Common Whatever.

Posted on April 24, 2012 by jpbulger

Crap. I’ve become an old fart. You know, the grumpy guy who mumbles at the television, usually something negative? Yep. That’s me.

But you have to realize something. It’s not my fault. I’m one of the good guys.

I’m a firm believer, as I have likely stated on this space many times before (or at least to my wife on a regular basis) that common courtesy is no longer a given in our world anymore. Doors are not held open as often as they should. Smiles and ‘hello’ have become a rarity. The art of the apology has given way to stares, ignoring, and just plain ol’ assholedom.

What the F?

Case in point: Recently, while running some errands for my job, I was taken out to the surrounding areas of our wonderful community to pick up some sections of scaffold that someone was kind enough to loan to me. Nice enough, right? Well, unfortunately, the incident I am about to describe had nothing to do with that other than it took me to the scene of the incident itself.

You see, I pulled into a grocery store parking lot to grab a few additional things for later that evening’s dinner. I was following another gentleman in a, what I truly felt, was a beautiful Ford truck. Deep burgundy color, black wheels, and obviously well cared for. As we both pulled into our respective diagonal parking spaces, I, in my Toyota truck, was just behind the Ford. I shut off the ignition, removed the keys from the car, and opened my door to head into the store.

All of a sudden, WHAM, something hit my car. As I looked up, I noticed that the fine gentleman in the Ford had opened his door directly into my passenger fender so hard I actually felt the vehicle (now, remember, this is a full sized pickup here) move side to side, almost in a gentle cradling motion were it not for the fact that this cradle was leading to a shaken baby syndrome effect.

The asshol– I mean fine upstanding gentleman, who I had assumed did not see my vehicle pull up next to him, turned my direction just as I was looking over to find the source of the earth shaking jolt. We made eye contact.

“Are we OK over there?” Said I…

Nothing. Just a glare, and then he stepped from his car and proceeded into the store.

Wow. Really? Did this just happen??

This is a moment. What are my choices? Do I yell at the man, assuming he is hard of hearing? Do I ignore the behavior, perpetuating it for future victims? Do I take out my roughest key and, in a fury induced state of revenge, scribe the entire opening sonnet of Romeo and Juliet into his side panel?

I’ll leave him a note. Simple enough.

I wrote on a small piece of paper a straightforward message, one that I felt, would not anger him, but perhaps bring attention to the fact that we are all here together in this great experience of life.

Here is what it said: “Thank you! Have a nice day!”

I placed this simple message of attempted empathetic understanding upon his massive windshield, and proceeded to take a quick photo of his license plate, should his first response to the note be something similar in nature to the Shakespearean response above, but more likely the starting lineup for the next NASCAR event.

That’s when things got a bit sketchy.

“WE GONNA HAVE A PROBLEM HERE?!?!” Was what I heard over my shoulder.

I turned around to notice a nice enough looking gentleman, likely in his late 50s, staring me down with a hint of red in his eyes. Perhaps it was bouncing off of his truck’s paint job, but I didn’t exactly want to inquire.

“No problem, I was just hoping for an apology for hitting my car.” Said I in a shaky voiced return.

“I ain’t apologizing for shit, expecially (I know, I misspelled it on purpose) not for that piece of shit Toyota!” Retorted the Lord of Wit.

It was then that the entire de evolution of our species began.

I, after the altercation came to and end, decided it went down like this: Jackhole of the year didn’t see me pull in behind him. He opened his door in the blind excitement that only can come from Keystone Light being on sale, and struck my door, blowing his buzz.

Because real men don’t admit to nothin, he first went with the option of straight denial. The “I didn’t do shit” defense, if you will. When that didn’t work, due to the fact that the white paint from my car was clearly on his door edge, he went with plan B – Get all up in the liberal wuss’ face.

Because all I was actually looking for here was an apology along the lines of “Oh, crap, I didn’t see you there… I am sorry!,” but noticed that the chances of that happening were about as great as a Palin Presidency, decided to smile, shrug my shoulders, and kill him with kindness.

“OH, you’re right, sir. I must have somehow encouraged my paint to rub off on your door. Never mind, have a nice day.”

What is so difficult about being nice? Why can’t someone admit, every so often, that they are in the wrong?

If the kind gentleman (or as I recently heard a collision of a water truck and vinegar truck – DOUCHE) would have looked me in the eye, said ‘sorry’ under his breath, or heck, even given me the universal nod of the head that men express when attempting to display emotion, I would have left it alone. Parking lots are the demolition derby of the traffic world, and being the owner of a full sized pickup truck, I figure to get an occasional ding here and there.

But no. Screw you hippy.

Sad, isn’t it? Guess I’ll pay it forward by taking my frustration out on the next thing down the food chain from me.

Wait, isn’t that him?

Sorry, I’ll shut up now.

“Today’s” Rant

Posted on April 20, 2012 by jpbulger

I have something to confess. I watch the Today Show. Maybe it is because the Wife is downstairs first. Maybe because that is the channel we had the TV on before going to bed. Either way, we are a Today household.

Don’t judge me. I’m fragile when it comes to being judged.

So, now that that is off my chest, I can talk about what I find wrong with the Today Show. First of all, let me start with a story from this morning…

Apparently, several years back, there was a nice enough looking young woman who fell in love with, what she thought, was a nice enough looking young man. Sure, he had a couple of interesting tattoos. OK, so what if his temper tends to spike every so often. So what if he confessed to her that he once killed another human being. Who cares if he…. wait. WHAT?!?!

That’s right. The dude killed someone else, told her about it, and she still married him, along with producing two children with him. A murderer. Now I know what you’re thinking, “what kind of murder was it?” It’s completely different if he stabbed someone with a prison shank, strangled someone in a back alley, or defended the honor of a helpless maiden with his ex-green beret training, right?

Yeah, I’ll give you that. But here’s the kicker…

After multiple years of marriage, abuse of her and the CHILDREN, this waste of space apparently killed again. This time, it was a woman.

So, finally, the ‘wife of the year’ decides to turn him in. She does, she testifies, and the poster boy for reasons not to wear camo pants goes to jail for life, without parole.

Good enough story, right? No.

The Today Show airs the story, and then proceeds to bring the woman on, with the kids, to talk about daddy’s abuse and violent past in a true heart to heart chat session with, oh yeah, several MILLION viewers. How are these kids supposed to deal with the fact that mommy has horrid taste in men, and daddy is a two time winner of the Hannibal Lecter Character Award? By talking out the issues with Matt Lauer? WTF?

I surely hope that the paycheck for appearing on a show like this is worth the emotional state of your children. Sheesh.

Or at least you should get a few swings at Kathy Lee Gifford during commercial breaks.

Speaking of which, what producer of the show does Kathy Lee have apparent blackmail material? This woman is about as useful as a sack of rusty, bent, nails while treading water lost at sea. She has never had the ability to STFU, let alone form a non annoying sentence. She comes on the show after what I call the ‘fluff hour,’ consisting of sixty minutes of how to apply makeup, decorate your home using tips from the d-bags at HGTV (that’s another post entirely), and ads for Shape Up Sneakers. She ‘assumes’ the persona of a snarky unpainted clown that apparently drank too much White Zin, and talks. And talks. And Talks.

Please, let’s all send in donations to pay her salary to go home and bug Frank instead of filling the airwaves with the audio and video equivalent of crotch crabs.

And don’t get me started on Anne Curry’s method of ‘being serious’…

Sorry, I’ll shut up.

A word from (NOT) St. Pat

Posted on March 18, 2012 by jpbulger

Another one has come and gone, and I’m sure many are feeling the effects. St. Patrick’s Day, the one time every year where people actually claim to be something they are not. At least partially.

“Dude, your name is Phil Armstead. You’re about as Irish as a Volkswagen. Take off the leprechaun hat, drop the accent, and put the Guinness down.”

I want to get a few things off of my chest on this whole St. Paddy’s Day celebration. Bear with me…

1. Corned beef and cabbage sucks. Really. This dish has become as synonymous with St. Pat as douchebags and goatees. Corned beef is a salt cured beef, used to preserve it until it can be used as a backpack. It is usually boiled, mainly because, well honestly, the person preparing it is either a crappy chef, or he/she only has one pot. The resulting substance looks like something from a low budget alien film, and tastes like salted ass. Cabbage is only put on the plate to hide the beef in some form of shoddy camouflage. If you want to go traditional on St. Paddy’s, eat a pastie, some stew made with lamb or beef, veggies, and potatoes, in a broth of Guinness in nature. Friends shouldn’t let friends eat the stuff that isn’t even Irish.

2. Green beer is absolutely the biggest insult to happen to beer. Don’t do it unless your first drink came with an umbrella and was served in a pineapple. If you want to go official, drink a Guinness, Murphy’s, Harp, or Donnybrook. And for God’s sake, sip a bit of Jameson’s or Bushmill’s. They’re the closest thing to legit. Green beer is for girls who want to have something other than a martini mixed with something to ruin it.

3. Drop the cliché’s. Top of the morning isn’t something to be uttered. Erin go bragh is not something you say to, well, anyone. If you want to pretend you’re Irish for the day, use the F word as a noun, verb, adjective, conjunction, predicate, and even as its own sentence entirely. And mumble. A lot.

4. Just because a bar has a St. Pat’s Day banner hanging from the window, it is not necessarily an Irish pub. Choose wisely. In fact, don’t go to the true Irish pub on St. Pat’s because it will be full of people doing the three things written above.

5. The Quiet Man and Boondock Saints are the best choices for films to watch on this day. Not that stupid Darby O’Gill and the Little People, for crying out loud. If you’re not into the Duke or Willem Dafoe in drag, try ONCE, or Waking Ned Devine. You’re welcome.

I just wanted to get this off of my chest, and hopefully provide a public service announcement for the masses who seem to be getting this whole holiday wrong. One doesn’t have to get trashed at noon to celebrate, or even drink at all.

Well maybe not at all.

Shutting up now.

Cars vs. Bikes, Enough Already! (from the packfiller podcast)

Posted on March 9, 2012 by jpbulger

There has been a lot of talk on this show, multiple blogs, legal document and courtroom dramas, even coffee shop chats about the ongoing battle posed on the roads between cyclists and cars.

Apparently, somewhere between getting home from work and pulling on the chamois, a genetic alteration takes place plunging the wearer into some altered state of consciousness that, depending on which side of the steering wheel you are on, is either a hippie know it all, jack hole, or a brain dead redneck preparing for a heart attack. Either way, when the bike is on the road, the battle begins.

I am tired.

I am tired of hearing about car versus bicycle moments on the road, that inevitably finish with a moment of silence or roadside tribute. I am tired of screaming the rules of the road, that apparently have multiple meanings, again, depending on your stance in the altercation. I am tired of flying 40′s, burgers, Marolboros, and words that would make a sailor blush.

So here’s my thought. Chances are, if you are listening to this show, you spend time on a bicycle. In traffic. With sponsors that have PAID to place their logo on your clothing in a prominent area TO BE SEEN. Heck even if that isn’t the case, you, wether you like it or not, have a responsibility to represent all cyclists, from the critical mass fixie with no brakes and a hoop earring to the elitist on a trek that costs more than most people make in six months. You are one of us. So don’t screw it up. I want to get home from a ride in one piece, see my family, and tell them about how my legs cramped up a bit less than last time. I want to go to my kid’s games, races, or performances. I want to grow old as a cyclist.

The thought is this: Be nice. (Taken from the book of Dalton) A car cuts you off, I want you to wave and smile. A fixie flips you the bird in an intersection because he couldn’t stop (duh), I want you to wave and smile. A truck with a confederate flag flying calls you something that actually has more syllables than the driver has likely used in the entire week, I want you to shrug your shoulders. Hit in the head with a 40, grab the bottle, and pour some out for your homies.

Getting mad back will simply perpetuate the behavior. Getting hit by a car will simply hurt, or kill you.

Develop a sixth sense.

KNOW that the car likely either can’t see you, or doesn’t care. KNOW that the cyclist may be sporting headphones (dumb idea) or have a brain caked with bong resin or EPO.

Adjust your thinking, take a breath, and get home to tell another tale.

I’ll shut up now.

Adulthood. Ugh.

Posted on February 27, 2012 by jpbulger

Is it here yet? Have I finally arrived? Shouldn’t it be better than this?

I’m going to tell you a secret. I’m over the age of 40. Don’t tell anyone, though. I’d like to think that I hide it well with my hipster shaggy haircut (too lazy/busy to get it cut) and fondness of punk and guitar based rock.

I guess I can officially claim myself as an adult now, right? You know, that age that you never thought would arrive when we were all younger. Adulthood. Wow. Just writing that one out makes me a bit uncomfortable. I guess that means that everything is going to be like it was for my parents, right?

Nope. It’s all a big lie. Adulthood doesn’t mean financial stability, cleanliness, wise thinking, and intelligent conversations. At least that’s what I thought it was supposed to be.

Why is it that I find myself still a bit short when the end of the month comes around? Aren’t all adults financially secure, with investment accounts, “portfolios” of some kind of papers that mean money? As a kid, I figured that when adulthood arrived, I’d have a job that paid for all the stuff I wanted, as well as the freedom to buy all of the sugar cereals that my mom never let me eat. Truth is, I still don’t eat the sugar cereals (they make my butt bigger), my job pays for the stuff I have but not the stuff I want, and my investment account looks more like a shoebox of receipts.

Next, don’t adults all live in super clean homes, super well organized, and drive cars that always have the new car smell? Why do I find myself with always one more load of laundry to take care of, dishes to clean, rooms to pick up, and cars that need a vacuum and provide a great opportunity for some kid to “wash me” his way to graffiti greatness? I always remember adults having organized lives with clean houses and cars. No fair.

On to lie number three. Kids always said dumb stuff. The bullies at school were supposed to go away some day. Adults were supposed to think clearly, lead wisely, and show professional and common courtesy that we all learned in school, right? Why is it that we cut people off for parking spots, not hold doors open for others (or say thank you when I do), or even smile and say hello to each other? The bullies are still around, and are touting their middle management jobs in our faces. The squeaky wheels are getting the grease, just like the whiners that cried in grade school.

Here’s the deal. I don’t wanna grow up. I want to stay immature. I want to make fart sounds and laugh. Get excited for birthdays. And Christmas. I want toys, not clothes. I want to dream of being a superhero. Or at least read a comic. I wanna ride my bike. I want to scream “wee” when I’m having so much fun, there’s no other way to express myself.

Hell, I want someone to clean up after me. I want the security to sleep like the dead because I know that someone’s taking care of everything. I want to believe that I can be anything, including a pro sports star.

Who’s with me?

I’ll shut up now.

To Cheap, or not to Cheap?

Posted on February 3, 2012 by jpbulger

Let’s face it, this is a tough time to be a drinker of wine. Well, not really, but it is pretty tough to keep up with some of the finer choices while maintaining a mortgage, grocery budget similar to the weapons allotment for the ATF, and a soon to be teenage boy.

I’ll freely admit that I like to enjoy a bit of the aged grape juice on a regular basis. I even maintain the concept that there are enough great bottles of wine out there in the $15 and under category that one could enjoy an entire bottle daily and likely never run out of choices (although at a full bottle daily, things could potentially not last too long… unless you’re Italian. Or Irish).

It’s at times like these that I am willing to make a statement. Willing to sacrifice dignity for the sake of others. That’s just the kind of guy I am.

My name is Pat, and I drink box wine. Often.

Now, before you either hit refresh to try and make sure you’re on the right page, and not www.whitetrash.com (site not endorsed by shutuppat.com, but cute buffalo pictures), or delete the blog from your browsing history to ensure your area property values don’t diminish, hear me out. I’m not talking the F-brand here. You know what I’m talking about… I’m talking about actual good wine, in boxes (or bags, no… really), that is not only great to have a glass (or two) from on occasion, but I personally feel to be something that should be sitting on your kitchen counter with pride, not under the sink where you keep your bathtub hooch for the after hours crowd.

I honestly feel that you should pull your snobby head out of your expensive wine place, and check out a few of these choices that I’ve found. If you think they suck, please leave a comment.

Clif Wines “The Climber” Cabernet ($17)

Ok, so this isn’t a box. Shoot me. Please don’t. I will tell you that this is possibly one of the best camping wines available. Heck, if you rigged the bag in the right way, you’d have yourself one heck of a hiking ‘water’ bottle on your hands here (in no way do I endorse hiking with wine, duh). The bag holds just above two bottles worth, and you can easily pour one glass at a time, while preserving the rest for, say, ten minutes later. Want to talk about ‘pack it in, pack it out’?? The bag, when empty, takes up a hell of a lot less space than those chunky bottles you now leave the campground sounding like a college kid’s VW van in. Don’t believe me? Well, a silver medal at the Next Gen Wine Competition could help. No? Too judgmental over their energy bars that look like something that is more ‘post energy bar’? Well, that means you’re too picky, and are truly missing out.

Black Box Wines Cabernet/Merlot ($19-22)

The wife is going to disagree with me on this one, but this is my ‘usual’ for the weeknight glass. Found just about anywhere, it can’t be beat for the price in relation to flavor. Do the math. FOUR bottles fit inside this thing, and at or around 20 greenies, you have yourself a five buck bottle that doesn’t taste like granpa’s homemade grappa. Or dandelion wine that he made for his own funeral. Or paint thinner. You get it. Don’t get me wrong here, this is no Gifford Hirlinger (have to plug the cousin’s vino some time), but it will do just fine on a day that you come home and the man has got you down. Or the woman. I’m all about equality here.

Elkan Wine in a Can ($N/A, but cheap)

Wait!! Come back!!

Ok, so wine in a can is probably about as classy as, well, wine in a can. But think about this. Ever been on a boat with someone who won’t allow glass (like me)? How about camping (what is with this guy and camping?)? Or that picnic in the park?? This stuff, although Chilean, and not to offend my friends down south, not my favorite, is pretty drinkable. The chardonnay, when put in a cooler for as long as you stick those Bud Lights in, actually tastes pretty yummy. JUST DON’T FORGET, a can is just near or over a half of a bottle, so sip, young Padawan. Sip. If you think you’re going to be drinking can for can with your macho, drum beating, goatee sporting testosterone baldys, you’re mistaken. Besides, if you’re trying to take up space in a man’s cooler with chardonnay, and you’re not his girlfriend or wife, you’d better be rethinking your evening plans. Unless you like hospitals, that is.

So there, I said it. I drink the cheap stuff. But just because it’s CHEAP, doesn’t mean it is, well, cheap. As I said, try the different packaging. Let go of the corkscrew. Have a glass and not worry about some insane bottled oxygen to preserve your thirty dollar (or daily teacher’s salary) bottle of old juice.

If I’m wrong, I’ll shut up.

LAME ASS OLD MAN!

Posted on January 31, 2012 by jpbulger

Crap.

I’ve arrived at that point. Or, if you asked the wife, I’ve probably been here for a fairly long time.

I caught myself last night. A Friday evening. Dropped off the kid at a school dance, stopped off at the store for a few provisions, and headed home. The wife was out with some friends, so this was the perfect opportunity.

I went home, alone, and stayed there.

I know what you’re thinking. “Pat, WTF?? This is your opportunity to get the guys together, drink a few, and have some fun, dumbass!!”

The thing is, I did have fun. But here’s the bad part. I made myself the usual ‘bachelor dinner’ as I call it. A steak, potato, and caesar salad. Watched whatever movie rerun was on the TNTFXAMC channel, and smiled the whole time.

Wanna know why? It’s because my steak, a tenderloin, was around 5-7 bucks, the potato and salad about another five, and the, um, beverages were a hell of a lot cheaper than they would be in a restaurant. So there, I said it. I am a cheap a-hole who gets grumpy when I pay seven dollars for a beer that I know RETAILS for about a buck seventy five. Let alone two. Or three. You get the point.

I know. How are restaurants supposed to succeed? You need to get out! Holy shit, you’re old… yadda yadda yadda.

I haven’t even mentioned the worst part.

After dinner, I walked into my TV room, and watched a movie. No surprises here, but it was the movie that made me think.

Bridesmaids.

A fully grown man, sitting alone on a Friday night, watching Bridesmaids. Happily.

I’ll pause for the insults to pass your mind.

At what point did this happen? When did I become the happy at home guy, as opposed to the hit the live bands and stay out late guy? I remember when midnight was when the headliners came on, i.e. the good music. Did I catch some blood virus that installs lame methods of behavior? Is this what happened to my parents?

I guess the thing is, I was happy with the silence. I didn’t have to push my way through tramp stamps and goatees to get to the bar. The portions were perfect. At no point did a country song come on the stereo, let alone Ringing in the Deep (see previous post). The movie, although not as funny as I had been hyped for, was pretty good. Kind of like The Hangover with ovaries. But funnier. I didn’t have to drive anywhere. I was able to have a last drink…

Don’t get me wrong, I’ll go out.

When the wife makes me.

I’ll shut up.

I’m Warne’n ya. (Special Rant from the Missing Packfiller Podcast)

Posted on January 20, 2012 by jpbulger

It’s time to talk about the elephant in the room.

Recently, for our friends in areas other than Australia, there’s been a bike versus car incident that has gained quite a bit of exposure. Famous cricketer Shane Warne was involved in an accident with a cyclist that prompted Warne to post a fairly lengthy rant on how cyclists, mainly the 1-2 that he feels are spoiling it for all, need to be more careful, or a “riot is going to start soon.” This coming from a very highly paid athlete whom many pay a great amount of attention to.

I was able to check Warne’s Twitter page, and his rant, believe it or not, I can partially agree with. If you’ve not seen Portlandia, you should, as there is one particular sketch that truly defines the other side of the coin. The hipster fixie rolling through the city all but declaring war on cars, and breaking just about every rule known to the traffic world. These are the representatives of each side of the problem, and the rest of us, drivers, cyclists, runners, etc. are stuck in the middle.

First of all, Mr. Warne needs to shut his trap. Get back in your Audi (not sure if that’s what you drive, it’s just that the majority of douchebags either steer one of them, or an Escalade. Sorry Dad, you don’t count…) exchange insurance, and go back to your glass house. You, wether you like it or not, are an ambassador to things other than flip flops and hair gel. What scares me is when I see replies to your tweets mentioning that cars pay to use the roads, and bikes do not. Hey, dip shit, we pay too!

Second of all, the “1-2” Mr. Warne spoke of is, unfortunately, far more than that. You don’t need to remove the derailleur and brakes from your bike to be classified as an asshole. I’ve seen all types of US ruining it for the group as a whole. Breaking the rules, or even following the rules and reacting like one of Michael Vick’s dogs when a driver can’t see you in his blind spot.

Here’s the deal. Neither of us are going anywhere. Rodney King had at least one thing right. We all have to get along.

Next time, when on your bike, take a deep breath, and let it go. Chances are you’ll live longer because of it, not to mention the diabetic tub of a-hole that cut you off will likely be happier that he can get home to his Twinkies he stocked up on before the bankruptcy.

When in your car, put on the music, enjoy the commute, and give some right of way, let someone in your lane, and realize that getting through the next stop light first isn’t going to really matter that much in the scheme of things. It’s not a race until you pin a number on.

And Shane Warne, your sport is as confusing as your style.

OK, shut up time…

Golden Horse Poo

Posted on January 17, 2012 by jpbulger

Maybe it was Ricky Gervais. Maybe it was the hype. Or even the fact that I simply turned on the TV, and there it was, as that was the channel last watched.

All I know is, I watched the Golden Globes. All of it, and I haven’t been feeling well since.

I know what you’re thinking… “way to go, dumbass, who the hell would do something like that to themselves!!” OR, you are saying, “HEY! I watched them, and loved it, especially when (insert actor’s name) won (insert category).”

I’ll give you one thing. I do love movies, I love TV, and I actually watch the Oscars every year. In fact, my family has a cheesy tradition of actually pre picking the winners and having a competition on who gets the most correct. I’m currently undefeated, chump.

I do, however, have a few issues with the awards, the people, and the process.

1. At what point did we deem it necessary to reward these people on a constant basis for what they do? If one more award show pops up, George Clooney will have spent more time on the red carpet than our Congress has been in session. Again and again, these people pat themselves on the back for their multiple weeks of work, doing what, get this, they are paid to do. Name an industry that needs such constant reassurance of their work. Go on, do it.

You can’t, can you. That’s because we, as a species, tend to care so much about celebrity, that those within the circle have become addicted to it more than the performers in Trainspotting are to illicit drugs.

Ever see a show rewarding doctors, teachers, bankers, or even McDonald’s employees? Nope. But rest assured that next week the SAG awards, People’s Choice, Teen Time, Viewer’s Choice, and Emmy’s will be there to make sure Madonna gets her regular mental hand job.

2. Speaking of Madonna, WTF is her deal? Win for best song, and spend seen minutes talking about how great of a FILM MAKER you are.

I have a problem with women of celebrity. Not all of them, mind you, but most of them. If one more starlet poses with her hand on her hip, or back facing the camera, to show off who they’re wearing, I’m going to Naked Island. Madonna looked good from the neck down, because the rest up from there was fully stocked with Bat Shit Crazy. Angelina looked like she was a starving vampire, and all of them seemed happier than Will Smith, which I thought was scientifically impossible.

Humility is a great asset, try it on some time.

3. Political opinions are for news broadcasts, not for someone who earned their formal education asking if I want to start with a salad. Save it. Please. Just because you have a soapbox and an opinion, doesn’t mean you should use it.

Don’t get ,me wrong, there were some highlights. Morgan Freeman, you speak in poetry. And I have one word to describe your awesomeness… Shawshank. Modern Family won, which should have been in the ‘No Shit’ category, and there are, thank God, some of these people who actually get the joke, and are more than willing to make fun of themselves. I actually think Clooney gets it, as did Brad Pitt before the gained those extra 90 pounds (you know what I’m talking about). Harrison Ford is classy, and Sidney Poitier, enough said.

Gotta go, have to program my DVR for the SAG(of crap).

I’ll shut up now. Thank you to the academy for allowing me the time (music starts) to rant on this subject.

The Great One Moves On

Posted on January 8, 2012 by jpbulger

I’m sad.

The Great One has died. After all of these years together, making many people smile, working in sync with me to prepare my attempts at greatness, one false step has led to His demise. My secrets will go quietly with Him. I’m not sure if I can go on.

The Great One was my bread maker. But it didn’t make bread. Ever.

BEFORE THE INCIDENT

Our relationship started off as anyone would expect. A wedding gift from someone I don’t remember (sorry bout that) at a time that I wasn’t as much into cooking as I am now. I made a couple of those in box, bread overnight kind of loaves, which always tasted bland but made the house smell great. And then He sat on the shelf, likely destined to go the way of the garage sale with the pasta maker and crappy Calphalon pans that had that bottom that didn’t allow any other utensils but their crap stick plastic ones.

But then the day came. Pizza night. I was looking for something other than Boboli or the usual semi-cardboard type of bread like material that holds the toppings while I stuff whatever combination into my face. I wanted to go from scratch. I wanted thin. I wanted flavor.

So I grabbed the dusty old bread maker off of the shelf. The actual instruction booklet was still around, with an actual pizza dough recipe within. Sounded simple enough. With any good recipe, however, some tweaking needed to be done. Here is what I created, over many years, failures, successes, ingredient changes, and occasional run ins with puffy deep dish style mistakes.

SUP Pizza Dough

1 1/2 Cups of warm water

4tbs. of EVOO

4 Cups of Kick ass Flour – Buy the good stuff.

1tsp. Sugar

1tsp Salt

4tsp Active Dry Yeast

Granulated Garlic to taste. (Usually around 1-2 tsp)

Dried Oregano to taste. (Same as above)

Set the bread machine to ‘dough, and walk away. That’s it. About 2 hours later, you have what appears to be a mushroom topped bread pan on your hands, which rolls out to make a truly great thin crust pizza dough. Trust me.

That is, if you make sure your bread maker is on a flat, level surface. This is where The Great One met it’s great end. While away, apparently the dough shifted a bit to the side of the bread pan, and while on spin cycle (knead for the cooking anal), the wobble became just too great.

AFTER…Shit.

My son found him first. On his side, grunting his last efforts to save his yummy internal treasure. He called out to me, but I was nowhere to be seen. I was in the shower, you see (TMI?). Upon hearing of the horrid event that had transpired in my kitchen, I quickly dressed, and ran down to survey the damage. The Great One was dead. Cracked lid and external structure, bent internal frame. I let out a slight whimper. Our time together was great, and I knew this one was going to hurt.

The Great One, however, was a bread machine for others. In a true effort of self sacrifice, he gave his life for one last pizza night. I bent down, set him upright, and sure enough, the golden prize awaited. A last batch of what I would consider as close to Italian perfection that a pasty Irish boy could approach.

THE LAST OFFERING

I rolled out each section with the care of a surgeon working on a relative. Tonight was Thai Chicken night, with chicken (duh), celery, carrots (trust me), green onions, mozzarella/parmesan, and sweet chili garlic sauce atop Thai peanut sauce. If you doubt me, you won’t understand. This one kicks ass. Of course, as I have a budding teenager in the house, standard pepperoni was necessary.

THIN!!!

THAI HEAVEN (Better than it looks)

As you can see from the photos, the last batch was truly a special one. Thin. Tasty. Slight crunch with an airy soft inside. Well done, Great One.

Now off to the dumpster with you. No tears, you would have wanted it that way. I promise, the next one will be always placed on a level surface. I mean it this time.

Ok, I’ll shut up.

Shut up Pat

At least that's what they tell me. Part of the G.S. Bulger Media Network