Oh waffles, you quadrangles of gridded delight, is there nothing you can’t do? No ill you cannot overcome? No foe you will not vanquish? These epicurean wonders are the epitome of civilized breakfast fare, the last bastions of all that is Good and Yummy in our world against the onrushing Hordes of Banality.
Consider the pleasing solidity of the waffle: four sides, four corners – promising strength and support and shelter, bulwarks against the common irregularity of the fruits and eggs with which the waffle shares the mealtime plate. Marvel at the seamless synthesis of elements both rigid and soft – the firm lattice structure contains the spongier matter, providing a deliciously textured experience to even the most jaded palate. The tiny squares, repositories for the life-affirming syrup, mirror the shape of the whole, recapitulating the geometrical motif, granting a casual look into the shape of the underlying construction of the Laws of the Universe.
Yes, my friends, waffles are these things and so much more. No matter how many times you might order them, you will always recall the previous order, regardless of the interstitial duration of time. Carl Jung spoke of the racial memory, and waffles tap into this, confirming the archetypal nature of the Square as a fundamental unit of our collective unconsciousness.
Do you dare to deny the power of the waffle? Consider how effortlessly these marvels of mandibular might adapt themselves to whatever your taste might be: today, you will have them with butter and powdered sugar, a mellow start to a busy morning; tomorrow, perhaps strawberries will adorn your plate, ushering into being an afternoon of challenge and triumph; the next day, you might prefer embedded blueberries, each bite a whimsical guessing game, with a depthcharge-like explosion of sudden extra flavor awaiting the anticipatory bite, preparing itself for that night’s journeys into nocturnal adventure.
For the waffle is not bound by the mean strictures of temporal exactitude – they may be enjoyed at any time, day or night, pre-activity or post-, as an enticement or a reward. Their inherent composition taking on as many forms as your daily breads, topped with ever more exotic combinations of syrupy, sugary flavors to dazzle your tastebuds and engendering only the most pleasant of synaesthetic buzzings in your body.
I hereby offer to you, O Learned and Wise listeners, nothing less than the Consummate Food of Our Time. Laud it! Embrace it! Shout approbations to the heavens, that all may know the sublimity and satisfaction to be gained by the merest approach of a plate heaped dizzyingly high with waffles, the epitome of mankind’s gastronomic achievements!
(Paid for by the Consortium of Pancake Haters of Belgium)
All my life I’ve been waiting for this
The stars align and the planet’s promise
And all Creation united strong in a
Perfect Love, baby, Perfect Love
Perfect Love
-- “Perfect Love”, Jane Child
Watch her.
She's everything you can't have, and you know it. As she moves, your gaze never strays, never leaves the sight of her perfect walk. The word sinuous was created just for her, you know? Sinuous. Say it to yourself, go on. The S; it's your indrawn breath, watching her. Ssssss... Taste that? It's her scent, riding the airwaves, and it's on your tongue. Bless those waves. They make it possible for her to dance, to slide, to sway with her music. To sway you with her music. Ssssss...
Where were we? Sin. That's what she is, and you know it. Sin and sweat. Sweat and sex. Sex and... something else. What is it? You know? That special something that slithers and shakes, that rides your spine and spins your soul. It's everything you can't have, because she has it already, and she knows how to use it. Watch her. Her body is the S that you breathe and she rides the airwaves with it. She swims the music and is as sleek and beautiful as a dolphin. Her flesh is that smooth. Her scent is that sharp, like the salt bite of the ocean that produces longing. Her eyes? Fathomless.
Sinuous. Keep saying it. Sin, U... what are you? You're a toy, and you know it. She plays with you. She plays for you. She plays on you. She's a virtuoso; you're a badly tuned guitar. She barres you, she frets you. No matter how many of your strings she snaps, you still want her hands upon your neck. Strings? You're her puppet. Her dance makes you dance. You jerk in twitchy lock-step toward her and give her the control. She loves to play with her toy. You're her clown; you make her laugh. You're her ball; she throws you away and you bounce right back. You're her idiot flesh yo-yo; those strings again. She tilts her G-string, she snaps your G-string and you rocket right back to her waiting hand.
Sin. You. Us. Don't dare breathe it louder, it's meant to be a silent prayer. Of course it's a prayer. Don't you worship her? Watch her. She's on that stage, up above you, where your gods are meant to be. Perhaps they're watching, perhaps not. And if they hear you, perhaps it's better if they don't. For what can you offer her? Your heart? Please. She doesn't need another. Your soul? She's got that. Your mind? Ahh, perhaps...
Close your eyes. Think it. Only think it. Sin. You. Us. In the private night behind your eyelids, you dance together. The oldest dance, the oldest rhythm. Cats know it. Their flowing bonelessness. Their silent tread. Their silk and speed and weave. Cats are the dance that smoke only pretends to be. The feline grace, the lioness shuffle, the very sound of it hypnotizes. Sin. You. Us. Curving letters in sleep, the S of the cat is sexuality, is mystery, is woman. Like this woman above you, sizzling and hissing her cat-quickness for the music. Watch her, and you can almost understand the secret...
But the riddle slips away as the song ends. Suddenly, you're just another man in the crowd of men, wanting her. Sin everywhere. No you, no us. That word is walking away, going back to wherever the gods go. You wave her over with a green offering. You ask for her name and she gives you only what she is called. Don't mistake the two. True names have power, and she reminds you that you're powerless.
She takes the offering and bestows her Cheshire favor upon you, then she is gone. Like smoke and mirrors. You'll never know how she does it, but you'll never stop trying. Because you're an idiot, you'll try to catch the trick, every time. When she reappears, like a rabbit in a hat. Like a cat in a hat. Sinuous. Every time. You know it.
Watch her.
I been spellbound, falling in trance
I been spellbound, falling in trance
You gimme the shivers
-- "Somewhere Down the Crazy River", Robbie Robertson
Aki Clutterbuck reminded me of a subject that’s near and dear to the black, twisted, muck-encrusted little shriveled organ masquerading as my heart: words. I’m somewhat of a connoisseur of the bon mot, as proven by the fact that I’ve just used two French terms instead of English, simply because they were better suited for the point I was trying to make.
However, there’s a dark side to the love of words, and that’s the hatred of words. More specifically, the newer breed of media-friendly words that purport to identify and explain a trend, but do so in such an obtuse, ridiculous fashion that more emphasis is placed on the word itself than on the subject. For example: metrosexual. A portmanteau -- and by the way, what a lovely word that is, isn’t it? Portmanteau: the concatenation of two words to create a new word by combining their meanings, as in ‘smog’: smoke plus fog. The word portmanteau itself is pure honeyed delight, with its rounded ending and evocation of fine liqueur … words like these are heady pleasures whose effects linger both on the tongue and in the mind. But back to my topic – a portmanteau of ‘metropolitan’ and ‘sexuality’, the word ‘metrosexual’ was created to contain the concept of the 21st century Dandy, with his perfectly-coiffed hairstyle, reliance on up-to-date knowledge of the changing urban wardrobe, and slight leaning toward a more androgynous appearance, all in the name of Beauty.
However, it’s an ugly word. For one thing, ‘sexual’ will always connote physical urges, and a call to sensual action. There’s very little actual sex in fashion. Fashion might lead to sex, but it’s not at the heart of it, though Oscar Wilde, himself one of the greatest Dandies of all time, might disagree, and hilariously so. ‘Sexual’ also refers to predilection, as in ‘heterosexual’ or ‘homosexual’, where one declares an allegiance, or at least an affinity toward a gender. There is no such distinction in ‘metrosexuality’.
‘Metro’ also makes one think of the underground railway, with its squalor, rush of wind and unwholesome odors, cacophonous din, and sense of disconnected transience. From a purely euphonius standpoint, ‘metrosexual’ does not please. It does not carry poetry. And, perhaps most telling of all, it’s a term I’ve only ever heard used ironically, or in a sneering, mocking way. Hardly the legacy one would hope for!
All in all, ‘metrosexual’ is a horrid word, and it will receive no more mention in this audiocast. Ugh. Audiocast. Dammit, here we go again…
In her cap, she looked much older
And the bag across her shoulder
Made her look a little like a military man
-- “Lovely Rita”, the Beatles (yay)
You can blame Brendajos on Twitter for this.
Today’s audiocast will be a little different. For those of you who don’t know, I used to work at the Atari Corporation. You know, the guys who helped your parents raise many of you by creating the Atari VCS, which brought the joys of Combat, Adventure, and PacMan into your home. Unfortunately, I began working for Atari in their Final Days, when the Jaguar 64 was still considered a console to watch out for.
That viewpoint was quickly rendered ridiculous by their release of pretty much every game worked on in-house. I was hired to work on the game called Black ICE\White Noise, a ‘cyberpunk adventure’ – as you can see, the sordid little tale that follows dates back to a time when ‘cyber’ anything had not yet lost its cachet. I’ll be reading from an essay written by Chris Hudak, a friend and fellow employee of Atari Corp. Every word is true.
A Day In The Life at Atari Corp.
Here's something I thought you might find interesting: A typical day in the life of that great videogame institution, Atari, which as you may have heard has recently undergone a rather radical program of what is euphemistically referred to as Corporate Restructuring.
A little background, just to give you the flavor: I was brought on board Atari a year and a half ago as a writer and co-designer of a sophisticated, reasonably daring, decidedly adult and ultimately doomed cyberpunk CD-ROM game -- full of full-motion video, subtle humor, and cheerfully needless violence and death -- which was to be called Black ICE\White Noise.
(We spent months arguing about that name, by the way, so start liking it or stop reading my column).
Anyway, two buddies of mine named Akela and B.J. had just finished laying the barest-bone groundwork as I entered the fray, and my first duty was to expand upon the bios and adventures of the three main characters they'd provided drawings of: a slick, stylin' Arsenio Hall-esque black hacker dude; a beautiful, ass-kicking Japanese female street samurai; and a long-haired, mirrorshaded, leather-jacketed Caucasian borderline alcoholic burnout. Much to my surprise, one of these characters was very obviously and admittedly based on me, and I leave it to my more astute readers to guess which one. So, my buddies and I -- along with a cadre of some of the most colorful and self-abusing gang of testers this side of the United States Army Neurochemical Warfare Division -- formed the cancerous core of the Atari that the suits never wanted you out there in Consumerville to even suspect existed, much less know about in the kind of lurid and raucous detail which I am now about to put forth because you're all just so completely swell. The account offered herein is not actually a direct conveyance of the events of a single day, but rather a reasonably conservative and reliably representative montage of what went on when the upper echelons had their heads lodged firmly way up their butts, er, I mean, their attentions directed elsewhere:
8:00 AM: Yeah -- right.
11:34 AM: I sit on the southbound Caltrain, half-dozing with my PowerBook in my lap, idly wondering if I can justifiably get away with having one of the full-motion-video actors call the player a "lying sack of shit." Love finds a way just before the Sunnyvale station.
12:17 PM: I pile into my cubicle and fire up the editing software in which I'm creating the city map for the game. The Playboy centerfold on my cube wall has survived yet another day of Atari's recently-instigated anti-sexual-harassment program.
12:18 PM: BJ, acting as project leader, announces that the Black ICE\White Noise team really needs to have a staff meeting, and furthermore that team morale would be greatly enhanced if the meeting were held in the Brass Rail, a nearby strip joint. We all nod gravely and agree.
12:42 PM: Dave, the DJ at the Brass Rail -- who is witness to rather a lot of these 'staff meetings' -- announces our arrival over the P.A. and celebrates the moment by immediately playing three Nine Inch Nails songs in a row. The girl removing her clothing onstage wanted Prince, and that's just tough.
12:59 PM: BJ, watching the girl onstage with his jaw hanging ajar, pours us each a glass of beer from the pitcher -- Coke for Akela -- and comments for the second time how much this beats the hell out of being at Atari, where pretty girls are pretty much against company policy. We all agree, and thus concludes the team meeting for the day.
1:47 PM: BJ comments that it's probably time we were getting back to the office. "Naw," I advise, and he politely drops the subject for the next fifteen minutes.
2:15 PM: Back at the office, a large argument has ensued between the Black Ice team and the producer, Faran: Faran vehemently disagrees that players should be allowed to attack and kill San Francisco Police officers (the game takes place in San Francisco, 2056, until four months later when we realize the Jaguar engine will not support hilly terrain and we grudgingly rename the whole goddamn city which is now entirely flat). The team -- in a bizarre moment of complete solidarity -- insists that choices must be up to the player. Even the normally passive Akela has developed a jutting, stubborn jaw and growls "No, Faran!" to everything the producer says until he goes away.
3:27 PM: It is determined that the art department needs DeBabelizer to finish the project, and it needs it right now. Each purchase -- even something as minor as a printer cartridge -- must be personally authorized by CEO Sam Tramiel himself, and if he's out sick that day with mono, you, sir or madam, are out of luck. Days later, the Atari Economic Engine rears is belching, rusty head, and some unseen suit way up high decides it's time to see if there's a cheaper alternative to buying the $100 piece of software. Three months later, with no DeBabelizer in sight, I call the company and beg and piss and moan until they agree to send me a 'promotional copy,' on the understanding that we plug the product in our game, which is fair enough. I thank the immensely kind and understanding lady at Equilibrium, and the product arrives in two days. The entire process of contact, proposition, and acquisition has taken me just under forty-five seconds. I proudly point this out to the Vice President, and he tells me to take the Playboy centerfold off my wall.
3:29 PM: "It's okay, I got DeBabelizer. God, I'm good," I announce to everybody and nobody as I poke my head over the cubicle divider separating me, Akela, and BJ. Immediately, a suction-cup dart hits me square in the face -- launched from the cube of Ford, our new art dude -- and a forty-five minute melee ensues, involving the use of rubber bands, water balloons, paper airplanes, day-old muffins, floppy disks hurled like shuriken, and a number of increasingly-sophisticated plastic dart guns from the local Toys 'R' Us, which by this time has more of our combined incomes than the phone company. The free-for-all ends abruptly when a randomly-flung object hits Todd -- one of our artists -- smack in the cashews. He remains curled, pale, and very quiet at his desk for a solemn nineteen-and-a-half minutes, and we all feel really shitty for him.
4:10 PM: The loudest profanity I have ever heard within the confines of a work environment issues forth from the cube next to mine. The 3D software package we are using -- a mere year and a half behind the state of the art -- cannot generate an object based on the number of facets desired, and B.J. must now break out a scientific calculator, cardboard templates, and a mass of increasingly crumpled and stained paper napkins filled with the proper scrawled formulae. Since this will occupy him for some time, I take a stroll over to Ford's cube to ask him what happened to my EtherNet connector, without which I cannot back-up the city map I've been scowling at for four weeks, and which could, theoretically, vanish from my hard drive at any time. He says he honest to God hasn't seen it -- 'it' because we only have one extra such device to share among three or four computers currently linked only by our highly advanced SneakerNet -- and that I should ask Akela. Akela is not at his desk. Unable to understand why he may have left the office, I go back to my desk and prepare for the after-work Marathon networked game.
4:12 PM: For the third day running, a tester named Hank has gotten flack from his supervisor for a small, discreetly-placed, and very modest picture of a pretty girl on his cube wall. He is reminded of Atari's sexual harassment policies, and the supervisor makes a point of poking his head rudely over Hank's cube wall to check up on things. Hank -- who's been diligently hunting down software bugs since 7:00 AM despite the apocalyptic party he summoned from the depths of Hell the night before -- resolutely ignores the supervisor until he goes away, and then performs a suggestive, disturbing pantomime which conveys, instantly and viscerally, his exact feelings about Atari's company policies, supervisors in general, and this supervisor in particular.
4:49 PM: Akela, groggy and puffy-eyed, pokes his head over the wall and asks if I needed something. He has been sleeping under his desk the whole time, and there are still dust-bunnies in his long hair.
4:50 PM: Ford learns that Sam Tramiel is on a business trip and has, uh, forgotten to sign the contractors' paychecks. Sam will return, according to the human resources people, "in about a week." Ford utters the second-loudest (but by far and away the foulest) profanity I've ever heard within a work environment, and indignantly spends the majority of the next two workdays on the phone with his ex-girlfriend and some skate shop or other.
5:34 PM: The Black Ice team arrives at a convenient and, if we do say so ourselves, brilliant method of raking in lots and lots of effort-free revenue; we will offer advertising 'billboard space' to major corporations on the virtual real estate presented within the game city. The art time will be negligible, the actual creative energy we must divert from our demanding project will be zero, and the money will be absolutely scandalous. A marketing rep downstairs agrees this has potential and vows to get right on it. We team members spend a mournful couple of seconds blinking at each other, knowing for certain now that the proposal will never, ever see the light of day.
The point I'm getting at with all this is: If and when you accept a job at a computer game company, take your first paycheck to Toys 'R' Us and arm yourself to the teeth.
‘Cause I fell on Black Days
I fell on Black Days
How would I know
That this could be my fate
-- “Fell On Black Days”, Soundgarden
It’s a little-known fact that the Assassin’s Guild of Just Down the Street is the entity responsible for creating the deadliest snack known to Men and Critters: Pringles.
Let’s examine it according to the Rules of Snackfood Etiquette, as established by the Lord High Marshall of Tastiness and Absconding with Others’ Food, James Higginbotham-Withyspiral-Anklebiter the 33 1/3. Firstly, the Packaging. An enclosed cylinder, it’s clearly meant for use as a striking weapon, as witness its molybdenum-reinforced edges. Imagine Li’l Jason Bourne, sitting alone at home/Safe House #23, agonizing over his latest failed relationship. And by ‘failed’, I mean ‘shot through the head by a bullet meant for him… AGAIN’. He’s munching on Pringles, letting the healing powers of Yellow #4 flow through his arteries. Suddenly, in through the reinforced safety glass window somehow crashes yet another activated operative, himself already primed to destroy by having been interrupted from his meal of Slim Jims just to have to take care of this Bourne character.
Bourne leaps up and, as is his wont, uses everything within reach as a weapon EXCEPT for an actual weapon. What, knives too good for you, Jason? If that IS your name? Fortunately, at the last second, while struggling for his life in the grip of Slim Jim the Pepperoni Assassin, Jason grabs his Pringles can and smashes it end-first against his assailant’s forehead. As the average Pringles container can withstand vertical force of up to 4,000 p.s.i. vertically, it’s more than a match for Jim’s non-reinforced skull, and the poor guy staggers backward, stunned and bleeding, cranium resembling a cookie sheet, but far less hunger-inducing.
At this point, we can move on to the second part of Pringles’ lethality index: the Pringles themselves. If you’ve ever tried to put a whole chip into your mouth, or, Gods help you, more than one at once, you’ll well remember the time your tongue inadvertently flipped the chips vertical, standing them upright like soldiers at attention. If you, unlucky soul, should bite down at this point, it will take a team of crack Republican Guard battle-surgeons to extricate the razor-sharp shards of Pringlematter from your cleft and abused palate.
For those of you unfamiliar with this sensation, here’s a little math for you: molecularly indestructible slivers + ridiculously fragile mouthflesh = FUCKING OW, DAMMIT. There’s a reason Pringles’ motto is ‘Everything Pops with Pringles’. So back to Jason Bourne, having retreated far enough from Slim “Cookiesheet” Jim to be able to now hurl three Pringles, shuriken-like, in rapid succession into the guy’s torso, causing internal bodily harm via punctured organs. A quick succession of impossible-to-make-out-what-he’s-doing-because-of-this-stupid-shaky-camera-style action direction combat moves, and it’s all over. The bad guy’s down, the audience is satisfied, and Jason Bourne has now eliminated yet another avenue to finding out his true identity, ensuring at least one more sequel. Coming in 2009: The Bourne Miscellany – a bunch of deleted scenes and outtakes thrown together and inflicted upon you, John Q. Public, because that franchise, like Bourne himself, is just too profitable to die. And who can we expect to see as primary sponsors? That’s right: Goldfish! Oh, wait… I’m telegraphing again. That’s next time. But hey, uh… how about them Pringles, eh?
I know all too well the world takes a daily beating
Please don't talk about murder while I'm eating
-- “Please Don’t Talk About Murder While I’m Eating”, Ben Harper
This post is about my least favorite critter in the world: the Squid, Giant or Otherwise.
Okay. Okay. *deep, calming breaths* Seriously. Who needs all those legs? I can just barely handle the octopus with its 8 legs, but squid have 10! That's like... 4 more! But perhaps I'm being too reactionary. Maybe they evolved them in response to a pressing need to... what? Stir a lot of cake batter all at once? Massage a bunch of clients? Play both sides of a tennis match? Come on, Nature, there's no good gods-damned reason for this aberration of all that is Holy and Yummy!
"But Akela!" you say, "As one of Nature's creatures yourself, and one that, by all accounts, is widely feared and misunderstood, shouldn't you be more sympathetic to your fellow living beings?" Well, to that, I reply: How the hell did you get in my house? Secondly, get that thing out of your mouth. Thirdly, nice shoes... what're those, Jimmy Choo? Fourthly, can you scratch this itch between my shoulderblades? I just can't reach it. **leg spasms**
Okay. What were we talking about? Oh, yes, sympathy for a fellow beastie. Well, Margaret Friggin' Mead, I point you toward Exhibit A:
I mean, come ON! You can't seriously expect me to cuddle up to this thing like we're fellow Mensa members!
What in the Hell of the Telemarketers is going on here? WHO NEEDS ARMS THAT LONG? I'm thinking evolution went something like this:
"Hey, check me out, I'm this really horrible, hatchet-headed monstrosity with no discernable sensory organs! If people see me, they're likely to run in one direction for at least 10 minutes, and man am I hungry! No respectable fish, crab, or realistically edible animal is going to come anywhere near me. How will I eat? Hey, I know! *makes attempt to snap in sudden epiphany, but fails because of its nightmarish lack of bones* I'll slowly, over hundreds of years, develop in such a way that my arms will stretch out so far from my freakish body that no one will even know they belong to me! Sweet! My prey will wander into my clutches as unaware and innocent as a newborn lamb, a mammal of which I can't possibly know anything because we inhabit two completely different and separate worlds, but you catch my drift, invisible listener! MUAHAHAHAHAHAAAAA!
"...
"Crap. How will I get it to my mouth?"
Whoa, I almost started to feel sorry for the benighted thing. I gotta nip that in the bud right now. Oh, and by the way, BEAKS? Why in the howling madness do they need beaks? I'm just barely able to entertain the idea that avians descended from reptiles... do I really need to see a connection between birds and squid? Imagine, if you will, this scene:
EXTERIOR, DAY: A barnacle-encrusted galleon plies its way through the choppy waters just off the coast of an island nation, a fearsome pirate captain at the helm. He's everything you expect in a scary buccaneer: wild beard, eyepatch, pegleg, and on his shoulder, echoing his every utterance, his beloved pet squid.
BLACKGOATEE
Avast, ye scurvy dogs! I'll keelhaul the lot o' ye if'n ye don't get this miserable wreck of a ship hightailin' toward clearer waters! Strike sail and set out for the Africas! What say ye, Polly?
POLLY
(muffled clacking)
BLACKGOATEE
(face in palm) Arr.
So, to sum up: Fewer legs are better. Bones are good. Beaks belong on birds. And for the love of all that is decent, have a freakin' FACE, people.
I'd like to be
Under the sea
In an Octopus's Garden, in the shade
"Octopus's Garden", The Beatles
Tamara made me do this.
