Apple-Obsessed Author Fella

Month: February 2011 (page 1 of 6)

March Is The Month Of “Penmonkey Boot Camp”

(I don’t really think you’re maggots. You’re all lovely people. Well. Most of you. There’s a few of you out there, with your squirrelly eyes and your sweat-slick palms. Fiddling with your pockets. I know you’re up to something. Be advised: you’re being monitored. Weirdos.)

Fellow penmonkeys: each of you, stick out your chin.

Open your mouth a little. Smile. No, really. Smile!

Because it’s time for me to punch out your baby teeth.

Pow!

This is the month of no-holds barred writing advice. I will rant. I will rave. My spitflecks will land in your eyes and you will need to blink them away and as you’re blinking them away I will jam my wingtip up your pooper and cram a fountain pen in your neck and I’ll suck up a draught of your neck-blood and then together in your blood we shall write a list of our failings as writers so that we may overcome them.

Or something like that.

Fact of the matter is, we writers are our own worst enemies: so much of the time it feels like we’re in our own out-of-control minecart, speeding toward an uncertain resolution. Fuck that shit, George. No more of that. It’s time to get control of the minecart. It’s time to stop dicking around. It’s time to learn where our failings might be. It’s time to call out our worst excuses so that they may be trampled under foot. It’s time to gaze ahead and find purpose and plan. You will improve your craft. You will dispel illusions. You will discover the kind of writer you are and the kind of writer you want to be.

Okay, I don’t know that any of this is really true. You might not learn shit from me. But by god, that’s not going to stop me from gargling meth and screaming in your faces for 30 days, will it? Woo!

So, you’re on notice, compatriot penmonkeys and ink-badgers. It is time to shit or get off the pot.

Ah! But! I need something from you. I need you to tell me where you feel like you’re falling down. It’s time to evaluate your shit, hombres. I have some posts already percolating in the septic bubbler that is my brain, but I need some of you to step into the firelight and say, “You know what? This is where I’m sucking hind tit right now. I want sweet milk, but all I’m getting is a mouthful of rancid brine.” Feeling like you can’t muster the discipline? Got plot problems? Don’t grok structure? The rewrite burning your short-and-curlies? Plagued by self-doubt? Throw it out there. Whatever it is, I’ll paint it on the back of my hand and slap the problem out of your skull. Because that works, right? Violence and rancor solve everything!

I don’t promise to address everything. I am only human, after all. Well, okay, I’m 12% cannibalistic humanoid underground dweller and 7% insane spam robot. But I’m also 0.03% Cherokee, so that gets me all kinds of sweet-ass motherfucking tax breaks.

So. You. Go. Comments. Now.

Before I conclude this post, a quick word:

I reiterate this a lot but given the sometimes cranky attitude toward writing advice and the dubious dispensers of said advice, I feel like it bears repeating: none of my advice is sacrosanct. It is not Penmonkey Law. It is not the Word of God. The issues I address are issues that I have myself dealt with and what you read here are generally my own personal solutions. You are free to examine them and deny them at your leisure. You are free to disagree with me, and in fact, disagreement is good. When you receive a piece of writing advice and you hold it up and gaze into its unblinking eyes, you make a decision: “I totally will dig on this,” or, “You know what, this just isn’t for me.” And at that point you’ve done what you need to do as a writer: think about your craft. You’ve made an evaluation and have come to terms with what kind of writer you are and, more importantly, why you are that way. Self-examination leads to self-determination, which in turn leads to… well, I think it leads to pie. Or maybe cake. See, even there, you’ve made a critical distinction: do I prefer pie or do I prefer cake? Answer honestly, because it will determine if your name goes on the list for the next pogrom.

That being said, tomorrow I welcome you to the Penmonkey Reeducation Boot Camp.

Please sit still in the barber chair as we shear your head so that the tinfoil cap may sit as close to your brain as possible. Here, too, is your cyanide packet Kool-Aid drink mix.

See you in the comments, and catch you tomorrow.

A Bonus Round Of Search Term Bingo

Time again for SEARCH TERM BINGO, little babies. If you don’t know how this works, here it is: people discover this website via some of the strangest search terms one could imagine. I pluck these search terms out of obscurity and dissect them for gits and shiggles.

wisdom snake

File under, “Most awesome euphemism for penis ever.”

is it true if you pee on facial hair it grows?

True. It is, in fact, why men and women around the world often refer to me as “Old Man Peebeard,” or, “Captain Piss-Stache Of The ISS Wee Willy Whiskers.” Uhh. I mean, I assume that’s why they call me that. Anyway, the only problem is you kind of have to be like that monkey who pees in his own mouth. You’ve got to get just the right “angle of the dangle” to hit the beard properly. Wait, what’s that? I could just pee in a cup and dump that on my beard? Sure. Sure. I could do that. If I was a Communist.

do writers get paid sick days?

Hahahah! Hahaha. Hee. Ahem. Hahah. Hahahahaha! OHH HO HO HO HO woo yeah. Uhem. Ahem. Yeah. Ha. Hee. HA. HAHAHAHAHAHA. BWAAA HA HA HA HA. MWA HA HA HA GHA HA HAHA

*vomits*

*poops pants*

Man, that’s funny. That’s a good one. That’s a — a zinger.

wheres my goddam bologna sandwich?

Jesus, all right, settle down, crankypants. Did you check under the couch? Under the cushions? Is your neighborhood plagued by a known Bologna (pronounced “Ba-LO-Ney”) thief? Is it in your mouth? Your hands? Your pants? It’s got to be somewhere. Baloney sandwiches don’t just get up by themselves.

OR DO THEY.

*dramatic organ music*

girls fellating monkeys

Name of band, album, autobiography, novel, documentary, artisanal spring water brand, first child, second child, pony, spoken word poetry show, or automobile? You decide, America.

dragon age alistairs jizz

Man, I have not been keeping up with the Dragon Age downloadable content. “Alistair’s Jizz” is supposed to be a great final chapter for the character. I hear his kingly jizz sprays out and forms a dragon. A jizz-breathing dragon. True story. Happened to a cousin of mine once. Anyway, I will say though, do you think that Bioware is taking this “adult content” thing a little too far? Sure, the game was bloody and had lots of crazy fantasy-world sex — the porny D&D mystique is pretty cool and all, but a jizz-breathing dragon? Feels like they’ve crossed a line. A line written in jizz.

sometimes writing is about crapping it out

I would mock this, but damn, I gotta say: this is at times very, very true. You can do as much prep as you want. You can think real hard about it. And some days writing is just about crapping out the word count as painfully and as swiftly as you can manage. The weird thing is, it’s amazing how sometimes those days feel like crap-days, but what you really get is something better than you really expected. Of course, other days, it looks like and smells like you crap you suspected it was, but hey, hell with it, that’s why writers get nigh-infinite do-overs and take-backs.

outline two unicorns having sex

Clarification: you want a drawn outline of the two fornicating unicorns? Or, since you’re coming to me with this, I wonder: are you looking for a bulleted outline detailing the carnal peccadilloes of those two aforementioned unicorns? I guess if you were to outline it, it might look like this:

• Music begins to play (Lionel Ritchie: “Hello”)

• Unicorns begin “mating dance”

• Horns clash

• Ingestion of Spanish Fly

• Application of dragon’s hide prophylactic

• Perimeter defenses active to keep the townspeople safe

• Unicorn sidles up behind the other unicorn, whispers reassuring haiku

Well, you get the idea.

i hope my wife believes in me

She doesn’t. She emailed me yesterday. In her email, she called you a “fetid bucket of fuck-chum.” She said your manhood was “like a thread of kelp in a squirrel’s mouth flapping and flopping about, getting everything wet with its briny stink.” She said, “If he says one more goddamn word to me, I am going to eat a fistful of razor blades, Advil, and apple seeds.”

Though, to be clear, she didn’t actually say she did not believe in you.

Hm. You might be all clear, then. Carry on.

who is the poop eater?

Marketing campaigns have become so very sophisticated. First it was, “whatisthematrix.com,” now it’s “whoisthepoopeater.com.” Man, I can’t wait for this movie, whatever this movie is going to be. The Wachowski Brothers know how to put on a good show!

all the people say sisterfucker

I can confirm this. And it’s getting weird. Everywhere I turn, everyone is saying only one thing, repeatedly and loudly: “Sisterfucker.” All the people are saying it. It’s like they can’t say anything else. It’s like Being John Malkovich up in here. Well. Okay, I guess it’s like Being John Sisterfucker.

chuck wendig why you

Why I what? What’d I do now? C’mon. Don’t leave me hanging. Chuck Wendig, why you gotta be so fly? Chuck Wendig, why you so dumb? Chuck Wendig, why you keep putting hot sauce on your testicles? Chuck Wendig, why you gotta keep wearing that badger on your head? Complete the question! No, seriously. Complete it. Comments. You. Go. Do it. Don’t make me punch a kitten.

hot sauce testicles

What? Nuh-uh!

Seriously, though, don’t put hot sauce on your junk. Once, I was cutting up a Jalapeno, and I forgot to wash my hands afterward, and from that point forward, everything I touched was tainted by the angry spice of a hot pepper. I’m not saying I didn’t accidentally masturbate… okay, all right, I didn’t actually do that. But I did rub my eyes. Jesus God on a fucking jet boat, do not do that. For reals.

can dogs go to the movie theater?

You’re asking the wrong question. The correct question is, Should dogs go to the movie theater? and to that, I say, absoflogginglutely. I mean, if you people can bring your screaming infants to an R-Rated movie, then I can bring my dogs. It’s only reasonable. The movie theater these days is basically a lawless safari anyway, so why can’t I bring a gassy terrier and an old Belgian Shepherd with hip dysplasia?

dicktillion

Is this a new number? Like, “One million millions is a dicktillion?”

Or is a coquettish dance for ruined Southern women?

Some women dance the cotillion. But those not-so-fresh Southern ladies go to the dicktillion.

neti the monkey’s paw for sinus infection

I’m going to chalk this up to Google trying to figure out what you wanted and getting it really wrong. I’m hoping that what you were searching for was actually “Neti pot for sinus infection,” because seriously, you did read the story about The Monkey’s Paw right? That story ends badly enough without shoving anything like that up your damn nostrils. Eesh.

i can write a load of shit and you will eat it up

Well, given that writing is sometimes about crapping stuff out, I guess this is accurate.

e.e. cummings shit you don’t have to eat

All jokes aside, this is from a real poem. No, seriously:

i sing of Olaf glad and big.”

how to entertain a crippled dog

Okay, this only works if you have two dogs: one crippled, the other not-so-crippled. Take the not-so-crippled one, duct tape two of his legs together — experiment with different combinations for maximum fun! — and then have the duct-taped doggy flail around the room. The crippled dog will gaze on in ironic amusement. Okay, probably not. And seriously, don’t do that thing with the duct tape, because that’s cruel. And don’t put it on YouTube so that all of us can see it. I’m sure it won’t get a million hits.

man shot friend over cornbread in alabama

Must’ve been delicious cornbread. I’d murder a friend over certain foods. Wouldn’t you? Then again, I’d murder a friend over all kinds of things. A drink of water. A sideways glance. Standing near me. Because that’s the kind of guy I am. A murderer. A serial murderer. Good times.

how can you tell if an eggplant has gone bad

Here’s an easy test.

Hold the eggplant in your hands. Raise it up in front of your eyes and gaze at it.

Is it still an eggplant?

Then it’s gone bad.

Throw Your Links In The Ol’ Link Dump

Hello, Internet, my old friend.

Man, since doing away with a regular edition of Painting With Shotguns (originally mistyped as “Painting With Shoguns,” which is my cable access show wherein I learn how to paint from an ancient Japanese shogun who has been displaced in the timestream), I no longer get to just barf up a bunch of Internet links into your lap. Like, say, the way my dog just barfed on the kitchen floor a half-hour ago because the dummy drinks too much water, too fast. As if we’re going to suddenly make water illegal in this house. Seriously? He’s a very dumb smart dog, that dog.

Anyway. Links. Right.

First and foremost, your task, should you choose to accept it, is to drop a link of your own into the comments. (“Drop a link?” Shut up, you.) Anything will do. Something you find intriguing? Amusing? Controversial? Doesn’t matter if it’s LOLCats or related to the Large Hadron Collider. Bonus points for combining both LOL Cats and the LHC. But please, please, no “Large Hard-On Collider” references, because for fuck’s sake, this is a family site.

Second and secondmost, now I retch links into your open palms and eager eyeholes.

*splurch*

Ich Bin Ein Word Slut

First, because I am nothing if not a whore, did you see that a project I co-wrote with Lance Weiler — COLLAPSUS — is up for an International Digital Emmy? Even though I am not directly nominated, that does not mean I will not exploit the opportunity, placing “Emmy-Nominated” in front of every identifier I can think of. “Emmy-Nominated Pet Owner.” “Emmy-Nominated Liquor Pig.” “Emmy-Nominated Moron.” “Emmy-Nominated Narcissistic Sociopath.” I’ll be at Target:

“A 15-lb bag of dog food, one crate of oranges, and a mysterious vibrating sexual device that looks like a latex possum. That will be $147.82 cents, sir.”

“Don’t you mean, ‘That will be an Emmy-Nominated $147.82 cents, Emmy-Nominated sir?'”

“What?”

“Never mind, just hand me the goddamn Sex Possum.”

Second, because as noted I am nothing if not a whore, Robin Laws released the short story list for the new Stoneskin Press anthology, The New Hero. My short, “Charcuterie,” is in the mix, which is exciting because I actually don’t think it sucks. It’s even more exciting, however, given the fact that my story is clearly the lettuce in a Meaty Talent Sandwich.

Uhh, hello, Jeff Tidball? Maurice Broaddus? Rich Dansky? Monica Valentinelli? Ken Hite? That’s just a smattering of the goodness. All people I admire, so it’s nice to be in the mix with them.

Linkmonkey For The Inkmonkey

The Hack Manifesto.” Priceless material from Lilith Saintcrow. “My advice on writing is geared pretty specifically toward people who want to make a living at it. It’s also geared to people who love language and want to tell a ripping good story. It is not for Artistes or for fragile speshul flowers who want only squeeful strokes for their delicate, heart-shattering, mindstopping genius.”

JD Rhodes: “Diversify.” JD talks about Amanda Hocking, Snooki, Borders, rejection, and other fiddly bits about publishing and writing in that post. Check it out.

Also: “The days of the “take-care-of-me” writer are gone, folks.  Those writers will not survive in the new environment.  We will lose a lot of talented writers.” Great big essay from Kristine Kathryn Rusch about the changing times in writing and publishing.

Stephen Blackmoore talks about writing his novels and about the soundtracks he gives them. His musical tastes are completely in line with mine: Poe? Massive Attack? Butthole Surfers? Poe’s Haunted is the best album you may have never listened to, by the way.

Miscellaneous Debris

Huzzah, data visualization: visual proof that movies are getting worse.

I’ve recently come to dig reading Ryan Macklin’s blog — here’s a good one about critiquing, and contained within are interesting lessons for any game designer. Follow the Macklin. Follow him into the jaws of Hell.

GQ UK: Top Ten Whiskies. Discuss.

The Army Did Psy-Ops on United States Senators?!

Julie Summerell blogs and inadvertently gives me a glimpse of my child-rearing future and the insidious interrogations I will undergo at the hands of said progeny — “Where Is The Microchip?”

And finally, and I guess this falls a little under self-promo whoring since I helped write and develop Danse Macabre, but here is a White Wolf video where Russell Bailey, Eddy Webb, and Kelley Barnes unbox the book and give a look into its blood-soaked pages:

 

 

It Goes Down Smooth: The Shackleton’s Scotch Flash Fiction Results

Crystalline Field

The other day, I said: “Hey, you. That’s right. You. With the clown shoes. And the iguana. And the faint aroma of spoiled milk. It’s time to write a flash fiction challenge based on Shackleton’s Scotch.”

And somewhere in the neighborhood of 30 of you crazy motherfookers stepped out of the shadows and tossed your flash fiction down on the stage and were like, “BOOM goes the dynamite.”

Or something.

Anyway, below I present to you the mighty Shackleton’s Scotch challengers — it’s some good stuff, so do yourself and them a favor, click on over and read away.

Before I present those links, I’ll ask: did you dig the challenge? Do you want more excuses to write flash fiction? Let me know. I could be convinced to do this again.

These Playas Be Ice Cold

(If the fiction had no title listed, instead of going with “untitled” I’m instead listing them with, most frequently, the first sentence of the piece. Also, I’m listing them in the order they were received.)

Josin McQuein: “First You Run Out Of Food, Then Fuel

Dan O’Shea: “Shackleton’s Hootch

Albert Berg: “The Stone Saucer

McDroll: “Whisky Island

David Blakeley: “Inner Child On Forgotten Scotch

Levy Montgomery: “That Single Fly’s Foot

Adam Maxwell: “Bullet Time And The Beer Taxi

Me Myself And I: “I Don’t Drink Anymore

John Kenyon: “Endure

Sparky: “Booze Run

Billy Prophet: “Shackleton’s Scotch

CY Reid: “The Best Laid Plans

Marc Nash: “Drying Out

Ben Kirby: “Last Case Run

KD James: “Scotch On The Rocks

Sean Preston: “Distillation

Gary E. Weller: “Mackinlay’s Samba

Paul Vogt: “Gun Nut

C.M. Stewart: “Snotrunningly

Aiwevanya: “Jeannie In A Bottle

Shullamuth: “A Paean To Spring

Frank McBride: “That Box My Brother And I Buried

DeAnna Knippling: “A Fly In Amber” (use purchase code QN26W)

Rob Hart: “Stealing Shackleton’s Scotch

Madison: “Three Men On A Snow Day

Anthony: “Shackleton’s Magical Whiskey

Orange Tango: “He’s Not Sure Why He Went To The Bar

T.N. Tobias: “A Drink At The Edge

Marian Allen: “For A Few Bottles More

The Plutarchy Cometh

Cash and Bullets

(A brief caveat: this post has the potential to generate discussion, and that discussion runs the risk of being heated. I’m all for being emotionally invested, but the standard rules of “don’t be a dick” apply. Further, a disclaimer: I am not mad if you don’t agree with what I say. Obviously, I think I’m right because, well, duh, I’m me and I am pro-me as much as possible. But I do not demand that you agree with me as long as you don’t demand I agree with you. Civil discourse, pretty please.)

If the middle class is a big balloon, it’s like someone untied the balloon knot and know the thing is slowly but surely leaking air, sputtering around the room like a cartoon dirigible.

This is a pretty cool link right here, featuring eight graphs that detail… well, let’s just say that the title of the page is, “It’s The Inequality, Stupid.”

I just feel like we’re living in truly absurd times. Times that, were you to read about them in a book of fiction, you would say, “Oh! This is satire,” or, “I’m sorry, I don’t really believe this is possible. Pbbbt.”

We live in times when Republicans (and, true, non-Republicans) exalt Ronald Reagan and then, in the same breath, bemoan the many tax hikes they have suffered. Except, what tax hikes? And, hello, Reagan had his own share of tax hikes, people.

Here’s the thing about tax hikes: nobody likes them. Nobody likes having to pay more money for things. But let’s reframe the discussion a little. Let’s say you want your children to go to a great school, so you shell out the money and put them into a great program at a great school and they’re on track to become smart little motherfuckers. Tuition, however, isn’t cheap. So, the school board — which comprises parents who send kids to this very school — approve a cut in tuition to make it more affordable. Sure. Okay. And year after year, they continue to uphold that tuition cut because — duh — they like paying lower tuition. Except, problem: the school can no longer continue to afford the high-end teachers, or the trips, or the classroom computers, so everything drifts downward in terms of quality, which means the education there also drifts downward. (You might call this a “trickle down” effect, if you’re a fan of irony.) The kids that come out of the school are no longer smart little motherfuckers because the school is now on par — or below — with public schools. The desire for cheap tuition outweighed the desire for smart little motherfuckers. Even though those who sent the kids there could afford the original tuition.

If the metaphor seems muddy, let me clear the waters so it is crisp as consomme: the oooh-la-la private school is America, a country once lauded for being a champion on the world stage. We won every motherfucking spelling bee, what up. But now, the “school board” is voting with their own selfish interests, choosing to keep tax cuts which means, in short, we aren’t able to pay for stuff. Roads. Teachers. Arts programs. Cops. Workers. Everything costs money. And we don’t want to pay for it. More importantly, the wealthy don’t want to pay for it because, duh, they’re wealthy. They don’t give a fuck about roads because, I dunno, they have secret hovercrafts or some shit. They can afford top-shelf schooling. They don’t care about what the country has now or can do, they only care about what’s in their Zurich accounts.

And let’s follow that chain — campaign finance and lobbying confirms that money talks in our political system. Which means that those with money can make things happen. Which means that the wealthy can take greater advantage of the political system through various loopholes and exploits. Which means that they’re constantly going to vote in their own favor, whiiiiich meaaaaans we are moving swiftly toward an oligarchy, or, more specifically, a plutarchy, where the rich rule. Do I have that right? So, all those blah blah patriotic blah blah “Democracy!” blah blah trumpeter assholes are saying one thing but voting for another thing entirely which is a crass dismantling of democratic ideals. The Tea Party, which continues to advocate that it’s for the common man (in many cases not just the common man but actually the lowest common denominator man — the modern American Neanderthal), is actually funded by big money dick-cankers like the Koch Brothers who actually want to reduce the common man’s bargaining power which in turn gives more power to the government. That’s not small government, you shitheads.

(Er, not you shitheads, my fine feathered readers.)

I see the question bandied about: why do Americans continuously vote against their own well-being? We vote against healthcare for everybody which seems like a total no-brainer (yay healthy people, healthy country!). We vote against teachers. We vote against improving our infrastructure. We vote “for” smaller government by stupidly voting for big government. We vote against our own income bracket and for the income brackets way above our meager heads. Why?

Because we believe a lie.

We believe that “get rich quick” should be cross-stitched on every flag flying at every American home. We believe that we are one day going to be rich, and so this illusion keeps us from voting against the rich — in fact, it convinces us to vote for them in big ways. “What’s that? A bill that says that rich people should be allowed to murder poor people in the streets with sabers? Well, sure! I mean, no, no, I know, I’m not rich right now, but soon as my Wacky Plumbing Widget hits the big-time, I too will be able to slay the poor with my saber! Ha ha ha! Stupid poor people! Okay, I’m going to go buy more Ramen now.”

You see a lot of blustery hoodoo about raising taxes on the rich and not those below them. There is this sense that such a move would be unfair — as if “fairness” figures into this game at all — and further as if this would be a socialist move. Let’s talk about that a little.

First, socialism exists across many echelons of our government. Social security smells of socialism. It’s right there in the name. Socialism is also a much nicer program than “let’s give all the power to the super-rich and hope they decide to support all us bottom-feeders and pray that trickle-down doesn’t mean the trickle of urine spattering upon our heads.” (AKA, “Golden Shower Economics.”)

Second, let’s get shut of the idea that a single tax rate across the board creates an equal economic condition for all. Let’s say that I have ten dollars, and you have a million dollars. Let’s say that the tax rate is 10% (because yay for easy math!). The gubmint take a dollar from me, leaving me with nine. Uncle Sam takes $100,000 from you, leaving you with $900,000. Equal tax rate, fair across the board. Ah, but. Now that I don’t have a dollar, an unholy host of things now fall outside the “Shit I Can Actually Afford” purview. My ten dollar co-pay? Can’t afford it. A ten dollar McDonald’s meal for my family? Can’t afford it. New pair of super-discounted sneakers? Bzzt, nope. On the other hand, you’ve still got nine hundred thousand dollars. Sure, some things might have slipped from your economic grasp like, say, a jetboat made of other jetboats, or a floating island where you force hobos to compete in your own version of The Hunger Games, but you can still afford all the essentials. You can afford most luxuries, actually. Plus, money at that level suffers a Gremlins-like phenomenon: it multiplies a lot faster because you have more of it to multiply. Your money makes money. My money goes towards not dying.

Do you see, then, how the system is already unfair?

Power is consolidating in the hands of the rich. It doesn’t trickle-down because companies have left this country so it “trickles” in rivulets and runnulets away from American citizens. And yet we continue to reward this behavior, like giving a treat to a pit bull who keeps biting our hand time and time again.

And meanwhile, we continue to watch as the Republicans — who, by the way, at their core have compelling notions of personal moral and fiscal responsibility — devolve into a party of mustache-twirling villains. You can tell they’re villains because anytime Michelle Obama comes out with a smiling, friendly initiative the GOP swiftly moves to cut it down just on principle. “Kids shouldn’t have diabetes? Yes they should! Screw you, First Lady! Diabetes is a choice. I won’t let your big government take that away from my kids!”

It’s almost comical how swiftly the Republicans act like the American people are the enemy, constantly trashing initiatives that serve the best interest of the common man. I feel like a crazy person yelling about Soylent Green. “We’re eating each other!” America gets fatter and stupider and meaner and weirder and we just watch the shadow puppets dance on the wall, convinced that one day someone will hand the marionette strings to us and so we continue to vote in favor of the puppet-makers and puppet-masters.

Meanwhile the Democrats continue their “not-in-the-face” policy while the Republicans continue their “oh-hell-yes-in-the-face” policy. Are we losing our minds over here?

How the hell do we get this train back on the tracks?

Human Google Makes Twitter Chili

Slicey Slice

In case you missed it, once upon a time I wrote an article titled, “In Twitter We Trust.” The article, found at The Escapist, basically posits the notion that our circle of trust — which comprises and completes that mystical thing we call “word-of-mouth” — is broadened greatly by use of social media. Further, it puts forth the idea that social media can, in a hive-mindy way, become what I call “Human Google.”

Ask the Twitter hive-mind a question, get an answer.

Try it. It’s good clean fun.

You can ask the hive-mind anything, really. How’s that new movie? How do I spackle a hole in drywall? Pants, or no pants? Why does my right nipple excrete a fluid that could be described as both “buttery” and “Satanic?” Ask a question, get an answer. A perfect system.

The great thing about Human Google is that it offers us something that search engines generally don’t — and maybe can’t: meaningful filter. Google doesn’t know me. It wants to. It thinks that some alchemical combination of data “cookies” defines me, but it doesn’t. What defines me is, in part, my relationships to others. So, when I say to Google, “Hey, Google, what are the essential ingredients for chili?” it returns to me 180,000+ results. And even on the first page, it has my question wrong in spaces — it thinks I’m talking about chili powder, or Thai chilis, or Rozonda Thomas from the defunct R&B girl group, TLC. (Okay, it didn’t really think I was talking about her until the fourth or fifth page.)

On the other hand, when I turn to Twitter and I say, “Hello, excellent humans of Twitter, please bequeath unto me the essential ingredients to chili,” I get a flood of great answers.

What did I learn?

Well, I learned that chili recipes are as individual as the people who make it. I mean, snowflakes don’t have shit on the uniqueness of chili. We’re not talking subtle regional variants. We’re talking straight up different animals. This goes well-beyond the Texas Versus Cincinnati cage match. This goes far past the muddy trenches of beans versus no beans. Ingredients given included, but were not limited to: ground beef, stew beef, steak, short rib, pork, bison, Italian sausage, chicken, chorizo, tomato sauce, tomato paste, pinto beans, kidney beans, chili beans, white beans, black beans, beer, Coca-Cola, Scotch, coffee, Jalapenos, Chipotles, Anaheims, Thai hots, bell peppers, sweet peppers, habaneros, Sriracha, Tabasco sauce, cinnamon, cumin, cilantro, onion, carrots, celery, giardiniera, garlic, lime juice, fish sauce, cocoa, melted chocolate, butternut squash, peanut butter, molasses, human souls, and dictators.

I now believe that there may be no more diverse a dish than a bowl of goddamn chili.

Anyway, this is what I put in my chili yesterday: ground round, ground pork, two sweet bell peppers, one yellow onion, two Jalapeno peppers, one can each of kidney beans, pinto beans, white beans, a small can of tomato paste, a medium can of diced tomatoes, a large can of tomato puree, one cup of dark black coffee, a 1/4 cup of apple cider vinegar, two TBs of Worcestershire sauce, two TBs of brown sugar, two bay leaves, a bunch of diced garlic (cooked with the meat), sweet smoky paprika, cumin, chili powder, cocoa chili powder, cayenne, ground pepper, a squirt of Sriracha. Simmer for six hours. At the end of it, top of fresh grated Havarti cheese (all I had on hand, but worked really well) and fresh lime juice.

Let me tell you — and this came from Justin Achilli and others, this suggestion — the lime juice is the fucking kicker, the corker, the game winner. I mean, it totally elevated the flavor profile of this chili. I will never again make chili without that final spurt of lime juice at the finish line.

Great stuff. And crowdsourced in part by the power of Human Google. Computers don’t need to give us the answers. Computers can instead facilitate us giving one another the answers.

That, and really weird porn.