Eat This!

Full meals are over-rated. When it comes to snackin, I'm a pro. Here's what's in my pantry right now. And folks, none of this shit costs over three dollars.

Sunflower Seed Butter

The king of all the butters. More fiber than PB, and more taste—not unlike the crisp, earthy essence of fresh-popped popcorn distilled into spreadable form, if that makes any sense?

Cara Cara Oranges

The stock boy at the local produce market turned me on to these when he noticed I had, like, seven pink grapefruits in my basket. You see, the Cara Cara is a nice compromise between orange and grapefruit—sweet, but not too sweet, with a tart left hook right on the tail the end.

Juanita's Corn Chips

Made in Hood River (keep it local!), but that's beside the point. Juanita's are the saltiest, flakiest, butteriest, most delicious of all the corn chips, and I'll stand my ground on this.

Monterey Jack

I used to be exclusive with cheddar—sharp cheddar, whenever possible. But recently I've been dabbling, and friends, Monterey Jack is so smooth and creamy, and not without a snappy flavor of its own.

Lindt Intense Mint Chocolate

I can't be trusted with cake or cookies, but a bar of this can repose in my freezer for as much as a week while I slowly nibble the rich, dark squares one by one from the foil. It's a matter of respect, you know?

Blues for Adults

Of a rainy night, I sat down to watch Bruce Springsteen's entire keynote speech at this year's South By Southwest. As it turns out, it's a fine way to spend 50 minutes. Look, I mean it's the Boss. Giving you a mini-music-culture history lesson. And more.

Things covered in said speech:

•The tragic unknowability of women.

•The sheer ugliness and honesty of The Animals.

•Honing his craft, from zit-faced then to silver foxed now.

•The grit and spit of the blues. "These were soul men and women—not teen idols."

•The way things that are the "best ever" to you still SUCK to someone else.

•The way country music is like "blues for adults."

•Bob Dylan: "He is and continues to be the father of my musical country."

•The small and big things in life that keep us putting one foot in front of the other.

Below are just two snippets, but go HERE to watch the whole thing. WELL worth your while.

Life Temple

My days have been grounded in alternately working hard and then lounging and doing nothing, dumbly, on my new couch. I am not burdened by an obsession with material objects, but I can connect with things of quality on a cellular level. With that said, this Dania couch is the new little life-temple that I'm worshipping at.

On a side note, how creepy is it that I cohabitate next to a couple fucking carnivores with razor sharp incisors and maybe, just maybe, one of them might go berzerk someday and decide to breakfast on the flesh inside my skull or something. Nah ... ?

Mortals

"How strange is the lot of us mortals! Each of us is here for a brief sojourn; for what purpose he knows not, though he sometimes thinks he senses it. But without deeper reflection one knows from daily life that one exists for other people — first of all for those upon whose smiles and well-being our own happiness is wholly dependent, and then for the many, unknown to us, to whose destinies we are bound by the ties of sympathy. A hundred times every day I remind myself that my inner and outer life are based on the labors of other men, living and dead, and that I must exert myself in order to give in the same measure as I have received and am still receiving.” — Albert Einstein

Yessssss.

Kerouac, The Movie

Excited for this one! Anyone who knows me at all knows that Jack Kerouac is my fave. Always has been, always will be. I know the Sierra Nevadas to be wild and starry-skied because of Dharma Bums. I know the Nor Cal coast to be raw and lonely because of Big Sur. I know love to be a stand off because of The Subterraneans, The Town And The City, On The Road ... too many to mention here.

Also, I've been having neck problems lately and have resorted to standing on my head daily (good for the spine?), which I know to be something Kerouac did to allay his own neck pain. The act of hunching over a typewriter (back then) and a computer (now) being pretty much on-par bad for one's back.

Anyhow, I've posted this one before, but here t'is again. A poem by Jack Kerouac:

How to Meditate

-lights out- fall, hands a-clasped, into instantaneous ecstasy like a shot of heroin or morphine, the gland inside of my brain discharging the good glad fluid (Holy Fluid) as i hap-down and hold all my body parts down to a deadstop trance-Healing all my sicknesses-erasing all-not even the shred of a “I-hope-you” or a Loony Balloon left in it, but the mind blank, serene, thoughtless. When a thought comes a-springing from afar with its held- forth figure of image, you spoof it out, you spuff it off, you fake it, and it fades, and thought never comes-and with joy you realize for the first time “thinking’s just like not thinking- So I don’t have to think any more”