Full disclosure, my weekend wasn’t entirely as screen-free as it could’ve been, with cinematic gems such as The A-Team deployed to fill the temporary void left by Hulu. That was the high point of my movie selection, actually, because then I proceeded to watch Clash of the Titans, Repo Men, and The Box, which featured Cameron Diaz rockin’–make it stop, please–a southern accent. Forgive me, father, for I have sinned, and poor is the judgment of a man deprived of episodic content.
Fortunately it wasn’t all movies, and what I really wanted to discuss tonight was the grand plan I presented to you when we last spoke. In it, I outlined a comprehensive treatment of sandwich production, dog hunting, and reading. Of books! The last two items fizzled out, with a lackluster trip to the shelter and a brief, pages-long encounter with Blue Like Jazz. Perhaps I wasn’t in the right mood for Christian literature, or perhaps I’m simply not ready to start reading again, period. I suspect it’s the latter, because when I fired up the movie adaptation of The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, the subtitles themselves were a chore to follow.
But sandwiches? We can talk about sandwiches. It all began with the ingredients. I found myself in the deli section of the supermarket on Sunday, reaching for prepackaged meats when it dawned on me: sure, prepackaged would’ve been the sensible choice. It’s the same brand, after all, just not slicer-fresh, and it’s substantially cheaper. At the same time, though, I figured I might as well pony up. It was, like, I made the trip, I’m fully committed to this inaugural sandwich, and shit just got real. Shit also got cost-prohibitive. $40 out the door for thinly sliced meats and cheeses, along with a few veggies, and then it was off to procure some organic “country wheat” bread elsewhere. Now, I don’t know what “country wheat” even means. I imagine it’s the opposite of “urban wheat,” which, as everybody knows, is milled into urban dough and baked over a roaring urban hobo fire into urban bread.
With raw materials in hand, I set out to assemble my masterpiece. I had two expectations for the sandwich. It needed texture. It also needed integrity. I wanted a sandwich with some heft that wouldn’t ooze mustard and dressing with every bite. I also wanted the culinary compass of my creation to point in one and only one direction. No predominantly salty sandwiches here, for example, marred by sweet caramelized onions or cranberries or some such shit. It needed to be a dry sandwich with some punch.
I drizzled deli dressing onto thick-cut slices of country wheat, then layered on capers, horseradish mustard, horseradish cheddar, shredded romaine, onions, prosciutto, hot capicola, Genoa salami, and finally, some pepperoni. The whole to-do then went straight into the oven for 5.5 minutes at 375. The verdict? It tasted fine, I suppose, but it had all the subtlety of–you guessed it–Cameron Diaz. With a southern accent. In a terrible flick.
What’s this? A Thursday in which I lavish blocks of text upon you, rather than abandon you for the following week? Believe it. A twice weekly schedule isn’t exactly generous, I know, but where quantity is lacking I’ve attempted to compensate with consistency, and that’s served me well up until recently. Now, I’m not going to make any promises moving forward, because the option of disappearing regularly still appeals greatly to me, but tonight! Well, tonight’s in the bag. It’s time to celebrate, and we’ll do so by starting the next paragraph.
In a truly rare occurrence, my Hulu queue is absolutely empty. Zero. The big goose egg. This means I will need to fill this coming weekend with activities to supplant my standard vegetative state. Clubbing is the first thing that comes to mind, naturally. I’m just fuckin’ with you, of course. What I’m really going to do is shotgun it–revisit a bunch of things I had planned on pursuing, but swept onto the backburner. I won’t tackle everything on the list, obviously, but I should be able to knock out one or two items, and I’ll be better for it.
There is the issue of canines. It’s been half a year since my shameful fumble, and something simply feels wrong about rolling into the garage every day and seeing a folded doggie crate just sitting there, carefully propped against the wall, its calling–to contain a puppy–utterly unfulfilled. I still remember the afternoon when Hap lent me the contraption and now, months later, it’s like I’m somehow dishonoring the gesture, you know?
I also have sandwiches on my mind. Previously I had viewed the creative aspect of food preparation as a milestone that would happen after becoming proficient with the fundamentals. The trajectory would begin with recipes, then end with my own inventions. But you know what? Eff it. I’m picturing a twist on the classic Italian. The main ingredients will require careful consideration, though it’s the additions–perhaps capers, prosciutto, sliced almonds, something different–that will really make it.
And finally, reading. It’s been three years since my last book kick, and although the average cooldown period is a full five years, I’ve grown soft and amenable to compromise. I’m thinking fiction, specifically The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, a title which has been garnering office buzz in both its paper and filmic formats. To be honest, and also kind of a prick, I’m wary of novels from the bestseller list. The last book I plumbed from those depths was The Da Vinci Code, wherein the real mystery was how one author could transmute so much shit into hundreds of pages. It was a feat of sorcery.
Technology and me, well, ours is a complicated relationship. Certainly I appreciate the convenience of wi-fi, visit Hulu regularly, partake in the latest hits on Xbox, and marvel over the clarity of Blu-ray. At the same time, though, I’m still using a flip phone with texting and Internet connectivity willfully crippled. I refuse to understand Facebook. When I actually have my phone on me, it’s turned off to prevent bathing myself in whatever cosmic rays are beaming to and from the device. Same goes for my VPN token. It’s, like, the ability to work remotely is fantastic, obviously, but a device that generates a unique six-digit code every 30 seconds probably shouldn’t be lodged in anybody’s pants pocket.
There is tension here, in other words, and perhaps the best illustration of this is the very computer I’m using to produce this post. I know how it works. I built it from scratch. But I did so with some truly ancient hardware. The sole upgrade I’ve considered is the operating system because Microsoft is finally, finally sunsetting support for Windows 2000. I’m looking to replace it with Windows XP. The Home edition. Why the technological asceticism? Sure, a substantial desktop could be cobbled together for under a grand, but the consequences would be dire. I’d get back into PC gaming with a vengeance. Hulu would be perpetually cranked to output in HD. In summation, I’d take in even less sunlight.
My resolve against technological indulgence has buckled recently, however, with thoughts of buying a shiny new television. There’s a 52-inch Bravia-shaped hole above the fireplace just asking to be remedied. This place is also pre-wired for surround sound, so we’re talking about injecting Dolby seven-point-whatever into the goddamn walls without cables snaking every which where in the living room. And finally, a sleek new redesigned Xbox hit retail a month or so ago. It’s whisper quiet! I don’t even know what that means, but I must have it.
Over the weekend, I also sampled my first ever iPhone app. Who knew inflicting violence upon fruit could be so hypnotic? The animation was pleasing, I suppose, with juice splatter charmingly rendered, but it was the tactile experience that sealed the deal. I mean, I’ve never really liked watermelon, so to be able to express this dislike by swiping my finger and sundering said fruit was a delight. The game was educational, too, with fact upon fun fruit fact dispensed by a grizzled old man. No I did not know the science of growing apples is called pomology, sensei, and I shall strive to be better.
Will you find me flush with an iPad and LCD television next week? Probably not, but I’m getting closer. This relationship I have with technology shares some parallels with nuclear deterrence, I believe. Luddite versus the technologist, locked in a dead heat. At any given moment, the latter could unleash electronic delights too astounding for any one man to bear, but then the Luddite within would retaliate with horrific tolls on time, finances, and health. I see a big, red button before me, ready to be pressed, and the world of fruit, rather than people, hangs on the brink.