Tuesday, February 28, 2006


Two quick things--

Review of Date Movie:

  • It Sucks

    And, more importantly, there's a writing group starting in the Cincinnati area. If you live in NKY/Cincinnati/SE Indiana, join online. The first meeting is supposed to be March 18 @ Kaldi's Downtown. Join at: Cincinnati Writing Project

    That's all for now. More later.
  • Wednesday, February 22, 2006

    Homemade Barbecue Chicken Pizza

    Here’s what we ate for dinner tonight. You should make this—it’s fucking good.

    1 pizza crust
    2 roma tomatoes
    1 small red onion
    1 chicken breast
    1 cup Montgomery Inn Barbecue Sauce (yes, the brand is important)
    sliced jalapeno peppers to taste
    cilantro, fresh
    crushed red pepper
    1 cup low-fat mozzarella or provolone cheese (NOT fat free, as this type of cheese doesn’t like to melt)

    Cook the chicken in a skillet, cutting it as it cooks in the skillet. Add enough crushed red pepper so that it can be faintly smelled on the chicken. Continue cutting the chicken until there are no large chunks.

    Once the chicken is done cooking, stir it (the chicken, that is) into the cup of barbecue sauce and then spread the mixure onto your pizza crust, leaving approximately 1” around the crust.

    Spread the tomatoes, onions, and jalapenos onto the crust, and then spread the cheese.

    Cook for 10 minutes at 450 degrees.

    Sprinkle cilantro over the pizza, slice, and enjoy.

    We’ve had this twice in the last couple weeks, and it’s my new favorite goddamn food. I like it so much that I have to swear when I’m describing it.

    Jill and I have been cooking 2 or 3 times a week as of late, and we’ve both been discovering quite a bit about ourselves and our tastes lately. What comes immediately to mind is the issue of fish.

    For the last ten years or so, I’ve contended that I greatly dislike fish. This was generally true until we made tuna steaks (see 12/19 post), which I ended up loving. This scared me, but it also opened me up to a new world of food that I’d previously closed myself off to.

    Since the tuna steaks, I’ve been able to determine that tilapia sucks, as does most ‘lighter’ fish. Too flaky for me, not substantial enough. These types of fish are, in my opinion, nothing more than a vehicle for tartar sauce (mmm), which is likely the most artery-clogging substance on the planet, and I don’t want to die of a heart attack before I turn 75 (which means I should quit smoking sometime soon).

    I’ve also determined that I like swordfish as well, but that reheating it makes it taste like dirty buttholes.

    We’re having shark this week, and I hope it’s good. I’m still a little scared of it, but if it’s anything like these other ones, I’ve got nothing to worry about. Tell me I have nothing to worry about.

    Wednesday, February 08, 2006

    Crazy Bus Guy

    Perhaps the name is unfair, but it’s from the first time that I ever saw him. I was on the shuttle.

    Did you ever notice that homeless people handle small objects differently than do the homed? It’s a slower, clunkier way of dealing with things. My hypothesis is that the extremities’ nerves are weather dulled and there’s not much reason to handle much of anything, so they simply stop practicing. I haven’t given this hypothesis much thought, but it’s something that I noticed in CBG right off the bat. That and his wild, blonde caveman hair.

    Speaking of caveman—he actually appears to be the offspring of a deviant relationship between a cavewoman and David Lee Roth. Add years of meth use to the mix and you’ve got our man.

    I’ve never talked to him, but I’ve seen him everywhere. Walking the streets of Covington on a number of occasions, riding the bus, walking the streets of Downtown Cincinnati, and, strangely enough, outside the Barnes and Noble in Florence (which is a good 15 minute drive from Covington with no traffic problems), wandering the parking lot. And only when it’s cold outside.

    Yesterday, I was sitting in the back of the bus on the way home from work and he sauntered onto the bus at the 4th and Race stop. I was reading the latest Tin House (because I’m so goddamn hip) and I saw him get on, walk back, and then sit on the other end of the bench. You could say that he sat next to me, but there were four empty seats between us. But he sat next to me nonetheless.

    I just realized that I’m beginning to sound like one of two things—(a) an asshole who makes fun of homeless people, or (b) a jackoff who is going to patronize his situation with an “ooh that’s so sad” tone. My intent is to do neither of these things—I’m getting to the review part of it.

    Closely behind him followed his smell, which was exactly as one would expect it to be: earthy and unwashed, with a healthy dose of consumed liquor floating around in there somewhere. While not wholly unpleasant, I breathed as little as I could.

    Instead of actually reading as I’d planned to, I used the magazine as subterfuge while I stole glances at him. He looks cognizant, I thought, looking back at the mishmash of words that were, effectively, the wool I was pulling over (apparently) nobody’s eyes. Is he as homeless as I think he is? Maybe he’s pulling some kind of check doing light industrial work and spends his off time walking around the city. I glanced at his hands. Dirty. Disgusting, actually, and the knuckles on his right hand were smashed flat. The skin was grey, unlike the reddish rest of him. He could have gotten that anywhere. I imagined him at work, in front of some machine putting labels on cans or something. It worked. I could totally see it, and I was convinced of it: this guy totally has a job.

    And then he got off the bus between Coco’s and the Justice Center. I watched him unabashedly through the window, as though there were some barrier that might keep him from catching me staring. He picked a cigarette up from the ground and my assertion that he most certainly had a job fell to shit. CBG held the cigarette and looked at it for a moment and the only thing I could think while he did that was I wonder whether he recognizes me when I see him.