“Don’t you see the rest of the country looks upon New York like we’re left-wing, communist, Jewish, homosexual pornographers? I think of us that way sometimes and I live here.”
- Alvie Singer (Annie Hall)
The 10th anniversary of the September 11th attacks have passed, and so too have the insufferable week of programming showing the same 2 minutes of footage and telling the same story over and over. But what has really passed is the rest of the country’s concern for New York City; the bible thumping, gay-soldier booing contingency from the middle of this country, for one day a year (since 2001, of course) now acts as if New York holds a place in their heart beyond just that one Martin Luther King Jr Day weekend in which they saw Stomp, ate a soft pretzel and commented on the general “rudeness” of the supposedly cosmopolitan residents of New York. Yes, for one day a year, the rest of the country are New Yorkers.
Fast forward to September 12th. The end of Fox News’ (and to be fair, every other channel’s) insidious, repetitive programming on September 11th. Suddenly, the teary-eyed Christian conservatives view New York as the same cesspool of Jews, Gays and Mexicans it was on the 10th.
So I beg of you, rest of the country: Stop giving a shit about New York. Let’s drop the charade, because in all honesty, we don’t give a shit about you either (in fact, you scare most of us). To many of you, we’re left-wing, communist, Jewish, homosexual pornographers, and to us, you’re Tea Party supportin’, bible thumpin’, good ole boys (and girls) who are stuck in the McCarthy era vis-a-vis Fox News and Rush Limbaugh.
Let’s call a truce. Let’s just hate each other 365 days a year (366 on leap years). Because it just feels wrong for you to say something nice about us. And it feels even worse to return the favor. And let’s be real, nobody gives a shit about the whole Oklahoma City thing, so let’s just call it even.
Why you need to purchase my book forthright
Forgive me if you are intimately connected to the world of publishing and therefore know how the world/publishing world works. But for many of you, this may be new, groundbreaking information that makes your loins squeal with equal parts terror and delight.
I need a fucking hovercraft. Look at that guy. He is the dude. I don’t see your Prius getting up on two wheels in a fucking swamp. Nor your Vespa, which by the way is extremely effeminate. If I had a hovercraft all of the worlds problems would be solved, at least for me.
So buy my book which makes my publisher money, who then pays me money, who then buys a hovercraft and then child hunger is no more. Do it for the children.
Buy my fucking book, please/now.
Hi, I’m Zach. Some genius, wildly attractive, nice smelling person from Sundance thought me talking about making some recipe from LUDO BITES AMERICA was a good idea, and I have a firm policy of not arguing with geniuses who are wildly attractive and smell fantastic. So let’s go on a journey where we test the boundaries of our newly found friendship, meet some wonderful mythical beasts, and most of all make Atole Piñon Hotcakes from Tecolote Café in Santa Fe, New Mexico.
INGREDIENTS
4 c flour
1 1/2 c blue cornmeal
1/4 c baking powder
1/4 c sugar
1/2 TBSP salt
2 large eggs
4 oz. soy oil olive oil
6 c milk
4-6 oz. piñon nuts (aka pine nuts), shelled and toasted
Butter and maple syrup for serving
So a few notes on the ingredients: I was unable to find blue cornmeal so I substituted it for its hypopigmented cousin, regular cornmeal. Also, I was unable to find soy oil; Actually, I doubt its existence, which I’m probably wrong about but my track record with Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny and F. Scott Fitzgerald give me some confidence in the matter so it definitively does not exist. Barring a major scientific breakthrough or an alternate reality in which soy oil really does exist, olive oil makes a wonderful substitute. As a side note, if you’d like to follow my recipe to a T, while shopping for your ingredients find yourself stuck behind a schizophrenic man singing show tunes and soiling himself.
The recipe itself is easy. Dry stuff goes in one bowl. Eggs and oil that you beat all together goes in a different one. Then two bowls become one in a beautiful union of wet and dry that is punctuated with whisking in the milk until smooth. If you’re one of the 7 people in the world who own a griddle (Denny’s franchise owners not included), prepare yourself for excitement because the recipe calls for one. However, if you’re like me and the approximately 12 billion others without a griddle, a pan does nicely. Butter the pan, ladle in the batter, drop in some toasted pine nuts and flip the hotcakes when they bubble on top. You’ll know when they’re done because your house will smell like how I imagine a baby sea otter’s hug would feel. I don’t feel comfortable telling you how to eat them, so please just adapt your usual eating habits to this dish.
So now I’m supposed to either convince you that you need to make this dish (to be fair, I just talked to Atole Piñon Hotcakes, and they said they’d make you if they were cooking) or dissuade you from a recipe so misguided that the uranium it produces as a byproduct is too useless to even sell on the grey market. Fortunately it’s the former; I went from soiled schizophrenic to eating in under thirty minutes, which is less time than some fried bologna hamburger helper thing you’d watch on Rachel Ray, and – total bonus – it was delicious. So to sing its praises in the tune of “Eye of the Tiger,” it’s quick and easy, delicious, and produces little to no uranium.
I wrote this article, please go read it.
I’m going on hiatus from Tumblr just nanomonths after my triumphant return. Why? you ask? Well, I don’t really feel the need to answer such an insolent question from someone I barely know, but since you seemed to cower as I say such words (and thus honor me) I will tell you. I’ve got some neat things in the mix and need to go make them.
Sincerely yours,
Zach
Hello Tumblr webloggers,
As I have recently documented, it’s been a while since I posted. In fact, some may say I have lost my “status” as a Tumblr weblogger (it has subsequently been replaced with my status as “productive member of society”). But my digressions aside, in our time apart I feel as if we’ve grown in differing directions. Don’t get me wrong, I still have a metaphorical soft-spot in my right aortic atrium for the little weblog platform that could, but holy shit y’all just re-post shit from ffffound. Now I refuse to engage in a debate over the substantive nature of weblogging in the 21st century, I refuse, just to restate. But holy fucking shit, is the “yo dawg” meme really all that we can contribute? Oh fuck, it is?
What gives?
I promised puppy pictures, I fucking deliver puppy pictures.
Oscar, being the erudite creature that he is, frequently pesters me to boot up the old internet box and direct my browser to the new york times website where he politely asks me to search for “other dog’s asses.”
Yo, so fuck artists (and shit).
I was just in Bilbao and visited the Guggenheim (word up, Mr. Gehry), where I was subjected to some absolutely amazing art and some stuff that was clearly done by a Pratt graduate (note: recent graduate).
So it got me thinking about this whole art thing, of which I’ll expand upon when I have more time and my writing partner isn’t giving me the kind of look that could not only stop traffic, but likely cause moderate to severe tire deflation (note: on second read this sounds moderately to severely sexual in nature, it’s not, trust me [please]).
I’ll keep it brief in this edition, but if ejaculating on stuff is art, I have a sizable installation from my early teen years in a dump somewhere upstate.
Oh hey.
I haven’t posted on this shit for a long time because I feel that a general spirit of negligence really marks my writing style and hence, should be reflected in my weblog.
But I’ve started to miss you, well not you particularly, but the self-indulgent feeling of writing something that people are force-fed through their “dashboard” (I apologize for the lingo, I realize not everyone is such a sophisticated web-user such as I).
Henceforth, I will write in this weblog at my leisure, which I truly hope with as much of my soul that is dedicated to my endeavors in weblog writing, is more than once every six months. If not, I find it highly inappropriate that you judge me for such an infraction that in the grand scheme of things, is fairly minor (like tickling a precious zoo animal next to a sign that says “please do not tickle the precious zoo animal,” et Al.)
Anywho, while I was showering today, I thought of things I could write about. Here are a few of what you may or may not expect to see in the comings 3.5 years (in no particular order):
• Why I hate artists
• Pictures of Puppies
• Things about advertising that you don’t understand
• My grocery list, so I don’t forget
• Etc.
So thank you, Tumblrs, for welcoming me back with such open, flabby arms. Your hospitality is only surpassed by your good looks, which is in fact only surpassed by your hospitality.
Assignment: How does Sunkist talk to likers on facebook? I’m not sure, but I hate advertising I think.
Question.
To burp, or not to burp? That is thy question. Whether it is nobler to expel gas from your face-quarters, or face the slings and arrows of epic gassiness.
Statement.
It’s sunny somewhere. But apparently not anywhere in the contiguous United States. Contiguous is a funny word. So is dipeptide.
Music.
Lil John’s new album out today. His Crunk Glass rumored to be filled with delicious orange liquid.
Solar Fusion.
Fjklasdjklasdjlksazxv,c./masdfiwerasd. Either a cat jumped on the keyboard, or somebody’s buzzing from a blast of Solar Fusion.
Date specific.
Yo June 9th I’m really happy for you, and imma let you finish, but June 8th is one of the best birthdays of all time. Happy belated Kanye birthday.
My friend/work partner Russ and I were working late, as we do most nights.
“Alright time to leave.”
“What are you doing tonight, Zach?”
“I don’t know man, probably just cooking dinner for me and the ball and chain.”
“Nice.”
“Yeah. Hey, what the fuck should I make for dinner?”
And scene. A website was born.