On steak

“Are we having steak for dinner tonight?” The answer was “yes.” Sometimes I eat steak with a little salt and pepper, and I’m unapologetic about that–no ketchup though, then I would be apologetic. Sometimes I don’t eat steak, but I do hate tofu and can’t figure why anyone would eat it on purpose. The texture is otherworldly and the taste is disappointing, to say the least–it tastes like something dead. On the other hand, there is something which is creepily primitive,but totally satisfying, about eating the flesh of other animals. I think this may be one of my blind-spots, which is goofy, but I’m not sure. Raw oysters really blow my hair back. I like my steak rare, leaning to very rare, burned on the outside and ruby red on the inside, salty. As an omnivore, I like to eat a little bit of everything, although lately I’m for setting the chickens free since the modern industrial chicken tastes like chemicals and not chicken. I don’t eat chicken. Fish, I love fish–tuna, cod, walleye. I’ll eat the six ounce steak on the menu (or I’ll even cook it myself), but I would turn down almost anything larger than that. Digesting animal flesh is hard work, although the payoff if very high. You don’t want to have steak at every meal–the experience would get old really quickly. I like the cut to be either a T-bone or a ribeye. I like nice marbling and juicy meat. There is nothing like putting a nice big steak on the grill, well-seasoned, and sharing it with the other omnivores. I had a big, leafy, green salad last night, and I still feel a bit hungover from that. Oh, one might be a vegetarian, which is a more ethical position, certainly a more defensible one than killing animals for their meat, but I like to eat a little bit of everything.

On steak

“Are we having steak for dinner tonight?” The answer was “yes.” Sometimes I eat steak with a little salt and pepper, and I’m unapologetic about that–no ketchup though, then I would be apologetic. Sometimes I don’t eat steak, but I do hate tofu and can’t figure why anyone would eat it on purpose. The texture is otherworldly and the taste is disappointing, to say the least–it tastes like something dead. On the other hand, there is something which is creepily primitive,but totally satisfying, about eating the flesh of other animals. I think this may be one of my blind-spots, which is goofy, but I’m not sure. Raw oysters really blow my hair back. I like my steak rare, leaning to very rare, burned on the outside and ruby red on the inside, salty. As an omnivore, I like to eat a little bit of everything, although lately I’m for setting the chickens free since the modern industrial chicken tastes like chemicals and not chicken. I don’t eat chicken. Fish, I love fish–tuna, cod, walleye. I’ll eat the six ounce steak on the menu (or I’ll even cook it myself), but I would turn down almost anything larger than that. Digesting animal flesh is hard work, although the payoff if very high. You don’t want to have steak at every meal–the experience would get old really quickly. I like the cut to be either a T-bone or a ribeye. I like nice marbling and juicy meat. There is nothing like putting a nice big steak on the grill, well-seasoned, and sharing it with the other omnivores. I had a big, leafy, green salad last night, and I still feel a bit hungover from that. Oh, one might be a vegetarian, which is a more ethical position, certainly a more defensible one than killing animals for their meat, but I like to eat a little bit of everything.

On the final journey (swimming the river Styx)

Since no mortal has ever made the return trip, none of us knows anything about that last trip across the river. Since the only two things that are guaranteed in this life are death and taxes, from time to time we all need to talk about both. Death has been a mystery since before people could write and the focus of writing ever since a quill scratched across a clean surface, leaving behind a muddled mess of liquid goo in lines of what looks like random bird tracks. All meditations about death are necessarily speculative, filled with metaphors and other poetic tropes which we use to mask the reality and finality of death. We seldom dwell on the face of death, deciding instead to close the casket, look off to the side, or close our eyes altogether. Philosophers, poets, artists have contributed to the mountainous pile of literature that attempts to answer the hard questions about death, but even that mountainous pile is little more than a big collection of guesses, speculation, and imagination. We shore up that pile as a shield against facing the reality that we will all have to face at some point. What we hate about death is the implied trope of change, and we all hate change. There are no guarantees about tomorrow or the day after, and since we are not in control, we fear change even more. Life will always be what you make of it, and death is also a part of life, so why fear it. Those of us who still walk the earth, are still saddened, however, when one of our number dies, hoping that that soul which once burned with so much fire, knows how to swim the cold, cold waters of the river Styx.

On the final journey (swimming the river Styx)

Since no mortal has ever made the return trip, none of us knows anything about that last trip across the river. Since the only two things that are guaranteed in this life are death and taxes, from time to time we all need to talk about both. Death has been a mystery since before people could write and the focus of writing ever since a quill scratched across a clean surface, leaving behind a muddled mess of liquid goo in lines of what looks like random bird tracks. All meditations about death are necessarily speculative, filled with metaphors and other poetic tropes which we use to mask the reality and finality of death. We seldom dwell on the face of death, deciding instead to close the casket, look off to the side, or close our eyes altogether. Philosophers, poets, artists have contributed to the mountainous pile of literature that attempts to answer the hard questions about death, but even that mountainous pile is little more than a big collection of guesses, speculation, and imagination. We shore up that pile as a shield against facing the reality that we will all have to face at some point. What we hate about death is the implied trope of change, and we all hate change. There are no guarantees about tomorrow or the day after, and since we are not in control, we fear change even more. Life will always be what you make of it, and death is also a part of life, so why fear it. Those of us who still walk the earth, are still saddened, however, when one of our number dies, hoping that that soul which once burned with so much fire, knows how to swim the cold, cold waters of the river Styx.

On knots

For most people, the first knot that they ever learn to tie is the one that keeps their shoes on. I had to learn how to tie my shoes before going to kindergarten. Whether you started buying penny loafers to avoid tying your shoe lace knots, or you became an ace at tying your shoes laces, knots are a big part of our world. I was not a Boy Scout, so I never studied knots, and since I have never sailed anything, I didn’t learn any seafaring knots either. I am great at letting my stomach get tied up in knots, but real knots of utility escape me. Basically, I can tie a square knot, a slip knot, and occasionally, when pushed by the situation, a non-slippage figure-eight knot. Most of the time, however, I am baffled by a mysterious array of knots that might be found in the world–strange and complex entanglements of cords, ropes, and strings that keep things in place. Nothing, however, is more complex than trying to untie the chaotic mess of your shoe strings at the end of the day which have inevitably created a tangle that would defeat even the great Houdini. Some people like to be tied up, but then again, the world is filled with more mysteries than than are dreamt of in my philosophy. The knot, whether literal or metaphorical, stands for complication, chaos, mystery, and strength. Knots are either being tied or untied, depending on both the purpose of the knot and the end of its task.

On hurting your index finger

While doing a little work yesterday, I accidentally skinned the back of my index finger on my right hand. Now I have a scab there which has been unceremoniously ripped off about five times, and this is the skin on the knuckle, on the back of the finger. You never know how much you use that particular finger until you have to do dishes, floss, tie your shoes, or change your the tail pipe on your muffler. Even drinking coffee is strange now because that particular spot on the finger touches the hot cup, which I did not know until this morning. Some people call it the “pointer” finger, which sounds rude and probably is. Yet, even from medieval times the “indice” was known as that finger which everyone uses to give directions and focus the attention of different speech acts. And scratching (if you deny you scratch, you really need to have your head examined), who could get through a day without scratching? We won’t specify what, but scratching is important, especially if you have an itch. Even pictures of a hand pointing with its index finger extended have been important signs centuries. Today we might substitute an arrow or similar icon, but it’s just a variant of the pointing finger. Most people “mouse” with their index finger, and those who never learned to type properly use their index fingers to communicate with the world. And there are those less delicate people who think they are invisible at a stop light while they use their index finger to pick their noses. The light turns red, and the old index finger goes into action like an ancient coal miner who just found a new vein to mine. The finger that we wag at our opponents is also the finger with which we push buttons, which may be one and the same thing, depending how who you are trying to bother. For some, the index is also their trigger finger, which is interesting but not necessarily telling or indicative of anything. Until, however, you have an “owie” on it, you just never realize how important that little digit really is.

On hurting your index finger

While doing a little work yesterday, I accidentally skinned the back of my index finger on my right hand. Now I have a scab there which has been unceremoniously ripped off about five times, and this is the skin on the knuckle, on the back of the finger. You never know how much you use that particular finger until you have to do dishes, floss, tie your shoes, or change your the tail pipe on your muffler. Even drinking coffee is strange now because that particular spot on the finger touches the hot cup, which I did not know until this morning. Some people call it the “pointer” finger, which sounds rude and probably is. Yet, even from medieval times the “indice” was known as that finger which everyone uses to give directions and focus the attention of different speech acts. And scratching (if you deny you scratch, you really need to have your head examined), who could get through a day without scratching? We won’t specify what, but scratching is important, especially if you have an itch. Even pictures of a hand pointing with its index finger extended have been important signs centuries. Today we might substitute an arrow or similar icon, but it’s just a variant of the pointing finger. Most people “mouse” with their index finger, and those who never learned to type properly use their index fingers to communicate with the world. And there are those less delicate people who think they are invisible at a stop light while they use their index finger to pick their noses. The light turns red, and the old index finger goes into action like an ancient coal miner who just found a new vein to mine. The finger that we wag at our opponents is also the finger with which we push buttons, which may be one and the same thing, depending how who you are trying to bother. For some, the index is also their trigger finger, which is interesting but not necessarily telling or indicative of anything. Until, however, you have an “owie” on it, you just never realize how important that little digit really is.

On the dark side

I was just thinking that this note was not going to be about Star Wars, but I was wrong. Even Master Yoda would agree, he would, that we all harbor a dark side, a side that makes decisions, gets us through difficult situations, breaks the ice, drives in a nail, moves a heavy object, barges through a traffic jam, gets us out of the rain, climbs that last flight of stairs. Yet, our dark side is also short-tempered, at times, even violent, much to our own chagrin. There are other aspects associated with the dark side that I won’t discuss here, but let’s just say that those facets of our personalities are better left undiscovered, and maybe undiscussed as well. We cannot survive without our dark sides. We would all be indecisive Charlie Browns if we didn’t have a dark side, wishy-washy, good-natured, but no kick and no results. He never did kiss that little red-headed girl, did he? We all disapprove when Rhianna sings about liking whips and chains, but we also have the song on our playlists and Ipods. Perhaps it is the mix of light and dark which saves us. When road rage takes over, we have accidentally unleashed an unedited uncontrolled version of the dark side gone wild. Our more civilized side must be in control while standing in line at the grocery story, while listening to politicians talk, while driving, while deciding who will go first, anytime it would be better to defer to others. The dark side always wants to be first, to get served right away. Yet it is also our dark side that might save us in a sketchy situation, you know, those old “spidy” senses. We cannot give up on our dark side–anger isn’t always a bad reaction, but it must be a measured, reasonable response, not an out-of-control freak show. Maybe that is why Yoda was always so thoughtful even in the most desperate situation.

On the dark side

I was just thinking that this note was not going to be about Star Wars, but I was wrong. Even Master Yoda would agree, he would, that we all harbor a dark side, a side that makes decisions, gets us through difficult situations, breaks the ice, drives in a nail, moves a heavy object, barges through a traffic jam, gets us out of the rain, climbs that last flight of stairs. Yet, our dark side is also short-tempered, at times, even violent, much to our own chagrin. There are other aspects associated with the dark side that I won’t discuss here, but let’s just say that those facets of our personalities are better left undiscovered, and maybe undiscussed as well. We cannot survive without our dark sides. We would all be indecisive Charlie Browns if we didn’t have a dark side, wishy-washy, good-natured, but no kick and no results. He never did kiss that little red-headed girl, did he? We all disapprove when Rhianna sings about liking whips and chains, but we also have the song on our playlists and Ipods. Perhaps it is the mix of light and dark which saves us. When road rage takes over, we have accidentally unleashed an unedited uncontrolled version of the dark side gone wild. Our more civilized side must be in control while standing in line at the grocery story, while listening to politicians talk, while driving, while deciding who will go first, anytime it would be better to defer to others. The dark side always wants to be first, to get served right away. Yet it is also our dark side that might save us in a sketchy situation, you know, those old “spidy” senses. We cannot give up on our dark side–anger isn’t always a bad reaction, but it must be a measured, reasonable response, not an out-of-control freak show. Maybe that is why Yoda was always so thoughtful even in the most desperate situation.