Do you like it hot?

At my house, my wife and I like it hot.

We love hot sauce!  I’ve noticed that many of my friends who also love spicy food tend to have a loyalty to only one or two types of hot sauce.  I have a whole shelf of them.  Look!

–Heh.  I didn’t actually mean to get my copy of the Apicius in the picture.  That is something for another entry.–

But notice that it isn’t over kill.  There are none of those hot sauces bought on cheesy boardwalks that have a label depicting a cartoon devil farting fire while smoke comes out of his ears.  Nobody likes that stuff.  Everybody has a bottle of it, but nobody likes “Bloody Poop” brand hot sauce.  Each bottle in that picture has its own special place in my heart and on my taste buds.

But lets start this post off with ole’ familiar:

—Tabasco sauce is the iconic staple of what it is to be a hot sauce in the South.  Everyone’s father had a bottle and maybe its familiarity is why I like it so much.  And while I am sure some hot sauce purists will disagree with me, nostalgia aside, Tabasco is pretty darn good.

Stuff I use it on:  blackbeans, eggs, ketchup for french fries, grits, and occasionally pizza.

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Next on this list is the Asian-style hot sauce that has taken America by storm and is poised to usurp the top position in the country:

—Americans frickin’ love Sriracha.  So much so that soon hot sauce purists will have to start hating the famous “rooster sauce.”  I own a bottle of it.  I like it.  But it makes everything taste so Asian.  And I keep a dirty, little secret from my foodie buddies…I don’t particularly care for Asian food.  I eat it and I enjoy it when I do but I never am in the mood for duck or huge bowls of soup.

That said, I love sushi but prefer wasabi with my raw tuna and salmon.

Stuff I use it on:  Well, I’ve had that bottle for probably two years, so not much.  Occasionally my wife decides “to hell with my husband” and cooks Thai food.

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Now we come to the smiling mariachi that has stolen my heart:

—Tapatio (or best I can tell “Uncle Snack”) came into my life about five years ago when my brother came back from Arizona after college.  By then, I had already established a pecking order for my hot sauces and didn’t know if I had room for another.  But my brother insisted.  Plus, Uncle Snack looks like the cool uncle who gives you a beer when you are underage and then plays some minor-chord, Mexican standard on the trumpet.  Tapatio has since ascended the ranks and holds the top spot in my hierarchy of hot sauce.

Stuff I use it on:  Pizza, anything Mexican, basically anything with a lot of cheese.

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In my early twenties, this next sauce stood above the rest but an aging palate alters tastes and the good cowboy just couldn’t compete against Uncle Snack:

—My best friend and I used to swear by the euphoric properties of Texas Pete.  We’d down shots of the stuff and then while our brains rushed dopamine into our endocrine system we’d paint grandiose pieces of art.  I have a lot of wonderful memories attached to the infamously hot Alabama summer nights compounded with rounds of pure Texas Pete and the smell of oil paint.  My use of T.P. has faded considerably but not my love for it.

(Editors note, I study language, history, and art…I have no idea how an endocrine system works but it sounded like the right thing.)

Stuff I use it on:  Not really much anymore.  I really enjoy it on wings but I never make wings.  It works pretty dang well mixed in with barbeque sauces.  Occasionally I’ll pick up a sixer of cheap beer, an awful pizza, and a worse movie then drown the pizza in T.P. to cover the taste.  Otium sine dignitate.

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That about covers the oft’used hot sauces, but variety is the spice of life and this is where my special teams come in to liven things up.

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The first “single-use” hot sauce on my list gives life to an old childhood favorite:

—This Mexican restaurant staple finds its way on many an endearing fan’s burrito but my smart money delegates this to a decidedly non-Mexican dish…sloppy Joes.  Really.  Next time you want a bit of comfort food, fry up some corn and make sloppy Joes with a liberal splashing of Valentina.  You’ll thank me.

Stuff I use it on:  Sloppy Joes.

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Although Texas Pete has been recently taking a back seat, he does not go away without a fight.  T.P. doubles up on this list with his delicious pepper sauce:

—Living in the American South you come to appreciate the art of cooking two relatively simple dishes: Mac and Cheese and greens.  Both benefit tremendously from T.P.’s pepper sauce.  The other great thing about the pepper sauce is that when it is empty, you can simply refill it with vinegar and let it set for a couple months.  Or you can enjoy a jar full of tasty, pickled peppers.

Stuff I use it on:  Mac and Cheese and any sort of greens.

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Two years ago I decided to make my own and call it “Bocchino Brand Hot Sauce.”  The label was supposed to have a drawing of my dog (an American bulldog) wearing a fedora and holding a cow horn pepper in his mouth.  The label never materialized but the sauce was wonderful:

—I used only roasted homegrown cow horn peppers, garlic, molasses, vinegar, and salt.  It looked like spicy vomit but tasted like spicy heaven.

I don’t proclaim to be an expert on hot sauce, I just like them a lot.  I know there are several brands I have missed…Frank’s, Crystal, and Louisiana come to mind. So, do me a favor and educate me and take the poll.  Was your favorite hot sauce on my list?  If not, click “other” but make sure to tell me which one you prefer.

Sundry and Out of Touch: The American Anti-Imperialist Failure of 1890s

—This is the senior thesis paper I wrote to graduate with a Bachelor’s history degree at the University of Alabama-Huntsville.  While I am not sure if all of my citations translated well into the WordPress rubric, you can rest assured that all credit has been given to those who deserved it.  Enjoy.—

Sundry and Out of Touch:  The American Anti-Imperialist Failure of the 1890s

Vaughn Bocchino

     American politics perhaps have never told a story so uneventful yet containing so many A-list historical celebrities as the story of the steady rise and subsequent fizzle of the nineteenth-century American anti-imperialist movement.  When the student of American political history begins research on the anti-imperialists of the 1890s, his first instinct is to search for their accomplishments.  The student will be sadly disappointed.  For all their clever writings, high-powered friends, and enormous spending potential, in the grand scheme of things, the anti-imperialists achieved nothing.  They were, as Republican presidential candidate James G. Blaine chided, “noisy but not numerous; Pharisaical but not practical; ambitious but not wise; pretentious but not powerful.”[1]

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Drawings of hips and other things

I’ve been meaning to get into drawing stylized pin-ups and semi-erotica for a while.  So finally, after realizing that I waste a lot of my life meaning to get into something but never actually getting into anything, I gave it a shot

Plus, I spend so much of my drawing time illustrating gross monsters and emaciated humans, drawing the pretty curves of a woman is a welcome break.  In fact, it was so fun that Zug, Bok, and the gang may get another delay.

So I present to you my first attempt at erotic-ish illustrator:

 

–Oh God!  It is so offensive!  How are we supposed to revere the wonderful legacy of Queen Victoria if we aren’t afraid of sex and the human body?–

-18×24, India ink and watercolor on paper.

 

Ok, I take it back.  This isn’t my debut as a guy who likes to likes drawing hips.  A few years ago I drew “Composition with Four Shapes.”  People seemed to really like it.  I sold a bunch of prints and gave the original to a silent auction for breast cancer charity or something.  Some sort of female condition.

 

“Are you OK?! Are you OK?! Baby, are you OK?! Baby, are you OK?!”

Tonight a guy, far too drunk or far too high to be driving, crashed into the back of my wife’s car.  It sounded like a shotgun with an echo.  BANG!  And then we slam into the car in front of us.  BANG!

“Are you OK?!  Are you OK?!  Baby, are you OK?!  Baby, are you OK?!”  My worst fears as a husband boil to the surface.  It isn’t P.C. but every man feels the need to protect his wife.  Every husband will give himself up to save his wife.

“FUCK!  FUCK!”

She is alright.  Her cursing tells me that.

After a few moments the offending driver stumbles up to our window.  His eyes are half-shut and what is visible is bloodshot.  He asks, “Is everybody alright?”

His breath stinks like beer.

“Are you fucking kidding me?!  Look at my car!  Does my car look like this?!”

It becomes obvious to me that this guy needs protecting, not my wife.

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These are the moments in life when we must face our mortality.  If I were to die today would I be happy with the legacy I’ve left?  Would I be happy with what I have done?

I just tucked Shanna into bed.  We hugged and kissed like we always do.  Then I said, “We got lucky tonight, lets not forget that.”

What does Martin Luther King Day mean to an average 20-30 something white guy?

What does Martin Luther King Day mean to an average 20-30 something white guy?  At least for me, not a whole lot.  I mean, I could pretend.  I am fully capable of writing a touching entry about rising up and standing strong in the face of racial inequality.  I’d be talking out of my ass.  My relatives, at least in living memory, have never been oppressed or suppressed.  I don’t know anything about racial inequality.  I know it happened in the past to other people.  If racial prejudice continues to this day (which I am fairly sure it does) then it doesn’t happen to me.  I don’t think it happens immediately around me either.  I can’t imagine myself having much in common with a bigot.

I think these days people are more concerned about judging a person by their political affiliation.

Somewhere down the road of life I forgot that fifteen minutes with a good novel while lying in bed can be the equivalent of four beers, sleeping meds, cable television, and then another beer.

Recently I have rediscovered a favorite pastime…reading in bed.  Somewhere down the road of life I forgot that fifteen minutes with a good novel while lying in bed can be the equivalent of four beers, sleeping meds, cable television, and then another beer.  I suppose some people keep a copy of Moby Dick or anything written by James Joyce on their nightstands but I spend all day sifting through scholarly journals and translating 2,000-year-old poems.  Real world case in point:  Today I, along with five other classmates and a professor, spent 15 minutes on these first three words from Catullus 101:

“Multas per gentes” = Easy stuff, really.  “Through many nations/clans”  Even non-Latin readers can pick it apart.  “Multas” looks like “multitude.”  “Per” is still a prefix we use in English to mean “through.”  “Gentes” still pops up in words like “generation” and “genes.”

But why did this take a classroom of advanced Latin students as well as a professor to work through?  Because it is Catullus and he usually ball punches other poets back to the drawing board.  Notice the word picture where “per” is in between the words for “many nations” as if the word itself is traveling through many nations.  This was most assuredly not a mistake.  Also, if you clicked the link, you’ll notice the entire poem is about death but the word Catullus chose for “nations” brings about notions of birth or beginnings: “generate, genitals, etc.”  Death begins at birth.  All this in three words.  Feel like a good writer?  Take a moment to get ball punched by Catullus.

Thinkings on Catullus 101 also helped me get through a friend’s death.  If you haven’t read it, here is my oddly popular Concerning the Death of a Friend.

—But back to my original point.  I spend most of my day doing this kind of stuff so I prefer an interesting but somewhat linear story to help me sleep.  Currently I am reading Connie Willis’ _Doomsday Book_

As good as the novel is, this is not a book review blog post (that may come later).  This is a post about the benefits of reading before bed.  Pre-sleep reading is a healthy way to squelch insomnia.  I can actually fall asleep.  Insomnia comes in many forms but for me, when lights turn off and my head hits the pillow, all my worst demons come to play.  I can not stop thinking about mistakes I’ve made or possible failures or things that anger me.  My brain will even go so far as to create arguments with those closest to me so I can fight them out in my head.

These monsters dance around in my head with no where to go.  Sometimes I feel productive and personify them into drawings.  I give them names and back stories…but really this is just what I see when I close my eyes and attempt to silence my brain…Predation,     The End,     Zug-zug, Souldrinker.  I guess we are all a little bat-shit crazy.

Aside from the sanity and health benefits, reading at bedtime has had a positive effect on my marriage.  Wives, being wives, tend to enjoy being with their husbands.  Busy schedules limit our time together during the week.  Some nights Shanna gets home (around 9:30-10pm) and goes straight to bed.  She’d like me to come to bed with her but, as we’ve already established, when the lights turn off I begin fighting with brain monsters.  But if I lie down and read I can make her happy, clear my head, and be cuddled with at the same time.  Also, simply being in bed occasionally leads to a case of the UFW’s (unexpectedly frisky wives…for those not in the know).  A thing which truly makes the world go ’round.

I went to school to learn how to better myself. And I’ve done a wonderful job becoming an insufferable pseudo-intellectual.

I have reached the beginning of the last leg of a great personal journey.  In four months I will finally graduate from college.  At 29-years-old, getting a degree has taken longer than most people.  I am secretly terrified at what comes next.  Obviously the responsible thing to do is get a big boy job.  Grumpy old-timers and jaded working stiffs will condescendingly remark, “NOW comes the real world.”

–As if I have been living in a fake world populated by puppies that never grow old and spicy foods that never give indigestion.

I’ll get that big boy job. It doesn’t matter what. I owe my wife a few years to explore the potential of her brain. Maybe she’ll unlock the secrets to black holes or math or something. Three years is a long time to focus on a wacky side project.  Linguam Latinam didici (I learned Latin).

I don’t have a career path set. I don’t have the qualifications to be a history teacher. I didn’t go to school to get a job later. I didn’t go to school to learn how to become a history teacher (although necessity may pull me in that direction). I went to school to learn how to better myself. And I’ve done a wonderful job becoming an insufferable pseudo-intellectual. I’ve always been insufferable on account of one thing or another. Shanna seems able to ignore it.

–Granted, Latin is a pretty tough sell in classrooms these days seeing as how nobody speaks it so there are no restaurants in which to offhandedly order a traditional flamingo tongue pate’ or dormouse pieBUT, when visiting Italy I can read ruins like this…and Rome is lousy with ruins.–

A Weekend in Nashville, day two

This is the follow up to my previous post A weekend in Nashville, day one.

–A quick review:  My wife and I spent a few days in Nashville, Tennessee to celebrate her birthday.  These are our adventures.–

Ahhh…waking up on Art Deco bunnies and baby seals feels great (market research suggests that I can use that joke another four times before the viewer gets bored and moves on to other things).  Day two was my wife’s birthday and we had big plans.  First things first, what did I get her?  This: Steven Wilson’s Grace for Drowning special edition CD/blu-ray combo thing.  Shanna is really into Porcupine Tree and Steven Wilson and all those guys so she had been bugging me half a year before this album came out to get it for her birthday or Christmas.  And then, even after I ordered it (the day it came out in September or something) she dropped hints like a Sherlock Holmes villain that I’d better get it for her because supplies are limited and whatnot.  No kidding, she probably wrote me about six emails linking to the website.  I am sure the onslaught was justified because every time she mentioned the album (which happened a lot) I acted like I would order it the next day.  Heh.

But she got her album and I got a happy wife.  Life lesson #1 in this post:  “A happy wife begets a happy husband…so do what you’ve gotta’ do.

Don’t ask for a Grace for Drowning album review.  I pretend to know a lot about a lot of things but music is not one of them.  I can say this, if Steven Wilson put half as much thought into the music as he obviously did getting this special edition package together then it will be wonderful.

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We woke up late and moseyed around getting ready so by the time we left Union Station it was time for lunch.  A Latin poetry teacher of mine suggested that we try Black Stone Brewpub, not for the food but for the St. Charles porter.  Life lesson #2 in this post: “If there is one thing a literature professor knows more than the nuances of words then it is the nuances of alcohol.“  The food is nothing incredible.  I ordered the chicken with black beans and rice.  It was good enough but my father makes it better.  Ehh.  The St. Charles porter, however, is worthy of distinction.  Great stuff.

After lunch we stopped by the fake Parthenon:

–This is the only scale replica of the Parthenon in the world.  Say what you want about the American South but we’ve got this.–

–Handcrafted from Pentelic concrete.–

–The great thing about this replica is that all the pediment sculptures are intact.  If memory serves this scene depicts Athena bursting from the head of Zeus as Nike (winged Victory) shoots towards her.– 

–The reverse pediment shows Poseidon and Athena battling for the rites of the city.  Athena won, hence Athens.–

For a small entrance fee patrons can enter inside and visit a small but decent art museum and learn why exactly this building is standing so proudly in a region of the world often thought to be inhabited by illiterate rednecks.   But the main attraction is the 40 foot statue of Athena Parthenos.  Shanna and I did not enter the museum this trip, we’d already been inside a few times.  Athena Parthenos is worth seeing once but once is plenty.  Imagine the most gaudy thing you can think of and you’ll be in the general area of my description.

–Also, seven years ago a much younger and skinnier me had the chance to see the original Parthenon.–

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Culture achieved we set off to explore the tacky neon world of Nashville’s Broadway:

Broadway is an interesting swath of road.  On one hand there are lame restaurants like Jimmy Buffet’s place or TGI Friday’s and the kitschy souvenir stores laden with shot glasses, dumb toys, Elvis memorabilia, and plastic sculptures made to look like ceramic of bald eagles flying next to American flags (creating imitation clay must be VERY cheap because ceramics are essentially dirt).  Conversely, North East Broadway is home to some great, low-key honky tonks and the pleasantly creaky, old Lawrence Record Shop.  I have no idea how this place stays in business but it feels like an oasis of honesty in a portion of the city that is being transformed into tourist trap, commercial garbage.  So if you ever find yourself in Nashville close to the Riverfront then stop into Lawrence Record Shop and pick up a copy of your favorite Merle Haggard record or Boz Scaggs cassette.

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With 5pm looming my internal alarm went off.  College students get into the art museum for free!  So we headed back towards our hotel which is adjacent to the architecturally Art Deco or Fascist (depending on what country you are in and who your art history professor is) Frist Center for the Arts.

–If one is a building, being called “Fascist” is generally a good thing.–

The Frist has a great ancient Egypt exhibit showing at the moment along with some Northern Renaissance paintings from Bob Jones University and a small but powerful installation piece titled “Woman on the Run” by Tracey Snelling.  Go check it out.

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Art has a way of working up appetites and my wife always chooses to eat sushi on her birthday.  We knew a week ahead of time that we’d be in Nashville for her birthday dinner so we did research and picked a few brains.  Common consensus showed Ru San’s in the Gulch to be our best bet.  Aside from having a kick ass logo…

…the place was fantastic.  This was my first experience inside the really busy, urban type sushi bar I always see on movies and I loved it.  After the dinner we retired back to our room.

===Well friends, this concludes my story.  The rest of the details are far too boring or intimate.  I will, however, post a few more photos that we took that never fit into the narrative but art worthy on their own.  Enjoy:

–Me sitting at the bottom of the stairwell at Union Station–

–A gingerbread house of Union Station that someone obviously spent a lot of time on.–

–A pretty church at dusk with a priest walking in front of it.–

–The skyscraper lovingly referred to as the “Batman building” or “Bruce Wayne Enterprises.”–

–The old Customs House–

A weekend in Nashville, day one

To celebrate my wife’s birthday this last week we decided to take a short road trip north to Nashville, Tennessee.  Normally we do not pay much attention to “luxury” hotels or “fine” dining but a recent Christmas bonus gave us the financial backing to say, “You know what?  Fuck it.  Lets stay at the kind of place where they have pillows filled with caviar and Archangel feathers.”

So we checked into the Union Station Hotel:

–The Union Station Hotel is a revamped train station from 1900.–

–The Lobby–

–Our room.  Sex on that bed was like making love on top of Art Deco bunnies and baby seals.  Also, it was comfortable to sleep on.–

At 3pm Shanna and I were comfortably unpacked and ready to start our vacation.  Luckily, The Flying Saucer, a hip and highly regarded beer joint is within stumbling distance of Union Station and with a web domain named www.beerknurd.com we knew it would be fun.  This place is COOL…in all caps.  The beer selection is staggering, the bartenders all seemed like interesting guys I’d like to chat with, and the waitresses (a.k.a. “Beer Goddesses) wear short, plaid skirts and knew more about craft beer than many experts.

Some pints later, on a whim, we headed to Bridgestone Arena to catch a Nashville Predators game.  This wasn’t part of the loose plan we made for the trip, but these kinds of spontaneous decisions are what makes life worth living.  We arrived an hour early and with our livers working overtime to transform the alcohol from The Flying Saucer into something less poisonous, our appetites had grown into grumbly form.  I suggested, “Hey!  Lets eat arena food!  That is sort of a cultural thing to do.”  –Bad idea.  That food is as terrible as it is expensive.  Shanna saw on the menu that for $9 we could buy “premium beer” and not being a Bud Lite kind of girl she asked what the premium beers were.  The guy at the counter answered in a slightly embarrassed tone, “We only have one…Michelob Ultra.”

–Here I am pretending to enjoy the worst and only $6 boiled hotdog I’ve ever eaten.  I didn’t spring for the premium beer either.  That is a humble $8 pint of Bud.–

But so what.  We knew the food would be awful.  We were not all that put off.  And besides, a pending game of professional ice hockey awaited us.

–Neither of us keeps up with sports so Shanna was quite excited when she realized that apparently all hockey players are good looking.  Probably karmic justice for me ogling all the beer goddesses.–

We did “the wave”, shouted at the visitors (The Minnesota Wild, those chumps suck!), and hey, the home team won after a last minute shootout, which I understand to be a suspenseful way to end the game.  So…alright!

At around 10pm, having not eaten anything of merit since breakfast, we were both hungry.  We made our way into Merchants’ on Broadway.  Again, I was not expecting much.  Usually restaurants on busy pedestrian roads are horrid and most of the bill is to pay for the rent.  Merchants’ surprised me.  The prices are reasonable and the food is great.  In fact, that may have been the best chicken sandwich I have ever eaten…and if you haven’t gathered by now, I am a bit of a food snob.  But the real jewel in the crown of my Merchants’ experience was when our waitress said, “Are ya’ll still doing well?”

For her correct usage of a great second person pronoun and the adverb “well” we tipped her $15 on a $40 tab.

By this time the two hour drive, the walking, the excitement, the beer, and the 14-year Oban scotch had caught up to us so we retired to the comfort of our Art Deco bunnies and baby seals.

===This narrative conclude in A weekend in Nashville, day two.

A somewhat chronological photo-blog of my life in 2011

Here is a semi-random assortment of photos from particularly noteworthy highlights of this last year.

–At the fake Parthenon in Nashville.  Believe it or not, this is the only scale replica of the Parthenon in the world.–

–Our living room at some point.  Shanna and I put a lot of work into it this year.–

–Mummified feet at the Vatican Museum.–

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