patriarchy <3!!!

i find myself increacingly unable to read pandagon. it's a shame, as for a few months it made my reading list each day. there was a definite shift both in content and in reader behaviour following the departure of jesse from the ranks, though. partly my growing distaste has to do with the style of the other bloggers chosen to take jesse's place - to be honest, they just really can't write - but most of it has to do with the huge uptick in feminist content. this is super-weird, because i started reading the damn blog for feminist content. unfortunately, most of what has passed for feminist content of late has consisted of 'omg teh patriarchy is SOOOOOO MEEEEEEEEN... and i think it is hiding under my chair! oh noes!!1!elevenone!!!!', and the standard response to any person daring to question any opinion voiced on the blog is for six different people to immediately call the dissenter a wicked, wicked rapist. (even if the dissenter is, you know, a chick. even if the dissenter is a chick who has herself been raped. doesn't matter.)

remember, kids, disagreement is the hallmark of the Tool of the Patriarchy.

Tool of the Patriarchy == RAPIST.

they seem literally to be parodying themselves at this point, though god knows it's not intentional. they are the islamofascist-huggin' america haters that conservatives love to squeal about. any sentiment deemed 'intolerant' - which is to say 'any sentiment that isn't MINE' - opens a floodgate of hatin'. it's really strange to see, and frankly it's creepy.

preznit giv me turkee

it really will never stop being funny.

this is probably the only good thing about thanksgiving.

well, there's the parade, i guess, which did end in carnage and bloodshed again this year. i like it when the balloons go rogue. and i really don't mind miracle on 34th street the first few times i see it each season. and there's pie. hey, i like pie.

but really, now, i mean, donut shack is closed. for DAYS! what the hell dude, it is the Shack, it is Necessary. there could be no Purchasing of Birthday Donut, and it's all thanksgiving's fault.

i am becoming increacingly hostile towards this holiday. it seems, frankly, designed to prey upon my every neurosis: sense of obligation to family, isolation from family, dread of social interaction, perfectionism, obsessiveness, issues with food...

there is more to say about this. i will say it after dinner. suffice it to say that i am not looking forward to dinner.

the leaves hang on in a seaside town a little longer than the rest

well, thank christ it finally looks like fall out there. it was better earlier - the sky was wholly overcast, a smooth dull matte stainless steel with scudding ribbons of titanium. it set off the red of the burning bushes and the maple trees beautifully. windy, too - quite violently at times. it sounded nice. the wind has since died down, save a few occasional gusts, and the sun has since come out, which i find unpleasant, but i'll admit that a clear sky does better justice to the yellow poplars and the oaks. i finally noticed the falling of the leaves last night, coming down like snow in the streetlights. i like being able to crunch down the sidewalks and streets. it makes going out for a walk a tactile and sonic adventure.

i always think i like cold weather, and then it always turns cold, and then i always remember that i don't. not that i like hot weather either. or even warm. we seem to keep skipping over the cool fall weather, oscillating between Too Hot and Fucking Cold.

since the weather has finally decided to behave itself and act autumnal, today marks the opening of mix tape season. we're rockin it this year on the explodingdog tip: leave a comment with a suitably ambiguous or curious phrase, and you will recieve your CD in return. it might even have a picture on it.

good night, and good luck.

speaking of rolling mercilless...

...you do not want to step.

on an open fire, bitchezz

it is fall now, i know - even though it is still so warm in the daytime and even though, now into november, the leaves have only just started to turn - because now in the grocery store are cardboard displays of nuts in their shells, and orange-frosted baked goods with white and brown sprinkles, and jugs of cider, and turkey-shaped balloons are supplanting the helium cats and bats and pumpkins. and there are chestnuts.

so, chestnuts.
they keep them in a large woven bushel basket with a scoop attached. they're pleasing things: not quite round, but rounded, and flat on one side; hard and cool and smooth to the touch. it's nice to roll one between the fingers: they are solid, but with little heft. hold one in the palm of your hand and gaze down into it: see the light catch and play on its curves, highlighting the surface's soft sheen, picking out the undulating striations of auburns and blacks within the deep, rich brown. i always want to slide my hand deep into the bin, and run my hands through them like rocks in a river's bottom, but i am not amelie, and such things are frowned upon. so i take the scoop and i take a bag, and pour the chestnuts into it, listening as they clink softly. and then i take them home and i put them on the kitchen table and forget all about them.

or i did until about an hour ago, anyway. it's finally a bit cooler out, and i was in a mood for a snack, and i'd already eaten all the leftover halloween candy. roasted chestnuts are unlike roasted nuts in the general sense, and not at all what you'd expect after, say, reading dickens. the shells become papery, and split, but seldom neatly. the meat of the nut is within, but not at all crunchy, even though roasted: it's soft and very, very hot and shot through with clefts and rather resembles a small and shrunken human brain, if you can remove the thing from the shell entire. often the nut tends to crumble and cleave to the shell. the texture is soft and mealy and a bit chewy - quite like a potato, though the flavour is sweet. i was bitterly disappointed the first time i had one, but i've since grown rather fond of them.

i prick them with a fork - feeling, as always, surprise at how easily the shells yield. range them on a baking sheet, put them in the oven. i take out the Joy of Cooking to check the proper temperature: 425 degrees. as always, i wonder at the line in the recipe about the childhood game of popping chestnuts: each player selecting their own entry and cheering it on to burst first. i never do understand this idea. it would seem to take an awful lot of peering to work out which nut won.

so i leave them alone for twenty minutes or so, until the fragrance tells me they're done. i reach into the oven, pull out the pan, and turn to set it on the stovetop, until suddenly i am UNDER A HAIL OF FUCKING GUNFIRE. dimly in some corner of my brain i realise i have come to know what a popping chestnut sounds like. i did not expect it to be quite so like a driveby.

when things settle, i return with a plate to discover that at least a third of my chestnuts have exploded - but where did they go? one would expect at least some scattered remains. the kitchen, from counter to floor, is coated in a fine layer of chestnut-dust, but only a few fragments of shells lay entire. they quite literally vaporise.

that's a hell of a thing, i think to myself, carrying my plated chestnuts to the relative calm of the livingroom. two more go off. this time i actually see it happen: they really do completely atomise, annihilated in a puff of chestnut-scented smoke. i have a new respect for the things.

i think i'll go make some more.