Three

I’m not big on quotes. I find them mostly simplistic (fair warning: I am hopped up on head cold and my thinking is fuzzy at best), but there are a couple I find really useful across broad contexts (and one that I find useful for writing fiction).

One quote I find indispensable came from a beer talk with Kevin Canty and had to do with writers’ groups, but I think goes far beyond them: “If I show you a bowl of dog shit and tell you it’s vanilla ice cream, and you agree with me, who is being served?”

This post started out as having a lot to do with Merlin’s funny little list essentially calling “dog shit” on a lot of lists that get pumped out these days, but I don’t think it has much to do with that any more.

It has to do with creating good things and being more cognizant of when you’re ingesting heaping bowls of dog shit.

I don’t claim to be above lists. I don’t claim to be above heading over to LifeHacker and taking a spin around the grounds (well, I do now because I don’t go there any more, but I used to, so it still serves my argument’s purpose. Again, head cold). I honestly believe in some part of me that should I find the perfect messenger bag with just the right pockets for this or that, and the little holder for that one thing, I will self-actualize and suddenly become this new, amazing version of myself that other versions merely shadowed. A full-on Plato’s cave type of thing.  But really, I understand none of those things is going to fix my life (in as much as it needs fixing).

I can see why Merlin turned inside out on the productivity pr0n business. He’s said as much, probably more eloquently than I ever could, but I’ll see if I can add something new: as long as we keep looking for easy fixes, none of us is going to be a better person. We’re all going to be lists and catch phrases and little do-hickies that supposedly make life easier, but that I would wager make life a little emptier. I mean, honestly, do you really need a list of 43 things to help you simplify your life? What’s that going to teach you? How about you take a second and do some heavy mental lifting. Sure, you might suck at first. It’s ok. The muscles probably haven’t been used in a while. But if you’re feeling overwhelmed, really sit down and figure out what needs to be there. And then protect it like you would your offspring.

(One of the other great quotes? “Learn to play your instruments; then get sexy.” Attributed to Deborah Harry.)

One

ohheygreat:

merlin:

Why Merlin Mann (Whom I’ve Never Heard of) is a Complete Jackass

Metafilter comment on someone called, “Merlin Mann,” who had been declared a “complete jackass” upthread:

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Anyone who does THAT dance to THAT song is never, under any circumstances, EVER a jackass.

Plus, I once saw how many cherries this guy puts in a Makers and ginger. That’s like anti-jackass tonic right there.

Wait, unless we’re talking about the Top Secret Cool Jackass Club. GODDAMMIT DID I RUIN THINGS AGAIN YOU GUYS PLEASE KEEP CONSIDERING MY MEMBERSHIP

Honestly, there will always be some jitbag - in real life, in a magazine, on the internet, on whatever platform - going “hey, I don’t know shit but I’m going to talk about it anyway - and I’m going to tell YOU how YOU’RE an asshole.” The bummer is that for the 1,000 people who tell you how much they like you, the one jerk with the megaphone telling you exactly which dongles you suck is always, always the loudest - and that’s always the stuff that stings the most.

I’m not a very loud voice, nor a particularly important one, but I think you’re great. Beyond great, if you must know.

Here is a story: For a few years, I was an advice columnist, in a very interesting context: I was the advice columnist on IGN.com from late 1998/early 1999 to 2001. Along with a brilliant guy named Julian Rignall and some other super smart dudes, I helped shape IGN.com into the crazy site it is today, and along the way became a bit of a personality known as Ask Leah. Yes, that’s right, I gave advice to guys aged 13 and up. Not just any guys, but videogamers. For 2 1/2 years. My job included writing a feature a week, plus answering letters in two to three smaller columns per day. For the harder stuff, like the medical questions or the really serious answers, I had a medical advisor/ghost writer (a doctor - my mom!). The columns were:

- Ask Leah
- Tough Love
- What’s Up With My Penis?

This is not a joke.

During those 2 1/2 years, I had a fairly large readership. I had to do publicity, like go on radio shows as the “sex & love columnist,” and one time spent 70 miserable minutes taking punishment on Opie & Anthony, when they were still on regular broadcast radio. I stayed on the entire time (even The Rock hung up on them), weathering some serious on-air abuse, because I knew that as bad as that abuse was, the abuse I’d get via email would be worse if I hung up.

The letters I got varied, of course, from “What are these lumps on my nuts” to “I’ve never talked to a girl and I want to ask her out” to “I feel suicidal.” I had moms writing me, begging me to answer their kids. I had kids arguing with me, disagreeing with me, sometimes telling me I was an idiot, and stupid, and ugly, and awful. After a while it felt like I was writing Cosmo for teens who did nothing but fondle their nuts in between playing rounds of Tekken 3 and Quake II and Zelda and fired off notes to the editor about how they were SHOCKED AND APPALLED about some stupid omission on a frigging website, of all things. Guys, go outside.

But you know what I remember now? Besides the horror that was Opie & Anthony, and the occasional desire to punch myself in the face, and the jokes and eye-rollings, and how bitter I was about the crappy treatment I received when I was laid off by a company I had worked very, very hard for - I mostly remember the good. From the readers. The people I helped. The respectful kids. The ones who started thinking and behaving a little differently. The guy who had never talked to a girl - and who ended up with a date to homecoming. There are some other great stories in there. I really treasure them.

So this long, silly aside: I’m sure you know all this. But those fuckers? Are always going to be fuckers. You really do make a difference to a lot of us. Whether by getting us to think differently, to see the world differently, or to laugh when we’re sitting here feeling like slamming our heads repeatedly into the space bar. We’re your little readers who should probably stop fondling our nuts and playing games, and should go outside. Occasionally we do, and we figure things out. We owe you, man.

Don’t let the fuckers get you down. Now, get back to work.

xo

Best CYA ever. EVER.

ohheygreat:

From Chowhound:

Choose Your Own Nacho Adventure

“Start with the basic chip-cheese nexus and build from there using some of the individual ingredients we’ve offered for inspiration. Or go with one of the ready-made combos we’ve tried and tested.”

Also: There are photos. LOTS AND LOTS OF PHOTOS. OF NACHOS.

I was serious when I said this. Man, if only 2010 and nachos rhymed. There was “No Day Without Fries in ‘05” and this year is begging for a slogan, people.

“It’s 2010; Nachos again!”

Easy queso dip recipe: 2 cups shredded cheese medley of cheddar, colby, and Monterey jack slowly mixed into 1 cup of half-n-half over low heat on the stove.

Provides a wonderful flavor canvas delicious all by itself, but ready for salsa, chopped jalapenos or other peppers, chives, a dash of cilantro (assuming it doesn’t taste like soap to you), or crisped chorizo sausage.

The aftermath

“You have to speak with her.” Mahon chops carrots, celery, an onion.  Dumps the vegetables into a stock pot, adds a little oil and stirs them, lets them sizzle.

“I know.”  Boone leans against the counter in Mahon’s small, neat kitchen.  Near the sink.  Accepts carrot tops from Mahon, garlic skin.  Sets measuring spoons and cups in the sink. Rinses a knife.

“So. When?”

“Not sure.”

Mahon shakes his head, checks the vegetables in the bottom of the pot. “You can’t be like that, man.  Can’t be all ‘whenever’ on this one.”

“I know, I know.”

“No, man.  You don’t know nothing.  This one?  This one ain’t some tax paper come back with a little interest. This is your life, man.  So what she porked some dude?  Is it that big a deal you won’t even talk her?”

Boone stands from the sink, checks his beer against the light.  Finishes the last bit in one big mouthful.  In the fridge, another six pack he’s brought over for the night.  Grabs one, uses his shirt when he twists off the top.  “I think it’s a pretty big deal.”

“Says who?” Mahon turns from the stove, wooden spoon in his hand like a sceptre.

“Lots of people,” Boone says.  Though he knows Mahon is right.  He will have to talk to Joan.  About Kyle, about what’s left.  Though standing in Mahon’s kitchen, it seems the least real thing on earth.  More real: the beer in his hand, his friend at the stove.  The smell of garlic, cooking carrots.  Celery.  The porcelain sink, the old floor boards.  The wan sun outside.  The approaching holiday.  His son’s upcoming art show in the high school library.  The rattle in his car’s engine, celebrity gossip, aliens plotting to abduct the president.

Mahon shrugs.  “Lots of people don’t, too.”

###

They meet on campus, late afternoon.  Boone knows a place, a tiny cafe crammed in the corner of Dyche Hall.  Serves sandwiches and coffee.  Business from eleven to one is brisk, then no one.  The guy behind the counter listlessly shoves ketchup packets back in boxes, handfuls at a time.  A child putting toys away.  Joan is already seated when he gets there, black coffee and cigarettes on the table.

“You’re smoking again,” he says.

She picks up the pack, studies it as one might a mounted butterfly.  A bug.  “Not really.”

“Can I sit?”

“Please.”

He slides into the booth, the red plastic bench seat slick and cold.  “You want anything?”

She looks at the table, eyes darting left and right across it.  “I’m fine for now.  But thank you.”

Out the window, the day is blank.  Low clouds hug the tops of the buildings, pewter-plate the sky.  Shadows absent.  He wipes at his face with his hands, palms to forehead, cheeks, chin.  His sigh fills the booth.  He blinks, puts back on his glasses.  “So what now?”

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