Sometimes, as I go through my daily hum-drum life, I find myself pondering the deeper, yearning questions of existence. What am I here for? What is the nature of happiness? Will Lauryn Hill ever put out another album? Deep, unsettling questions.
Usually, these questions go unanswered. Recently, however, I was able to answer one. A big one. My question was:
Is there a God?
And the answer is: yes.
How did I come to this conclusion?
Sometimes objective truths are interconnected. If you find the answer to one question, it leads you to the answer of another question. Such is the case with the definite existence of God. By deductive reasoning, I figured it out. The proof that God exists is contained in the answer to another of life's terribly baffling questions:
What is the best ethnic cuisine?
And the answer is: Mexican.
It's a simple equation- The unbelievable amazingness of Mexican food proves that yes, YES, there is a God. AND, furthermore, not only does God exist, BUT s/he is a kind and benevolent God who loves us.
I know there are those out there who would claim that man created Mexican food and what if you're lactose intolerant and what about the whole Darwin/evolution thing, but the Truth is, Mexican food was given to us directly by God. The end, no questions. The argument then could be made that ALL ethnic cuisines could have been given to us directly by God, and I'll stand for that, but then if we're going to argue Proof here, then we should use Mexican, because it presents the strongest case. Here's why:
1) CHEESE.
omg omg omg. Cheese alone may prove God's existence. And in Mexican food, it's pretty much on everything (and those things it's not on, well, maybe it's about time we put some on them- cheesy rice? yes. cheesy tacos al carbon? hello, it's now like a fajita! cheesy ceviche? well, maybe not, but serve it with chips and put the cheese on the chips FTW!). Plus, it comes in endless varieties- queso, Monterrey jack, cheddar, American (at the cheap places, but still cheese is cheese, and God is God and cheese is directly related to God)- you can probably even get cheese in your dessert (I think the Italians might have done this better, but I'm sure SOMEBODY in Mexico does it).
I know some people are gonna whine and complain about "authentic" and whatnot, but sometimes it's better to be BETTER than authentic- and cheese clearly makes this possible. Also, the question of lactose intolerance, I say this: sometimes sacrifice is necessary to understand the Truth. An upset stomach is a small price to pay for the awesomeness of Mexican food/God.
2) Ambiance
Mexican restaurants SHOULD be brightly colored and well decorated (I had a little trouble with this, because I've been in some pretty bland Mexican joints and still felt God's presence, BUT I think, as a whole, the cuisine does a pretty good job at keep with a theme). You walk in and feel happy immediately because of all the colors and the smell of delicious fajita meat and onions grilling. You see all of the artwork of deserts or cacti on the walls. You hear and feel the sizzle of the fajita plates as they are zipped dangerously close to your ears as you are seated. Clearly, you are in heaven. And who dwells in heaven? Answer: God.
3) All Star Menu
There are dishes that have, in our multicultural world, crossed boundaries. To my knowledge, Mexican food has the highest profile when it comes to international adaptations. Tacos, Nachos and Quesadillas have achieved a level of fame only matched by the Egg Roll and Pizza. They are veritable missionaries of Mexican spreading the Good News. Can you think of a french dish as socially pervasive as a taco? No. How about a Thai dish? Ethiopian? I'm drawing blanks. And even some of the lesser known Mexican dishes are still pretty ridiculously popular- a/k/a enchiladas, fajitas, taquito's, and
4) MARGARITAS!!!
OK, seriously, like cheese, Margaritas are a winning argument for God in their own right. Back when s/he was making the world and Mexican food, God said "I want something to drink that is alcoholic, tart with a bit of sweetness. Bonus points if I can make it frozen" and lo, the Margarita came to be. And God tasted it, and knew that it was good. (I think they left this off the official 'creating the world' story because they didn't want the other cuisines to feel bad that they were not as awesome as Mexican) They're a little sweet, a little tart, a little limey, a little orangey, and a whole lot delicious. It makes sense that God has a hand in bringing this sublime concoction to be.
I still don't know what I'm on earth for. I can't tell you why some people are allergic to peanuts. I'll still never fully remember the Pythagorean theorem. But one thing I can say for sure is that, from the evidence presented here, a loving God who cares very much for us must be out there. If not, we would be a planet alone in the universe, carelessly spinning, futile, dark, and tacoless.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Monday, June 28, 2010
My Life, Sans Bars
When I took the job I currently have, I did so knowing that I would have to relocate. And not just any relocation. I was moving to WEST TEXAS.
Not just the west side of Houston- this was beyond even Katy. Not even west to Austin or San Antonio. No, all. the. way. west. Like, close to the New Mexico west.
For those of you unfamiliar, let me paint you a picture. I'm a fairly urban person. I thrive in densely populated neighborhoods. I like diverse populations and ethnic food. I drive with a sense of urgency.
Houston has (depending on who is measuring and how they're doing it) about 4 million people- give or take a hundred thousand or so. The town I am currently residing in has *almost* 13,000- give or take a hundred or so.
Notice the very large discrepancy between those two numbers. And I was pretty sure the 13,000 people i would be living with were NOT the 13,000 crazies/hipsters/urbanites that lived in my immediate neighborhood in Houston. These would be small town folks, born and raised.
Nevertheless, I'm an adventuring sort, and I accepted the contract (which, by the way, requires quite a bit of work outside- yet another "new experience" I was a touch apprehensive about, to say the least- AND, in case you were curious, I actually have grown to like quite a bit). SO my yearly studies all finished, I packed up Mariah (my slate grey Saturn) and headed out west.
The trip out was quite wonderful. I'm a huge fan of road trips, and this one proved to be quite satisfying- I drove fast, sang at the top of my lungs, managed to get out of a ticket for going 16 over the posted limit (the combination of my not being from the area, the 44 oz Big Chug in my cup holder, and some very convincing but not-quite-obnoxious protestations that my bladder was about to burst (thank you, MFA training) seemed to do the trick).
I arrived in good spirits and was promptly made aware that the application for the housing I had turned in and received email confirmation about had not actually been received (confuse me?) and I had no place to move into. To spare the details, I'll suffice to say that I was hastily put in an apartment the next day (after some kind friends offered a couch) with some roommates. The apartment was, shall we say, not exactly spic and span (for more about THAT situation and where it went, read the previous post).
As I began to acquaint myself with the town, there were some definite oddities: in a town this size there are 5 (!!!) Asian restaurants but only 2 Mexican (and we're like, 3 minutes from the border- ok, maybe a little bit more than that, but only like 15), the Walmart closes at 11 PM, and what was soon to become the most unnerving fact: this town is in a dry county. No bars.
I'll repeat that for emphasis:
NO. BARS.
There is one restaurant that manages to have a bar because it's a 'private establishment' by some sort of legal finagling, but otherwise nothing.
To be fair, my friends whom had worked with the company the previous summer had made me aware of this arrangement. I remember hearing the words "dry county" but really, what does that mean? Lets go discuss it over a beer.
Well, what it means is- you can't go discuss it over a beer, unless you want to pay $5 for said beer or you want to do it in an apartment where the floor might be alive in certain areas.
'Ok, fine,' I think, 'I don't need a bar.'
And that, actually, was a lie. It was a lie I didn't know I was telling, but I was a lying bastard and I sure as hell was telling it to myself, and myself was TOTALLY falling for it. I'm so gullible.
I should mention at this point that I like to drink. I'm not picky about what I drink either - equal opportunity consumption is something I support (in fact, I might have donated to a PAC advocating it, I'm not sure... I was probably drunk at the time...) I'm not an alcoholic (I can stop anytime I want. No, really. I can. Just let me finish this drink...) but I do thank my lucky stars that alcohol exists and is a part of my life.
I didn't realize I was a lying bastard until about 2 weeks into the job- after a particularly grueling day. It was late, I was tired of work, tired of my colleagues, and I wanted a drink. Only, there was no place to go. No divey shack with a patio. No 30 x 10 cinder block building with one window with a Bud Light neon sign in it and 6 stools. Nothing. Nada. I think I might have cried a little bit that night.
As the time passed I tried to understand just how people went through life here. Bars are essential to society- most importantly, they provide the post-industrialized nation with the highest stress levels in the universe with it's most important relaxation aid- booze. It's definitely (with a few exceptions) bad form to drink at home alone, but drinking alone in public is a national past-time. Alcohol is the third most profitable American market behind oil and porn (I just made that figure up, but it sounds pretty true to me).
Equally of note, however, bars are social places. They are where people meet- new people, friends, hook ups, whatever. You can go to a bar that you've never been to, and suddenly, you're not alone. You have something in common with the person next to you- and that is, you want a drink. Instant friendship.
And now that I think about it, sitting in my room drinking a beer (yes, alone- blogging is a TOTALLY acceptable excuse for drinking by one's self) there's another equally important function of bars. They are escapes. They are places of refuge- from work, from bills, from living situations that make you crazy, from the people that you see every. single. day. They are respites. 'Come unto me and drink' they say. 'I am the fount of booze- you who drink of me shall get buzzed and love the world a little more than you did 30 minutes ago.'
And let's be honest, who doesn't want that?
Not just the west side of Houston- this was beyond even Katy. Not even west to Austin or San Antonio. No, all. the. way. west. Like, close to the New Mexico west.
For those of you unfamiliar, let me paint you a picture. I'm a fairly urban person. I thrive in densely populated neighborhoods. I like diverse populations and ethnic food. I drive with a sense of urgency.
Houston has (depending on who is measuring and how they're doing it) about 4 million people- give or take a hundred thousand or so. The town I am currently residing in has *almost* 13,000- give or take a hundred or so.
Notice the very large discrepancy between those two numbers. And I was pretty sure the 13,000 people i would be living with were NOT the 13,000 crazies/hipsters/urbanites that lived in my immediate neighborhood in Houston. These would be small town folks, born and raised.
Nevertheless, I'm an adventuring sort, and I accepted the contract (which, by the way, requires quite a bit of work outside- yet another "new experience" I was a touch apprehensive about, to say the least- AND, in case you were curious, I actually have grown to like quite a bit). SO my yearly studies all finished, I packed up Mariah (my slate grey Saturn) and headed out west.
The trip out was quite wonderful. I'm a huge fan of road trips, and this one proved to be quite satisfying- I drove fast, sang at the top of my lungs, managed to get out of a ticket for going 16 over the posted limit (the combination of my not being from the area, the 44 oz Big Chug in my cup holder, and some very convincing but not-quite-obnoxious protestations that my bladder was about to burst (thank you, MFA training) seemed to do the trick).
I arrived in good spirits and was promptly made aware that the application for the housing I had turned in and received email confirmation about had not actually been received (confuse me?) and I had no place to move into. To spare the details, I'll suffice to say that I was hastily put in an apartment the next day (after some kind friends offered a couch) with some roommates. The apartment was, shall we say, not exactly spic and span (for more about THAT situation and where it went, read the previous post).
As I began to acquaint myself with the town, there were some definite oddities: in a town this size there are 5 (!!!) Asian restaurants but only 2 Mexican (and we're like, 3 minutes from the border- ok, maybe a little bit more than that, but only like 15), the Walmart closes at 11 PM, and what was soon to become the most unnerving fact: this town is in a dry county. No bars.
I'll repeat that for emphasis:
NO. BARS.
There is one restaurant that manages to have a bar because it's a 'private establishment' by some sort of legal finagling, but otherwise nothing.
To be fair, my friends whom had worked with the company the previous summer had made me aware of this arrangement. I remember hearing the words "dry county" but really, what does that mean? Lets go discuss it over a beer.
Well, what it means is- you can't go discuss it over a beer, unless you want to pay $5 for said beer or you want to do it in an apartment where the floor might be alive in certain areas.
'Ok, fine,' I think, 'I don't need a bar.'
And that, actually, was a lie. It was a lie I didn't know I was telling, but I was a lying bastard and I sure as hell was telling it to myself, and myself was TOTALLY falling for it. I'm so gullible.
I should mention at this point that I like to drink. I'm not picky about what I drink either - equal opportunity consumption is something I support (in fact, I might have donated to a PAC advocating it, I'm not sure... I was probably drunk at the time...) I'm not an alcoholic (I can stop anytime I want. No, really. I can. Just let me finish this drink...) but I do thank my lucky stars that alcohol exists and is a part of my life.
I didn't realize I was a lying bastard until about 2 weeks into the job- after a particularly grueling day. It was late, I was tired of work, tired of my colleagues, and I wanted a drink. Only, there was no place to go. No divey shack with a patio. No 30 x 10 cinder block building with one window with a Bud Light neon sign in it and 6 stools. Nothing. Nada. I think I might have cried a little bit that night.
As the time passed I tried to understand just how people went through life here. Bars are essential to society- most importantly, they provide the post-industrialized nation with the highest stress levels in the universe with it's most important relaxation aid- booze. It's definitely (with a few exceptions) bad form to drink at home alone, but drinking alone in public is a national past-time. Alcohol is the third most profitable American market behind oil and porn (I just made that figure up, but it sounds pretty true to me).
Equally of note, however, bars are social places. They are where people meet- new people, friends, hook ups, whatever. You can go to a bar that you've never been to, and suddenly, you're not alone. You have something in common with the person next to you- and that is, you want a drink. Instant friendship.
And now that I think about it, sitting in my room drinking a beer (yes, alone- blogging is a TOTALLY acceptable excuse for drinking by one's self) there's another equally important function of bars. They are escapes. They are places of refuge- from work, from bills, from living situations that make you crazy, from the people that you see every. single. day. They are respites. 'Come unto me and drink' they say. 'I am the fount of booze- you who drink of me shall get buzzed and love the world a little more than you did 30 minutes ago.'
And let's be honest, who doesn't want that?
Saturday, June 26, 2010
I Must Protect this House
There's a saying that goes:
A man's home is his castle.
It makes sense.
(AND, by the by, *HISTORY NERD ALERT* it was first put forth by Edward Coke and then later by James Otis. Both men said it, Otis a whole hundred-and-thirty-plus-years later than Coke. Coke was an Elizabethan Englishman and Otis was a colonial American. Otis COULD have been indirectly quoting Coke, or men of that time could just have all had major delusions of grandeur.
MORE IMPORTANTLY, the ACTUAL quote is: "A man's house is his castle"- and there's more to it in both of their full quotations, but this is the important part- I digress...)
After a long hard day of opposing the monarchy/stoking the flames of rebellion or some modern equivalent, a man wants nothing more than to leave the office, get in his carriage/on a horse/in a car and come home to his own space. With his things arranged in it. The way he likes them.
The 1950's elevated this snappy little sound bite to a veritable commandment. The media of the time would have us believe that EVERY housewife in America was, every night, waiting with baited breath for the return of her husband- the breadwinner- smiling and in pearls, martini in hand (god bless them, they got one thing right), and a pot roast in the oven.
Times have changed, and pearls and pot roasts have come and gone (and come again), but the essential desire to have a place of one's own (more than a room, thank you- we're men, damnit) has not.
All this said, if a man's home is his castle, then my castle has an infestation. In the living room, seeping into the bathroom, and most hideously in the kitchen, this takeover of my space has finally begun to gnaw at my soul. To put it plainly, roommates are ruining my home.
The mess is nothing short of epic. More than a little grating, possibly record setting, and definitely bio-hazardous, the wasteland that my apartment is slowly becoming is spectacular. The verve with which my roommates are trashing the place is breathtaking.
Take, for instance, the living room. A smallish, if comfortable arrangement of two love seats, a coffee table and large flat screen tv. In a matter of couple days, what had been a tidy, neat room is strewn with dozens of paper cups and Styrofoam big gulps. Yogurt cups by the handful litter the coffee table and floor surrounding, spoons still poking out, having crusted to the inside of the container before tipping and plummeting to the floor. Even the furniture itself, once at smart 90 degree angles, now has been shoved askew, the result of wild, testostronous World Cup viewing (I'm not opposed to throwing tables with joy/rage, however, if the table is still in functioning order after said joy/rage, just put the damn thing back where it was).
The bathroom is a higher priority of cleanliness, and I have taken great pains to keep it maintained as such. However, even with my constant vigilance, the creeping tide of chaos threatens to engulf me. I share a long vanity with one roommate. We have our own sinks, and what amounts to about a yard each of counter space. I let it slide when there were the small black hairs from shaving that begin ever-so-discreetly marching across the invisible line that separated his space and mine. Then came the Wal-mart bags with his electric clippers and assorted other clutter (including but not limited to: flask, 2 toothpaste tubes, razor, open deodorant, and a giant 64 oz glass beer stein). I'm afraid to imagine what might be next when I hold it up for comparison with the most egregious breach of sanitation that's been suffered to date: the kitchen.
The kitchen. That hallowed ground of preparation for food and drink. The kitchen, where cleanliness is not only visually pleasing, it can mean the difference between healthy people and terribly sick people. Namely, me. I have a lot of sympathy/empathy/warm feelings for people everywhere, and usually at least attempt concern for others, but in this particular situation, I am worried about me and me only. So when I find open containers of rotting spinach in the fridge, it stresses me. When I come home and find the kitchen practically suffocating with potentially Every. Single. Dish. in the apartment, the twitch that happens under my left eye when my mind is under siege, well, it happens. And these dishes, on counter top and floor, atop fridge and protruding from cupboards, are not freshly washed and just arranged whimsically. No. They are covered in a Science Fair's worth of terrifying and curious substances- some sticky, some rock hard, some glowing in rainbow colors, some holding conversations about the McChrystal resignation (ok, so the last two might be embellishments, but only slightly). I would just throw them all in the sink and douse them in bleach and be done with it, but A) I'm afraid I would contract something and B) the sink itself smells like a catacombs for small animals. Needless to say, the kitchen, usually my favorite room in the house, has become something I hurry past as fast as possible without looking to hard for fear of making eye contact with anything living.
I've gone back and forth as to what to do about the whole situation. As I can see it, I have three options:
1) Negotiations.
Previously attempted. I've asked in civil tones. I've reminded. I've even tried to bargain. All to no avail. This tactic, I'm sorry to say, just does not work in the present situation. Which led me to...
2) Taking care of the business myself.
Also previously attempted. I put on my haz-mat suit and did a full apartment, top-to-bottom clean. It took about 12 hours, but in the end, it was worth it and everything was clean. I left for rehearsal, and when I came back, I opened the door and gasped. Something had Chernobyl-ed on the stove and all over the kitchen. There were papers and books all over the entry table. A pizza box lay askance on the floor with the crusts flung about it. So much for doing it myself. So, frankly, the only option I see left is
3) All out war.
I've tried to be nice. I'm done being nice now. There will be no prisoners. I plan to first throw out all dirty things I come across. When that doesn't work, or even if it does, I'm bringing in the blow-torch for a periodic burning, so nothing has a chance to evolve into something with a vertebrae. Finally, I've ordered a vat of about 600 gallons of bleach. I merely take my precedent from the bible- God clearly couldn't stand the mess of the world, so he just simplified things and sent a flood. I'm doing the same thing, only with Clorox.
If everything else fails, I suppose I could just change the locks. That would truly get to the root of the problem, the roommates, but then leasing offices get involved and the cops and it might not be worth the effort. Still, now that I think about it, the best and easiest way to keep invaders out of one's castle is to not let them in in the first place.
A man's home is his castle.
It makes sense.
(AND, by the by, *HISTORY NERD ALERT* it was first put forth by Edward Coke and then later by James Otis. Both men said it, Otis a whole hundred-and-thirty-plus-years later than Coke. Coke was an Elizabethan Englishman and Otis was a colonial American. Otis COULD have been indirectly quoting Coke, or men of that time could just have all had major delusions of grandeur.
MORE IMPORTANTLY, the ACTUAL quote is: "A man's house is his castle"- and there's more to it in both of their full quotations, but this is the important part- I digress...)
After a long hard day of opposing the monarchy/stoking the flames of rebellion or some modern equivalent, a man wants nothing more than to leave the office, get in his carriage/on a horse/in a car and come home to his own space. With his things arranged in it. The way he likes them.
The 1950's elevated this snappy little sound bite to a veritable commandment. The media of the time would have us believe that EVERY housewife in America was, every night, waiting with baited breath for the return of her husband- the breadwinner- smiling and in pearls, martini in hand (god bless them, they got one thing right), and a pot roast in the oven.
Times have changed, and pearls and pot roasts have come and gone (and come again), but the essential desire to have a place of one's own (more than a room, thank you- we're men, damnit) has not.
All this said, if a man's home is his castle, then my castle has an infestation. In the living room, seeping into the bathroom, and most hideously in the kitchen, this takeover of my space has finally begun to gnaw at my soul. To put it plainly, roommates are ruining my home.
The mess is nothing short of epic. More than a little grating, possibly record setting, and definitely bio-hazardous, the wasteland that my apartment is slowly becoming is spectacular. The verve with which my roommates are trashing the place is breathtaking.
Take, for instance, the living room. A smallish, if comfortable arrangement of two love seats, a coffee table and large flat screen tv. In a matter of couple days, what had been a tidy, neat room is strewn with dozens of paper cups and Styrofoam big gulps. Yogurt cups by the handful litter the coffee table and floor surrounding, spoons still poking out, having crusted to the inside of the container before tipping and plummeting to the floor. Even the furniture itself, once at smart 90 degree angles, now has been shoved askew, the result of wild, testostronous World Cup viewing (I'm not opposed to throwing tables with joy/rage, however, if the table is still in functioning order after said joy/rage, just put the damn thing back where it was).
The bathroom is a higher priority of cleanliness, and I have taken great pains to keep it maintained as such. However, even with my constant vigilance, the creeping tide of chaos threatens to engulf me. I share a long vanity with one roommate. We have our own sinks, and what amounts to about a yard each of counter space. I let it slide when there were the small black hairs from shaving that begin ever-so-discreetly marching across the invisible line that separated his space and mine. Then came the Wal-mart bags with his electric clippers and assorted other clutter (including but not limited to: flask, 2 toothpaste tubes, razor, open deodorant, and a giant 64 oz glass beer stein). I'm afraid to imagine what might be next when I hold it up for comparison with the most egregious breach of sanitation that's been suffered to date: the kitchen.
The kitchen. That hallowed ground of preparation for food and drink. The kitchen, where cleanliness is not only visually pleasing, it can mean the difference between healthy people and terribly sick people. Namely, me. I have a lot of sympathy/empathy/warm feelings for people everywhere, and usually at least attempt concern for others, but in this particular situation, I am worried about me and me only. So when I find open containers of rotting spinach in the fridge, it stresses me. When I come home and find the kitchen practically suffocating with potentially Every. Single. Dish. in the apartment, the twitch that happens under my left eye when my mind is under siege, well, it happens. And these dishes, on counter top and floor, atop fridge and protruding from cupboards, are not freshly washed and just arranged whimsically. No. They are covered in a Science Fair's worth of terrifying and curious substances- some sticky, some rock hard, some glowing in rainbow colors, some holding conversations about the McChrystal resignation (ok, so the last two might be embellishments, but only slightly). I would just throw them all in the sink and douse them in bleach and be done with it, but A) I'm afraid I would contract something and B) the sink itself smells like a catacombs for small animals. Needless to say, the kitchen, usually my favorite room in the house, has become something I hurry past as fast as possible without looking to hard for fear of making eye contact with anything living.
I've gone back and forth as to what to do about the whole situation. As I can see it, I have three options:
1) Negotiations.
Previously attempted. I've asked in civil tones. I've reminded. I've even tried to bargain. All to no avail. This tactic, I'm sorry to say, just does not work in the present situation. Which led me to...
2) Taking care of the business myself.
Also previously attempted. I put on my haz-mat suit and did a full apartment, top-to-bottom clean. It took about 12 hours, but in the end, it was worth it and everything was clean. I left for rehearsal, and when I came back, I opened the door and gasped. Something had Chernobyl-ed on the stove and all over the kitchen. There were papers and books all over the entry table. A pizza box lay askance on the floor with the crusts flung about it. So much for doing it myself. So, frankly, the only option I see left is
3) All out war.
I've tried to be nice. I'm done being nice now. There will be no prisoners. I plan to first throw out all dirty things I come across. When that doesn't work, or even if it does, I'm bringing in the blow-torch for a periodic burning, so nothing has a chance to evolve into something with a vertebrae. Finally, I've ordered a vat of about 600 gallons of bleach. I merely take my precedent from the bible- God clearly couldn't stand the mess of the world, so he just simplified things and sent a flood. I'm doing the same thing, only with Clorox.
If everything else fails, I suppose I could just change the locks. That would truly get to the root of the problem, the roommates, but then leasing offices get involved and the cops and it might not be worth the effort. Still, now that I think about it, the best and easiest way to keep invaders out of one's castle is to not let them in in the first place.
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