Massive Coverage

In this post I will strive to encompass several posts' worth of bloggerel without all the volume. If it turns out to still be too much volume for you, then turn your computer down…

Training Pants
I'm keeping up with my workout schedule. Monday mornings at 6:00, Wednesdays at 6:30am and Saturdays at 7:00am. On the days in between I flail about on the elliptical trainer or the recumbent cycle trainer the boss has installed at the office. And on Fridays I rest, so to speak. George still manages to find muscles I haven't used since… oh, birth, so I still waddle around the office grunting like an old man while doing the simplest of tasks, such as breathing.

The one thing I am certain of while I patiently await the shrinking of my distended gut — something George tells me I won't see for a while, yet (WTF?!) — is that, were it not for George — or more realistically, were it not for the fact that I've paid a good chunk of money for George to do for/to me what he does — I wouldn't be doing this at all. No, instead I would have hobbled away from the first ill-conceived first self-inflicted workout and been content to sleep in every Monday, Wednesday and Saturday morning….

Give me a moment while I pause for a good cry.


It's a CROCK, I Tell Ya!
Going on a month or so ago, I finally decided to go ahead and purchase a Crock Pot. I don't know…there's just something about spending a frantic mere few minutes of cutting up stuff, unwrapping a hunk of raw meat, chucking it all into the pot under some water and then walking away for several hours that appeals to me…not to mention the yummy result.

I am learning, however, that there are varying degrees to the yummy based on what I do…or have done. The first attempt was a beef roast (don't anticipate it getting any more exciting or exotic than that) with a large onion and a large potato, both chopped up and tossed in the pot, with a moderate-sized piece of meat that I first seared in a frying pan under sprinkles of salt and pepper.

My neighbors in the apartment building can always tell when I'm trying to cook because the smoke alarm goes off… Every. Damn. Time.

I set the crock on low for about 8 hours. The meat came out tasting okay, but was fairly dry. The next attempt, about a week later, was much the same, only I added a chopped stalk of celery to the veggie mix, and I set the crock on high for about 4 hours, to pretty much the same result.

The most recent attempt — not counting the one that is cooking as I write — was much better as a result of oversight and serendipity. I had intended to prepare all the ingredients in the morning, before leaving for my workout on Wednesday, but mismanagement of my time and just plain forgetting about it until it was too late put that on hold until lunchtime. Then I frantically seared a considerably larger hunk of meat, chopped up vegetables — this time adding a fourth ingredient, carrots, to the veggies — and added sprinkles of dried basil flakes and dried oregano flakes. Why? I don't know. They smelled good?

Then it dawned on me that I had a dinner Meetup planned that evening, and I wouldn't get to eat at home. I didn't want to let it cook all that time, so at 5:30 I scrambled for home, turned the crock off and let the meat sit in there until I got home again, around 9:00. WOW! I've had better pot roasts before (Mom, R.I.P.), but this was a vast improvement over my earlier attempts. It was moist, tender, flavorful and, most of all, held up to being reheated in the microwave. That thing fed me for nearly a week, for lunch or dinner!

So that's my current method: crock on low for four to five hours, then shut it off and let it sit for another four. It's the method I'll stick to until one of my readers comes through (HINT!) with the real secret, or just a better recipe for beef pot roast…or any great Crock Pot recipes a culinarily inept single guy can manage.

Please?


A Spiffy Weekend
The radar showed a faint blip that represented a possible shoot for one of our clients, but we had to wait for them to decide if they really wanted us to do it. I asked Producer where this guy was that we had to shoot, and he didn't know, so I looked up the guy's business online.

RALEIGH!

Not wanting to get anybody's hopes up — especially mine — I didn't say a word to anybody, but I told Producer to try to arrange it for a Friday if it was going to happen at all, and I would try to stay the whole weekend and visit my blogger friends, Biff and Tiff Spiffy, kenju and Claire!

We didn't get the word until Thursday, and I sent out the last minute news to all of them that I was heading their way, and to clear their schedules.

Well, FAT CHANCE! Mr. and Mrs. kenju had an important event to attend out of state, and Claire had Friday evening plans, so the Spiffys would be stuck with me alone for the evening.

As a rare treat for me, I was able to travel very lightly, carrying our new, small-footprint, lightweight Hi Definition camcorder, one field light with stand, and a Chimera soft box, an attachment to the light that diffuses the beam and softens the shadows it casts. I arrived in Raleigh late Friday morning and spent an inordinate amount of time renting a car. Fortunately, since the flight was right on time, there was enough time for the rental car people's dicking around, and I was on my way with enough time for lunch.

Whichever end of Raleigh I was in must be some sort of secret, because my GPS unit was wrong for about half the restaurants I told it to find. I wound up at a Wendy's, only mildly upset that I wasn't eating as sensibly as I otherwise could have.

The shoot went just fine, as the guy who was my subject was very accommodating and friendly, and in a bit of a hurry. In all, I was only there for about two-and-a-half hours. Then I made my way out Wake Forest way, to the environs of the Tiny House.

After getting set up in my hotel I GPSed their address, and in ten minutes I was pounding on their door. They greeted me with warm pets (their animals, you sickos!) and cold beer, and we set about to talking like old friends. Before too much time had passed we headed out to a local pub (help me out with the name, guys?) where we sipped, supped and played with a very temperamental electronic dartboard. If I recall correctly, Tiff was the winner, though nobody was really too concerned with the outcome. And besides, the dartboard was cheating.

We returned to the Tiny House where we chatted into late night. I stopped trying to be more entertaining when I finally realized that their yawns were not of boredom, but of real sleepiness. So I bid good night with promises of getting together on Saturday.

I slept in just a little and then headed down to the hotel workout room. It was a pitiful thing, but the equipment worked, and I got a goot sweat from a 30-minute walk on the treadmill. After cleaning up, I headed out to the car to zip on over to the Tiny House, where I had been tolf by Biff on the phone that Tiff was preparing lunch for us! I slipped the key into the ignition keyhole, turned it and…

Bupkis.

The brand new 2009 Dodge Journey was dead. The rental car company, whose name I will not divulge here, but it sounds a lot like "Taller," told me that if I could get someone to jump my car and drive it the 45 minutes back to the airport, I could exchange it there. Otherwise I could wait a minimum of two hours for a tow truck to bring me another car.

It was Biff to the rescue, as he showed up in his shining white steed, otherwise known as a Ford van. He jumped the turd, and I told the rental car company that I would be driving it in to exchange.

But first it was lunch at the Tiny House. It was some kind of sausage (kielbasa?) with sautéed peppers and onions on a toasted bun, and mashed potatoes. I had a Sam Adams Black Lager to wash it down. I don't recall from the dizziness of the feeding frenzy, but I may have licked my plate.

Plans were laid to head to a park and feed the ducks, but it was never made clear what we were going to feed the ducks to. Since I was turning the car in, I left my camera at the Tiny House, just so there would be no unfortunate oversight. But that was an oversight in itself…


Tiff lures the unwitting participant
in a bit of subterfuge... (Photo
by Biff Spiffy.)


...just so they could leave this
incriminating shot on my camera!
For fear of providing too detailed
a description, let two words
suffice: Pussy pussy. (Photo by
Biff Spiffy...with MY CAMERA!)


Shortly after my return from the airport we headed back to Raleigh to some pretty park with a walking trail and a lake and a few trees. Tiff had to tinkle something fierce, but the facilities were all closed. I don't think I care for the parks in Raleigh. We walked down to the bridge and found that the Goose Gang had invaded the Duck Squad's turf and were making the place their own.

Tiff tells the story much better (and she's told it already, so why should I?). I'll just provide the visuals (and some snarky commentary).


Tiff and Biff share a last moment
with their beloved bagels.
(Photo by Farrago)



Tiff and her gaggle of
friends. (Photo by
Farrago)



Biff makes friends his
own way. (Photo by Farrago)



Biff has his hand out
with a hand-out.
(Photo by Farrago)



Biff throws rocks at the seagulls
because he loves to hear them swear.
(Photo by Farrago)




Whenever I look at geese, they seem to have this bewildered look in their eyes, as though they're really not sure what they're supposed to be doing.



The scenario comes to me of people who have died and are reincarnated, and come back as geese, but are fully cognizant of their lives as humans. They spend their days running around, shouting, "What the hell is going on? What's happening here?!" And "Oooh! Food!" And "Fly south. FLY SOUTH!"



But it only comes out of their mouths as "HONK! HONK!"



Soon Tiff found herself feeding two
small children and a grown man.
Despite the fact that they were
clearly human, she still wouldn't
let them eat out of her hand.
(Photo by Farrago)



Both subjects in this photo have
dinner on their minds, but the
seagull gave up because he didn't
have a pot big enough in which
to cook Biff. (Photo by Farrago)



One of the most incredible photos
I've shot in my life! The seagull
just dropped the bread right into
Biff's fingers! Amazing! (Photo shot
and enhanced by Farrago)



Biff and Tiff watch the spectacle
of waterfowl beneath them.
(Photo by Farrago)


Back at the Tiny House, the Spiffys once again kicked their kitchen into action, and let me partake of the results: really tasty grilled pork chops with Biff's secret marinade (I don't remember what ingredients he told me are in it, so let's just keep that part secret), and some other stuff I don't remember, now, that I'm writing this a full week after it happened. (Kinda like the Bible in that way… it all happened so long ago that I can't remember, but it goes sorta like this…). All I know is that it was delicious, and I made a pig of myself by shamelessly taking the last pork chop.

We finished the evening off by flipping through one of Biff's old photo albums, featuring photos of him when he had hair and a band. I fondly refer to it as Mullets and Music.

Soon yawns were plentiful again, and I saw that it was time to go. And I secretly think the newlyweds had some boinking to do, so I figured it best that I go, lest they start petting in front of me.

Sunday, after another workout on the treadmill, and cleaning up and packing, I was once again at the Tiny House. Claire had finally made contact, and I promised her I would let her know what our plans were as soon as we made some.

We drove in two cars back to Raleigh, as I would be leaving straight for the airport from there after lunch. We meandered into the depths of downtown and to an Irish pub called Egg-a Nog, or something like that. They had on offer a Sunday brunch buffet. Period. There were no other offerings from the menu, as the buffet apparently taxed the kitchen so mightily that they couldn't possibly fry another egg or corn another beef. Not to worry, however, as the buffet was outstanding. Honestly, theirs was probably the best buffet I've ever had anywhere and, believe me, with as much road time I've put in, I've seen lots of buffets! Again, the food is a blur, but there was sea bass, tortilla soup, eggs benedict, bread pudding… I had way more than that, but just the memory of it alone is sending me into a post-meal stupor.

Claire showed up and had a margarita, and we all had a nice chat until I ruined the party by leaving. Oh, how full of myself I am! But it did break up when I put on my coat, and we all hugged our good-byes on the street corner, only to see Claire nearly get creamed by a Cadillac as she made her way across the street!

My flight through Philadelphia was fairly uneventful, except for the fact that on both legs of the trip I was seated beside an exceptionally large woman who squeezed me by her sheer girth into the aisle against my armrest opposite her. And it wasn't the same woman on each leg.

Monday morning it was back to the routine: workout with George at the ungodly hour, working on photographs for the boss who is increasingly on the warpath as the economy — and our client base — slides deeper into the toilet, and wishing the weekend could have lasted a week.

And it wasn't until Tuesday when I realized that somewhere during the weekend I had misplaced the Chimera softbox, and that it had not come home with me. There went $275 flying out of my pocket!

Ugh! This is long! Oh, well. If you've read this far, thanks! If you've just woken up drooling on your keyboard…sorry!