November 2011
27 posts
Thanksgiving leftovers, Wu Tang Style
- Get a fuckin’ pot, a mother fuckin’ pot
- Put that shit on a stove with some mother fuckin’ olive oil
- Heat that shit up on medium high
- Put some turkey and some stuffing in the mother fucker
- Season to taste
- Let that shit sit there like a half hour, stirring frequently (this is for the Maillard reaction, which is where the taste lives)
- Take it off an put it in ya mouth slow, like “sssssss”
"El Tryptophan"
would be my luchador name. My entrance music would be a mariachi version of “Turkey In The Straw”, and my finishing move would be some variation of a sleeper hold, obvs.
At 2.43am, the New York Observer reported that photographers with credentials were barred from Liberty Square. Seconds later the director of editorial operations at Gawker reported that a CBS news chopper were ordered out of the sky by the NYPD. New York Times journalist Jarid Malsin went to jail in zipties. And 20 minutes later, we heard the NYPD was cutting down trees in Liberty Square, and from our office space we could hear the deployment of a Long Range Acoustic Device (LRAD), a sound cannon. To be certain, we could see and feel that this operation had been planned carefully to exclude all media coverage, sending out a loud message about how dissent will be treated in this democracy. →
guardian.co.uk
This troubles me greatly and makes me consider a lot more carefully going forward if any of my money will be spent in New York.
“The night took a turn right after the answer to my question of ‘what’s that shot’ turned out to be ‘habanero mango vodka’ and my subsequent response was “yep, i will indeed have one of those’.”
—me
“
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
