Mom 2.0 and 2.1

This posting is dedicated to my aunt Jo. So many great memories are shared over coffee.
Mom  2.0

So, my last post may have been a little “off putting” or “disturbing” or any other negative identifier. At that point in time (from about age 8 to age 17) I did nothing but vilify my mom. if there was anything wrong in my life, it was due to my parents, and I was Not about to be convinced otherwise. I blamed my mom more than my dad though, because she was just So random. One day, she’s trying to see if she can get my head through the wall and into the neighbor's living room, the next, she’s waking up from a nap (she was a stay at home mom) and asking us about the “Woody Hardpecker” (woodpecker) show we were watching, and laugh right along side of us. It was this inconsistency that made no sense to me. My dad, he was always consistent. If he wasn’t drinking, he was just an asshole. If he was drinking, he was an abusive asshole. Two states of being, on, or Really on. and consistent. My mom however, was all over the place. You never knew what the hell would happen or be said next. Looking back, especially with the views and understandings of my own adulthood, I’ve come to believe (as I’m not a doctor) that my mom had either bipolar disorder, or possibly even borderline personality disorder, and it was both undiagnosed and untreated. Seeing as I personally have bipolar disorder, and can remember doing some really stupid stuff, without even realizing that I was doing it, or why, I feel I have a better understanding of her. There are all these Pseudo-cathartic self help books, especially for people with fucked up childhoods where they’re all “you must forgive your parent(s) for their transgressions. I have just two words for that... Fuck. That. My mom doesn’t need forgiving. She was not the monster that I thought I’d lived with. She was simply a person who needed help, in so very many areas, that was never received. Even if she wanted it, I don’t think she’d have known how to ask for it. She tried to keep us “in line” (which meant less abuse from our dad), she tried to keep us doing as well as we could in school, and she tried to keep us fed and clothed. So, all things considered, when you stack up the good vs the bad, she was once again, overachieving.

I never got to tell my mom that I cared about her. I left home at 17, joined the Army at 18 and only visited twice before she passed. Both times I visited, I was able to take her out to dinner and let her order crab cakes (this was like my mom’s gold plated filet mignon), so I think, she understood.

The information posted below, comes from my aunt, and my mom’s sister. I enjoy talking with her so much, because she’s SO much like my mom. It’s as though I can talk to my mom again through her. Anyway, this is direct quoting, with additional bits from me.

From my Aunt Jo “Chet, we grew up never hearing i love you. my father was an alcoholic till i was 17 then he quit drinking.we got mistreated a lot.but some of us grew up to change that, I'm one of them. i wanted my kids & you kids and other nephews & nieces to hear & feel love & hugs.your mom loved you kids more than her own life it was just hard for her to show it, she didn't know how.when your mom was 2, she sneaked out of the yard at 2nd & union st. to see dad who worked on the railroad.she was hit by a passenger train,her brain had serious damage, they told my parents she would have a young child's mentality. she couldn't function in high school so they just took her out of school.they also said hitting or banging her head at any time could have serious repercussions. your dad hit your moms head every chance he got.he only made her mental state worse.he rationed the food, the money everything.you kids were a tax deduction, or a welfare payment to him.but your mother really loved you in her own way.I liked your blog. I'm glad you realize now, your mom wasn't really the demon he was”.

So, to finalize. My mom literally had the top of her head cut off by the metal wheels of a train, brain exposed. This did not stop her. She married an extremely abusive asshole, who beat her pretty much every day of her adult life, this did not stop her. She had four sons, three of which were nothing short of hell bent on destruction. Still, this did not stop her. She did get an education past the 6th grade, yet all of her children graduated high school, and three went on to join the armed forces.

All things listed as they are, I’d say my mom was a fuckin’ super hero.

Rachel' Creperie. Now with service.

Another local loving, that I have only Recently allowed myself to like is Rachel’s Creperie.
I will admit, I hold grudges. I especially hold food grudges. When I go out to eat, I don’t expect anything that I feel is out of the ordinary. I expect fair quality food, decent service, and reasonable prices. I have, and will again, pay as much as 40+$ for a meal for Just myself, if I feel the value is there. What I Won’t do, is sit for 40 minutes at a table without so much as a menu and a glass of water.
So begins my revue of Rachel’s Creperie.

Since up to now, on the personal side, has been laying groundwork for who I am, as a person as it relates to just about everything, here I will lay the groundwork for this review. September 25th is my birthday. Two years ago, my partner Eric invited 5 or 6 internet friends up from the DC metroplex who we knew via online to share and celebrate with us. Rachel’s has been around for some time, and when you’d like to “impress the out of towners”, you want to take them somewhere nice. Rachel’s certainly appeared to meet that need.
The three cars full of us (4 bigger guys, 2 little guys, what a party) find parking, roll over to Rachel’s, request a table, are sat outside (it was Really nice out too) and that is honestly about as far as it went. We sat there, and continued to sit there. Eric started to feel a sugar crash coming on. I started to feel a case of the ass coming on, so we got up and left. That was strike 1.

Down the line, over the next two years, Eric and I tried again and again to get me fed at Rachel’s. He works nearby, so he and his boss go semi-often, and they love the food, and Eric assures me, that if I just give them a try, so will I. So, after 4 unsuccessful attempts to get fed there, I start modifying the name in conversations to more derogatory versions. Like I said, I hold a grudge.

Anyway, on to the food. The night that Eric and I had such a fantastic meal at Mucho Mexico, I passed up on the ultimate-flan, in favor of attempting dessert at Rachel’s. I reluctantly hiked my butt up there, we couldn’t tell if they were open or not as it was sort of dark, but we saw folks eating, checked our phone’s clocks vs the time to close on the door, and headed in.
I was happy to have been seated: inside, with menus, and water+drink order in under 5 minutes.
Now, to say that Rachel’s is kind of hipster, is to say that Kanye can be kind of rude at the Grammy Awards. If it’s chocolate up in this place, it’s probably Nutella, and this is Not a bad thing. I Love Nutella, and have ever since the darling hubby exposed me to it’s goodness. Now, being me, I have to go weird. I will usually or at least seemingly go out of my way to order the weirdest shit on the menu, just to see if I like it.Tonight, I ordered the “Spicy Chili Nutella Cocoa”.
i was not disappointed. This was Good, like Really good, hug a hipster good. It was smooth, rich, just a hint of hazelnut, chilli, and cinnamon. Then, looking over the menu, I settled on what I thought would be the ultimate dessert for me. Cinnamon Apple Dulche De Leche Crepe. Alas, this was not only the perfect crepe for me, but it was also my downfall.

Please, don’t misunderstand, this crepe was everything there is to love about the combination of flavors between cinnamon, caramel, and apple. The crepe itself was fused with good quality cinnamon, it was filled with both the dulche de leche, and 3 if not 4 variations of thinly sliced, raw, fresh apple, and then dusted with powdered sugar, and drizzled with yet more caramel.
My mistake, and it is exclusively mine, was, that I’d ordered two items that featured hot, spicy flavors. Too much of a good thing can be fantastic, this time it was not. As I ate my crepe, I looked up with a big ol’ grin at Eric and said, “man, I could honestly eat this, Every  Day, and not tire of it”. This was the honest truth too. I Just looked at the menu, but unfortunately, their prices are not online (Hipster!) but the descriptions are, and they are SO good. If you can get them.
So anyway, the problem: I had warm, creamy spicy crepe, I also had warm, creamy, spicy cocoa and therefor, I had too much Warm! The spices in the cocoa started to directly conflict with the spices in the crepe and the only loser in this battle were my taste buds. I ended up abandoning the cocoa in favor of the crepe, as I can get spicy cocoa just about anywhere, but I'm not going to get a crepe this good anywhere else. I still believe I made the right choice.

Mom 1.0

First, not every one us going to like this post. Tough shit. Second, reserve judgment, there's more to come.

My Mom, the Overachiever:

This goes out, with fondest memories, for my mom.
Now, initial reaction may be, why not “goes out with love”, or “Missing You” or some such stuff.
We didn’t work that way. Love was a four letter word, and it was one of the only ones not thrown around my house repeatedly. I remember being at a neighbor’s house as a kid, they were off to bed (the kids) and we were leaving, and they hugged both parents and said “I love you”. My PTSD addled brain just kind of exploded in WTF moments. I was kind of Gary Coleman in a “Whatchu talkin ‘bout Willis” kind of thing.
You went to bed, without being threatened with an assbeating if you didn’t do it soon enough. There were hugs and this “love” stuff? What The Hell?
In talking to my mom’s sisters, when my mom had one goal in mind in finding a potential mate. She wanted to find a man So ugly, that “no other bitch would try to take him away”. So, yeah, seems that in addition to a splash of crazy, insecurity runs in my family as well. To say that my mom accomplished this goal is to make the understatement of the century. My mom didn’t set a lot of goals for herself that I remember, those that she did, she accomplished with pride, but this shit? This, find the ugly-motherfucker? She went SO over the top on this one that she could have won the ugly-motherfucker olympics. That, in a nutshell is my “dad”. You won’t hear me use the term father, because that at least implies some level of “give a shit”. This troll, for lack of funnier word at 9AM on a Monday stood at 5’6 and was So full of himself that you’d think he was 6’3 and a pro-baller. Fortunately, at least in my opinion, myself and all 3 of my brothers favor my mom, and my mom’s family, ‘cause if we had his bits, well, it might require elective surgery. We Did have his ears at first, which pretty much sucked. Imagine being a super scrawny kid with ears that stuck out so wide you could almost catch flight, and you just knew you weren’t getting out of a haircut without at least 3 bleeding knicks to each ear. Anyway, back on track, this “man”, and that’s a gender identifier only, was ugly on both the outside And the inside. One of the things that my mom probably wouldn’t passed on, if she could have seen how it’d end up, was his alcoholism. The guy was an asshole on a Good day. Add any type of booze, (Usually PBR or Old Milwaukee, and no, he was not a hipster) and the shit started Really hitting the fan, and my mom, and my brothers, and me.... you see where this is going.
My dad is short, I’d guestimate at about 5’6, probably less now that he’s old and broken (silent cheer) but he definitely had “short man's syndrome” he had to be the biggest badass around, well, if by around, you meant around women and children. I can’t think of a time in my life, up until I moved out of my parents house at 17 that he wasn’t trying to drunkenly kick the everloving shit out of someone. Usually my mom, and then she’d get boring, and he’d turn towards one of us, only to have my mom jump back in the fray, to try to keep us from getting beat down. Though, the next day, she’d remember, and well, shit rolls downhill. I do remember trying to put a stop to all this stuff once. He was on one of his nearly daily drunken tirades, it was about 9pm, the neighbors had already called the cops twice by this point, but I’d had enough. I ran down stairs, grabbed my mom’s favorite “big knife” as she called it, and called the asshole out.I wanted nothing more than to split him wide open, and have his blood and viscera all over me.

Unfortunately(or not) that’s when the police showed up and we we were shuffled off, once again to either some relatives house or some shelter for a few days while he “cooled down” in a holding cell.
This may be the first, but certainly not the last of my “Mom” posts. If I’d understood then, what I understand now, looking back with the eyes of understanding. My opinion of my mom would have been worlds different. The only thing I can do now, is to move forward, understanding in hand, and allow it to reshape those memories.

Vietnamese Pork Chop: Take 1.

So, I've been kicking around, trying to find new food ideas and I decided I was going to cook with lemongrass because fuck it, why not? So, I bought some at the store, and jumped on to Google for some inspiration. Well, as inspiration would have it, lemongrass is often used in Vietnamese foods, including grilled pork chops, and I just happened to have 2+ pounds of pork in the freezer, shoulder chops at that (good shit!). So, I get to scouring for recipes. Man, you can tell the white people recipes from the real thing. If half the page isn't at least in a language and alphabet that you can't make shit out of? Keep on moving.

So, here's the site that I found, and luckily for me (and maybe Not for poor Eric) she has a YouTube channel too.
Below is a finished plate from my own kitchen. To Me, the shit was ON. to Eric, it was "kind of mild, if not unseasoned" or perhaps "too subtle". Admittedly, I didn't scale up the marinade recipe for the amount of pork that I'd had, as again, new ingredients and shit. I won't make that mistake a second time. Also to note, this stuff gets So thrown up three notches on the "I love you" scale when you put a big ol' pile of Sriracha hot chili paste on it. Gotta love the cock sauce.

Breakdown of the plate: Big Ass Pork Chop (BAPC) probably 1/2 if not 3/4 of a pound. Our package had 3 of these bitches. 2 sunny side up eggs. If you won't do SSU, I suggest at least over easy, the runniness (or liquid chicken to one friend) of the yolk really adds to the over all flavor of the rice/pork/egg, especially with cock sauce (yes, I like saying cock sauce). And a nicely shaped And portioned 3/4 cup of cooked rice. Just your average, run of the mill 25 lb bag from the Asian grocery rice.

All in all, I'd rate this first run probably a 7.5 out of 10. The pork was Super juicy and tender, the eggs were really good and I just love rice. However, the stand out flavors were too mild. I'll take it up a notch or three next time.

I'm not your mom...or am I?

Okay, quick pre-amble. This post is going to touch upon topics that I'd not intended to  touch upon yet. Also, it's got some deep-down emotional shit up in it. If you don't wanna see "the softer side of me", GTFO(Get the Fuck Out).

Okay, here goes. I'm at work today, when I hear what is the unmistakable crinkling of the plastic tray of a box of chocolate covered cherry cordials (love these things). Problem is, the only people left in my office are me and one other person and I sure as hell didn't get lucky. The other person happens to be Coptic, so that means he's fasting his ass off (aka: eating vegan). He also happens to be type-2 diabetic and insulin dependent. Being me, I immediately fire off an instant message questioning his eating of said delicious confectioneries strictly due to his diabetes (and my greed). He was a bit shocked at first, but quickly assured me that his blood sugar was low, and that's why he was out of the normal routine, but it was just that, elevating his blood sugar to normal levels.

This got me to message Eric, my partner.  I asked "Why do I feel the need to be everyone's mother?" To which, he replied, "I don't know, why do you?" To those unsure of how my mind works, it's Usually in about ten different spaces at any given time. Today, it was on the drive home, the Tupac album I'd bought on Google Music and writing this post. Why Do I feel the need to be everyone's mother. Then I remembered why.
Again, I hadn't intended to touch upon this yet. But, it all goes back to a Halloween parade and me being 17 and a random ass skateboard kid. In addition to that, I strongly hold the belief that the first person that is there to pick you up from rock bottom, is the person who's already been there themselves. Anyway, I was a random ass skateboard kid pretty much all of my teen years, all the way up to leaving for the Army at 19. This particular occasion saw me sitting on the stops of what turned out to be Democratic Election Committee Headquarters (aka random ass office building that sees use two times a year). Anyway, I'm sitting there and this guy comes out and starts to hassle me to move, I'm preventing people from coming in to register to vote. Initially, I'm about to rage face, and basically be a dick, but for some reason I didn't. Instead I asked if there was a chance that perhaps I could Help get people registering to vote. I'd stated earlier that I was always sort of manipulative, or doing what ever I felt necessary to get ahead. The intent this time was to make a few quick bucks running around on my 'board asking people to register to vote, and maybe earning enough cash to get some Chinese steamed dumplings at the end of the night.
In addition to the rock bottom belief, I also feel that a person who has truly been hurt, can see that in someone else, and it will often motivate them to try to help. Sure enough, not only was I invited in for a warm cup of coffee (it was cold, like 40ish degrees, mid-October night), I was also signed up for a week stint of skating around, attempting to get people to register to vote, regardless of party but three cheers if Democrat.
During this week, I checked in every day, dropped off my forms, picked up my payment, and had some coffee and chat. For the first time, I was helping someone who didn't really want to take advantage of me, for anything that wasn't really just plain normal. If anything, I felt that I was taking advantage of them. I mean shit, who doesn't want to skateboard around town, knock on a few doors and get paid for it. Shit was good.

Mucho Mexico: Mi Amore

Te Amo: Mucho Mexico.

There are a Ton of Latin and or Mexican food options in Lancaster and the surrounding area.
That being said, no one place, deserves more traffic, and accolades than Mucho Mexico. This awesome little spot is literally 2-3 doors past Spyro Gyro as you head up Prince Street towards Walnut St. This little spot has been several things over the past few years, but none, as good as it’s current incarnation.  We’ve eaten there probably about 10 times. I personally am Not a fan of Mexican food, as it’s sometimes not happy to be in my belly. I can eat here every day, and even if I’m eating the same dish, (I don’t) I could truly be happy. They carry a large assortment of sugar sweetened (as in no HFCS) sodas from Mexico in flavors ranging from the standard orange, to guava and other “exotics”. I don’t know who honestly works the kitchen, as I haven’t been given an audience, though, the young lady who works the front of the house is so nice, that she’d probably give me a full tour and a few recipes if I asked nicely. To say that the food here is good, is sort of like saying that Michael Jordan played basketball, sort of. This is, without a doubt, the best Mexican food I’ve ever had. On our most recent visit, I ordered the enchilada platter. Now, this is a 10 dollar dinner, it normally includes 5 (yes, 5) enchiladas made of a corn tortilla (the correct type if you ask me) filled with either shredded beef or chicken, topped with either red or green sauce, sour cream and then fresh sliced avocado. It’s accompanied by spanish style rice and refried beans. Now, I personally loathe refried beans. To me, they’re sort of like well, it’s too graphic to list here. Anyway, they let me drop the beans for double rice all the time, at no extra cost, and no hassle at all.  I decided I’d wanted the chicken, but wasn’t sure if I should go green or red sauce, so I asked. The young lady in the front of the house suggested green, and Man, she was Spot On. This is the way Mexican food needs to be. They also feature a daily special, that can be anything from a sandwich to menudo. I haven’t had menudo since I left New Mexico all so many years ago, but I’d certainly be open to trying it here.

Price wise, this little gem ranges for entrees from about 6 dollars to about 12-15 dollars.
I did a quick scan of Yelp.com for Mexican food. I’m ashamed to say that Lancaster lists places like Qdoba (mall style burritos in line with Chipotle) in the same page as Mucho Mexico. This my friends is a travesty. If you want a 6 dollar burrito, go to a burrito joint. If you want high quality Mexican food at a Very affordable price, by all means, mosey on down to Mucho Mexico.

Local Loving: Spyro Gyro

Local lovings:
Spyro Gyro:

Friday, We (Eric, Kelby and myself) went out for a bite to eat and we ended up at Spyro Gyro downtown Lancaster. This little gem has been in place for at least 3 years and change. The food is very old fashioned and in all the right ways. For me, it’s as if my own (non-existent) greek grandmother came over and fixed me all my favorite dishes each time we drop by.
Here is a blurb from the restaurant's website: “Every time Jacqueline Makris drives past Home Depot, she feels a little sick. The mere sight of the home-improvement megastore reminds Makris of the 2 1/2 years she spent turning a former city store unit into her dream restaurant, Spyro Gyros and Salads. Three years ago, Makris walked past 241 N Queen St and fell in love with its architecture. "I didn't see what was there because it was completely run down," she says. "I saw what it could be." Makris figured she'd renovate the place in a few months...”

The food here is nothing short of fantastic, the service ever friendly, and the portions, well. I sure hope that either A: You’re very very hungry, or B: a professional eater in training. I might even suggest ordering at least 1 fewer dishes than you have diners, if you’re ordering any of the “Platters”.
This time in, I’d ordered the beef shawarma platter as opposed to my usual falafel platter, as I’d wanted to try something new, if I was going to write about them. As usual, my serving plate alone took up about 2/3rds of our table, and I was all that much happier for it. I had seasoned, marinated beef pieces, a great scoop of what can only be homemade hummus, drizzled in olive oil, a Large serving of greens as a salad, pita triangles all over the place and some parts that I’m sure that I’m forgetting.
Here is a 2nd hand/hosted link to their menu from Carryout Courier. I’d link the official menu, but the site has a few “programmatic errors”

If you find yourself in downtown Lancaster, and you don’t have dinner plans, by all means, drop in on the folks at Spyro, grab any booth or bar seat and eat one of the best Greek meals in the area.

Have You Hugged Your Clown Today?...

So, here’s a story, about psychosis.
Imagine this: You spend every sleeping and waking minute of your childhood. from say.... age 3 to oh, age 11 Terrified of clowns. I don’t mean like, make you cry, or hide your face kind of scared. I mean piss your pants, hug your mamma and kiss your ass goodbye terrified.Now, *poof* you’re an adult. You have needs, you have urges and they must, no they WILL be satisfied. But, you’re not like “those other guys”, your shit’s broken. Your needs can only be met by those same clowns that scared you shitpants as a kid. Now, I’m not saying I’m all kinky clown fetish. Far from it. Clowns are all well and good when they’re not coming off as pedo-bears. For me, My terror was one guy, and well, a syringe. Buddy Hackett. Chubby, funny, silly as hell, driver of “Herbie the Love Bug” for Disney. This mother fucker scared me to death. I couldn't watch Any movie that had him in it (and they were all funny) without having night terrors for weeks. My shit was so bad, I’d lie in bed, on my stomach and I’d hear my own heartbeat. But, for me, I didn't realize that the thumping I’d heard was actually Me. No it was my personal boogie man, sneaking up on me, up the stairs, down the hallway, in the dark, to stab me with his magical poisoned syringe. Once injected, I’d “die” only to get up and run away, and have it all happen over again, for about 10-20 cycles per night. until I finally passed out from sheer mental exhaustion.
So, that’s the terror part, here’s the Really weird part. I’m a chubby chaser. I seek out, and target, and objectify men of size. Large, jolly, chubby, hopefully silly men for my personal relations and pleasures. So, I start out being completely pants pissing terrified of big guys, only to end up in my adult life finding them the #1 object of my desires.

Yeah.... I got it like that.

Obscurity? Bipolar? or just kick ass ice cream?

So, the three of us, Eric, Kelby and myself, went to Maggie Moo's ice creamery. Please note: I do NOT like chain style food, of any type, however, both Eric and Kelby wanted ice cream, and this is the place that's nearest to Gamestop. So, they had a flavor "Blueberry-Cardamom". Before you go "Spew" or "Blargh" either approach this with an open mind, or god help you, my mind. I Love exotic flavors. So, this location features "mix-ins" one of which is Fruity Pebbles. I haven't had this specific cereal in i don't know how long.
So, upon walking in, I comment to the fellas "What can I Possibly get to mix Fruity Pebbles in to?".
Turns out, this is it. This is SO good. The unique flavor of cardamom and the "what the hell am I tasting?" flavor of Fruity Pebbles just dance so well together. You get a beautiful miasma of both flavor and color. Really, this ice cream and mix-in combo is So unique that it's definitely "Me".

So, that still begs the question. What to call this specific flavor? Bipolar? Obscurity? Other?
Bipolar = Is it sweet? Is it spicy? Is it both at the same time?
Obscurity = Something So unique that only I will order it, it'll be gone within 3 weeks never to be seen again, but complained about it's absence for some time.

A little slice of "Obscurity".

Being Me: Early On

Being me, as a kid sucked. I’m not talking about not getting a desired toy or something for a birthday, or perhaps, not getting the shoes you wanted vs the shoes you ended up getting. I’m talking about beatings, hunger, rage, hate and other not so fun things. If I wasn't getting my ass beat by my dad, I was getting my ass beat by my mom or either of my 2 older brothers, or even a random half-assed attempt by my younger than me, but larger than me brother.

I remember always being hungry, or if not hungry, always Wanting. Some of that was me. I feel, with the honesty of 40 years looking back, that I was a self-entitled greedy little shit sometimes.

I stole stuff all the time. From stores, friends, family, random people dumb enough (read: kind enough) to let me into their homes. I’d take food, money, food stamps, anything that I could that would feed the need. I learned how to ride a bike, on my own, by stealing it from someone’s back yard. I remember stealing toys from porches that I’d pass walking down the street, and giving them to my younger brother so that he’d have something to play with. But mostly, I remember being hungry.

There never seemed to be enough to go around, and what there was, was kind of terrible. My brothers and I weren’t family, we were warring nations. Always fighting for a shared resource, never caring who got what as long as “I” got “Mine”. It didn’t matter if it was a big ass pot of mashed potatoes, or a piece of overcooked meat. If it was there, we fought for it. It didn’t dawn on me that this wasn’t normal until I was about 8 or 10, and started hanging out with other kids. Their parents would (sometimes begrudgingly) ask if I’d like to stay over for lunch or dinner or something and it’d be as if a choir of angels just lit off in my head. Here were people that had not just enough for them, but for me as well. What is this sharing shit, and how do I make it work for me.

I’ve also sort of always been a manipulator. I’ve always been bright, and up until about “middle age” been kind of a dick. This still goes back to the warring nations theory. I learned early on that if I played my words right, I could get stuff, and sometimes get More stuff, from people that I either knew, or barely knew, and sometimes didn’t know at all. There was nothing I wouldn’t do, if I felt it would get me what I wanted (at that time). This behavior obviously led to some very bad, and actually dangerous situations throughout my younger life. I’ve teetered on the edge of So many things, that I simply won’t list Just yet, until I’ve warned some of my family members to either be ready, or to not read this at all.

In addition to the hunger, there’s the rage. I as well as my siblings all have this. Again, warring nations. I have a theory, and it’s pretty easy to comprehend. Poor people will fight, for anything, over anything. Take a group of people, who have little to nothing, then, try to take it from them. They will fight you tooth and nail to keep it. Now, take some of those same people, and teach them greed and jealousy and they will fight That much harder, sometimes for even less gain. For example, Mid 1990s we have shootings and riots all over South and East L.A., but none in Beverly Hills. Same area geographically but not financially. When’s the last time you heard of a group of rich white kids rollin’ up on another rich white kid and beating him up for his Polo jacket. Now, flip that over, 1990s, Air Jordans, google search Air Jordans, shootings, and 1990s. Shit’s fucked up.

Battle of the bowl

For my first feature, I'm going to visit and rate each Vietnamese  noodle shop in the area. The layout is, judge on availability (parking/seating) feel (cleanliness/atmosphere) and most importantly quality (noodle, broth, presentation and overall satisfaction).
The dish chosen is both basic and a wonderful staple... Pho Thai. Beef broth, rice vermicelli, sliced raw or rare eye of the round steak. We have at least 4 spots serving this delight, if not more and I will sample then all.

An opening dedication, to what was, what is, and what may be.

First, this blog may or may not take off. I'm random enough to never know.

That said, there are folks who need mention.

First: I'd like to extend my everlasting thanks and appreciation to the Doutt family of Columbia, PA. I'm sure that they're no longer in that area of town, but growing up, they showed me both kindness and compassion, when they could have simply sent me on my way. My best friend Jason, died when I was around 14, making him around 13-15. He died of complications from AIDS in the early 80's and to this day, I still regret not attending his funerary services. I simply couldn't make myself go. I felt to the very depth of my soul that it was My fault that he'd gotten the illness (via blood transfusion), simply because I was gay.
I as an adult, realize that this is neither real, nor fair, but explaining that to a moody, bipolar, gay teen is not going to happen.
The other thing about Mrs Doutt (Sally was her name) is that she introduced me to ramen noodles. She would often make her kids "Oodles of Noodles" made by Nissan Foods (they're now called Top Ramen). If not for her, I'd have never been exposed to noodles and my undying love of them.

Additionally, I'd like to actually thank Nissan Foods Inc. for taking a very Japanese food, and bastardizing it to American tastes, so my love affair had a target.

And finally, but certainly importantly, I'd like to thank my wonderful partner, Eric Patton. Without him, I simply wouldn't be sitting here today. He took what was, at best a rocky friendship, and built it up. Took me when I was at my absolute lowest, and carried me along, until I could once again stand on my own two feet.
I love you sweetie.