The CuisinArt

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

“All troops fire! Everything you’ve got! Now! Now! Now!” Bellowed Sgt. Vernon, as rounds fired past his face and those of his petrified platoon like swarms of insects on the warpath.

“Sarg! Why is this happening?” Cried Alfonso, a 19 year-old Peruvian. “One minute we’re sitting here, the next we’re bombarded!”

A horse and soldier enter the east end of the bunker. Vernon and Alfonso turn and shoot. Direct Hit. But, the horse evaporates, and in its place stands three African foot soldiers! Though ordered to engage anyone and anything that entered their land, the men never expected a dogfight approaching this kind of veritable savagery.
“What the hell was that?!” cries Eduardo. There’s no time- BAM! A grenade detonates 3-centimeters away, severing limbs of three young medics.
“Sarg! We’ve never had any conflict with the African Militia! It don’t make any sense!” Echoed Brazilian sniper, Carlos. “Why are they attacking!?”
Though plangent eruptions of mortar shells, landmines, and ululations of men’s final sentient moments flooded the air of the entire South American landmass, Vernon could not hear a thing.
“Brazil, Venezuela, and Peru have all fallen sir! We’re the last platoon! We must surrender!” Pleaded Enrique, the communications officer, with one ear the receiver to and the other to the rumbling terrain.
It happened so fast, and so unannounced. Vernon thought there was a cease-fire. He never believed in the war they were thrown, forced to fight in against their will. But now, minutes away from seeing his homeland, his family, friends, and enemies heretofore rearranged into a vassal state of Africa, he was no longer a Brazilian, but a South American.
“We surrender to no one!” He proclaimed. “If we die tonight. We die on our feet! Every man fires every piece of ammunition in sight!” Though knowing full well his last breath was moments away.
Outnumbered 10 to 1, it was a quick battle. But they fought to the end. Vernon watched his platoons expressions fall prostrate and frozen as they hit the ground, and suddenly disappearing from sight. Hallucinations?
“There is no logic or reason in this war we fight.” As he took his last breath, before crossing over, he heard a sonorous voice from above…
“Ha! You’re dead!” Exclaimed Anthony, as he moved his men into the continent of South America. “I’ll refortify six men to Venezuela, and take a territory card. You’re gonna lose!”
“Nuh-uh! Just wait till I explode out of Europe and spread like the plague across the entire board!” Countered Peter, as he placed 7 yellow plastic men onto the Risk board.
“Okay, I’m attacking Scandinavia from the Ukraine.” The boys pick up their dice and roll away.

We are all reincarnations, though short lived ones. When we die, our atoms will disassemble and move off to find new ones elsewhere, as part of a leaf, an animal, a swing set, the tire of a bicycle, or another human.

Atlan shifts focus from the book. He examines the chair he sits in: A dark shade of green. It’s a very peculiar chair, all of a sudden. He looks at the fibers in the carpet, the bits of dirt in his fingernails, the dust on the bookshelf across the room, the indiscriminate hairs sticking to his black turtleneck shirt. He moves to his room.

“Frankly, I couldn’t care less what she thinks of me…Who the hell is she to say anything, anyway…she’s trash…Not yet, I’ve tried it on, but I don’t want to look like slut…Are you sure?… He better, I’m sick of the games.”

Atlan’s room was more of a spacious closet (By Middle Class American standards), occupied by a twin bed (previously stored in the attic for 5 years; where he found the book he now reads), a small end table with a flat surface, which he uses for a desk, and some shelves (enough room for his wardrobe: four pairs of dark khakis, six plain white t-shirts, three hand made wool sweaters, socks, underwear, a few long sleeve tees, and two button down collared shirts for dinners).
Our moon is large in relation to us (1/4 Earth’s size). The moon’s steady gravitational influence keeps the Earth spinning at the right speed and angle to provide stability.

He takes a sip of coffee. He looks at the window, then through it: A child walks down the street, with a small sheep dog in tow. It pauses and squats.

“I’m sorry, I know not everyone is perfect, but if you’re her size, and you aren’t eating raw vegetables 24-7, then you deserve it. And she shouldn’t wear shirts that show her fat stomach. She’s asking for ridicule.”

A little further, is a small movie theatre: singles, couples, and groups walk in and out while the projector is re-threaded for the next showing.

Our planet falls in a perfectly located orbit. 5% closer to the sun or 15% further and we wouldn’t be here.

Atlan examines a camera that he received as a gift from an old man, during his sojourn in Atlan’s mountain town, three years prior to this day. Though outdated, by today’s standards, Atlan never considered updating. He took his first pictures with it- pictures that would garner an offer for a full academic scholarship in the United States.

“Do you really think I care? I have every intention of making her cry. I-do-not-giveafuck… Hold on, I’ll ask him….Hey Atlan, you want to come to a party tonight…Well, do you mind giving me and Sarah a ride? We’ll take a cab back…Thanks, we’re ready whenever you are.”

He breathes in slowly through his nose, feeling the air and the minute dust particles enter his nasal passage. He flips to a new page. He’s now moved to the bed.

An atom is mostly empty space, with a very dense nucleus. If you expanded an atom into the size of a Cathedral, the nucleus would be the size of a fly- but a fly many thousands of times heavier than the cathedral.

He takes pictures of a few pages, which he will print at the local library and mail to his best friend in Cypress, who is serving his required 6-months of Turkey’s military training.

“Ugh, I don’t know. They’ll be back afternoon tomorrow to take Atlan to the University. I will get him back here tonight, and I can’t wait to see her face when we leave together. I bet she doesn’t even show up to class tomorrow”

He examines the palms of his hands, the ceiling, the book, the wood floor (and each crack in it), the rock garden in the yard, and the steam from his coffee. She comes to the door. He examines her outfit, her hair, her makeup, her push-up bra.

“You ready?”

The Unified Field theory allows all of the fundamental forces between elementary particles to be written in terms of a single field. Every single thing, that is a thing, emerges from this field.

I don’t know your name. But I know your still water. The azure jewel. The waveless beauty. The lonely duck.

I dip my toes; she breathes into me, and I into her. I submerge and exist inside of her. What is time, but spinning hands? I should not have left you.

Palatial bliss. Tonight. The plangent whisper of the world, afar. Diaphanous hymn of the sleeping sea. Disgust for my ignoble beginning, and middle, and all that is not now. I will leave tomorrow. P, I will return unto you. Limpid vision, I now own. I need no camera. The moon is my flash. I am Me. Recumbent blue of water and of sky. I miss you. I will return unto you.

Just the crumbs. I’ve wanted to be something I could not define. I am the pet dog at dinner. The meal, inches away. Destined to feed off the crumbs. But I am now the king. I have eaten the meal, and it tasted of crumbs. Spurious satisfaction. There are only crumbs. I am Magellan, and this, my Mactan.

I left you on a cold morning. I escaped the gull. I left you on a cold morning, long ago. I traveled to no place, but deserted many. These pages are but space to fill. I will not follow their order. I will leave without eponym. I will return unto you. Eponyms are illusions. So am I.
All is empty, and all is filled. Palatial bliss, exuberant defeat. Sandboxes and ducks. Symphonies of aspiration, fragments of achievement.

Two days heretofore, I spoke of my final sojourn. Two days heretofore, I gave money to a band. Tireless attempts to make sense of my departure. I can’t. I’m an old man. I am tir…

–

She stroked the rip in the crumpled, faded paper. Some coffee had spilled on it. Probably in the preliminary investigation.
“According to the airport employee who encountered him, he just began ripping pages out. Though, from what remained, it says he was gone for 23 days. Is this accurate?”
She continued to stare at the letter. She was not numb, nor emotionless, nor shocked. She wasn’t relieved or heartbroken. She just felt weak.
“Is this accurate?”
“No. He’s been gone two and a half years.”
“He became very aggressive in the airport and began ripping apart several notebooks he had on his person. He showed severe signs of dementia before the collapse.”
“They had begun shortly before he disappeared.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
Silence. In the oven, toasted bruschetta burned. At an airport outside Puntacana, a trio of musicians kicked their hat at passengers, as they stepped off the plane. In a small town on the coast of the Black Sea, Atlan took his last picture before the small LCD went black. In Segovia a wind blew threw the town as the citizens celebrated a victory of the Spanish National Soccer team. In central New York, a duck approached a small dock outside of an unassuming lake house, where no one fed him.
“And I just want to confirm the spelling on your name ma’am, P-E-N-E-L-O-P-E?”
She stroked the corned of the crumpled letter and laid it on the table, next to the battered leather journal with a broken strap.
“My name is Katherine.”

I never wear socks when I sleep.  I couldn’t get used to it. But P persisted. “Dad, you need to keep your shoulders and feet covered.” The house was getting cold and heaven forbid I come down with something. She was right though, the temperature was sinking like a penny dropped in a tank of water, fluttering, but surely falling to the bottom.

–

The mornings were dark and this made waking up much more of a foe then I cared to confront at that hour; plus it was bitter cold. I hate waking up cold. There is a peculiar sense of pleasure when you go to bed cold: enveloped in a blanket, squeezing your muscles to produce your own heat or clutching at a pillow or partner until you finally and pleasantly just nod off. But in the mornings, the cold waits, like a contemptuous gull hovering above a busy shore of crabs. Just as soon as you forgot it was there, as soon as you’re asleep and cruising along the ocean floor, it rips you out into its beak and devours you.

I developed a proclivity to take long, slow showers at temperatures far hotter than I was previously accustomed to. The surface of my skin would burn and I would have to constantly shift positions. But whatever body part not absorbing the streams would shiver, and inside, underneath my skin I could feel my bones, trembling, and just feeling cold, as I stood there static and too distracted to think.

I arrived at Thursday, mid-morning. A low and hot sun welcomed me. I’d been gone for 23 days. Though a warm glow roasted my prostrated skin, and all around me were smiling faces: families on vacation, sorority girls on spring break, and the cold weather refugees just wanting to get away, I could scarcely focus on much more than P. No words spoken on that day, just a short note.

Segovia, a small village in Spain, was chilly the morning I left. I walked in wearing corduroy pants – grey, and worn, perfect for windy days – a long sleeve turtleneck (although I’ve never heard of a short-sleeved), and thick cotton socks. I could already feel my feet turning that sweaty and odious way they always do. My shirt dampened with each step. It’s not difficult to spot a traveler who arrives ill prepared.

The last straw was the typing. Exposed to the air, each finger stiffened one at a time, and I could feel it. No sooner would dexterity go than could I no longer comfortably make a fist. I leaned back and glared around the house at all the places where heat would escape: the windows, the doors, and the crack in the corner of the ceiling, above the microwave. I would sit on top of my hands, put them under my arms, down my pants - my loins - wherever heat was stored. But, for naught. My thoughts slowed, I could just think about the hands. I stared at the flashing cursor.

It was a small village in Istanbul that I decided to leave the camera behind. I left it with a young boy, Altan. He was the only person I spoke with during my tour of the U.A.E.

I didn’t take one to the UK, or France, or Hong Kong, or Seol. I took no pictures in Sydney, none of the Great Wall, or of the Pyramids. No rolling Scottish Hills, or Nepalese Mountains. Fragmented images were all the head of a somnolent old man - who’d grown weary and regretful from fulfilling his desires - possessed as I made my way from Argentina, to Paraguay, and up through Brazil. I became increasingly concerned that my desire to remember this trip had ebbed its way out of me- drops of nostalgia dripping off of my body at each place I visited, landing into streams, and mouths, and seas, all coming together in the southern Atlantic and navigating themselves to one place. That place. Did I remember to give Altan extra batteries? I hope he can find some.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve wanted to be something I wasn’t: I’ve been a child and wanting to be a teenager, a teenager wishing I were in college, in college impatiently waiting to become a man, and a man, wishing I was a better man. My whole life, I’ve felt like the pet dog at dinner, heeled, on the ground, snout on his master’s lap, hoping, waiting for a chance to have even a morsel of the meal that lay just inches away. With the smell assaulting me, I’d salivate at the thought of devouring it, but only managing to obtain a taste of the crumbs that fell from the kings that sat above me. I’m an old man now. I’m tired. I’m leaving.

The bad weather. It would come one day when the fall was over. We would have to shut the windows in the night against the rain and the cold wind would strip the leaves from the trees in Ithaca. Soon, the aesthetic pleasures of fall would be meddled with and wiped away by the white snowdrifts; our moods flew south with the ducks.

I am going to miss the ducks. They paddled close to my dock. I often went out there to read, or strum my old but trusty acoustic. It needed new strings. Penelope would always throw the ducks bread, and soon a crowd would gather. She loved to imitate their sounds and quacks. I would sit and smile. It was getting too cold to eat dinner out there, but we would often graze on bruschetta and full bodied reds while the main dishes finished cooking. She loved my cooking, as undistinguished as I thought it was, but that had always made me feel all right. The wine and the meal and perhaps a few beers were sure to keep me full, but with enough energy left to write after the sun had withdrawn under the stretching silhouetted tree line opposite our unassuming lake house.

Though still plenty of fine days to be had and enjoyed, the arrival of the dreaded weather was in sight now. Just a few minutes down a darkening road. Left with the choice to wallow or savor, I chose to exclusively wear Hawaiian shirts, drink spirits and work often and with my own heat - along with the new fireplace – that would be warmth enough to avoid the toil of winter living. Though as I architected this mantra, the voice of doubt, which I fought hard to ignore, sang its hymn deep and proud and in stereo. And eventually, it was all I could ever hear.

I left around eight on Thursday. I let P - as I called her, despite her disapproval – sleep, or more appropriately, I couldn’t bring myself to say goodbye. I stopped in a Podunk gas station before departure. Gas, oil, wiper fluid; I would need coffee. “Do you need room for cream?” asked the clerk, a girl of no more than 20 with a pallid face still afflicted by the scars and memories of acne and adolescence. “Just leave room for the lid,” I instructed. I always took it black in those days. Her eyes told me she had 15 minutes left in this abhorrent shift of menial, meaningless labor; but the truth was that she had years. In the car, I alternated sips on an organic cigarette and freshly brewed cup to compliment each other for the five hours I had ahead of me.

I recalled that morning: the sky had less color than I could ever remember. When I looked across the endless pine covered landscape of central New York, the sun was nowhere to be seen. Not only that, the atmosphere looked as though the sun had never been there in the first place. I couldn’t stop looking. I knew of the sun. I loved it, it has been a source of friendship. But where had it gone? I looked in all directions. There were no traces of anything save for this endlessly bleak and bloodless sky and this troubled me. There will be eight minutes from the point of which the sun burns out, and the time we can no longer see it’s bright, and resplendent rays. Had that harrowing day arrived?

Hours later, the sky was black and clear and crisp and beautiful. I’d made it. The stars shone and reflected upon my windshield, which was finally clean: I ran out of wiper fluid two weeks prior and since I was driving with a suspended license, under the influence, and over the speed limit, I didn’t want a dirty windshield to arouse any suspicions among young officers who needed to fill their ticket quotas for the evening. I don’t know if it was recklessness, or just indifference, but the prospect of being arrested and losing my car, injected no fear into my bloodstream. I had other things on my mind, yet it was still far from wise to burn bridges I very well would have to drive over again. Ignoring my provident sensibilities, and a phone call from P, I pressed on into the night along the empty, bending road.

An update..

Two weeks ago I arrived in the city of Los Angeles. More specifically, my bus stopped at 6th and Wall St. Even more precisely, I was dropped right around the corner from this lovely neighborhood. There is a profusion of homeless people in this city, and given the recession and the halt of TV productions of late, I can only assume there are some former actors among them. Ironically, given the number of sidewalk dwellers, I have not been hassled for change too often. They seem preoccupied.

Luckily, being at the nexus of creativity, a unique solution to that problem was reached in late 2007.

C.H.U.D.’S aside, the transition has been smooth.

Marla got her camera’s shipped out recently - and she’s been on a photo kick, taking pics whenever we go out. Here’s me at the beach. I like the way she composed that shot. This one is Marla and I at a dive bar. It reminds me of Ithaca.

Since I don’t have a car, I ride the subway to work, which reminds me of being back East. Surprisingly, more people ride it than I expected. It’s crazy in the mornings. It’s a short ride to my office. Yes, all those desks are mine. I like variety-not lots of choices, the magazine. I read a different section at each desk.

We got a great apartment, although the neighbors are a bit loud, and I actually have to wait for the water to get cold in the faucets- everything is backwards in LA!

The best part of LA, obviously, is the weather. The weekend I arrived, the Santa Ana winds were blowing. This happens a couple times a year, when all the trash and air pollution, is essentially blown out of LA- the next few days are resplendent.

I asked Justin Long for directions at 1:10 AM when I got lost.

And yes, I do see naked women a lot in this sexy city. In fact, directly across my balcony, I can see a  sultry woman who walks around topless, often. Talk about bright morning.

So that’s all for now. And more stories to come.

He dreamed of writing
Famous films for the screen
For wealth and fame, and all in between

He took courses and classes
To improve his skill
He had a little talent, and more than enough will

But with no connections
Or friends well equipped
With power or influence, to sell his script

Networking takes time
And he hated to be
A small drop of water, in a vast open sea

He needed to meet a star
Of A-list quality
So he joined the Church, of Scientology

He’d meet Tom Cruise
And show him his play,
And Tom would fast-track production that day!

Now, a fraudulent sycophant
And in his mind he did posit
That he’d move up the ladder with every deposit

And so he gave to the church
The endowment his parents left him
And with no questions asked, the church made their collections

He acted his way
Up the OT rank and the file
Knowing L Ron would be proud of this duplicitous style

From OT I
To level VII in a year
He was so close now, well past “The Clear”

After all this dedication
He one day met Mr. Cruise
And shared his script, which he knew Tom would approve

But to shock and dismay,
And in true Hollywood reversal
Tom hated the story, and refused to call Universal

The dark moment had come
For this opportunistic endeavor
Because the Church wouldn’t let him leave; “You’re with us forever!”

He’d read about people
Who tried to break out on their own
They were beaten and harassed at work and at home

So he found other members
Planning an egress, just like he
And this was the reincarnation, of the “Galactic Confederacy”

The battle was fierce
Thetan meters violently destroyed
And soldiers of Xenu, soon were deployed

The bloggers and hackers
In V for Vendetta Masks
Joined him in this foreboding task

And together they fought
Against a Church, “So they say”
Though our hero just wanted someone to make his screenplay

Without truly knowing
If his story was worth making
He really wanted fame, and fortune for taking

Like Mr. Hubbard before
And like many to come
There’s millions to be made by exploiting the “dumb”

And regret he sure did
Infiltrating this bad sci-fi dream
With intergalactic wars, as the source of why we’re mean

Oh how silly we are,
Oh the lengths we will go
To seek ultimate truth, though we’ll surely never know

For art or religion
Or to be self-actualized
Don’t follow ambition, with two blinded eyes

And L Ron’s no different
From a rabbi or priest
Taking money from peasants, to enjoy they’re own feast

Our hero barely survived
After nearly kicking the pale
Don’t join a Church, just to make a movie sale

And he returned to LA
And started anew
And just as he thought, networking blew

But his will was as strong
And his desire as extreme
To see one of his movies, up on the silver screen.

Hello Moto,

Recently, I was turned onto a website called HowCast, not to be confused with CastAway.

Basically the site accepts, publishes, and most importantly, pays you to make “How To” Videos. At first I was apprehensive, but then I heard that this website gave Quentin Tarantino his first paycheck for a film (How To Catch and Kill an Equine).

A friend and colleague of mine was recently selected to have his “How To” video posted on their website, and he received a check for a million dollars. A million F#U#$CK@##IN@#$G Dollars!!!!

So, if you want to make a movie, and make a million dollars, check out the site. Here is Russ’s…

Earlier today, while grazing over crumbs of uninspired internet pages, ruminating on future of tennis shoes and basket weaving, I encountered a series of troubling news articles.

Today, buried under the red-herring cover story of “Obama’s 6-Week Report Card,” hidden behind AT&T Ads, and headlines proclaiming that Rush Limbaugh’s head, is in fact, a suitable replacement for a reflector on film or television sets, I came across THIS ARTICLE (Whoops, forgot to put the link in- Here it is.)!

A miss Latreasa L. Goodman, called the police 3 times when her local McDonalds ran out of chicken McNuggets- after accepting her money - and refused to provide her with a refund! She was denied her menu item of choice, then denied a refund, then denied prompt police assistance, and finally was denied by her family and friends after the report surfaced. Who is to blame: Is it Latreasa? Is it the McDonalds? The Police? Her Family?

I know what you’re thinking, and I was thinking the same thing. It’s the CHICKENS who are to blame! I investigated further, and what I found was even more shocking than popularity of the insufferable Iron Butterfly song In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida.

Directly beneath the sordid McMnugget Mystery Tale, was THIS (Shit, I messed it up again, ok, HERE it is)!

Your eyes see true, another asteroid collision, barely averted (It’s a good thing I had my twenty-sided dice that day). This was no accident. Every day, trillions of asteroids nearly collide with Earth, and everyday hundreds strike and kill someone, somewhere on the planet (Citation needed).

We are not done yet! Obscured by large type face and flashy pictures of distracting, meaningless articles about the Sudanese President being Issued an Arrest Warrant for Darfur War-Crimes, was THIS ARTICLE! An ugly cat who looks more like an Orc from Lord of The Rings.

After hours of analysis, I’ve reached one possible conclusion. Due to the tremdous amounts of Ultra-Violet rays that reflect off of Rush Limbaugh’s head everyday during the time that he listens to In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida, while lampooning scientists (for trying to stop global warming)… Animals have become self-aware. They’re done being cute, they’ve stopped allowing us to make nuggets out of their McChicken, and they’ve already begun a campaign to re-direct asteroids to destroy the Earth.

But an asteroid disaster would kill them too- you say. Not quite, the only things to survive cataclysmic disasters are Cockroaches and all other forms of animals (Citation Needed). They now have access to the technology, the know-how, and the determination to use that power for evil. The chickens are the leaders, and they must be stopped!

While this may seem like post to distract from the fact that I had no ideas today, I implore you not to fall victim to that line of thinking. It’s just what the chickens want. Ignorance, and obliviousnessossity.

It was only a matter of time. We all read Animal Farm, we’ve all seen the capabilities they’ve demonstrated in the past, and we all watched on Pay-Per-View when they built an Arc and led Noah to freedom. Now, they think it’s they’re turn to drown us- The Great Animal Uprising has begun and we cannot sink. We must unite. We must fight. Will you be prepared when the platoon of Uggs, Chickens, and Endangered Species come to collect THEIR refund for HuMan McNuggets? I know I will. What’s the first step?….

EAT AS MANY CHICKEN NUGGETS AS YOU POSSIBLY CAN. It’s only a matter of time before they successfully use reanimation to proliferate the size of their army.

Stay Tuned for more survival tips…

Have you heard of Ted Talks? It’s a conference that happens once a millennium, where all of world’s most intelligent people - named Ted- get together and give speeches about what it’s like being so smart, and having the same name.

But this year, a major metamorphosis transpired. After stern opposition, Ted Talks let people who aren’t named Ted, talk!

Giving a speech on a different way to think of creative genius, was Elizabeth Gilbert. Her 18-Minute speech was recommended to me on three separate occasions and I’d like to do the same. So, here it is - in the first of three times I’ll make this same post - the first woman to ever speak at Ted Talks. Enjoy…