Wrinklesteaks

If you happen to be a vegan or are easily disturbed by the thought of your food having parents, please navigate back and enjoy one of my other entries.

As I sat on the beach with my family - watching and waiting for large waves to knock select kids off their feet - we gorged ourselves on a fabulous spread. All manner of farm beast sacrificed its life, likely while hoping that we, the world's flesh-chewing citizenry, might one day die of ruptured colons.

Lodged in an undersized folding chair, I soaked up heavenly ultraviolet radiation and watched 11-year-olds choke on salt water while I munched on mustard-soaked Bratwurst. Like a wise, old instant coffee commercial for horny moms once said...you should celebrate these moments in your life. If it weren't for an overabundance of giggling children and typical beach distractions, the experience might have been pretty close to nirvana.

[...A mother cackles as her two, naked little boys run around wagging their naughty bits at everyone. A seagull relieves itself over a Nimitz-class middle-aged guy covered in fur (and by some miracle scores a near-miss). Seals incessantly bark in chorus...]

I tore into a half-bloody piece of Tri-tip steak; wistfully watching the water surrounding a floating platform covered in sunbathing seals. "C'mon shark, c'mon...Well, where the fuck are you?"

Meanwhile, my sister and parents had noticed that a nearby teen - no doubt motivated by a deep-seeded desire to see children break their necks - had dug a sand pit no less than five feet deep. I don't know how, but somewhere along the way, the picnic conversation deviated from...

"Ooo, ooo, please pass me a piece of Tri-tip...no, no, that one."

to...

"Yeah, that pit reminds me of when we would have to clean the chitlins and squeeze out all that boo."

Any outside shot I had at achieving oneness with that beach instantly vanished.

For those of you unfamiliar with the horror that is a pot of chitlins, I'll explain. If you are to believe my parents and relatives back in South Carolina, chitlins (correctly and more frighteningly spelled chitterlings), are apparently something you put in your mouth and swallow. They're essentially a throwback value meal from times when having a better tan than your average Dixie cup could possibly arouse lynch mob suspicion.

Back in those days, the most delectable, tender portions of poo-covered Wilbur were reserved for folks of both greater means and lesser pigmentation. Enter chitlins.

Unwanted by the then-overclass and therefore affordable, chitlins have somehow stuck around into the 21st century. But then again, so have "tripas" and "makchang gui" and other global variations of disgusting intestinal snack-age. That doesn't mean I've got to allow others to form their own opinions on them though.

I can hear a few of my vegetarian acquaintances cutting me off at this moment. "Umm. What about hot dogs and sausages? You've still got mustard on your shirt from a meal that consisted primarily of hog lips, teeth and assholes... And they're sometimes encased in intestines."


To which I respond. "Well, do hotdogs look like lips, teeth, assholes or intestines? The grossest organ they even remotely resemble is nowhere near the intestines."

Ignorance, faked or otherwise, really is bliss.

You need a healthy imagination to mentally assemble a chicken out of a fried drumstick. But there's do denying, particularly when the kitchen smells like a truck stop restroom, that a pot of chitlins is hot-boiled-poo-pipe.

My parents, quickly snapping to the realization that the North won, cutely attempted to disown their own backwoods histories...

"That was your father's family that ate that stuff."

"Nooo, no, I didn't eat that."

"You know you did."

"So did you."

"Nah-uh...Well, I remember coming to your house for the first time, and I saw fish heads looking up at me from a pot of boiling water."

[laughing] "We didn't throw anything away."

[ laughing] "Well, that's for certain!"

Here's a bit of background on dear mum n' pa: My dad's family is centered in an area around all-too-appropriately-named, Lynchburg, South Carolina. My mother hails from somewhat-less desolate Conway, South Carolina. (If you're reading this mom, don't start dancing a victory jig. My fondest memory of dear Conway involves a HUGE black snake crawling up to the the sliding glass door and watching us during an evening meal at Grandma's house.)

Don't get me wrong, everyone out there are your average American citizens beyond the accents and an honest-to-God pleasantness in disposition. Their personalities really seem to fall in line with the notion of "southern sweetness." But, as much as I love my family, if any relative of mine offered me a hot bowl of shit-ter-lings, I would tell them I recently had my stomach removed and no longer eat. I simply can't deal with the thought of the wringing of fecal frosting from a pig's digestive tract being an integral part of meal preparation.

I adore sushi. I've eaten and enjoyed cow tongue tacos. I believe that animals, for the most part, are delicious. But...

I...will...not...eat...hot-dookie-ham. I will not eat it, Sam I Am.

As explained by mom, the story goes that my Uncle Buddy, initially shared my disdain for the stinky stew. After having dinner with a military friend (who probably still keeps a sharp lookout for Confederate soldiers), he eventually realized he enjoyed the stuff. He lovingly began referring to the putrid dish as "wrinklesteaks."

Wrinklesteaks...
Wrinklesteaks...
Wrinklesteaks...

Tee-hee.

I swear whean I heard "wrinklesteak", I almost spit up chunks of spicy sausage on one of my sister's stepkids. It instantly gorilla'd its way into the VIP section of my vocabulary; flanked on the left by "shenanigans" and "dingleberry" on the right.

So, on that sunny day, I happily learned that even my parents find the idea of stinky pig intestines coursing through human entrails somewhat revolting. Well, at least in public. I also learned that for the love of God, if somebody asks you if you if you like wrinklesteak...you scream "NO!"

Nothing good can come of saying anything besides that.

Under the Boardwalk

Urgh, Monday...

I promised myself I wouldn't subject anyone masochistic enough to enjoy pushing through my Monday posts to yet more "I feel like crap today" exposition.

But I lie to myself all the time...and I feel like crap.

So there. That information is the key to the fulfillment of all your hopes and dreams, I'm certain.

This weekend featured little in the way of party-boy antics for yours truly, as I was engaged in the initial re-visitation of an activity that will likely become an annual family tradition...

That would be the summer beach picnic, out in Santa Cruz. Home to legions of surfers, skaters, hippies and at least one blogger, Santa Cruz is one of the most awesomely strange places in California. Combination burrito stand/head shops...a massive full-pipe for junior to play on...rabid seals (OK, I'm lying about the seals being rabid, but their never-ending barking might drive you crazy)...Santa Cruz is loaded with stuff absolutely worthy of "lookee here."

Anyhow, my immediate/extended family and friends caravaned down to the Boardwalk from San Jose Saturday morning. I swear I crack a dopey, ear-to-ear grin every time I go to Santa Cruz. It seems like the type of place where children receive school-issued jars of glow in the dark silly putty on the first day of class. As we drove toward parking near the Boardwalk Casino Arcade, I marveled at how different everything felt.

I mean, up is still up and down is down in Santa Cruz, but it has this tangible, almost-alien vibe. It feels almost like the town has a secret side only known to the locals. I wouldn't be surprised at all to find out that if you stay past midnight, everyone turns into donkeys that bray at the moon - all still sporting shorts and bikini tops. Or maybe the town is full of gay-looking vampires that prowl the Boardwalk looking for beach keggers. I have an overactive imagination as it is. Combining Santa Cruz with that imagination is comparable to allowing a 10-year-old to wash down No Doze with Mountain Dew.

I must note that being the genius I am, I forgot to bring my camera. As to not take credit for pictures I didn't actually take, I'm letting you know I "Googled" these pics. They are accurate representations of what I saw though. Next time I'll be more prepared, I promise. These are things I saw and heard at the Boardwalk that are probably only interesting to me...

• Kiddie Rides: a Boardwalk staple

These are miniature versions of rides that typically cater to boys between the ages of 16 and 16-and-a-half. All of them primarily involve spinning you around at high speeds until you either blow chunks all over the person behind you, or you're so dizzy you couldn't walk down the Golden Gate Bridge without falling over the side. Take all that fun, then work the same magic that gave the world bite-sized Snickers, and you get "Rock & Roll." Obviously, it's a music-themed ride. If you have a Peeping-Tom's eyes or a magnifying glass handy, you can see the awesome music-themed mural at the top. It features several of the hottest musical artists adored by children everywhere. That's 'tween favorite Elvis Presley rockin' out on a mean guitar on the left. To the right of Mr. Presley is the "Private Dancer" making every little boy swoon, Tina Turner. And further right are the king and queen of the kiddie Jazz and Latin pop scenes, Louis Armstrong and Gloria Estefan. Kids will no doubt know this is the ride for them. My sister's stepkids will testify.

• Giant donuts aren't popular in Santa Cruz

I saw, about two dozen of the biggest, baddest donuts God ever allowed to grace this green Earth. I really should kick my own ass for not having a camera on-hand to document those warlocks. They were at least as big as the wheels on your average Toyota. I wondered aloud to my sister, "Why aren't people buying these bad boys? They only cost, like a nickle apiece." Then I got my answer when a saw a mosquito...imprisoned in the gooey glaze of one of the display donuts. "At least he died happy," I said. Then I spotted the ice cream stand.

• Grandmas are apparently magic
  

Remember this guy? A young version of Tom Hanks makes a wish on this machine in the movie "Big" and presto...instant hairline issues. Anyhow, the Boardwalk folks, intent on one-upping Zoltar in terms of pay-for-play wisdom and mystical potency, have their own spin on this at the Casino Arcade named "Grandma Says." It featured an animatronic crone that looks like the type of old woman that would take all of the money she tricked out of everyone dumb enough to give her any, and go hit the nickle slots in Vegas. Since when do grandmas grant wishes? I mean, if you wish for fruitcake or cookies, their powers might prove quite formidable. It's when you're trying to wish away foreclosure on your home that things get tricky. Since I'm apparently a dumbass, I wished to be a kid again and waited and waited, but nothing happened. After playing video games and eating ice cream for over an hour, I gave up waiting and ran back to the beach to make a sand castle.

This is just a mere taste of last weekend's nuttiness. To be continued...

Footloose

I work with this really nice fellow that hails from the Midwest. He's sort'a my supervisor, dohn-cha-know...except not. He's a really cool dude; easygoing, affable and extremely funny. He's the type of person that's never short on interesting discussion topics or off-color jokes/remarks. I speak of the sort of guy with which you might have a serious discussion on the ramifications of Iraq troop withdrawal one moment...and what constitutes good bathroom reading material the next. As I stated earlier, he's an interesting cat.

That being said, I wish he didn't have such an affinity for walking around the office barefoot. He's of the ginormous, lumbering, Nordic persuasion; a bigg'un of no less than 6'4", 250 lbs. If you can extrapolate those dimensions into a mental picture of the peds in question, you might come up with something that looks like ten sausages wearing helmets jutting out of a pair of petrified tree stumps. Our office dress policy allows for such freedom in terms of footwear. As a matter of fact, you can pretty much wear (or not wear) whatever you choose so long as it's within reason. I wear funny-looking hats.

So weather permitting - which is the case 11 months of the year here - my colleague takes things back to an ancient time when there were no finer sneakers available than one's own crusty heels. I can't say enough how much I respect this person, but the sight of those swollen, callus-bound groundpounders can be quite disconcerting. I remember an afternoon in which a familiar voice shot out an effusive "Hey, man!" while I was washing my hands in the company restroom. Startled, I quickly looked up from the sink...only to see him, marching onto the filthy, gray tile sans footwear. He nearly met my enchiladas.

While none of my other co-workers have attempted to walk on piss water, many of them love to tromp around on our filthy office carpet as if they're on their way to a Twister tournament. At least they wear socks. Whatever makes you happy, I suppose. I guess empty Equal packets and rug fuzzies sticking to socks...um, rocks?

I'll admit I'm not a huge fan of feet. I think this dislike stems from a childhood memory that features a barefoot friend literally stomping in chunky dog shit while running towards an awaiting Slip-and-Slide. I'll never forget the sight of his mother rinsing rectal fudge from between his toes with a green garden hose. I lost my voice laughing that day and went on to read radio traffic. He has since gone on to become the CEO and majority shareholder of Raging Waters theme parks.

I currently have a buddy who doesn't feel "free" unless he's picking up loose gravel with his toes; as if doing so incites some orgy of moonwalking, dusty-footed ecstasy. He, like my favorite co-worker, is Midwestern.

So, I don't understand this need to be barefoot. And no, I don't sleep with socks on, but you can bet your sweet hindquarters I sock up before I hit the stairs. I guess I just think that feet (especially dude feet) aren't very pleasant things. They're wiggly dirt sponges that sop up germs, and grime and gone uncared for, they sometimes smell like stale bar snacks.

I remember a scene in the movie "Die Hard," in which a fellow passenger on an airplane tells Bruce Willis the secret to surviving air travel...

"You want to know the secret to surviving air travel?" asks the passenger. "After you get where you're going, take off your shoes and your socks then walk around on the rug bare foot and make fists with your toes." (see fig. 1.)

fig. 1.

"I've been doing it for nine years. Yessir, better than a shower and a hot cup of coffee. "

Maybe this guy's method of foot clenching differs from mine, but I was almost certain the best way to survive air travel was hire a competent pilot and drink lots of those little bottles of booze. But, I once accidentally mailed a letter to myself (don't drink and mail), so what the hell do I know?

I now move on to the topic of "girl feet." Girl feet, on average, are typically less revolting than "dude feet." Girl feet often are spackled with pretty pigments and designs, and they almost never smell like Funyuns. But that doesn't mean women shouldn't be looking down while running towards the Slip-and-Slide. It's been said countless times in popular culture that women's bodies (particularly their nether parts) are inherently more beautiful than men's and are therefore more artistically worthy. I have to agree. But try as I might, I can't find anything artistic about foot parasites.

When I was still in the Air Force, an acquaintance once told me (while standing barefoot on molten summer asphalt) "barefoot toughness" was "a white person thing." He was white. This didn't explain the whole East Indian walking on red-hot embers trick, but I nodded in agreement anyway. I'm a black guy - living in a presumptuous world - who speaks English in a manner that would've made Winston Churchill quite proud. Unnecessary compliments and funny looks don't even surprise me anymore. So, trust me when I say I'm very aware of the power of stereotyping and generalization.

I witnessed many people of color people going about their business while wearing nature's Nikes when I last visited my relatives in South Carolina. I can't say there was a great deal of age diversity within that group though. Not one of those footloose individuals was over the age of 12. Maybe that guy I talked to back in the military was onto something. Or perhaps because of his mumbling due to his bottom lip being chock full of chewing tobacco, I didn't hear him correctly.

So I ask those of you who are footloose and fancy free...

As well as those of you as rigid in your shoe-wearing ways as a boot camp recruit standing at attention...

If the shoe fits...

Why not wear it?

Where the Boys Aren't

I have been led to believe by many friends that I, yours truly, am one the finest examples of contradictory behavior around. Of course many of these "contradictions" are based on dated stereotypes that have no place in a world where immeasurable knowledge is only a keystroke away. No neurosis, no questionable behavior could ever draw more attention to a man than actions deemed inconsistent with traditional manhood.

For example: I'm a pretty stout fellow; particularly for my height (I'm 5' 10"), and as a guy, that works for me. A fair portion of men enjoy few things more than hoisting heavy, inanimate, metal objects over their heads repeatedly while grunting. I'm especially talented in this respect. Here I am about to perform an incline dumbbell press.

Just kidding. That's former Mr. Olympia finalist Flex Wheeler about to throw up around 200 lbs...per arm. But, I do enjoy doing this type of thing; albeit with slightly less weight. I also enjoy participating in pick-up games of tackle football and scarfing mustard-drenched Polish dogs at AT&T Park. I was a better-than-average student of boxing in college, and I can consistently throw the 15-yard-out pattern with some degree of success. So when the game is won and the Heinekens have been chugged, I go home, take a shower, and if I'm in the mood... BAM! I'm slicing onions and concocting sauces and basically pretending that it's my face on the package of Uncle Ben's instant rice (I'm certain that line would go over wonderfully with the NAACP). These fits of culinary inspiration come-and-go, but I've grown progressively more focused and Zen-like in the kitchen, which has become the source of much comedy among my buddies. Meet Chef Boy-Au-brey. Charmed, I presume?

In the past I was a slave to animal impulses, and although I knew it wasn't always fair, I demanded girlfriends to paint their toes strange, bright colors and join me at the gym lest they become casualties of dreaded "girlfriend gain." I also unabashedly requested they wear shoes that probably weren't safe (let alone comfortable) from time-to-time. In short, I suffered severe bouts of douche-itis in my 20's. I've shared many a chuckle with the guys over similar Cro-Magnon antics they perpetrated on gals. But those laughs are turned squarely on me if I show up for the holiday pot-luck wearing...

That's right...a tweed charcoal blazer and button-down combination (with matching scarf, of course). Again, this is the source of a whole 'lotta snickering. Perhaps describing it as "charcoal" doesn't help. Look fellas, I understand that I don't live in Paris or London, but how does blazer + matching clothes + scarf = this guy?I mean, gimme a fuckin' break, lol. Is it the social climate in America (or more specifically Sacramento) demanding I embrace my fashion douchebag? Or could some preconceived notion; some archetypal influence be at work? I may never know for sure. One thing I do know is that if you draped a FUBU shirt over my dead body, I'd instantly resurrect and put my thumbs in your eyes. Hey, I'm just saying.

It appears I'm too mixed up and European (my boss called me that today) to know when I'm treading in "fairy-boy" territory. Now I'm even starting to question whether or not blogging is unmanly. I mean, I've searched and searched and besides Badass Geek, I've yet to find a coherent blog written by anyone with a Y-chromosome. There's literally about a 10-t0-1 female-to-male ratio of bloggers as far as I've seen. And that doesn't make me feel any more capable of ripping a phone book in half with my bare hands.

So, should I tweak things to make sure Catnip is TE (Testosterone/Estrogen) balanced? Should the title be changed to "Dogbones for Dipshits"? Maybe throw in some posts about the upcoming NFL season? I could do a comparison piece titled... New York Strip vs. Sirloin: Rage on the Grill. How about the pros and cons of Ultimate Fighting as a high school sports activity? I'm not sure, but perhaps sharing what happened during my day might be too similar to sharing my feelings...or writing poetry. And that's just gross, isn't it?

What do you guys/gals think? Are my testosterone-fueled insecurities founded?

Please share your feeli...err, thoughts on this with me.

Finally Saw It

OK, because it's Monday, you've probably already guessed that the weekend stuffed me in a tiny hurt locker and slammed the door shut. Five coffees and four mush-mouthed news reports into my day, I still feel a bit fried. But...

It's a satisfied and happy fried, for the culmination of weeks of nerdy anticipation and speculation was a truly awesome movie experience. Yup, I finally got to see "The Dark Knight," in IMAX, no less. Nerds and geeks were plentiful, and I saw several moviegoers arguing over whether Spiderman could beat up Batman...in full make-up and costume. One winner, who sprinted into the theater and claimed about 20 seats, almost got into a fistfight with another gent. Then, a happy-looking fellow with a bowl cut walked by me munching on a Butterfinger, sporting a cape that draped over his polo shirt and khakis. You had to be there.

Now, I know many of us don't like to subscribe to unsubstantiated hyperbole. Especially nerd hyperbole. Intelligent people--more specifically, your garden variety blogger--inherently value their own opinion. Most of us blog because we feel we have something interesting to say; something worth sharing. We're unique individuals. So, latching onto the pop-culture sensibilities of the masses sans supportive evidence is a no-no for most of us. I'm an especially cynical person, and have never watched an episode of Survivor or American Idol without serious reservations, and never, under any circumstances, by personal choice.

But I'm forced to venture into dangerous overly-enthusiastic territory here. And I do so while first prefacing that It's just my opinion, not written-in-stone fact. If you see the film and you think it's utter goatshit, you're probably just an awful person to begin wi...I mean, it's simply a difference of opinion.

That said, I'm here to tell you, in that theater, for the first time in quite a few years I was seriously a giddy kid again. It happened during "Pulp Fiction" and "The Matrix." A similar feeling took hold after subjecting my then-girlfriend to rebel yell-induced embarrassment during "Gladiator." And for this "comic book movie" I felt it again.

My adulation isn't the result of whiz-bang effects and pyrotechnics. It wasn't the amazing cinematography (I can't begin to describe how awesome the swooping nighttime shots of Chicago's skyline look in IMAX). It wasn't even a genuinely scary-as-hell virtuoso performance by the sadly- departed Heath Ledger (my God, what a swan song). It was the fact that the movie took something, that for most adults, represents mere pop-culture child's play, and turned it into something far more relevant and palpable.

Yessiree, I'm talkin' seriously heady, post-9/11, fear and moral duality type themes. But amazingly, it still has plenty of the less brain-taxing "THWACK!" AND "POW!" stuff that people tend to go to summer movies for. I know I'm talking about a film featuring a guy running around in cape and costume; one that has ears for that matter--but the fact it could inspire such nerve-racking tension and dread was very impressive indeed.

Attendance at the show I went to was pretty evenly split between men and women and everyone, for the most part, appeared genuinely impressed afterwards. I feel comfortable recommending this movie to most anyone. But, they should probably first watch its predecessor, "Batman Begins" which re-booted the franchise after it was nearly destroyed by George Clooney and friends. in '97.

So, at least for me, Bats rocked my world, left a mint on the pillow and hasn't called back since. And I don't mind one bit.

On a less geeky note, I ran into, and had lunch with Miss Grace in San Francisco after the movie. (Oh yeah, I traveled some 70-something miles with friends to see TDK because Sacra-"Them sure is lovely chickens you got there"-mento didn't offer it at its IMAX theater) Grace was out there for Blogher '08, which by her account, was fantastic. Stop by her blog to find out why.

Of course the weekend included obligatory 100 meter butterfly race in beer moments (hence the Monday fuzzies). And I nearly killed a guy with a well-timed comet of a throw during my social league kickball game Sunday. All-in-all it was a truly satisfying couple of days. I'll get back to more inclusive subject matter next time, but since I'd been detailing my need to see TDK for weeks, I felt it was only appropriate to fill you in on my reaction.

Over-and-out.