Home Is Where The Hard Is

We (the collective one) are bored. Life has taken on some form of undynamic, blah persona and just kind of sits there staring back, saying nothing. It's a really awkward silence. The silence is broken, however, by the sound of beer cans popping like balloons at a crying child's birthday and the lovely sounds of young country (shitty rock) emanating through the front door as of late.

Here are the topics discussed in front of my apartment:
1) High school football games and kickers.
2) "Mama and Randall"
3) Online dating, both match.com and Yahoo! personals

This is what I hear while I don sweatpants and worship my television. I don't know why I bother with my television when I have thirtysomething and Intervention going on right outside my door, but sweats feel safer and distance limits my interactivity in entertainment. It's better to watch sometimes than partake in the action. Actually, in recent moments, that's the rule of thumb. Let someone else put on the clown wig and party king crown and run their own court. I'd like to watch for a while.

One neighbor is definitely going through some shit and putting down some serious booze. Power to him, but when he came home with a thirty pack of Keystone Light, I got both nostalgic and empathetic. He has been finding solace in Internet dating and is more than happy to show me pictures of boobs and talk about his dates, though. The Internet dating and weeknight drinking are just reinforcers to avoidance. A nice meal and four hours on the xbox is way preferred. I don't see that a solution lies at the end of his path, but who knows. Life is not known for being just or predictable.

Other neighbor has a high school crush on the new neighbor from Alabama. She's got the weirdest accent one has ever heard and he's like 50 something and she is way out of her element, so I can see the motive. It's actually kind of cute to watch. Everyday after work they end up sitting on the stairs in front of my apartment and shootin' the shit, but everytime I see it, I can't help but picture bleachers and varsity jackets. The other weirdness is about how she made out with me the first night we met and went out whiskey drinking with the other neighbor. I'm not interested because I could fit into her jeans. She caught me whiskey drunk is all. I don't do that anymore and I was the out-of-elementee in that situation.

So, anyway, everyone of her stories that I hear ringing through my flimsy door is about "mama," Randall, or involves a pig and a quad. Dude, Alabama is no joke. They are stuck in a timequake, man. Imagine the worst you could about backwardness, ignorance and the and a hateful Jesus and you will come to about the third ring in that Dante's Inferno.

So, yeah, I'm finger pointing today, but I had to write and these things do affect me. I do nothing, but sleep anymore and have kind of introverted, which is very uncharacteristic. I just think this shit is getting old and it may be time to move somewhere a little more socially motivating. I've got to clean up my own backyard before I start venturing out of it, but I'm close. The rough spots are getting smaller and more isolated and it's been a while since I woke up with a penis drawn on my chest or a stranger in my house. These are good things. They are starting points. I just feel like there could be a more productive and fulfilling place where I could set up shop. I feel like I'm constantly in a hurry to get out of what I'm doing, but to go do nothing. It turns out I just don't want to be doing what I'm doing a lot.

Otherwise, everything is perfect.

F-U tility

Today is an exercise in repetitive futility not seen since one last stared at the stairs in an M.C. Escher drawing. Seriously, just circle and circle and circle of struggling while you drown in a puddle of shit that feels like quicksand. Some call it work. I think everyone has an e-mail filter on that auto-replys elaborate, over wordy versions of "Fuck You. Try again Fucktard." when they receive my e-mail address in their inbox.

Outside of that, everything is Jim Fuckin' Dandy. I'm finding solace in soulless searching of my innerworkings and trying to figure out how to unwind it all and not be so pissed off and frustrated. I've tried kicking a tree while I smoked a cigarette for ten minutes and it was just another action to put in the bin of futility to be incendiarily excited in order to be sacrificed to the Futility Goddess that rules my Charlie Brown-Dark Cloud work life at the moment. Just something else to throw on the fire.

Just like anything in life, however, it could be worse. Oh, so much worse. There are unexplained pee spots on the front of your pants, there are unexplained coffee outages, mirthless meetings that go nowhere for no reason and days that make you imagine that if you had a terminal disease you would want every day to last this long until the pain set in. Oh, so how could it be worse? Prison.

Recent events have had me reviewing work furlough programs because I really don't know what to expect from my criminal side of repaying my debt to society. I thought it was just an orange vest and get out there and pick up some garbage. Nope. There are other things and unfortuately none of them are prison librarian. Enacting a Dewey decimal system in a correctional facility has never sounded so good when compared to some stories that I'm hearing of what the program entails.

As a side effect of the research process, I decided to check out some prison pen pal resources. I thought it might be fun to get one. We could discuss our days and I could support him towards rehabilitation and life "on the outside." He could teach me how good I really have it not being incarcerated and also fill me with the purpose of helping someone. Perhaps there are sites like that, but I found this one: writeaprisoner.com. It's kind of like myspace or facebook mashed up with Megan's Law in some cases, but it is still a great time sink on a Friday.

I'm still getting familiar with the site and just found the part where it lists the crimes. There is also prison penpals with a hyphen that I haven't really checked out.

Also, being the competitive type, I suggested that some friends pick out their own prisoner, too. That way we could compare letters and see who is rehabilitating their prisoner the best. It would be like adopting a kid, but way easier. Or, maybe like getting a robotic dinosaur. Or, maybe like getting a pet rock that wrote letters to you. That is just the best premise for a sitcom in the 70s.

Be warned. There are some rules to mailing a prisoner. No stickers, no food, no nude pictures, etc...I will just mail mine cigarettes because that is like money in the joint.

Mom's Tamale Casserole

I'm putting this here so that I have access to it whenever I have a hankerin' for some tamale casserole and comfort. It's from my mom and was kind of a family tradition. I think I'm going to bring it back tonight, but fuck, it looks like a lot of work. Whatevs. It's something to do on a Wednesday. Also, is this the part where I find out that she got the recipe off the back of a pack of Marlboros or out of the back pages of a Penthouse Forum. This is where I get crushed isn't it?

Future recipes? Look for the tuna casserole. Children of the 70s ate a lot of casseroles I think.

Tamale Casserole

1 whole roasted chicken from the store or 2 to 4 chicken breasts

2 small cans of tamales (Hormel is my favorite)

1 recipe of white rice (1 3/4 cups water to 1 cup rice)

1 can of cream or chicken soup

1/2 soup can chicken broth

diced green chilis (optional)

grated mexican cheese or monterey jack cheese or just cheddar

Bake chicken breasts and shred. While the chicken is baking, make the rice. Or if you get a chicken from the store, just shred it and make the rice.

1) Take the paper off the tamales and break them into thirds and layer the bottom of a 9 x 13 casserole dish (I do it in the sink so I don't make a greasy mess)

2) Layer the shredded chicken on top of the Tamales

3) Mix the soup and the broth in the pan with the rice until it is the desired consistency. You can add the diced green chilis if you want. You can also salt and pepper to taste.

4) Bake @ 375 for 25 minutes. Add the grated cheese to the top the last 10 minutes. When the underlying casserole is bubbly, it is done.

* I think grandma marlene sprinkles paprika on top of the cheese.

Serve to only the casserole worthy guests.

Enjoy

mom