this as a moment of heartlessness on my part-- I like to think that she was actually teaching me some kind of widely-applicable dopedealing life lesson, because she kept saying "That's good, Jarred!  I'ma teach you somethin'!"
     Then she called me, Jeremy, and I think my lovely girlfriend at the time over, I believe on a New Year's Day (I hope so, because otherwise the entire purpose of this memory has been completely falsified), and fed us an almost traditional New Year's dinner, which Southern cuisine traditionalists know consists of black-eyed peas, cornbread, some type of stewed greens (mustard, turnip, collard), and a portion of a pig, which due to superstitious reasons is supposed to be a cut of meat "high on the hog".  I knew this holiday meal's set-up since I was a child, having it numerous times prepared by my stepmother.  Having this meal with poor black folk, I was to learn, was different, and in that sense, more rewarding to my Memory Gospel.  Each part of the New Year's meal represents a specific outcry to Fate or God or something to bring you luck in that coming year, mostly in the form of monetary pleasures.  Eating "high on the hog" goes along with this request for good fortune.  Herein lies the difference between every New Year's dinner I've ever had prior to and after the dinner I enjoyed with Ms. Ann, Beau, and my friends.  Ms. Ann cooked pigs' feet.  Not very high on the hog, is it?  But there's a lesson here which I think I have given over and over again, and it's about trying new things, living new experiences.  You can eat the same old shit you have every year, "high on the hog", wishing for good fortune to come to you while you sit on your ass, or you can jump out there in the world, try foods you have never tasted, and let extraordinary people become integral parts of memories that you will never forget.  Of course, the funny part is that if you drink like a fish like I do, or base an entire writing career on being hammered, the details may become a tad fuzzy.  I can't exactly tell you what the pigs' feet tasted like, or the specific topics of our conversations, but what I remember is that we sat in Ms. Ann's living room, laughing with each other, passing around a dishtowel because there were no napkins, eating greasy pigs' feet, having overall a forever memorable experience.  And check this out:  an experience important enough for me to share it here in my "food blog", right?  See that?  I would give anything to eat pigs' feet with Ms. Ann and Beau again.  I really would.  No matter what form my autobiography should take, they will indeed have a place in it.
     Money, power, respect... Fuck that.  What makes life worth living is living life.  Experience.  Memories.  Trying things (especially food and drink) never tried before, or returning to those experiences which bring about the most loved of memories.  This is what makes your life so amazing.
     Or maybe I'm just a crazed drunk with too many thoughts and a website.    

WTF is pineapple soda, and what does it mean to me??

     Life would suck without mysteries.  There wouldn't be anything worth looking forward to.  What's really going on in the Bermuda Triangle?  Can you teach an orangutan to be a farmer?  Will I lose my job this week?  What the fuck is pineapple soda?  If the mysteries of the world didn't haunt us daily, would we even want to wake up each day?  I wouldn't.  And by the way, I got some pineapple soda today.  It's weird.  Not bad, but not actually good either.  Just weird.  I tried it first by itself, and was definitely taken aback by the experience.  My initial taste was too unexpected to make anything of it, so I carefully had a couple more.  I came to the conclusion that pineapple soda tastes like Smarties.  Yes, those little candies.  It's a very familiar taste to me, because when I regularly played drums at this tiny Pentacostal church my mom went to for a while (until the married keyboard player started stalking her), I would always take one of those big bags of Smarties you get at gas stations, because I'm not exactly a fan of church or its overall message, and I would eat Smarties throughout the service to keep myself awake.  Yeah yeah, that makes me seem like an awful human being, but hey...that's exactly what I am.  When the pastor, as good a guy as he was, would direct everyone to bow their heads in prayer, you would hear nothing but that obnoxious plastic crinkling as I twisted open a Smarties wrapper to sugar myself out of bored sleep.  What can I say, I'm a sinner.  I drink, I cuss, I have a weiner, and I often scoff at people who post Bible verses on Facebook (though I still capitalize "Bible", did you see that?).  And I occassionally will partake in the usage of a tame, delightful drug such as marijuana, if it happens to be freely available.  If I followed the examples of "non-sinners" I have seen in my life, none of that would matter if I kept it all a dirty secret, but alas, I am the worst type of sinner there is because I absolutely revel in letting my true self be shown publicly.  I just told you all I will smoke pot if it's handed to me, when I know that my brother's wife reads this blog.  But I don't think she cares much about that.  Actually, if she is reading, I will now divulge another secret, or in fact, a secret plan:  twice now, my mother has somehow come across the topic of pot and has said something like "I guess I should smoke it at some point before I die" and she erupts with laughter after she says this.  I am patiently waiting for the THIRD time my mom says this, at which point I plan on coming out and saying "OK MOM, THAT'S IT.  I'M MAKING A CALL RIGHT NOW; WE ARE SMOKING TOGETHER."  I'm excited about it because smoking pot with my mom will probably be the highlight of my life.  Any of you who know my mom will most definitely agree and wish you could be there too.
     But none of that is what I want to talk about.  I don't even know what I want to talk about.  Mysteries?  That's how I started, but I don't know if I have any to keep this going.  It's just been a while since I posted anything here and I'm feeling a bit rusty.  Mystery can be synonymous with adventure.  I have had many adventures in the past month, some of which I can't tell you here.  I've adventurously solved some mysteries too.  What the fuck is pineapple soda?  Oh I already told you that one.  But I have something to add.  Naturally, I added vodka to it.  That helps.  I generally (not since my short-lived college career) don't mix vodka with what I would call a "thin carbonated drink", except for Sprite in desperate times, or Mountain Dew, because hey, according to Tech N9ne, "vodka and Mountain Dew is the new shit" (that's a shout-out to Missouri, which makes it a shout-out to one of those adventures I can't tell you here).  But surprisingly, I didn't hate vodka with pineapple soda.  It is by no stretch of the imagination a vodka with pineapple JUICE, that's for sure, but I have no substantial complaints about it.
     But cocktails aren't the only experiments I've conducted lately.  I have experimented a bit with my favorite hot sauce in the world.  See, since I was a child, my dad has been taking us to a little shack of a BBQ joint that originated in Phenix City, Alabama but is currently located in Columbus, Georgia (same fucking dreadful place, really), called Chicken Comer.  The sauce is mustard-based, very spicy, and quite easily on my top five Greatest Things Ever list, alongside alcohol, Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, and who knows what else.  If you can excuse the oblivious racism on the website, you can order some for yourself (http://www.chickencomerbbqsauce.com/), which I highly, HIGHLY, recommend.  I often purchase some for myself and for the topic we don't discuss here in this blog.  But anyway, one experiment I did was with some turkey legs.  Oh god, turkey legs.  You really don't have to do anything except cook them.  But I was feeling adventurous, so I plopped some turkey legs in a slow-cooker filled with Chicken Comer hot sauce and some chicken broth.  I chopped some white onion in there and tossed in a jalapeno I had slit right down the middle, and holy shit, after something like 8 to 10 hours on low heat (not true--sometime in the middle I turned it to high for like an hour or two) I had some super tender, delectably spicy turkey legs; I could just pinch the meat right off the bone with no effort at all.  Shit was so crunk.
     And I had more Chicken Comer sauce left in the bottle.  So I had an idea:  combine the original flavors pioneered by not one, but TWO, restaurants I hold so dearly in my heart.  Shit got interesting here.  For a minute I went to college at Gordon, in Barnesville, Georgia.  There is a tiny BBQ joint there called Georgia South Barbeque, and it is AWESOME.  Well one day a few years ago when I lived in Decatur, Georgia, I was in Publix and noticed Georgia South Barbeque Sauce, yes, for real, bottled at Georgia South Barbeque in Barnesville.  You bet your ass I bought some, and continue to do so whenever I see it.  So yes, the other day, I decided to drown some wings in both Chicken Comer hot sauce AND Georgia South BBQ sauce, along with some generous dashes of dry spices (always up to you, so I won't even try to remember what they were).  I baked the wings (still slightly frozen) for an hour at I think 350 degrees.  Let me tell you, these wings gave me a boner.  Those two sauces, from two of my favorite places, mixed so well together to make one truly exceptional flavor, it just defies elaboration.  I can't explain it; you will have to try this for yourself, because these wings will without a doubt be served at the upcoming Shrewd For Thought chilidog party, which obviously will be featuring more than just chilidogs.
     And I don't know, that's all I got for tonight.  Did we learn anything?  "Maybe... Maybe no... Maybe fuck yourself."  Be adventurous, and always enjoy the fact that life may be stuffed with mystery; you should enjoy this, because without mystery, or the unknown, life would just be fucking bland and pointless, right?  Right.      

I Think It's About Happiness Or Something.

Sometimes, you deserve a steak.  Vegetarians will have to translate this into whatever their language is.  I'm talking about meat.  A steak of meat.  I'm talking about the most beautiful thing in the world.  And it's perfect for any occasion... Life sucks?  You deserve a steak.  Got a promotion?  Celebrate with a steak!  Banging the girl of your dreams?  See what you think when she cooks you a STEAK.

                People act like steak has to be some kind of big production, and I disagree with that (however, I really really want to try the loaded sirloin at Longhorn).

                Fancy steakhouses are great, based solely on the fact that they have steaks, but honestly, is it ever worth the expense?  Yes, it is.  You are eating a steak, and that is worth any expense.  But is it necessary?  Hell no.  Do you think they are making better steaks than what you can make at home?  Think about that.  They aren't.  And I have further advice: there are no rules to steak--there is no right or wrong.  There are only opinions, and you remember what is said about opinions.
I used to order steaks well done.  I don't really know why.  Then one night someone made a steak for me cooked approximately medium.  I'm not saying who, because this blog isn't for that topic, but let me tell you, that steak was amazing.  So now I can say--and it goes with my wish to make people less annoying restaurant patrons--that I don't care how my steak comes out.  Living life this way is so much easier and thus more satisfying.  If I order a steak medium and it's "overcooked", hey, cool, I used to love it that way.  If I for some reason order it well and it comes out pink--well whatta ya know?  My favorite.  I seriously am probably one of the least picky eaters in all of the world, which one may say makes me the worst "food blog" writer ever.  Well I say I'm the best, and I also say "Fuck whoever doesn't like it."
Tonight I had a steak.  It was superb.  I don't remember if I deserved one, or if I was celebrating something, but I definitely am not banging the girl of my dreams.  But for whatever reason, I had a steak.  And did I mention that it was superb?  There is not much to a steak.  All of them are probably great.  I saw a Publix commercial once where two brothers are arguing about the best cut of meat to grill, and the Publix butcher says that ribeye is the best.  Okay, guy.  So whenever I'm at Kroger, I buy a couple ribeyes.  See what I did there?  But hey, there is no right answer; I bet a steak made of hot dog is pretty good too.  And there is no correct way to prepare it.  Men who want to act manly will say that you must grill it outside, no matter what, you have to go outside and grill your steak.  Bullshit.  Seriously, that's bullshit.  If you have picked up the pattern here, I am not saying that a grilled steak is bad, because oh my god it is awesome, I am just saying that a pan-seared or even an oven-baked steak is just as rewarding.  I mean, think about this, bachelors and bachelorettes.  Do you really want to go out, uncover the grill, dump in your coals, get your fire going (which, come on, is never easy), wait forever, then spend all those hungry minutes looking at your steak that isn't ready to eat?  I don't.  So look: throw a pan on a hot stove eye, tip some oil in there, throw your steak on, listen to that orgasmic sizzle, flip it, have another orgasm, then EAT IT.  Bam.  Steak'd.  Simple.  Earlier, I tossed a ribeye in a pan.  Two orgasms later, I was having a third, IN MY MOUTH.   I will give you a suggestion though, because I know you love those.  When in doubt, just pour some beer on it.  For real.  At any moment, if you are standing there looking at your steak and you are drinking a beer, just pour some beer on it.  You won't regret it.
This ribeye I had was so so so deliciously inspiring, I started to think about other things that make people happy with no measurable explanation.  Well, in the second or two it took me to type that sentence, I am starting to lose those thoughts...  Ice cream is one.  Ice cream makes people happy, except for Otis as shown in The Devil's Rejects, which by the way is an ingenius way of making you ponder the unrelatable extremes of such a psychotic character, so thank Rob Zombie for that one.  But anyway, why do people love ice cream?  You may say it's because it is sweet.  But so are brownies, or cinnamon rolls.  While I enjoy all, I would say that out of the three there is none matched in satisfaction than ice cream.
And also... You know you're in a fastfood joint when you see the baseball-capped dad covered in grease, followed by the excessively bleach-blonded mom who looks like something that grew out of the cat litter dumped underneath the trailer, followed by the flush-faced fat pre-teen daughter in her cupcake pajamas.  But look, after you naturally pass judgment on these people, do you realize why they are there where you are?  It's the pursuit of happiness.  You may think it's the price, but you're wrong; they could just as easily go to a Ryan's Steakhouse for about the same cost (see what I did there?) I think.  It's the pursuit of happiness, you shithead.
Fastfood makes people happy, because it's awesome.  Ice cream makes people happy, because it's awesome.  And steaks make people happy, because they are awesome.  It's as simple as that.
Disappointed by the "food blog" today?  You deserve a steak.  Love the "food blog" today?  Celebrate with a steak!  Vegetarians, go eat a [steak].

If You're Shrewd Enough To Be Underlined.

          I didn't really mean to get so drunk last night.  I guess.  Maybe I did, I don't know, I don't remember.  I remember being on the phone with a longtime pal (that's a shout-out to you, Kennen) and I have some kind of fuzzy memory of eating a pickle for a late snack, unless that was a dream, and then I woke up this morning and it was time to get ready for work.  And boy was i pissed.  So I had decided that today I would take a nap after work and then not drink at all... I can hear all of you lol-ing already.  But I'm serious.  Of course, one of the reasons I wasn't going to drink today was because I didn't have more than $1.38 in my checking account.  I mean, I have a little under half a bottle of vodka here at the house, but I was planning on not speaking to vodka after what she had apparently done to me.  So I went to work, reluctantly but no more than usual, and when I got there I checked my account online.  To my pleasant and much-needed surprise, my state tax return had come in.  And, as evidence of how funny the universe is sometimes, not five minutes after seeing that I got an out-of-the-blue text from Lacey, one of my little schnookums from the bar (Bullfrogz, if you remember), which said something like "I'm working at the bar all day if you wanna stop by!"  Well, how can I say "no" to that face??  Yeah yeah, I wouldn't have seen her face until I was actually at the bar, but hey...so she didn't have to do much convincing.  Also, it had crossed my mind that I should go to the bar and beg all my girlies to feed the mongrel while/if I'm in Seattle next weekend, since Jeremy won't be here either.  The mongrel.  The hungry hungry hippo.  Loner.

          And by the way, since we're again on the subject of Bullfrogz being my favorite place ever, I have to add this:  what bar do YOU go to where you can get any of the staff to feed your cat??  Yeah, I thought so.  I asked to take a picture of Lacey, but she wouldn't agree to it when I wouldn't tell her what it was for, which now I guess makes perfect sense.  Instead I'll just settle for this:

               That's my hand after being at the bar.  My other hand has something about vag1nas and a lot of orange on it.  That one was decorated by Haze.  I have yet to see what kind of Lacey/Haze argument will build from this.
               Anyway, that's not all that happened when I saw that I had some slight moneypapers.  I also decided that I would treat myself to a meal that wasn't just the plain old pot of rotini with tomato sauce I had waiting in the fridge.  I thought that I deserved some french fries.  Plus, a pregnant coworker was saying something about how bacon at the moment was "gag-errific" and I said, "I'm going to Wendy's today; I'm going to have the new Asiago Ranch Chicken Club."  And I meant what I said.
          When I got home, I decided that since I was going to the bar later, and would thus be giving out plenty of hugs, I should take a shower so I wouldn't stink from a hot, grueling workday--at a law firm.  It wasn't until halfway through my shower that I realized by the time I got to the bar I would already smell like vodka and french fries, and that the bar would be full of cigarette smoke.  Nevertheless, I bathed and put on a shirt that, inside the shape of Africa, says PROCEEDS FROM THIS SHIRT BENEFIT MY IMAGE.
              I felt somewhat strange when I, shirt donned, stepped out of my house and found myself being stared at by a large thug in a dopeboy Oldsmobile that had a set of metal testicles hanging from it.  Luckily I was wearing my aviator sunglasses so I could pretend that I didn't notice or wasn't bothered.  The thug drove away.  As of now I'm still quite confused by what happened.
          Before I hit up Wendy's, I stopped by Home Depot to take note of prices of some supplies for an upcoming project that I can't describe here.  Perhaps I'm building a gazebo??  Sure!  Just think that that's it.  Then I swooped into Wendy's and slapped my debit card down for the Asiago Ranch Chicken Club (spicy) combo.  But I was strategizing also.  See, that is a new sandwich, and new sandwiches like that one always have some kind of sauce on it, in this case a ranch sauce of some kind.  Well, look, I'm telling you here, a new fastfood sandwich with a sauce on it is usually NOT GOOD.  Sandwiches don't need all these sauces, and that's what the industry hasn't figured out yet.  Honestly, all they need is lettuce, because lettuce is awesome.  This one though seemed simple enough to work--ranch--but I still had a backup plan so that I wouldn't end up with a shitty dinner; I also got a Double Junior Bacon Cheeseburger.  If the Asiago was no good, I would still finish my meal with a sandwich that can do no wrong.
          Bag in hand, I rushed home.  And that is not writer's embellishment, I mean I literally rushed home to eat it; I am that serious about my fastfood.
          And at this point I want to throw relevant references out here of two of my favorite movies.  Michael Douglas in Falling Down takes a bag full of guns into a fastfood restaurant and throws a fit about not being able to order breakfast, then after agreeing to order from the lunch menu, throws another awesome fit about how his burger is a total let-down compared to the giant poster of the same burger.  Great, great movie.  Also, one of my favorite parts in (500) Days of Summer is the split-screen comparison of Tom's "expectations vs. reality", because it is really so true to life, and boy I am not going to tell you why that movie is so true to my life.  I told you before, this blog is for many topics, but not that one.  Anyway, I have attempted to do this with the Asiago blah blah sandwich.

          It may look bad, but my reality picture was taken with a phone.  So come on, give it a break.  It could be much worse.  I'm not here to necessarily speak of aesthetics, I'm here to tell you what an awesome fucking sandwich that is.  For real.  You know how I said I usually hate new sandwiches with some kind of sauce on them?  This is not one of them.  That sandwich is...I really want to go get another one right now, now that I'm thinking about it again.  Now, granted, you have to note this, I got the spicy version, so it likely had more flavor than the homestyle or grilled versions, due to the paprika and turmeric (yeah, I learned that today).  But I'm telling you, if you go get this sandwich and are disgusted by it, it must be a fluke of some kind, or you must be at this Wendy's in Statesboro, Georgia I visited once on my way out of town, one of the reasons why I hate going through drive-thrus.  I ordered a #6 (Spicy Chicken Sandwich combo) with cheese and bacon, and when I'm like a couple miles down the road, what do I have?  A cheese and bacon sandwich, with no chicken.  Are you fucking kidding me??  But hey, I can't hold that one incident against the entire company, and you shouldn't harbor feelings like that either.  If you have ever liked Wendy's, then you should do yourself a favor and try the whatever sandwich I've been talking about.  If you don't like it, well, don't ever read my fucking blog anymore, and go order something else, because most everything on the Wendy's menu is delicious, according to me.
          So, see you next time.  We'll have fun.

This Is Half-Sober Writing. I Hate It.

     I don't necessarily know what this entry will be about once I get going.  Whatever the final destination may possibly be is at this point a mystery, but what I can say about it is that we will likely take the sometimes frustratingly tangential route to get there.  I can assure you though, if you're thinking of giving up this early, you are dumb and will be missing out on what I feel may or may not be a fun time.  Seriously, whatever the hell is the underlying point we find ourselves discussing at length here is only the reward at the end of the journey, so in fact is not the purpose or duty of this blog, because there isn't one.  There is no thesis here.  There will be tales of food, tales of booze, and whatever we discover along the way, we will discover together.
     If you can imagine, I'm not much of a beer drinker...per se.  I mean, I'll drink the hell out of some beer, but like, "beer drinker" is not a character trait of mine.  "Liquor drinker" is.  Oh boy it is.  But it is safe for you to assume that I have been drinking virtually non-stop for two days, because well, I'm about to confess: I have been drinking virtually non-stop for two days.  That isn't much to brag about, I know, but I'm only two days into it, so leave me alone.  See, last time we met here, if you recall, I was absolutely poor.  But yesterday while I was online staring at my checking account status, my paycheck dropped in.  It was almost surreal how intense the excitement was, like an out-of-body experience, like Christmas if you're into that sort of thing, and a birthday, and July 4th all at once--like if I was Humphrey Bogart but my birthday was July 4th.  But Bogie would have played it alot cooler than I did.  My first thought was almost startling it was so abrupt, even in my own head: "To the bar!"  I listened to myself, because hey, if you tend to have great ideas like that, you should trust them.  I decided to have a weekend of treating myself, because the occasion is only available so rarely, like every two weeks when I get paid.  Yeah I know...don't get me started on the irony.  Anyway, I figured I should start drinking right at that moment since later on I had to be at a "battle of bands" type of metal show down in Decatur, and let's face it, when you know that most of the bands--being metal bands, so naturally--will suck, it's best to have a buzz on to handle that accordingly (after many jager bombs at that show, I was having more fun singing Justin Bieber tunes with my friend's 14-year-old daughter than watching local metal bands who would by default scoff at the idea).
     So, where do I go when I need a shelter?  Where do I go when I need a friend?  Where do I go when I need some helping?  Where do I go?  Back to the bar again.  Yes I just paraphrased some Christian song lyrics to relate to drinking, but we're just going to keep moving.  You don't have to believe this, but I am always welcomed at Bullfrogz, the closest bar to my house here in Kennesaw, the town I call The Krunk.  Well really, there is a bar across the street from Bullfrogz that would make it closer to my house, but I get a weird vibe standing outside that place, so I've never been inside and don't even care to ever go in there.  If you're in Kennesaw, Bullfrogz is the place to be, no matter what anyone else tells you.  I'm telling you now, and you know you can trust my opinion, because my opinion is fact.
     They love me at this place, or they really know how to pretend to love me; either way, I don't care, they make me feel special and appreciated (and not only for my tips, which yeah, are mostly ridiculously high).  I get yelled at and judged and made fun of for going to this place as much as I possibly can, but hey, fuck you guys.  I'm generally lonely alot, and bored, and what do lonely people do?  We befriend the local bar staff.

     It's my favorite place in the world.  The girls are so lovely and friendly (yes there are guys who work there too, and they're all pretty cool, but come on, weiners don't talk up other weiners) if you treat them with respect, and YOU BETTER TREAT THEM WITH RESPECT.  If you don't, you never know, I may likely be sitting right there within earshot, and I will end your life.  Actually, I think my lovies get a wee bit frustrated with me when I get like that, but I can't help it.  I'm not an angry or destructive drunk usually (though years ago I did throw a table across a kitchen...a table that had a chocolate cake on it), but what I do tend to be at Bullfrogz is a vigilant and overprotective drunk.
     But anyway, what I should talk about is the food.  It is seriously delicious.  Everything I have had there is awesome, and I'd like to say I've gone through about half the menu.  Well, it's all good if you're not a pretentious douchebag.  When you're in a bar and you want food, you still have to remember that it is foremost a bar.  Their business is alcohol, and not necessarily crumbling in fear of your every picky need.  So when eating at a bar, I feel you should try and be somewhat easygoing--to a certain extent, of course--but really I feel that way about anyone at any place.  Just calm down.  Nothing could possibly happen during your meal experience that marks the end of the world.  You are not that important, and society could theoretically get along just fine without you, unless you know something that we don't, in which case, don't be the loudly rude asshole at dinner who makes everyone in the place hate you.  But hey, if you are deathly allergic to beef, so you order a chicken burrito, and it comes out with beef, then ok, send it back.  I'm not allergic to beef or chicken, and I think both of those are usually equally satisfying, so I don't even like to make a decision between the two.  But to avoid trouble and save time, when I ordered the burrito at Bullfrogz, I forced myself to just blert out "Chicken!" to keep me from sitting there overanalyzing something so trivial for another ten minutes.  Well, my burrito came out with beef.  I don't care about shit like that.  I ate it.  It was really tasty, as far as burritos go; there's not much to go wrong with a burrito, you know?  It has whatever meat you end up with in there, some lettuce, some blah blah, some other blah blah.  It's a burrito.  It did its job.  You should in no way take this as some kind of negative review of Bullfrogz, you should really be taking it positively.  They make burritos correctly!  Hooray!
     Anyway, my afternoon pressed on, as my so-beautiful bartender Chandee poured sweetly delightful Royal Flushes for me.  A Royal Flush is a drink introduced to me by a couple of Kenyan guys I met at Bullfrogz one night.  Crown Royal and something and cranberry juice; I was pleasantly pleased, and it has since become one of my favorites.  In times of unbearable depression when I find myself at Bullfrogz (from here on referred to as "the bar") looking for the loving company of my bartender besties, I sometimes don't even want to make a decision of what to order.  But if I say "I don't even care..." I know that I am in good hands--there is a known list of select drinks that can be given to me without specific request, and my mood is instantly improved.  Royal Flush is on this list.  I forcefully suggest you try it if you never have before!
     While we're on the subject of the bar, something I always knew would be a prominent topic of my "food blog", let's use that to change gears so I can talk about chicken wings.  The bar has phenomenal chicken wings.  Really.  They are great, I have them often, and I had some earlier tonight (yes, Bullfrogz is at the beginning and end of this story).  But let's be real here--it is almost impossible to fuck up chicken wings.  I'm looking at you, Hooters.  Yeah, you suck.
     There are so many places across the greater Atlanta area that offer some truly remarkable wings: Mobeta Wings in Decatur was a favorite spot of mine when I lived down that way, having those tiny wings you expect from an Asian-operated "American" deli, but which can be so spicy but flavorful that you really can't complain about the small size (but I like small wings, so I don't complain about that anyway); surprisingly, the late-night drunk's fastfood go-to, Krystal, has some very not-disappointing wings which I tried last night; of course, Beef O'Brady's, where I worked for 5 years (Peachtree City location), has some of the best hot wings I have ever had in my life; Pizza K and Rocco's in Decatur are worth a nod; Jack's in Atlanta; you can even buy delicious wings at Kroger for crying out loud, which I'm enjoying right now, so I really have no idea why Hooters' wings are so awful; and then there's the absolute tastiest wings you will ever have, wings you otherwise may not have ever thought to order if you didn't read about them here-- the chicken wings at Los Loros in Decatur.  Let's talk about these wings.
     Los Loros is your "average" shopping center storefront Mexican restaurant, honestly a dime a dozen type of place.  The traditional Mexican dishes are, well, traditional and Mexican.  You can't expect much from that, but this is where most people would write off Los Loros with an "ehh".  You have to think outside the box, and if you do, Los Loros will be a memorable pleasure.  When I lived in Decatur, we went here at least once a week for four years.  At least.  Sometimes it was three or four times a week.  For one thing, I found out the first time I was there that they have the cheapest and strongest (therefore, BEST) margaritas in all the land.  So many Los Loros-virgins go there ignoring the advice of "take it slow" and are black-out idiots halfway through a pitcher.  I'm not trying to steer you away from them, but I honestly have to say that the margaritas are something like drinking ammonia with tequila in it.  It's that awesome.
     But anyway, so, Los Loros is really good for two things (three things if you build a four year relationship with them like we did, making the third thing the outstanding service and loyalty to their regulars), and that's the margaritas obviously, and then the surprise spectacular dishes.  It all started when one night we saw two of the waiters in the corner eating food from nearby Yami Sushi (I recommend!).  We looked at them with drunken baffled expressions, to which one of them replied, "Can't eat Mexican all the time."  It was so true, and we hadn't ever thought of it.  You can't eat Mexican all the time.  But what you do have to do all the time, once you're a regular of Los Loros, is go to Los Loros all the time.  So you have to find a middleground, and boy, we were amazed.  My roommate and I decided to be adventurous enough to order the kids meal cheeseburger.  It is seriously the best burger ever.  I SAID IT.  THE BEST BURGER EVER.  GO GET IT.
     And then there's the wings.  Oh my god, the wings.  I don't know what they put on them, but it is something you will go back for again and again and again.  I pretty much stopped eating "Mexican" food at this Mexican restaurant.  The wings are like buffalo style that seem to have some kind of...almost orange-y flavor.  I can't even put it into words.  Those wings are the shit.  You should have them, you should have them like TODAY.
     So there, aren't you happy about this?  This isn't the best blog entry ever, because though I've been guzzling booze for two days, I'm only minimally drunk.  We all have our off days I guess.  But boy do I get excited about chicken wings, and so I feel that this blog is still a success, and if you disagree, well, no one is forcing you to come back, fucker.  So here, this is where this blog ended up: CHICKEN WINGS.  I SUGGEST YOU EAT THEM!  But not at Hooters.