Looking back at works like this are intensely bittersweet. The music is so spare and slight, a ballad in a minor key, haunting, evocative of loneliness. The lyrics are, well, they’re beyond description. And the video, depicting a set of strangers that never meet, each lonely, reaches it’s crescendo in the rain, like he’s waiting for it to wash everything away. As he hits his power notes on the passages “we’re talkin’ danger” and “I’m livin’ lonely” you can hear it.

You can feel the hurt. You can sense the loneliness.

Some people think art imitates life or life imitates art. I believe that for Michael Jackson, every moment of his life was art, and every ounce of his art was life. The two were bound, never to be separated. That was his gift.

I cried when I first heard these lyrics. But right now my heart breaks every time I realize how few people actually heard him. Most people don’t even know this song.

Here is the link to the YouTube video because embedding was disabled.

I was wanderin’ in the rain
mask of life feelin’ insane
swift and sudden fall from grace
sunny days seem far away
Kremlin’s shadow belittlin’ me
Stalin’s tomb won’t let me be
on and on and on it came
wish the rain would just let me

how does it feel
when you’re alone
and you’re cold inside

here abandoned in my fame
armageddon of the brain
KGB was doggin’ me
take my name and just let me be
then a begger boy called my name
happy days will drown the pain
on and on and on it came
and again and again and again
take my name and just let me be

how does it feel
when you’re alone
and you’re cold inside

like a stranger in Moscow
Lord I must say
we’re talkin’ danger
I’m livin’ lonely
stranger in Moscow

[the songs closes with an interrogator speaking Russian]
“why have you come from the west? confess!
to steal the great achievments of the people
the accomplishments of the workers”

Tired of injustice
Tired of the schemes
Kinda disgusted
So what does it mean
Kicking me down
I got to get up
As jacked as it sounds
The whole system sucks

“Scream” has always been my favorite Michael Jackson song. There are many reasons I like the art/life mixture of the lyrics. But it isn’t just a Michael song, it’s also a Janet Jackson song. The duet is stunning and hasn’t been matched since. When was the last time you listened? Have you ever really listened to the lyrics?

Peak in the shadow
Come into the light
You tell me I’m wrong
Then you better prove you’re right
You’re sellin’ out souls but
I care about mine
I’ve got to get stronger
And I won’t give up the fight

Over the next few days a lot of people are going to be discussing the life and times of Michael Jackson. He died today, confirmed by multiple sources. My heart is heavy not because of my own loss, but because he leaves a family, and millions of people will feel empty without him in the world.

With such confusions don’t it make you wanna scream
Your bash abusin’ victimize within the scheme
You try to cope with every lie they scrutinize
Somebody please have mercy ’cause I just can’t take it
Stop pressurin’ me
Just stop pressurin’ me
Stop pressurin’ me
Make me wanna scream

Very few people knew the man well. We must remember that. Despite what the press decided to exploit and reveal over the years, each one of us has the responsibility to respect those who are mourning. It doesn’t matter what he did or didn’t do. It matters that people loved him.

Tired of you tellin’ the story your way
It’s causin’ confusion
You think it’s okay
Keep changin’ the rules
While you’re playin’ the game
I can’t take it much longer
I think I might go insane

I can’t sit here, on vacation, and write that we should all mourn his loss. don’t get it twisted, ’cause that ain’t what I’m gettin’ at. I’ll say it again; There will be people who will mourn, and it is vital that everyone respects that. Call it the odd result of my moving toward the funeral industry, but nothing is more sacred to me than mourning the dead. It is, after all, something the living must do.

With such confusion don’t it make you wanna scream
Your bash abusin’ victimize within the scheme
You find your pleasure scandalizin’ every lie
Oh father, please have mercy ’cause I just can’t take it
Stop pressurin’ me
Just stop pressurin’ me
Stop pressurin’ me
Make me wanna scream
Stop pressurin’ me
Just stop pressurin’ me
Stop fuckin’ with me
Make me wanna scream

There is a long drive home ahead of me because I’m cutting my vacation short. (no, not because of Michael’s death) But I plan to listen to all my Michael Jackson music (I haz it all on mah 32GB iFone) and avoid all the folks speaking ill of the dead. There will be a time for that later. But today, right now, it’s the time to mourn because I heard what “Scream” was saying the moment it came out. I’m sad most people didn’t.

Rest in Peace Michael.

Even walking down the path behind the visitors center you could feel the outflow from the cave. The alternating cool and hot breezes reminded me of taking a hot shower during a Chicago winter. My bathroom regularly steams up, and there’s that first wash of cold air over you when you open the door. Maybe it’s something human, buried deep in our brain, but the sharp contrast in temperature always sets my mind on alert.

The tour moved from impossibly huge rooms to a tight, winding path called Fat Man’s Misery. Looking at some of the more “traditionally built” (as Mma Ramotswe would say) folks in the crowd, I was impressed they made it through.

There was a moment in the tour where we crossed a feature called Bottomless Pit on a metalwork bridge that’s completely see-through. Hello Vertigo, how you durrin’? Legend has it that explorer and tour-guide Stephen Bishop, a black slave who knew Mammoth Cave best in his time, was the first to cross this pit. Well actually, there are a couple legends.

Some people believe he brought a ladder down into the cave to cross the pit. Some people believe he brought a log, maybe from the saltpeter mines in the cave, and used it to cross. And still others say there is actually a path around the pit that could possibly be used if you knew what you were doing.

Let me now tell you the dates in question. Bishop first entered the cave around 1838. I repeat Eighteen-Hundred Thirty-Eight. Over 170 years ago. There were no aluminum ladders. No paved walkways, no stairs, no visitors center, no running water at the end of the tour, none of the modern flashlights/LEDs/electric lights or polyprop clothing/hiking boots/helmets we know today.

Here was a man, a slave, who crossed a pit that appeared harrowingly deep and dark, armed with a simple lantern and possibly some kerosene rags. He met this hole, a giant chasm with slowly dripping water whose drops are the only sound that rips through the silence, by torchlight. So, he decided to cross it to see what was on the other side.

That’s a kind of extreme exploration I may never do. Yet I’m back here, drawn by his spirit, for some exploration of my own. Part of me wants to ask why? Why do this silly thing? But then I hear a little voice that says: Why not?

Little voices say powerful things. The older I get, the more I listen. I think Stephen Bishop knew that well.

The first time I’d ever heard the words “roller derby” must have been in the mid-80’s. Somehow there was a blip on television about the sport. It could actually have been a promo for Roller Derby Mania, but I can’t say I’ve ever seen the film.

Women, skating in circles, at times beating the snot out of each other. I had no clue what was going on. It was one of those things, sorta like the Oval Office, that I figured I’d never see up close. There was no one in my life who was involved in the sport, so it was as foreign to me as could be.

Sometime in 2007 or 2008, I saw a short documentary on Logo’s Reel Momentum called High Heels on Wheels. It profiled several derby players from the 50’s onward and painted a picture of the sport, one of the few open to athletic women, that was as rough as any other contact sport I’d seen. On the tails of that, I actually co-interviewed a modern day derby diva in one of my former lives. But it sorta ended there.

So when a friend wanted to celebrate his birthday by heading to a Manic Attackers bout at the UIC Pavillion, I couldn’t resist. What I hadn’t predicted was just how much I’d enjoy it.

Uh oh. Peter likes a sport? That involves girls?

First, let me say that I knew nothing going in, but had an excellent coach explain the entire game at the 60,000 foot level. There are numerous strategies for playing, but understanding the high-level of the game is essential. Not just ’cause you need to know when to cheer either…

Eight players start out on the track. They consist of three blockers and one pivot from each team. They form the pack or the box. The blockers, well, they block. The pivots sort of set the pace of the pack. The pack can also never get longer than 20 feet from the start to the finish, so the players have to keep up.

The first whistle blows and they start skating around the track, setting up the jam formation. Then, at the second whistle, one jammer from each team is released onto the track, 20 feet behind the box.

The goal is for the jammers to make it through the box at least once, then all the way around to start scoring points. First time through the box, the jammer is only eligible to score points. In order to score, they have to skate all the way around the track again and start passing members of the opposite team. Each person passed without a foul counts as one point.

However, the very first jammer to make it through the box is called the lead jammer. This is desirable for many reasons, but mostly because the lead jammer has the right to shut down the jam at any time, which she does by slapping her hips. There’s a lot of strategy in that as you can imagine. This whole thing is called a jam, and it can last 2 minutes max, but often the lead jammer shuts it down if the other team is about to score points. The league we saw plays 30 minute halves.

I gotta admit, once I knew what was going on, I REALLY started to enjoy the game. It helped that I was with a group of Manic Attackers fans, but it did get pretty intense watching the jams. The gals on the track don’t fcuk around. It’s serious business, and while you can tell everyone was totally enjoying themselves, it’s a serious sport that, like any full contact games, can result in some serious injuries. Thankfully nobody was hurt terribly during our game, but stories abound.

The culture isn’t just about the game. There’s layers and layers of history embedded in the traditions these women keep alive and it shows. The names that players choose for themselves are a mixture of comedy and intimidation tactics. Currently the Manic Attackers has players named Beth Amphetamine, Ying O’Fire (one of my new fave jammers), Val Capone, Rose Feratu, Celia Coffin, and the list goes on and on. Super fun.

As it turned out, the Manic Attackers won the game and there was much celebration all around. The cheerleaders of our group are in the picture at the top of the post (spelling out m-a-n-i-x) and this last photo is on the floor. You can see the cup in the center of the pic. Many girls, one cup? Hmmm…. (bad bad bad joke…)

I nearly got a cavity they were so sugary.

I forget their names, but I’ll nickname them Sugar-Puff and Cotton-Candie. They proceeded to ask everyone in line about the photo thing. The gal in front of me, basically a gopher for a boss that had to have a new iPhone declined to be photographed. I followed suit because really, AT&T, you just got $500 from me. I also haven’t yet mentioned that we were standing outside, in light rain. AND, this particular branch HAS AN ENTRANCE INSIDE THE BUILDING yet they insisted we line up outside.

Hell no I wasn’t getting in any promo shots.

Had they plied me with coffee, donuts, or at least allowed us to queue inside, I might have considered it. Others apparently felt the same because everyone else in line declined, much to the dismay of the syrupy duo. Crushed, Puff and Candie retreated back inside, defeated.

Ten minutes later, her defeat hidden well, Puff returned to usher us gracefully inside. Well, as graceful as you can be wherever revolving doors are involved. She was giving us instructions on where to head as we walked through, but poor Puff, having evidently taken many rides on the short-bus as a youngster, failed to realize that about half-way through any revolving door there is a wall of glass between you and the person in front of you. So basically all I heard from Puff was:

“Oh! Since you pre-ordered, you will need to talk to *THWOMPF* *THWOMPF*”

Upon entering, boldly, with a Kool-Aid smile, Candie stepped forward as I passed over the threshold and exclaimed “Welcome To AT&T, How Can WE Help YOU Today!!!!!?” I’m not exaggerating when I write that. I believe I heard Every Capital Letter and exclamation mark in her proclamation.

Part of me wanted to cut her to ribbons and say “What teh fcuk do you think I was standing in the rain for?” but the good angel on my shoulder won. I held up my receipt and started to mock her with my brightest, cheek-aching, cheesy smile, when I heard Miss Tyrant Banks in my head saying “smile with your eyes”. I think I even tilted my head to the right ever so slightly as I held back my toothy grin in favor of a bright-eyed, cheerful look. As Candie walked me a whole five steps over to the person who would bestow my iPhone upon me, she leaned in and whispered “You should have let us take your picture.”

And people think watching America’s Next Top Model doesn’t teach you anything…

In less than five minutes my new iPhone was activated and I was out the door with a 32GB bulge in my pants. I hopped on a train to head home to sync with iTunes and load it with the necessary dataz. Yes, I know, downtown to go back home to go back downtown? Obviously you don’t have an iPhone if you hafta ask why I did that :-)

So how is it? Honestly, I’ll keep you posted. I noticed a couple new features in iPhone 3.0 when I installed it on Wednesday, but I have yet to really play. The compass is, well, a compass. However, I did make a quick video of Meo who woke up when I popped back home earlier. I’ll get that automagically uploaded to youtubes and share it here soon.

I haz iFone 3GS. Yay! (he said, smiling with his eyes)

Oh well. Heading to the nuevo AT&T store right now to see if there is a line.

I’m excited. Yay videos. Yay voice commands. Yay new toys!!

PBS-a-holic that I am, this Summer promises to be full of mystery. Or rather Mystery!, part of the the long-running series Masterpiece Theater that showcases many brilliant British drama and mystery programs.

The series is older than me, making it one of the longest running prime-time dramas ever. Of course, the programming isn’t always linear, and many series have come and gone over time.

There are so many good memories from my childhood related to Masterpiece Theater. Countless Dickens novels came to life in front of my eyes before I’d ever read them. Agatha Christie stepped into my life, wearing so many disguises they are hard to count. An oddly overweight, quirky man named Hercule Poirot lived in a beautifully crafted Art-Deco world, a style I’ve come to adore because of the series. The rambling and meddlesome Miss Marple, truly a Jessica Fletcher/angel-of-death type, ambled her way around my living room. And a full cast cut from the many-layered fabrics of British Society laid their accents, cultural mannerisms, and rich histories before me. In full color. With pretty good music.

Other BBC productions bowled me over. The Fortunes & Misfortunes of Moll Flanders made me laugh. Upstairs, Downstairs made me cry (the Titanic death episode is still gut-wrenching). But perhaps most of all, the Masterpiece Theater opened a window into a world of literature and art that I’d otherwise never encounter.

As I mentioned, this is a Summer of Mystery! Six by Agatha and the programming promises to be as delicious as the past, with six new episodes, two Poirot, four Miss Marple, just around the corner.

Yay more David Suchet as Poirot!
Yay Julia McKenzie (of the Cranford fame) as Marple!

… and Yay for Joan Collins in They Do It With Mirrors on July 19th!!!!

Set your DVR’s kids. There’s murder in the air…

Down once more to the dungeon of my black despair!
Down we plunge to the prison of my mind!
Down that path into darkness deep as hell!

Yeah, yeah, I’m a Phantom of the Opera fan. Get over it.

Next week I’m leaving my comfortable Chicago lair and heading on a road trip for a 2,700 mile journey. Chicago to Mammoth Cave, Kentucky to Kansas City, Missouri to Wind Cave, South Dakota and back to Chicago. A HUGE loop, but full of good things.

In lieu of flying somewhere to vacation, I decided a good head-clearing road trip was in order. Not sure about you, but I enjoy watching the miles fly by on a long drive. It’s one of my favorite ways to de-stress, and given the bits of the country I’ll be driving through, mother nature should be at her full summer showcase, with green countryside galore.

The first leg of the journey will take me back to Kentucky to revisit Mammoth Cave. I have two nights planned in Cave City, and I may or may not see Mammoth on my first day in town. Of course, my second day will be filled with the 6 hour journey into Mammoth on their Wild Cave tour. That’s the grand-poobah of tours, fully off road, crawling through passages and squeezing through cracks in the earth. Having done it before (here, and here), I can’t wait to do it again.

After Mammoth, I’m heading to Missouri to meet up with someone I’ve known for a long time and never met. Fellow queercaster John Ong, of the onglinepodcast.com fame, has agreed to help me find a good dinner in Kansas City. I’m fairly certain there will be video and audio recording going on, so expect to see some sorta podcasting outcome from our meeting. And his friend Maki, the Japanese goddess, might be around to boot.

After Kansas City, I’m still undecided what the full game plan is. I have to be at Wind Cave on the western edge of South Dakota for my final cave tour, another Wild Cave experience that’s sure to be intensely beautiful. Wind Cave, the third longest cave in the world, is home to some unique formations. But more than that, it’s the inside of the Black Hills that I’ll be experiencing.

When I was little we visited that part of the country on a road trip. I have to admit, I don’t remember much. But I can remember vague fragments of how American the landscape looked. Truly, it’s a part of our country where the buffalo roam and the deer and the antelope play. My mind is reeling with the photo possibilities, including Mount Rushmore and The Badlands National Park.

Damn. Is it vacation time yet? Oh wait, I haven’t even packed.

Becoming Funereal: On the Road to Working With the Living

Of course I won’t be ignoring radiopeter. This place is still me, and for as long as the internet exists, it will be me. But the process of becoming a funeral director deserves its own corner of the internet, don’t ya think?

AT&T to provide underground service on Chicago subways

Finally, my iPhone will be online on Sunday’s when I’m waiting in the subway for a train!

Now, the wait for the 19th! *foot-tap*

Holy shit it was a good pilot.

Dark, tragic, funny. All in 30 minutes. This will make for good summer watching.

The only question is, do I arrive to wait outside the store at 3am or 4am. Hmm.

The case at hand? People v. Zirko. Double alleged murders in Glenview in 2004. Woulda been at least three weeks in court according to the judge. Thankfully we were the last round of jury selection. They only needed 5 more, and they pretty much got their five in a row. I didn’t even get in the box.

As I sat there contemplating the possibility of three weeks in court, I couldn’t help but notice how ugly the defendants aura was. I know the criminal rules: he should be considered innocent at all times, with the exclusive burden of proof on the prosecution.

But his face spoke volumes.

The only thing I trust is my gut. And my gut had a lot to say about that man the moment I walked in the courtroom, well before I knew the details of the case.

I don’t know if I’d ever make a good juror. I’m decisive and judgemental in the blink of an eye. Part of becoming an adult has meant tempering my own inner court system. It’s there and I’ll be the first to admit it. No shame in this game. I’ve lasted this long, so I’m doing something right.

Heading back to the city now, wondering how it’ll all turn out.

I hope I don’t get picked. Could get ugly. Very ugly.

Not that I truly care (already ate), but nobody seems to have brought lunch, and pretty soon Season Two of The Vending Machine Men of Cook County may happen because people are pillaging the machines like there is a’hurricaine a’comin’.

Uh oh. Here we go.

Well, actually, I’ve been in here longer.

But for the last twenty minutes I’ve been watching a slightly overweight albino man of indeterminable age restock the vending machines, a process that is as fascinating as it is Zen.

Now THERE is a good idea for a reality show. The Real Vending Machine Men of Cook County.

Picture it, a camera crew follows various Machine Men around town as they restock vending machines in public places with various and sundry hyper-preserved “foods”.

Will they grant the occasional stranger change for a parking meter? How long will it take them to rescue a wayward bag of Doritos precariously clutching the edge of their vending machine slot, defying a direct order to descend to the bottom of said machine? Will they make any attempts to soothe the silver-haired grandmother beating the living crap out of the coffee machine that stole not one, but TWO of her quarters?

Anyone know any TV producers?

Still no peep from our captors. I think my chicken is calling. Or is that my rumbly tumbly calling out for lunch?

So many questions. So few answers.

When can I go home?

We watched Lester Holt, of the local news fame, on tv screens as he introduced us to the finer points of courtroom workings and our responsibilities as a juror. Pronounced jew-roar in case you didn’t know. His Guy Smiley (or is it Gary Gnu?) voice made me giggle with each turn of phrase. Oh newscaster inflections. From a similar bolt you are all cut.

Video over, it remains to be seen how the day wil pan out Will I be picked? Who knows. They mentioned there were two jury trials this morning, and I’m in a large room of maybe 50 folks. The slice of humanity is broad and sweeping, almost purposefully random if there is such a thing.

At least the armchairs are comfy (you were right Troy).

The hot cocoa from the machine is tasty too. I got mah Kindle and a bento full of homemade foods (duh, smoked chicken) so I’m good for the day.

Now, with Lillian Jackson Braun novels begging to meet my peepers, I wait.

I still don’t have a Wii Fit. Maybe that needs to change.

I’d heard echoes of the following story a while back, recounted by a perk slinger who complains incessantly of his slavery to the big green siren in the circle. Despite my offer to help him find new work elsewhere, he still wears his green apron regularly and claims poverty around every corner.

See, emo. Told ya.

The latest headline:

Starfcuks wins reversal of $100-million tips verdict

Supervisors ‘essentially perform the same job as baristas,’ so they may receive a share of tips, the California Court of Appeals in San Diego rules.

Read the rest here

There are so many things wrong with this story, I hardly know where to begin. How about tips? Let’s start there. Tips are a kindness shown by a customer to an employee. In some circles, you could think of them as a measure of the performance of the employee. Culture and custom vary from place to place in America, but in general, policies on dealing with tips are best policed at the local establishment. The fact that starfcuks has a policy of saving up the money and apportioning it out based on the number of hours worked is insane. Hell-to-the-no would I share my tips with folks who weren’t even there. That’s where the problems began.

You also better believe I’d get pissed if tips I was busting my backside earning were shared with some lazy oaf in the corner who was the stupidvisor, I mean supervisor, of my shift. Not that I’m implying all supervisors are lazy oafs, I’d imagine it’s quite the opposite. But you know that’s what happened. Someone buried themselves in the background all day doing less than their share, then rounded up the money and took their cut. Hmm, can we say extortion? Say it with me ehk-stor-shun. Far be it from the big green siren to police her own management.

And finally, the pearl that dripped from the lips of the quoted supervisor is simply magical.

. . . If they took the tips away, I would have to work extra hours or get another job.

GASP! Working extra hours? Another job? Oh NOES! The Horrors! The Slavery! The Repression! Cry me a fcuking river. When you are finished, get another job.

There are very few reasons in life to stay in a job you dislike. You make as much money as you want to make because you work as much as you want to work. People who don’t understand that concept end up wasting the time and money of those around them.

Gee, thanks starfcuks and your employees for wasting time in our courts. Bravo. Well done.

Soon she’d be Marilyn Monroe.

Take a look. She is simply stunning.

However there are some people with more BBQ attitude than a drag queen in an ultra-tight corset. The battle currently raging over at LTHforum.com is, in a word, hysterical. One faction is insisting on meticulously measuring temperature (otherwise how do you make BBQ?!) while in the other corner are what seem to be cooks who understand that, umm, judge it the best way you like. Hand, thermometer, eyes, nose, ears, whatever, it all works. And thus I’ve come to discover…

… the only TRUE rule about BBQ is that there are no rules at all.

That isn’t to say that the BBQ lessons I’m studying are wrong. Hardly. But the program I’m on, according to all sources and stated many times in the book, is a jumping off point. It isn’t Gary’s Gospel of Goodeating, nor is it Coleen’s Concise Culinary Coursework. It’s a beginning, and I’m happy to be moving past the starting gate.

Funny thing about those peeps ‘discussing’ BBQ on LTH. Their starting gate seems so many years behind them. I wonder if they’ve become stuck in their own culinary comfort zone. Not judgin’, just sayin’.

But let’s talk about me and mah ‘cue now, ‘k? Lesson #2, begin!

a fire at it’s beginning

I setup the fire with no book help this time, eyeballing the unlit charcoal I dumped in the ring. I noticed that the bowl for my WSM sits pretty low in the center ring because of how large it is. After lighting a starter of coals and dumping them over the picture above, the bowl was literally nestled ON the fire. That isn’t a bad thing (more on that later) but really, on this program, the WSM is packed with all the charcoal I possibly can use. I have yet to try scaling things back, but for a future chicken cook I may just do that.

Lesson #2 was brined chicken, and as I mentioned, I’ve brined birds in my sleep before. I bathed the bird in buttermilk etc. and it sat quite a while in the ‘fridge, cozy in it’s bag. I opted to skip the air-drying step (also something I’ve done before when roasting) because I was hungry and decided on BBQ for my late lunch instead of a late dinner.

bird on the roost

For this cook, the biggest difference (outside the prep) was that the bottom vents were closed by one-third. Harmless right? What’s one-third? We’ll I’m here to tell you, the bird at 45 minutes looked fine.

45 minutes in

And at the 1.5 hour mark it looked (and tested) perfectly done.

all done

But the cooker kept on cooking. And cooking. I lit the starter of coal at 4:00pm. At 10:45pm the hood thermometer still read 250F, the bowl was half full of water, and after peeking at the coals, there was still some half-burned charcoal, fuel for what I’d guess would be another hour or so. That’s a solid six hours of cooking time, maybe seven or so. With just one-third of the bottom vents shut. Really amazing.

The chicken of course was juicylicious. To solve the rubbery skin dilemma I drizzled on some oliveearl and popped it under the broiler for a few to crisp things up. It doesn’t get you that crispy, air-and-baking-soda-dried-Cooks-Illustrated-formula skin, but it mostly worked. I also have now added to the onslaught of cooked bird in my ‘fridge/freezer.

So. Much. Cooked. Chicken.

Lesson #2 was another success. However, if I do chicken in the future (and I’m sure I will) I’m only going to use half as much charcoal. No harm this time, but I could have done prolly four full chickens every two hours, which would mean damn near twelve chickens and still had fuel left over. Next cook, I want my baby-back baby-back baby-back ribs. Which are still only a path to the holy grail, some slow-cooked pulled pork *drool*

C’mon, what is Memorial Day weekend without some grilling? Other than having an extra day off, I’m always surprised at how often outdoor cooking is associated with Memorial Day. Taken literally there may be some gruesome and unpatriotic parallels I could draw between the two, but we of the Americana fame are creatures of habit. Thus we cook out on Memorial Day weekend. At least here in Chicago.

I stared at the recipes after Lesson #1 with great scrutiny. Then I stared at my cupboard and refrigerator. Then I decided I was in the mood for pineapple and trotted out to pick up a chicken (just one this time) and some piña from Whole Paycheck. I had limes, habaneros, oranges and scallions, so the ‘jerk’ chicken recipe was in my future.

As it turns out, the citrus marinade just didn’t do too much for the chicken. It didn’t taste bad, and I figured the habanero heat would be tamed, but I was at least expecting some of the fruit flavors to stick around. They didn’t seem to, even after a 6 hour marinade. The onion flavor was there, along with the salt and pepper, but that was about it. Not a failure, because the chicken was still deliciously smoky, but not a recipe I’d try again without some reëngineering.

The fire building for this cook was done mostly without thinking, which in my mind proves I’m making progress. WSM ring full of unlit charcoal, debarked chunks and all, then a starter full of hot coals over the top plus some more chunks. I could read the smoke pretty well in the daylight too (who knew?) and felt much more comfortable with a vat of burning embers on my back deck.

Still have a fire extinguisher handy, but I wasn’t looking at it every time I checked the cooker.

I noticed two things this time around. I’d been reading the lessons ahead (as the great Julia Child always suggests) and I saw that future lessons suggest popping a thermometer on the rack and lifting the lid to check temp several times purely for reference. My cooker, a 2009, has a built in thermometer and a 2 gallon water pan. I believe the previous models have a smaller water pan (1 gal or so) and definitely no thermometer. The book must have been sent to press before the new model. Argh, the project manager in me can feel the frustration in that. Documentation is so fragile, and it can change so much. But I digress. The book WILL work for all WSMs. Factoid: my cooker holds more water that any WSM before it, and has a built in thermometer.

By the end of the cook for chicken (smoker temp showed 275), at the 1.5 hour mark, less than an inch of water was lost from my pan. At the end of the final burnout (once temp started falling below 275), around 5-6 hours later using Cowboy charcoal, less than two inches of water was lost. That’s good news because I won’t have to worry as much about the maintaining water in the pan. BUT, that center ring is gonna be a tricky bitch to lift when it comes to restocking the WSM with charcoal for any cook longer than 5 hours, a task for future lessons.

I’m a strong guy, but I know people who would have a problem with that technique for long cooks. The book suggests lifting the entire center ring off the cooker (lid, meat, ring, water pan and all) and setting it to the side for restocking the coals. The 18″ is heavy, so I can’t even imagine what the newer 22″ model with the 3 gallon water pan weighs.

Actually, let’s imagine:

A gallon of H₂O weighs in around 8.5 pounds. Let’s say, given there will be some evaporation, you won’t get the full weight of the water.

For my 18″ WSM (2 gallon pan) that math looks like:

14 lbs H2O + 10 lbs meat + the cooker = ~30 pounds

For a new 22″ WSM (3 gallon pan) the math is:

22 lbs H2O + 10 lbs meat + the cooker parts = ~40 pounds

Even though those are approximate weights, that’s a lot of hot grill to ask some people to lift. I won’t have a problem with it, and with a second person it’d be cake. But it’s something to note. The alternatives, opening the (evil) side door and trying to add hot coals, just won’t cut it either. How anyone is supposed to do anything useful through that hole is beyond me. Perhaps some more disassembly would work? Lid off, meat grate lifted away. Hmm. I’ll have to think this over. I will devoutly follow the book until I’m through, but I keep thinking how could my mom do this…

Woah. Am I already thinking about things like this? Omg BBQ Nerdalert!

So cook #2 done. Another success and fire is my new friend. I’m going to spend more time with more chicken. Not happy, but I promised to be a devout follower.

It seems like an eternity until I get to pulled pork.

I’m skipping two chickens and just using one for Lesson #2, Brined Chicken because I am a single boy and there will be no more room for smoked birds in my freezer very soon. But, slap my wrist if you must, I’m planning to use the buttermilk recipe, not just the standard brine. I can (and have) brined chickens in my sleep for years. If Im’a brine, Im’a brine with buttermilk. Yum.

Oh, and I’m giving my propane grill to my sister and her husband.

halfa bird

I made real BBQ. In a couple hours. At home. Who knew?

Well, I suppose Gary Wiviott and Colleen Rush knew. Authors of the book I mentioned previously, the road to lesson one was well thought out, clear, and ultimately produced a load of good food that’d been perfuming my refrigerator for the last day. Actually, it smelled so good, it had to be locked up tight in a set of containers from IKEA that could preserve a corpse. I couldn’t have my sticks of butter destined for a cake perfumed with the sweet smell of smoke. But I’m getting a little ahead of myself.

My WSM (and charcoal starter) arrived Thursday, and damn it if I wasn’t going to use it the day it arrived. The trouble was, I didn’t have any chickens in the house because I stayed home all day waiting for the damn thing to arrive. The starter, for whatever reason, arrived at 10am. The WSM was on another truck and didn’t make it home until 4. So between heading to the store to pick up chicken and getting it in the marinating bags, I didn’t officially start until 5ish.

da smoker, da starter

At 9 o’clock, despite the darkness, it was BBQ or bust. Apparently the sewing machines that Cowboy brand charcoal uses are inherently evil. The damn string closure across the top of the bag was fighting me every inch of the way. I didn’t just want to tear into a bag of charcoal because I knew I’d need to reseal it, or at least fold it over several times and close it. So there I was, ripping stitches one by one on a large bag of charcoal in my kitchen.

I began to doubt that I would ever start a fire, much less get into the damn bag.

But after cranking some Aretha Franklin (starting with Respect, natch) the bag began to cooperate and the charcoal was liberated from it’s papery bastille. I’d set up the WSM on my back porch, a black steel floored enclosure, solid, flameproof, and fairly new. No collapsing porches in these parts. I felt awkward about using the starter ON the steel floor, so I used an Analon baking sheet upside down. It worked a treat, and my first chimney of charcoal was ret ta go.

WSM loaded with charcoal and hickory chunks (debarked with a screwdriver, as my hatchet has gone a-missin’), I poured the glowing hot campfire-smellling charcoal over the top, laid on the center section of the WSM, and started bringing pitcher after pitcher of water out on the porch to fill the bowl of the WSM with water. Funny that because it was now 9:30 and the halogen porch light was doing little in the way of allowing me to see the water level in the pan. I swear ‘fo God, I used my iPhone flashlight application for the very first time.

My WSM is brand spankin’ new. Like, freshly outta the box. There’s a built in thermometer in the lid, and everything had that slick and shiny new-grill sheen. The book warned of some initial smoking that had to dissipate before you place the meat on, but I took it a step further and waited an extra 20 minutes. My brain thought it best to let the gizmo heat up and burn off any of the factory gunk that might be hangin’ on to the grates, under the water bowl, and basically inside the guts of the smoker. Right or wrong, it’s what I did and I felt better for it.

Showtime. Chickens on the top grate, wisps of smoke occasionally drifting upwards, I placed the lid properly on the top and nervously crept back inside. Ten minutes later, for kicks, I looked at the WSM and found it happily puffing away wisps of smoke. The temperature gauge seemed to be running things a little hot, but according to Gary’s instructions, it was perfectly normal and I should have faith in the process.

Hell, two chickens were killed for this exercise, so even if I didn’t have faith, at least I had a little voodoo right?

About every twenty minutes I stepped out to make sure there weren’t an explosion or flare up of some sort. Never once did I open the lid, and never once did I fear about what the temp gauge read. It settled in around 275ish for most of the cook. At the 1.5 hour mark, mostly because it was dark out and I couldn’t tell pink juices from clear ones, I jabbed my trusty Thermapen into one of the breasts, then into a thigh and everything read right. It also smelled heavenly.

I whisked the sacrificial chickens inside, tented them with foil, and let them sleep for ten. I knew the skins weren’t going to be crispy. If it were still daylight out, I’d have tried the trick of crisping them over the coals, but in the dark I was certain they’d go from tasty to coal far quicker than I could catch with said iPhone flashlight. I changed into my jammies, setup some eating utensils and things in the living room, and unveiled the chicken with drool pooling in the corners of my mouth.

That’s when the full scent hit me.

All of the sudden I was a little kid, maybe four or five years old. I was at the Harlem/Irving Plaza holding my moms hand. We were either at the deli next to The Swiss Colony, or actually in the shop itself. It was a Saturday morning and there were sample ladies everywhere. (Survey ladies too, but that’s another story) My mom handed me a cracker with a little slice of cheese. The cheese looked funny, with brown squares all over it. I poked at it and looked up at her puzzled. “Smoked cheddar. Taste it, maybe you will like it.” she said. I popped it in my mouth and the smokey aroma hit me. The tangy-sharp cheese was creamy and delicious, but the smoky flavor felt like it was rising up through my mouth and out of my head as I munched it down. Greedily I asked for more. For the rest of the day I could taste that cheese in my mouth each time I smelled the smokey perfume on my fingers. My kitchen was filled with that same exact smell. I stood there, eyes closed, soaking up the scent-memory.

Until there were sharp pains in each of my thighs.

As I snapped back to my kitchen I realized both of my cats were howling like they were on fire. They saw fit to sharpen their claws on my legs, obviously trying to get my attention and some of that damn fine smelling chicken that had, undoubtedly in their minds, suddenly just appeared in the kitchen. Oh, to be of the feline mindset! Love me (when I want it). Feed me (when I say). Hey, watch this! *licks crotch*. But back to the chicken.

purty, innit?

I inhaled half a chicken in record time. The skin was just meh, but the meat was sweetly perfumed with smoke, gently laced with garlic, succulent and soft. I am not normally a huge dark meat fan, but after I was done with the chicken there was barely any skeletal remains. The first thing that I noticed was that this wasn’t grilled food, at least not as I’d normally do it. There weren’t charred bits of bitterness, just gently smoky pockets of tastiness. I was worried that I’d be eating something that tasted of ashtray. Instead it was just right. Enough smoke to perfume the meat, but the marinade flavors were still there.

I fully intend to repeat this at least once more before I move on to lesson #2, brined chicken. I know brined birds well, but I don’t know brined birds in the smoker, so I will stick to the lesson and do what I’m told. Incidentally, that damn WSM stayed in the smoking range for another two hours after I pulled the birds off. Well, coulda been longer than two hours, but I had to get to bed. Right before I slept, I crept outside and the temp gauge showed a stunning 275, as if I hadn’t even disturbed it.

This is going to be a fun project. The only downside is that I may need to consider new jeans. There is currently a container of shredded smoked chicken married with some Sriracha (a match made in heaven) awaiting a future as tacos or quesadillas. There’s also a large vat of smoked chicken salad; scallions, celery, mayo, lime juice, a pinch of tarragon and my favorite chicken salad add-in, halved sweet red grapes.

Gud fud. I haz it.

Fµ¢k you Clear Channel for taking away the only good broadcast music station.

Phil Rosenthal has written the story behind the story today in the Trib, but I couldn’t be more hurt, upset, mad, and disgusted with Clear Channel.

I’ll say it again. Fµ¢k you Clear Channel.

I grew up with WNUA, a Chicago staple on the airwaves, THE smooth Jazz station. It was the soundtrack to my late nights. Evenings at restaurants (including my Fathers’) WNUA was the default background music. During long drives in the dark, alone in my Ford Escort, smooth jazz taught me a lot about myself.

What other radio station would ask you to think about getting caught between the moon and New York City at 3am on a dark road in the suburbs? (Christopher Cross’ seminal “Arthur’s Theme”)

During the Thanksgiving/Christmas season, WNUA was all I would play in my kitchen. An amazing mix of old music and new, the traditional and the reinvented, the sound of holiday baking was WNUA.

We didn’t have ‘elevator music’ in Chicago. We had WNUA.

My Jazz teeth were cut on the sounds of WNUA and WBEZ (their regular Jazz programs left a while back). When I needed to hear saxophones, I flipped to WNUA, and only a song or two away I got all the Kenny G (among others) I needed. Their unspoken but strict format was a comfort: One vocal song, then one instrumental. Repeat.

I had sex to WNUA. I made love to WNUA. I cried alone to WNUA. I wrapped myself in the arms of another and relaxed to WNUA. I spent my first night with Meo, my very first cat living on my own, with him curled up next to me while WNUA played softly in the background. I watched him breathe for hours when he first came home, feeling like a new parent.

Christ, I’m crying. At work. I shouldn’t be writing this here, now, but I am because I’m so upset.

Many years ago I learned of a Sunday night program called Musical Starstreams. It was my introduction to New Age “Eclectic Eletronica” music and it knocked me over. Deep Forest, Banco de Gaia, G.O.L., Higher Intelligence Agency, Tangerine Dream, they all came to me through late Sunday nights spent listning to Ferris of Musical Starstreams on WNUA.

Oh God. Speaking of New Age. The first Enya song I ever heard, the first Nicky Ryan track I can remember, Orinico Flow, was played on WNUA. I still get chills listening to the track.

*wipes the tears away*

From Phil Rosenthal’s article:

It may be small solace for loyal WNUA listeners, but its smooth jazz format will remain available online at yoursmoothjazz.com, as well as on smart phones via iheartradio.com and to those with HD Radios at 95.5 HD2.

A small solace indeed because the local flavor of the personalities will be lost. No more Lights Out Chicago with Danae Alexander. Where will Ramsey Lewis end up? Syndication is great for the hosts (get your paychecks, for sure), but the Chicagoisms will be gone.

I’m crushed.

The various southern states think they have the barbecue market cornered, but like many things in life, people prefer the barbecue they grew up with. I grew up with almost every kind. Our melange of residents from other places brought their traditions of low and slow cookery here to teh Chi. And it’s delicious. All of it.

There are high-snob-purists who only like one style or another. I feel nothing but pity for them because obviously the subtle nuances of the various styles is simply lost on them. Why subscribe to one barbecue philosophy when there are millions of options? I say open your mind, your mouth, and loosen your belt.

Besides, who EVER wants to turn down something as good as barbecue?

With that said, there is a whole helluva lot of grilled food that doesn’t even deserve to be called barbecue. The people who call pathetically grilled foods drenched in some “magic sauce” barbecue should have their license to grill revoked. Sauce does not a barbecue make.

Confession: I cannot cook barbecue.

I own a propane grill, and never having used a charcoal grill for any length of time, the fundamental “low and slow” principal has been beyond my reach for many years. I firmly believe you CANNOT make barbecue with a gas grill. It just don’t work, and don’t bother to explain how it would work because I-dun-wanna-noe.

Goal: I WILL learn to make barbecue.

Two very pivotal things just happened to me. My copy of Low & Slow: Master the Art of Barbecue in 5 Easy Lessons arrived earlier this week. I’ve torn through the book from cover to cover in just a few days. For those of you wondering why I didn’t get the Kindle copy (well, there isn’t one yet that I know of), I refuse to buy cookbooks via Kindle. Crumbs, oil, flour, grease, and generally the bits of cookery that end up on a cookbook do not belong on my Kindle. I need cookbooks in paper form.

Second, I just purchased a Webber Smokey Mountain Cooker from Newegg. I also ordered a charcoal starter ’cause as I said, I am a propane boy at present. But that’s all going to change, and you, dear readers, are going to follow along as I learn the in’s and out’s of barbecue as taught by Gary Wiviott.

How the heck did I get to barbecue? Well, I’ve been a fan of the LTHForum for a while. I contribute where/when I can and absorb as much of the cookery lore, techniques, and ideas as I can. It’s my default place to go to when I have a food question. LTH was founded by G Wiv. ‘Nuff said.

The barbecue program is designed to be rigidly followed. That’s going to be tricky for me. My extemporaneous nature (oooh, big word) in the kitchen has led me to discover more good than bad. But the art of charcoal fire cookery is not a strong point in my repertoire (another big word!), and I confess I’d be scared to follow anyone. Except G Wiv. As I mentioned above, I love ALL kinds of barbecue, and subscribing to one man’s philosophy sounds counter-intuitive. But I’m promising myself I’ll stick with the program until I get through all five lessons because I’ve been reading G Wiv on LTH for a long time, and he is an endless fountain of sage wisdom. By the end of his program, I should have a gut feeling for how barbecue works. Then, and only then, can I start chasing the many barbecue memories stuck in my craw.

So, for the next however-many-it-takes weeks, if you are near the corner of Belmont and Halsted, you’ll likely either smell an overly perfumed drag queen or me and my WSM practicing the art of barbecue. Of course, stick around here and I’ll guide you through my barbecue classes.

Incidentally, if you want to download the first chapter of the book, check out the book’s website at LowSlowBBQ.com

If you would have told me last year that Jill Scott would be starring in an HBO miniseries, I would have blinked once and immediately asked you how soon until I could view the first episode. Inside my head I would have been screaming with joy.

If you would have told me last year Anika Noni Rose would be starring in an HBO miniseries, I would have blinked twice and immediately asked you how soon until I could view the first episode. Inside my head I would have been screaming with joy.

When I learned that both hyper-talented stars were to appear in a seven-episode television adaptation of Alexander McCall Smith’s The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency novel series, which have been on my to-read list for a while now, what do you think happened?

I screamed. Out loud. I think my neighbors noticed.

I mentioned finding a song a couple days ago, and it was The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency that led me to it. Let me back up a moment and talk about the actual show before the music.

Jill Scott as Mma Ramotswe

Precious Ramotswe has recently lost her father. He has left her a large number of cattle which she sells and decides to use the money to open a detective agency. Run by a woman. In Botswana, a place where detectives, let alone female detectives, are as sparse as rain in the Kalahari. Mma Ramotswe is “traditionally built” i.e. a big girl who notices everything, pines for the old days when good manners and respect were the norm, and believes fully that a cup of bush tea is the answer to most any problem. Or at least it will help you find the answer.

Anika Noni Rose as Mma Makutsi

Grace Makutsi arrives on the doorstop of the detective agency with a score of 97%, the highest score ever achieved at the Botswana Secretarial College. She is quirky, razor sharp, and so tightly wound you nearly expect her head to explode from time to time. Her enthusiasm and work ethic are astounding, and together with Mma Ramotswe, the duo begins to teach the city of Gabarone and the country of Botswana a thing or two about lady detectives.

J.L.B. Matekoni, owner of Speedy Motors, is a kind and gentle man, giving of his time and energy to worthy causes and the pursuit of happier cars. He cares for the tiny white van Mma Ramotswe pilots around Gabarone and thus finds himself caring for Mma Ramotswe.

BK, a flamboyantly colorful character not found in the books, owns the Last Chance Salon, a refuge for hair. He’s a fun-loving guy who has a flair for hair and life. Yep, he’s gay. Nope, it isn’t an issue.

Through these four characters, along with a handful of others, we are taken inside Botswana life. We peer inside a culture that has grown up in Africa next to the tenuous politics of South Africa, close to waring neighbors, and somehow managed to maintain a way of life where people, the land, and the cattle are closer than most of anyone reading this can imagine. It’s magical, and McCall Smith paints an incredible picture of the world according to Botswana and Mma Ramotswe.

You can read the story of how the show went from book to screen on Wikipedia. I won’t re-tell it. But what you should do, what you must do, is try your best to see the show.

Jill Scott was an actress, in my book, from the minute she picked up a microphone. So many people are commenting on how great her performance as Mma Ramotswe is, but with a Jazz and R&B background and numerous awards under her belt, I’m not surprised she’s so great on screen. It takes a lot of experience and emotion to sing the way she does. Those same qualities, plus what I’ve always thought as the happiness in Jill Scott, are at the heart of the character of Mma Ramotswe. The parallel seems astounding to me. I can’t imagine anyone else in the role.

Anika Noni Rose. I don’t even know where to start, but the more of her work I experience, the more I want to experience. I say experience because I believe no one simply watches her act. You experience her characters, and Mma Makutsi is something very different from anything else I’ve seen her do. Her comic skills are outstanding, but the moments of tenderness she exhibits in the show are powerful. Near the end of the episode titled “The Boy with an African Heart” there is a close moment between Mma Ramotswe and Mma Makutsi that I’ve watched several times and it gets me misty each viewing.

Listening to the two of them, you’d hardly know they were born and raised in American. They carry very accurate accents. Definitely not Afrikkan, not Zulu, yet full of the Tswana/Bantu meter. (Uhh, whose blog you readin’? Of course I can tell the difference :-p ) We even get to meet some folks speaking what I believe is a Xhosa dialect, one of the languages that uses the unique click consonants found only in Africa.

There is an element of Murder-She-Wrote to the series, or it wouldn’t be called The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency. Contrary to the death and crime that follows Jessica Fletcher (why ANYONE ever invited her to a party is beyond me) the cases that Mma Ramotswe and Mma Makutsi take on help unfold the layers of culture in Botswana.

Being ignorant to the world of Botswana myself, I cannot speak for how true to life the portrayals of the culture actually are. I suspect, however, that much of it will ring true. Indeed, the beautiful scenery, set, and costumes were shot completely on location in Botswana. The truth of the visuals is outstanding.

I’m about halfway through the series of books, which I finally got around to reading after I watched all seven episodes (yay Kindle 2!). Like the screen versions, the books keep getting better as I read them. I hope that we see many more episodes on the screen.

Selfishly I just want more Mma Ramotswe and Mma Makutsi in my life.

And more music. I’ve expanded my collection significantly after learning about many new artists because of the show. Sort of telling that I was just getting heavily into Miriam Makeba earlier this year.

The biggest find to date is a CD called The Chisa Years 1965-1976 (rare and unreleased) by Hugh Masekela. The track “Mahalela” that I posted about earlier drew me right in, and with a quick listen using Shazam (via iPhone), I found the album. It’s a mixture of Afropop, Jazz, Blues, R&B, and packs a mean punch on many of the songs. This music is fairly new to me, but I find something about it quite appealing.

A wonderful new show, a fascinating new book series, new languages, and new music that I’m completely enjoying have all come into my life recently thanks to The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency. Really, who could ask for more?

Ke a leboga, Rra McCall Smith!

coffee, cigarette, newspaper

I had a long standing ritual of a morning mug of Cafe Bustelo and and a Marlboro Menthol. The punch from the Bustelo was strong and hot; the mellow sweetness of the Menthol was soft and cool. Somehow they both played well with the inky sharpness of the smell of a newspaper. I quit smoking years ago, I don’t usually drink the java in the morning, and all my news is imbibed online. But oooooh, how good it used to taste/smell/feel.

vodka, red bull, house

My career as a DJ was long enough to be satisfying and short enough to avoid boredom. But before I was a DJ, I was a dancer, burning up the ‘floor and doing the equivalent of a week of cardio in the span of a weekend. My drink of choice; vodka and red bull. My music of choice; House music. You could smoke in the clubs then. There were many summers where I was leaving the clubs as dawn was breaking. I definitely can’t hang like that without some serious planning today, but back then it was the norm. Ahhh, youth.

lab coat, drugs, typing

There were plenty of rules involved while working as pharmacy technician. The legality of handling prescription drugs aside, it was the methodical way the days started and ended I miss the most. The morning routine of setting up the pharmacy is one of my fondest memories. Each pharmacist did it in a slightly different way and over time I learned exactly what everyone liked and why. Most mornings we’d all work in silence with the pharmacy shutters down, scurrying around getting everything ready for the day. Then, in unison, we’d all put on our lab coats, raise the shutters, and engage the day.

As a tech, I spent the day “typing”, “filling”, or working “pickup”. “Pickup” was the person who you actually bought the prescription from. “Filling” was responsible for pulling, counting, and doing a lot of the hands-on with the drugs.

My favorite was “typing”, which involved working the intake window, accepting new prescriptions, translating, and entering them into the system. Prescriptions use a specific language, and I spoke it well. Learning the various handwriting styles of the local physicians was perhaps the trickiest part, but there was always someone who knew what the physician meant. It was fun to sell drugs for a living. I miss my lab coat.

Of course you know who Gene Roddenberry is…. right?! I can assure you that even if you don’t know his name, you know his legacy well. He was the creator of Star Trek, and I’m certain he’s smiling right now. Beaming in fact. Perhaps even giggling.

His legacy has evolved yet again with the release of Star Trek, the eleventh film in the series. A popular legend is that the odd-numbered Star Trek films are “cursed” and generally are teh suck, while the even numbered ones are the excellent. Nemesis (#10) wasn’t great, and this latest Star Trek (#11) is insanely good, so I think it’s safe to say that the curse is broken.

Insanely good? No, that isn’t right. It’s…it’s… magnificent! Refreshing! A phoenix rising! Star Trek is an amazing piece of film, combining an exceedingly good story line with fresh faces, familiar characters and worlds, and the core principal of Roddenberry’s universal the-future-will-be-a-better-place outlook.

I spent all day Friday with my sister and her husband helping them get their new house ready. We did tons of yard work and the various and sundry nuts-and-bolts things that need done in a new house. It really is a great property and I’m super happy they got it. Of course, for all my manual labor, and with a healthy dose of nagging, I managed to drag my sister to the movie. Happily she seems to have enjoyed it, despite the fact that she thought it was going to be a geek fest.

There may be spoilers ahead. You’ve been warned.

The movie opens just moments before the birth of James Tiberius Kirk, whom most of us know as the original captain of The Enterprise. His mother Winona is in labor. His father George, due to a sudden and brutal attack on their starship, has been promoted to acting captain in mere minutes. The entire crew is facing certain death unless they abandon ship. As the evacuation begins Winona is raced to a shuttlecraft. George chooses to stay and pilot the starship directly into the enemy, buying the escapees some much needed time. Via radio he talks with his wife as she gives birth. They choose a name together. You can picture the end of the scene, right?

Less than ten minutes after the film opened I was on the edge of tears. The scene had every possible bit of the universe that Roddenberry created. New life, death, the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, and that persistently hopeful outlook for the future. As the opening titles began and I dabbed at the corners of my eyes a few times, I realized that this was not going just going to be a good Star Trek film, it was going to be a great film.

And damn it was good.

The success of the story is the alternate-reality that the characters we meet are living in. Star Trek explores, with a huge dose of comic relief, how the original crew came together on The Enterprise. Many of us know the characters as if they were old friends. But the fresh faced actors and actresses bring something new to the story. Their new blood isn’t just a function of youth. In a time when sci-fi stories tend to be dark, ominous, and full of jumbled philosophy, the world of Star Trek is, I believe, a known quantity of goodness.

Seeing the beautiful young actors, notably Zachary Quinto as Spock (okay, he is one of the most handsome men I’ve ever seen and plays a perfect Vulcan), Chris Pine as Kirk (handsome-yet-badboy-ladies-man), Zoe Saldana as a stellar Uhura and the comic relief of Karl Urban as Bones and Simon Pegg as Scotty, not just embrace the world of Star Trek, but bring a new spin on the legacy we know was amazing.

Well, we sort of know how amazing it was. Again, Star Trek, represents an alternate-reality for these characters, so anything goes. It’s a great mechanic that allowed the director J. J. Abrams and writers Roberto Orci and Alex Kurtzman to dig into the genesis of both Spock and Kirk.

Of the two, the passage into Spock’s half-human, half-Vulcan early life is deeper. We see Vulcan children learning to suppress emotion. We see Spock choose his path in life in both a human and a Vulcan way. And ultimately, when the time is ready, we watch him use both sides of his heritage together for the greater good.

Oh, and Spock and Uhura apparently have a thing. Hawt.

Star Trek is an incredible film, not only because it was pretty, with a good measure of righteous explosions, fantastic sets, magical costumes, gorgeous makeup, and great music. It was incredible because with this epic story, foreshadowed by the birth of Kirk in the opening scene, a new Star Trek universe has been born.

I can’t wait to watch it grow up.

This song has been blowing my mind for a couple weeks now and I thought I’d share.

Do not let the intro keep you away. It’s beautiful, but the song slams in at 0:50 and begins to jam.

I totally wish I had a translation for the lyrics. All I know is the song is called Mahlalela (Lazy Bones) written by Caiphus Semenya, sung by Letta Mbulu and dates from 1970 or 1971 (I think…) Her voice is familiar, the bass line is super funky and the blaring horns are right up my alley, supplied by Hugh Masekela I believe.

More details on where I first heard it coming soon. Until then, turn the volume up, the lights down, and dance like nobody’s watching.

But, if you already know and love Rolando, Rolando 2 is coming soon and I can’t wait!! Here’s the trailer…

Rolando 2- Quest for the Golden Orchid – Trailer from ngmoco:) on Vimeo.

It also made me want to live somewhere else. Not another city, but another neighborhood. Lakeview has been good to me, and I adore my apartment, but it might be time for somewhere a little quieter. With more mom ‘n pop shops. With some ethnic groceries around the corner. Still undecided, but I have lots of time.

The nightclub next to me (and underneath me) has turned into a place that I don’t want to visit. It is a part of my history for a million reasons, but today it represents everything I dislike about the gay club scene. Thankfully my other regular haunts are still as good, if not better.

The upside of the change, the silver lining, is that a bunch of social garbage in my life has been flushed, including a handful of children that will continue to live in their own Neverland. Folks I once considered adults really aren’t. Hindsight is definitely 20/20.

So welcome back Spring. Chicago has missed you and all the changes you bring. If can make one request, just one, I hope it’s that you’ll stick around for longer than a couple weeks.

As I’ve been graduating through the ranks of Warcraft, I’ve discovered a new joy. It is called PvP, player-vs-player, and it’s nearly as addictive as warm Krispy Kreme.

For a lot of the game, WoW is about playing PvE, or player-vs-environment. You fight mobs (monsters, remember our terminology?) that are actually computer programs. They behave in certain ways and respond to certain things in an orderly fashion. The science behind defeating them is the subject of much discussion, and the art of it is fascinatingly enjoyable.

Who hasn’t squealed with glee when they’ve beaten a computer at something?

Yet the ultimate challenge is now beginning to unfold before my eyes. It’s the Warcraft Battleground scene, and it’s a pretty damn intense gaming experience for one simple reason. Behind all the technology on your screen, across the miles of the intert00bz, glued to the other end of the pipe, there’s another person.

people != computers

If you aren’t a programmer, the above reads “people are not the same as computers”. While that isn’t news, it does present a new challenge in WoW. Instead of the predictability of a mob, a signature pattern of attacks and responses, you have the most advanced machine in the world fighting back; another person. And it’s the shiznit.

It’s also deadly hard. Hard in a you-are-gonna-die-many-times kinda way. Hard in that fit-hits-the-shan way. Hard as ice. Hard as nails. Hard as my @#$% when I see those Wolverine posters of Hugh Jackman. Oh my.

There are a handful of battleground scenarios you can choose to play in WoW. Some involve capturing a flag, some require capturing a certain place on a map, and some involve bulldozing down walls to capture a sacred relic. The mechanics of gameplay change depending where you are, but the underlying principle does not.

Kill or be killed.

Say it with me in your best Tina Turner voice “Welcome to THUNDERDOME!” Oh please, you know you were thinking “Two men enter, one man leaves!” And it’s sort of true, except in WoW there may be a hell of a lotta peeps aiming to pwn you into oblivion. But that’s the fun of it.

Interesting observation: the more depressing the news gets about the economy and the job market, the more I’m finding time to play WoW. Maybe I’m running or hiding? An inexpensive stress release? I suppose I could call it a million different things, but it’s f u n and seemingly just what I need at the moment.

Bea Arthur passed away Saturday April 25th, 2009.

I’ve written countless times about The Golden Girls, and even about the passing of Estelle Getty. While I’m a little too young to know first-run Maude episodes, I’ve seen them all, and soaked up nearly all of the television that Bea Arthur has ever done.

What a full life.

By the time Bea Arthur was on television, she was already a highly accomplished stage actress. There are so many columnists and bloggers out there who will covery her history of performance better than me, so I’ll leave them to it. But I can’t help but shake the feeling that a very special, powerful force in the acting community was lost with her passing.

They don’t make ‘em like her these days.

I had the chance to meet her in Chicago for the briefest of moments. She was absolutely magic in person, but the greatest gifts she gave us can still be seen on television, almost every day. My DVR always has 5 episodes of The Golden Girls (even thought I have all the DVDs) recorded. It’s like Golden Girls roulette, and I love it.

It’s time, once again, for some cheesecake.

The spectrum is broad and loosely defined. Or perhaps I should say that it’s defined by so many in so many different ways that it’s difficult for most people to understand. I am not an expert, but I have enjoyed the friendships of a few self-identified trans people, each representing a wildly different facet of T.

My point is, the G and the L in GLBT are easily defined, the B, while still a little nebulous, is an easier concept to grasp than what the T represents.

You’d be hard-pressed to find anyone who would disagree with that. It’s an issue that I see arising time and time again in the subtle undercurrents of my community here in Chicago. And if *we* have a problem, what do the straight folks think?

I’ll tell you what one man thought. He thought that 18 year old Angie Zapata, originally born Justin Zapata, deserved to be beaten to death. That man was named Allen Andrade, and I hope he rots in the pits of hell after he dies in prison.

The worst part about the case, aside from the ugly and violent death of such a young woman, was the defense that Andrade’s lawyers presented to the jury. I’ll paraphrase because I don’t think I can bear to read the full transcript. They claimed that Andrade fully believed that Zapata was a woman, but once he found out she still had male genitalia, he lost control.

Lost control? How does that give you the right to beat someone to death?

It gets even more vile. Throughout the trial, the defense team disrespected the late Angie Zapata around every corner, refusing to call her ’she’ and instead consistently referring to her as ‘he’.

Disgusting.

The prosecution maintained the correct usage of pronouns. That little detail that speaks volumes about the ignorance involved in such issues. Yet justice prevailed and the jury convicted Andrade of first-degree murder and a bias-motivated crime, sentencing him to life in prison.

This case represents a national first, as Colorado is the first state in which a case involving a trans person was won as a result of a hate-crime statute. A victory at the cost of a life. It’s an awful reflection of the mindset of many people in this country, and hopefully a call to action for many to mandate the passage of hate-crime laws universally.

If you follow me on Twitter, you may have noticed in my latest tweet, I’m over it. Likewise, if you follow me on Facebook, I’ve posted a final message there too.

I’m just not interested anymore.

There’s lots of people I know that use both quite a bit. I have no problems with other people using them as extensively as they like. Their time is their own. But, over the last month I’ve been trying very hard to find the benefit of either form of social networking and it has escaped me.

Maybe at some point in the future I’ll return. It’s just that over five years here at radiopeter has taught me many things. Above all, radiopeter is not a fad. It’s not trendy. It’s not cool to be here just because it’s cool to be here. It’s my life, my thoughts, my experiences. Read it if you want, leave if you aren’t interested.

Facebook/Twitter aren’t me. Radiopeter is.

An excerpt from Celebrate Me Home
by Bob James and Kenny Loggins

Uneasy highway
Traveling where the westerly winds can fly
Somebody tried to tell me
But the men forgot to tell me why

I gotta count on being gone
Come on woman, come on daddy
Be what you want from me
I’m this strong, I’ll be weak

Please, celebrate me home
Give me a number
Please, celebrate me home
Play me one more song
That I’ll always remember
I can recall
Whenever I find myself too all alone
I can make believe I’ve never gone
I never know where I belong
Sing me home

Mavrana, my Warcraft Rogue is none of these. And yet, she’s all of them.

So in life, in WoW. Each time I play there is some snide remark I encounter in-game about Rogues. Of course, nobody complains when I flex my unique lock-picking skills to open some flavor of treasure chest for them, but the anti-Rogue mentality is tangible.

Honestly, I frickin’ love it.

I’m by no means a l33t Rogue yet. I’ve only recently hit top level and am slowly building the awareness and dexterity (physical, like key-pressing stuff) to pull off the kind of playing it takes to make Mavrana the badass she’s destined to be. Thankfully, with the help of some incredibly generous and fun people to game with, I’m learning more each day and building up skills.

It’s funny. Just a few months ago Mavrana was a low level character roaming around Azeroth (that’s the name of the world in-game), afraid some big baddie would unleash a can of whoopass on her. Today she’s got skills, friends, and with the flick of a dagger she cracks open her own can of whoopass for any who dare to engage.

There’s more to see and do than ever before now that the Warcraft world is fully open to me, and the hours I get lost inside WoW are hours I actually end up learning more about myself.

Warcraft is a big mirror.

I don’t think that’s the draw for the millions that play, but it’s certainly the result. Nothing says more about the-person-behind-the-character than their choices and mannerisms in-game at high level. Serious gamers, which most Warcraft players that I regularly encounter seem to be, blur the line between computers and humans without a second thought. None of us can escape our personalities. Once you know what to look for, they shine right through.

So what does that say about me and Mavrana? Well, if you know me, you know the answer. But if you don’t know me, check out the 101 things about me page and tell me what you think…