As another Novemblog comes to a close, I would like to thank everyone who has stopped by to read some of the posts. Apparently, France and the Ukraine are pretty big on tuning in, so, thanks. You're doing some dude in the United States' work. And to everyone who tuned in stateside, well, thanks for stopping by. For once, I'm actually hoping to get this post out before midnight (and thereby keep it as a proper Novemblog). And, unlike previous years where I either went way, way, WAY off the rails with some sort of shaggy dog story with randomly (or not so randomly) capitalized letters, or I just sort of coasted on in with a recap of the stats for the month and just shot for the word limit. I think that I should be in decent shape on the word limit this year, having been roughly 7,700 words shy as of a few days ago and having written at least four posts of at least 1,670 words (leading to at least 6,680 words taken care of (and frankly, probably more than that, since I think that the Thanksgiving post was at least 2,000 words), so if I hit the word count tonight, I should be in excellent shape). this year, though, I actually have something to talk about for the final post, and it's something that I wasn't quite expecting.

I had planned to do something about the nature of endings, and how they're important. I've read several books where the ending is what made it (Catch 22) or broke it (The Light in the Forest), and I really just want a satisfying ending. It doesn't have to wrap much of anything up or be particularly cheery- I just want it to fit thematically and with the characters motivations. The Lady, at least with movies, disagrees strongly and would prefer the endings all be happy. This has led to some differences of opinion with movies we have recently seen. There would have been a post trying to analyze why endings work or don't work, and it probably would have been thoroughly pedantic and sort of blah.

Tonight, though, I'm not going to talk about that (well, any more than I already have). Over the past month, you've probably noticed repeated references to "history's greatest monster." I'll jokingly say that I am, or maybe you prefer that take of The Simpsons and think it to be Jimmy Carter. Maybe there's somebody special in your life who is just the worst and makes everything absolutely terrible (but not in a full on genocide sort of way, because we're not looking to be that much of a downer here tonight). All of these answers are wrong.

Since it's December, it's getting to be the time when there are lots of Christmas specials. Some are undisputed classics (various forms of A Christmas Carol- I tend towards George C. Scott, followed by the Muppets), some are saved by nostaglia (basically anything by Rankin Bass and/or Frosty the Snowman), and some are undisputedly awful (the fabled Star Wars Christmas Special that even George Lucas thought was just too terrible to show). Last year, I went to some friends' house for a Christmas party, and we watched several overall delightful Muppet Christmas specials- namely, the Sesame Street Christmas special (in which Big Bird does a lot of cocaine), A Muppet Christmas Carol (in which Michael Caine does a lot of Michael Caine), and, most importantly, A Muppet Family Christmas. It was in this last one that I found history's greatest monster.

For those of you who haven't seen it, the special begins with the Muppets of The Muppet Show heading to Fozzie's mother's farm for Christmas. Fozzie's mother, meanwhile, is planning to head to Malibu for a nice vacation and is renting out the cottage to Doc and Sprocket (apparently of Fraggle Rock fame), who just want a nice quiet holiday. Yes, this is a bit of a dick move by Fozzie Bear (who justifies it by saying that his mother "loves surprises"), but everyone seems to adjust fairly well to the situation. You get to see the Fraggles, the Sesame Street crowd comes by, the Muppet Babies get introduced through an old home video, Miss Piggy finally arrives (having been held up at a photoshoot by the blizzard), and Jim Henson even makes a very touching (especially in hindsight) cameo.

I'm sorry, there's some... snow in my eye.

All in all, it's a pretty nice Christmas special. So, who in it is history's greatest monster? Is it Oscar with his grouchy ways? Is it Elmo or Grover, who are both pretty great? Is it Sweetums, who is immense and truly a great monster in the old sense of the word? Is it even Doc, who so hates the Fraggles and is pretty curmudgeonly towards the Muppets? No, it's none of them. It's this asshole:

A plaid scarf with aviators is reason enough.

This, dear friends, is The Christmas Turkey. He is lured to Mama Bear's farm by the Swedish Chef, who intends to use him for Christmas dinner. Okay, fine. That's a pretty dick move, Swedish Chef. We get that you're funny and well-liked, but that doesn't mean that you just get to lure a sapient turkey to a farmhouse to kill and eat it. That's some serial killer stuff right there. How can that turkey end up being history's greatest monster?

Oh, keep reading.

See, the turkey is warned by Gonzo that the Chef is probably going to use him for dinner. The Turkey, being just too cool for Muppet school (despite the hand(s) up his ass), brushes him off. When, surprise, surprise, the Chef tries to get him into the oven, The Turkey tries to get out of it. That's certainly not a good reason to be history's greatest monst- oh.

He offers Sprocket (who, remember is Doc's dog) to the Chef and tries to convince him that Sprocket is a turkey. He decides that the proper course of action here is to try to have the kindly old chef kill a dog and feed it to everyone for Christmas dinner. Oh, it gets better/worse.

See, Doc cares about his dog and explains to the Chef that Sprocket is not a turkey (although, hey, maybe Sprocket looks like a Swedish turkey? Add an umlaut to that and you've probably got an IKEA turkey). Good for you, Doc. While this is happening, The Turkey is hitting on Camilla. You know, Gonzo's chicken girlfriend. Let's review.

-Turkey is invited to house by a Chef around Christmas. Unwisely accepts.
-Turkey arrives at house. Is warned by a strange blue something.
-Turkey is about to be cooked. Shifts focus to a dog.
-Turkey makes a move on the strange blue something's girlfriend.

OH IT GETS EVEN BETTER/WORSE.

The poor Chef just wants to make Christmas dinner. He went there with a bunch of his friends and co-workers, and he really just had one job. He wants to do it well. Now there are a bunch of folks from Sesame Street here, and everyone's hungry, and he hasn't even gotten the turkey for Christmas dinner into the oven. This is turning into a disaster, but he can salvage it if he can just get everything started. He corners the little fucker and is getting him ready to go into the oven. I mean, surely this is the end of this annoying little shit, right? He's going into the oven, and yeah, it's going to be dark, but we've all seen The Dark Crystal- Henson was into some pretty dark stuff. It's all over, right?

Well, not quite. The little fucker is nothing if not clever, and he shows the Chef something that would be a better solution to his problem. No, not a vegetarian option or some sort of takeout (which would be unfeasible given the blizzard that's keeping Miss Piggy out of here thus far). He realizes that the Chef just wants him because he's big. So all he needs to do is find a bigger bird. You know, a real Big Bird. He fucking sells out Big Bird to the Chef.

And now you know the Swedish Chef's O-face, and it cannot be unseen.

I mean, what in the actual fuck? This Turkey, this talking bird decides to sell out a different talking bird who is, frankly, much more sympathetic. It's Big Bird, for God's sake. He's an American icon. At least two generations of kids have grown up with Big Bird, and they all love him.

Even when he's on a his annual Christmas cocaine bender.

Thankfully, the oblivious (and rightly so, because why would his Swedish friend try to hurt him? Why would anyone try to hurt Big Bird? This isn't a very special episode in a bicycle shop or with a phony detective or with caffeine pills or with Will's deadbeat dad. This is A Muppet Family Christmas. This Turkey is trying to kill family now.) Big Bird manages to win over the Swedish Chef with chocolate covered birdseed and a song, who decides to serve shredded wheat and cranberry sauce, which Big Bird apparently loves. All is right with the world. Now, it's time for them to figure out that they've been hoodwinked by that fucking Turkey and show him how they administer justice on the street- the Sesame Street, that is.

Burt's going to teach you about the letter pain and the number "OH GOD MAKE IT STOP I'LL DO ANYTHING YOU SAY JUST MAKE IT STOP"

Nope. The Turkey is there with the rest of them (even Gonzo, whom he tried to cuckold not half an hour before), singing carols and being all happy. The Turkey tried to steal Gonzo's girlfriend and tried to get both a dog and friggin' Big Bird killed, and he's off singing carols with the gang.

I'd say that he gets no comeuppance and that he's just a one-off character, but Henson Studios know not to let a puppet go to waste, and they know that their fans are hungry for blood. The turkey has appeared twice more (according to the Muppet Wiki). Once, it's in the Muppet version of "Bohemian Rhapsody," in which he's in the clutches of the Swedish Chef. The other time, he shows up in A Muppet Christmas Carol, being sold by a street vendor. Now, in A Christmas Carol, after Scrooge's epiphany and reclamation, he sends a little urchin boy out to send for the prize turkey at the poulterer's on the next street but one (I may have seen a particular version of A Christmas Carol a few too many times). In most versions, he just sends it to the Cratchits anonymously. To condense it, though, the Muppet version has him go to Bob's house and tell him how he's doubling his salary and all that (in the process, bringing an entourage of other Muppets from throughout the city, which makes dick moves and uninvited guests a theme in Muppet Christmas programming) and then give him the turkey and have a big feast with all the other Muppets. The part of me that believes in justice, the part of me that remembers that Jim Henson so loved to make things dark just under the surface, it looks at that turkey, cooked and sitting on the table, and it approves.

Michael Caine: Delivering justice with a smile.

An Open Letter to the People Of New York City

Dear People of New York City (and perhaps the country at large):

First of all, to get it out of the way, yes, yes, NEW YORK CITY, get a rope, etc. We've all seen that commercial.

Second of all, I want you to know that I am not a bad man. I do not mean any ill will to any individual or the public at large. I do, however, want to clear the air as to what exactly happened and why I have done what I have done.

Let's begin at the beginning, shall we? I have always had an interest in why people do what they do. The idea that formative experiences can affect us and our daily routines and decisions intrigues me and has drawn me towards psychology. Unfortunately, at university, there were not many opportunities to really cultivate that interest. We didn't have a lot of people who worked in the hot button fields like addiction, and I felt that other areas of psychology would be better served by my talents. And, to be sure, I was never the greatest student of the bunch. I did need a few more tries to learn some of the more difficult concepts, and that's probably why I ended up where I did.

As for what I do, well, that is a complicated question. When I interviewed for my job, fresh-faced and looking to make a difference, I had thought, hey, this will be for a few years, and then I'll find something new. There's no shame in being corporate for a little while to ensure that you have the means to do the work that really excites you. I had always wanted to work with the underprivileged. I know that this is basically purely paternalistic colonialism talking, but I felt that I could really show people a better way and get them out of their current situation. I thought I could help them reach a better life. Well, we all have dreams, especially when we're young. I had just married a beautiful young woman. Yes, her family was a bit... well, eccentric is a nice way of putting it, but let's be blunt- there wasn't much of a family to begin with, and her brother was never particularly ambitious. Still, I loved her. But I digress and have taken to rambling. For that, I apologize.

I had been hired to assess the competence of new hires for a retail chain. It was never meant to be anything too detailed. I was just supposed to interview new hires to make sure that they understood what was expected of them and that they were aware of and could perform their duties. And, for years, for longer than I expected, I did only this. My wife stayed at home, and her brother would often stay with us. Since he was the only real family she had, I felt that I should make some effort to provide for him, and the money was good. I stayed in the job and sacrificed my dreams. Only for the moment, you understand. All of this was temporary. But, still, the stress began to get to me. I was biting my nails, compulsively plucking my eyebrows, you know, nervous habits like that.

And so, slowly, to add a bit of flair to the job and to try to help some of the new hires, I would ask them other questions. How were they feeling, was everything okay, how was their home life, was anything worrying them. I wanted to make sure they were okay. I wanted to help them, to, in some small way, follow my dreams. And, in my way, I did. There was a young man, a janitor. He was a nice young man, and he meant well. He helped at a local boys' club and would give out toys during the holidays. At the same time, he was 17. Surely he had other friends, family, somebody to spend the holidays with? His altruism, noble though it was, fascinated me. I wanted to understand why, so I would take time out of my day to talk to him after lunch. I think we were really making some progress.

Then, all of a sudden, I was asked to perform a psychological evaluation of a new hire. I mean, I wasn't entirely trained for this, but it was still a great opportunity. I had the chance to show everyone what I could do, what I could be. I was understandably a bit nervous. And, you know, aside from a few missteps (e.g., claiming that John Quincy Adams' vice president was Daniel D. Tompkins instead of John Calhoun. Tompkins was Monroe's vice president, but that's rather obscure history and is, in my semi-professional opinion, an easy mistake to make), he was answering all of the questions pretty well. The problem, though, was that he was too familiar with the whole process. I know that shouldn't be a huge red flag, but I feel that if somebody has had to go through multiple psychological evaluations, then that's a sign that there's something amiss. And, like I said, I was a bit nervous. Him anticipating questions and asking me about my personal life was only putting me less at ease. And, yes, I snapped a bit. That was uncalled for, but he clearly had some signs of delusional behavior. He was charming, but there was clearly something not quite right.

I said as much to my bosses. They had brought in his doctor, though, who said that everything was fine and that he wasn't dangerous. Well, that's being generous. The doctor said my entire conclusion was wrong and that this fellow was really okay. I mean, if they wanted his opinion, maybe they should have just asked him to begin with instead of making me waste my time. Maybe this fellow really was a good guy. Maybe, though, the doctor was just charmed by his cult of personality. Maybe, as I found out later, the fellow had bribed the doctor by making a gift of some expensive medical equipment. But, hey, the doctor had his say, and this guy was clearly good with children, so maybe it was all okay. I shouldn't worry about it, right?

Fast forward a few months. He comes into my office, and, following a brief discussion of the young man volunteering at the boys' club, he decides that the way to deal with me is by hitting me in the head with a cane. True, he was a rather old fellow, but it still hurt. And, yes, I took a bit of a dive. I had just been assaulted by someone who was clearly at least somewhat delusional and was now proving to be dangerous. I wasn't going to stand idly by and say that my head felt fine and let him go. I made a judgment call, and while it may not have been the most ethical in itself, I think that I was acting for the greater good. I went to his bosses, and we worked to have him committed. Well, that was what happened. We wanted him to be evaluated again, by someone who was better trained than I was and more impartial than his doctor. This time, he failed the evaluation. Case closed, right?

The head of my company had taken a shine to the lunatic. He told me that I had to make this all go away. I was assaulted, and now I was being pressured to make this all go away. Okay, fine, I figured I'd talk to the judge and just get the whole matter dropped. No harm, no foul. Well, I'm not a lawyer. I was too late and didn't realize that a hearing had to happen. I didn't want this to be too public, if only to spare everyone's feelings and reputations. It was the holidays, for pete's sake. Nobody wants to spend the holidays in court. Then everything went wrong.

See, the lunatic had hired a glory-hound attorney. He went ahead and decided to make the whole thing into a media circus. The judge, who could have thrown the whole thing out, decided to actually hear out the ridiculous case for political reasons. The head of my company was a witness and probably perjured himself and then fired me. Me! I was just trying to keep the kids safe from this maniac who assaulted me with a cane! Oh, and it gets better. The defense called the D.A.'s son to the stand and pretty much guilted him into accepting their reasoning for their client's sanity. Add in some lazy postal employees just trying to get rid of some dead letters, and suddenly the lunatic is the fucking paragon of sanity.

Pardon my language. This fiasco ruined me, and I haven't been quite the same since.

Let me ask you something. If there were a grown woman who went around in a tutu and fake wings giving children money for their teeth, you'd think that there were something wrong with her, right? If an Irish dwarf started running around with a pot of gold, that wouldn't be normal, would it? Or an archer wearing a loincloth shooting people in the heart in February? Should a jolly old man who hits people in the head with a cane and promises small children real estate be considered sane and, worse, be permitted to earn a living hanging around children? Of course not! Well, why does that all change when he says that he's Santa Claus?

I'm sorry. I know he's given you all so much joy. I just. My life is in shambles right now. My wife hates me, her layabout brother antagonizes me at every turn, I lost my job, and I can't even follow my dreams anymore. I don't want anyone else to get hurt by this monster. I just want to keep the children safe.

You haven't fooled me, you sick son of a bitch.

Sincerely,

Granville Sawyer

Formerly of the Macy's Department of Human Resources

Oh, Hey, Look Who's A Film Critic Now

Welcome back to another night of blogging on the phone rather than an actual computer from the drawer bed. I'd rename this "Behind Closed Drawers," but the drawer has to be open for me to actually sleep in it, and I don't want to lie to you guys.

Today has been filled with a whole lot of nothing. We sat around for most of the day, and then there was a brief walk to dinner (followed by me going on a longer walk while calling The Lady, because there is little quite like a walk in an unfamiliar city when it's cold outside) and a watching of Freaks (and later Say Yes to the Dress, which a.) makes me glad I'll only have to deal with tuxes and won't have to deal with family members trying to dominate what I wear and dictate how much skin I should or should not be showing, b.) recognize that most of the folks working at bridal shops are absolute saints for being able to put up with customers and families who are that demanding and awful, and c.) remember that they're charging thousands of dollars for a dress that really is only going to be worn once and making it into this big to do. Thankfully, there was one family that had a very reasonable "I don't care how she looks as long as she feels good about it" sort of dad whose daughter shot down the dress because it was too expensive, even though her dad was totally willing to pay for it. It was surreal. Clearly I have strong opinions about my experience watching Say Yes to the Dress. But we won't talk about that. We'll get to the actual topic in a minute. I know, you're dying of anticipation right now, which is probably a pretty awful way to go. I'm also pretty sure that I've kept this parenthetical going on for way too long, because that is just how I do.).

For those of you who have not seen Freaks, it's a pretty decent movie, and you should give it a shot. For those of you who are completely unfamiliar with Freaks, let me give you a rundown. There's a circus, and among its acts (a strong man, and allegedly beautiful trapeze artist, a wacky but lovable clown, and a cute seal trainer who falls in love with the wacky but lovable clown), there is a freakshow. The studio cast actual sideshow performers in the various roles, so you have several dwarfs, amputees/folks who were born without certain limbs, a bearded lady, etc. Some fun facts about the cast: the bearded lady (Madame Olga/Jane Barnell) was vocally against the film after its release due to the portrayal of sideshow performers, which seems to miss the point of the movie somewhat. Also, Hans and Frieda (two of the main dwarfs) were somewhat written as love interests but were siblings in real life, which explains some of the rather stilted interactions that they have.

Anyway, back to the plot. Hans, a dwarf,  has a thing for Cleopatra, the allegedly beautiful trapeze artist. She has a thing for Hercules, the strongest man in the world, but takes advantage of Hans' generosity and wealth. Frieda (the love interest played by the sister, or as I'll henceforth call it, the reverse Leia) sees what Cleopatra is doing and understandably takes umbrage. She pleads for Cleopatra to stop and lets slip that Hans has inherited a fortune. Cleopatra (encouraged by Hercules) decides to go full on black widow on Hans. He and the other Freaks realize what's going on, and they set out to fuck her up, because if you mess with one of us, you mess with all of us.

Anyway, the thing I wanted to talk about comes from the scene where Hans and the Freaks confront Cleopatra. They're all in one of the circus wagons, and Hans tells Cleopatra that the gig is up. They cut to a dwarf taking out and polishing a switchblade before cutting to another dwarf who takes out a handgun and polishes it. Weapons always need a good polishing- it makes the killing go faster. Anyway, yeah, when you get a literal description, it loses a lot, but in the actual film? It's genuinely menacing. It would probably be menacing, even with "normal" actors instead of dwarfs. What's interesting to me is that you can't really pull off menacing in movies anymore. The fact that I can put in that description of the actual events from the movie just proves my point.

Real menace can be hard to pull off to begin with just because, deep down, you know it's all fictional. No matter how well the scene is staged, no matter how well the actors act, no matter how well the director directs, no matter how well the cinematographer cinematographs, it's neither easy nor trivial to get past the knowledge that it's all fiction.

More than that, though, menace has been defused by comedy. Everything the dwarfs did in Freaks by polishing their weapons has been recreated ad nauseum and almost belongs more in a Will Ferrell movie than in a horror movie. I mean, the concept behind the action makes a lot of sense. There is a clear threat being made, but nobody is verbally making the threat. It is absolutely clear what will happen of demands remain unmet (even though the gun never gets fired, much to Chekov's dismay). You don't do what I want? You're going to get hurt. It ends up being akin to the old, "Oh, hey, just waking around the neighborhood all casual and normal-like. I noticed your house. It's a really nice house. Sounds like you drive a nice car to a nice job to support your nice kids who have their whole lives ahead of them. It would be an absolute shame if anything were to happen to them,  such as various forms of mob-related violence for example as I speak purely hypothetically." Except that whole statement itself (even boiled down to purer forms) is vaguely comedic. The iconic example of that particular threat is probably the dude in the whitish suit in The Untouchables, and his menace was undercut by his wardrobe (because eggshell is not a great color for a three piece suit in the 20s) and his general appearance and demeanor. Most of the nonverbal menacing poses have been subverted in comedies, which just makes them harder to take seriously in horror movies.

Another big aspect that has gotten lost is the presence of the actor. In Game of Thrones, Charles Dance is Twin Lannister, and they play up how menacing he can be for all it's worth (if only to make it that much stranger when he doesn't get to be menacing in a given scene). Charles Dance is tall, has an imposing face, and has a pretty commanding baritone voice. He gets to be pretty intimidating, as do several other members of the cast. On the other hand, you have Emilia Clarke, who plays Danaerys. She has dragons, horsed berserkers, an army of the finest soldiers in the world, and legions of untrained slaves. Okay, fine, she gets those things eventually, but even without all of it, she's got the berserkers and the dragons for pretty much the entire season. And every time she makes a threat, it falls woefully flat. Part of that is that she over threatens people, so any given threat loses its impact, despite the reality of dragons and the reputation of the berserkers in universe. But because the threats are made by an unassuming little blonde with a somewhat high-pitched voice, it's hard to take her menace seriously. And, no, it's not just a "Game of Thrones hates women" thing, because Maisie Williams, Michelle Fairley,  and Lena Headey (mmm Lena Headey) do pull of some pretty chilling moments of intimidation.

What's interesting to me is that what works for menacing now is the entirely unpredictable. I feel like unpredictable menace could not work in the 30s,  partly because the tropes we expect from film (that the unpredictable subverts) weren't established well enough yet and partly because audiences weren't ready for that sort of character. Heath Ledger as The Joker is a great exanple. His introduction basically consists of him convincing everyone he's working with to kill each other. He goes to a mob meeting and impales a goon with a pencil. Throughout the movie, you sense that he has some sort of plan, but it unfolds so slowly and so chaotically that you feel a sort of unease because you can't be sure. Another great example is Rosamund Pike in Gone Girl. Everything she does is meant to be planned out meticulously and effectively, but you don't know what her plan is. Yes, she is methodical, but her plans start over fairly petty offenses, and she manages to improvise fairly well throughout the movie. Ultimately, I guess it's not a such about the unpredictable as it is the person who knows SOMETHING but you can't tell exactly what it is or why it's important.

That sort of uneasy menace is great, and it definitely serves a purpose with the right sort of character. However, I'd like to see the old school sort of menace, the menace that arises with a clear and nearby goal rather than the menace that comes from grand, unknown plans and insanity. I want to see the avenging supporting character in the backseat of the car. I want to see someone sharpening a knife just before the fade to black. I want to see a character with a simple and tangible goal (sorry, Heath, no chaos for the sake of chaos) who relishes the moment before its attainment. Yes, it's cheesy, yes, it's poor villainy, but are they being menacing to scare their victim or to convince themselves of what needs to be done? Or do they know that they can't be stopped anymore and cam finally tip their hand?

Yet Another Righteous Chronicling

Well, here we are once again, working on the phone from the drawer bed. There was talk of wireless Internet this year, but despite the password, no internets could be obtained. Truly, this is a momentous and abject failure on the part of one Rob for being unable to properly find and connect to the internet. His game on picking up internet clearly needs work.

Yet again, it is Thanksgiving. You may have guessed this from the drawer bed and the lack of wireless Internet (leading to the bland and pictureless blog posts), along with what will hopefully be a relative earliness of posting (with no offense (or shall I say offence) to the Earl of Posting, who is surely honorable and in no way in collusion with the damnable papists attempting to usurp the royal autnority). It also feels like I'm posting from the back of a Volkswagen,  because between the charger angle and everything, it is pretty uncomfortable.

Anyway, onward to a chronicling of the day's events. Well, after I go ahead and pass out for eight hours, at least. That seems like an appropriate thing to do.

As with last year, you can't tell your players without a program.

Young Master Jehan- a student recovering from a recent battle with the consumption. May meet his end at the hands of a love-crazed hunchback and symbolize an abrupt shift in the work's tone.
Herr Meistersinger- master mixologist. Generally affable, but, when crossed, will straight up hand you your ass.
Madame Dionysia- curator of the finest wines, be they in bottle or box. Is notably not driving this evening.
The Sister of the Endless Voyage- world traveler and connoisseur of the exotic. Has adventured to the lost city of Xanadu and escaped its caves of ice, though she has dined on honeydew and drunk the milk of paradise.
Dimitra Kaufmann- the host of the day. A mighty huntress and a mightier chef. Regularly tames wild beasts for the funsies.
Robin and Goodfellow- the animal companions of Dimitra. Their natural curiosity and penchant for mischief is matched only by their love of naps. Secretly insurrectionsts against the dominance of Dimitra.
Mr. Sands- the mysterious but erstwhile companion of Dimitra. Known to have spent several years in Belgian insurgent groups. First name unknown. Capable of being summoned by song.
Angel Jillian- A new friend of Dimitra and Sands. Mightily voiced. Exists outside of time.

The day, taking a bit of a holiday (because it is Thanksgiving, after all), begins at 12:45. Robin and Goodfellow recline on Dimitra's pillows, awaiting the opportune moment to rise up and reassert their dominance, perhaps by sitting on that chair you were going to use or coming over and walking all over your keyboard, because you weren't using that anyway, were yogucnejflajfrlskekfkfkemfk? Jehan, Meistersinger, Dionysia, and The Sister arrive,  bearing a veritable cellar of wine and several fish that Meistersinger plucked from a raging river in a fit of pique. Goodfellow, being the more experienced of the two, goes forth to investigate the commotion. Several large objects have begun to fill their domain. This will not do. The time for revolution is nigh. Goodfellow, in a mighty leap, scales the walls to the height of these newfound obstructions. Dimitra is distracted by her guests. Now is the time to strike! Alas, these new guests are prepared for Good fellow's assault. It is repelled, but she recalls the sickliness of Young Master Jehan. She flicks a bit of dander into his face to incite a coughing fit. However, Jehan is a wall to her advances. She rejoins her comrade Robin to bide their time.

Dimitra and The Sister approach Robin and begin to shower her with praise. This will not do, thinks Goodfellow. Robin is in collusion with the bourgeoisie for belly rubs. Why can I not have belly rubs? Such enemies of the revolution will be the first up against the wall.

Goodfellow is lured forth once again by the smell of fish over an open flame. Goodfellow remembers the thrill of the hunt and the joy of a freshly caught fish. These memories serve only to incite new mischief. She emerges, and seeing the Dionysia has gone, Meistersinger is occupied with the preparation of the fish, Dimitra and The Sister are entranced by tamed wolves parading along the glowing box of stories, and Jehan spreads cheeses upon crusts of bread, seeing all that, Goodfellow begins to test the weaknesses in these interlopers' defenses. She rubs her back along a post and playfully bats a tablecloth. These capitalist swine are clearly too occupied by their luxuries to notice the revolution at their doorstep, she thinks as she begins the ascent to topple these trappings of Dimitra's dominance. But these capitalist swine are tricksy, and her ascent is blocked by chairs pushed under the table. Truly, this enemy cares nothing for fair play. To add insult to injury, a flower has fallen into her water bowl. Will these injustices ever end? She scratches an office chair in protest.

Meanwhile,  Dionysia has returned, and the fish has been prepared. The people, ravenous from repelling such adorable assaults, tuck into the delightful dish whilst imbibing a delightful libation of brandy and champagne. A desultory meow is heard without. On the glowing box, a bloodhound and a samoyed have won baubles for their owners. There is much rejoicing, and Goodfellow uses the commotion to steal a chair in protest.

But, dear reader, where are Sands and Angel? Surely they have not lost their way and are aware of the time? Alas, existing outside of time, Angel was not aware of the potential tardiness, and was singing a verse or two amongst the heavens as Sands looks on. But lo, Meistersinger bellows the summoning song of Sands, and they arrive presently. Libations and fish are provided, and the party eases into a winish swagger. There is talk of adventures past to faraway lands, such as decadent Atlantis, pristine El Dorado, and maddening Ry'leh. Even Goodfellow is placated by the merriment (or so it seems) and does not begrudge the guests a few belly rubs.

Suddenly, the door to the icebox opens and a bottle of wine comes tumbling out. Clearly Goodfellow has been up to her old tricks! Thankfully, the bottle is stopped by furious pelvic thrusting by Jehan (a skill acquired at a Tibetan sanitarium where bottles of wine regularly fall, agitated by the constant coughing). The celebrations continue. To honor the occasion,  Dionysia shares a ribald tale of a newborn Jehan baptizing women with a constant stream of urine. Jehan is unamused.

To document such a singular occasion, and feeling loosened by the judicious conjuring of spirits by Meistersinger, a selfie is taken. Nobody can agree on who should take it, and people of various arm lengths attempt to seize the honor of immortalizing such an event. The chaos makes what should have been a triumph into a debacle.

To nurse their wounds, Sands and Jehan prepare restoratives infused with potent medicines to ward off infection. Meanwhile,  Angel is introduced to this chronicle of the yearly feast. Much criticism is made of the author forgetting his laptop's power cord, despite having remedied the situation through a bargain with Meistersinger.

The tension is broken with the distribution of the restoratives. Meistersinger, Dionysia, and The Sister expound upon the discovery of this particular restorative amongst the native Egyptians, who accepted them as their own. Unnoticed by the guests, Robin has emerged and is perched upon a chair. "These seats belong to the revolution now, sister,"  she says to Goodfellow, who reclines like a mighty meat loaf upon the nearby chair.

The feast begins in earnest with a soup of the finest autumnal gourds and the opening of an immense bottle of dry sparkling wine. Lesser livers would cry out in protest, but these guests are the gods of a new age. To honor she occasion, thanks are given. Each subsequent guest gives thanks for greater and greater things. The roof over their heads, their regular diversions, their riches, their growing fame, the stars in the skies, the heavens themselves, the very act of creation are discussed in this blasphemous contest of thanksgiving. Angel sings a divine aria, Meistersinger devises cocktails that reveal the nature of man, Dionysia produces bottles of unceasing wine, Dimitra tames mighty lions, The Sister produces a map of lost cities, Sands brings democracy to Belgium, and Jehan finally defeats that fucking hunchback.

As the soup is consumed, the conversation fittingly moves to the arts and alcohol. The merits of modern musicians are discussed and defended by the younger members of the table. The wine continues to flow, albeit somewhat more slowly than before. Jehan quaffs more prosecco and is counseled to temper his thirst, lest he soar too high and be brought low. Fresh from his victory against the monstrous hunchback, Jehan pays this warning no heed.

A mighty bird has been slain and roasted for this occasion. Meistersinger peels it's meat from its bones for proper serving. Dimitra and Dionysia find places for root vegetables, a fruit purée, and sprouts offered to Sands by a gratefully liberated Belgian populace. Jehan pours fine French wine for those at table. As plates are filled, the conversation ceases, replaced by welcome nourishment and, yes, more wine as Jehan continues his foolhardy mithridatism.

As a course of sweet pastries and cakes is served, the conversation turns to the judgment of mere mortals by these new gods. So powerful and judgmental is the subject that it will not be reproduced here. Simply know that, were they at the table, lesser mortals would have felt just really awkward about the whole topic.

The dessert finished and wines quaffed, the crowd disperses. The Sister retires to dream of new adventures in undiscovered lands. Meistersinger and Dionysia repair to a newly rented room. Sands and Angel prepare themselves for the long trek to their native lands. Robin and Goodfellow, their revolution again thwarted by internal conflict, prepare to fight another day. Dimitra retires to sleep the sleep of a mighty hunter. And Jehan rests, safe at last from his fate at Notre Dame, as a hunched frame darkens his threshold.

Well. This is happening.

I managed to forget to bring my laptop charger with me, so we're stuck with the phone for tonight (and likely the weekend as a whole). Hurrah.

I had been hoping to regale (ha, see what I did there? Total title pun right there. I'm here all weekend. Please tip your servers.)  you with exciting tales of driving insanity, but a.) the drive to my parents' house is incredibly boring, and b.) despite the increased volume due to it being the day before Thanksgiving, there weren't many noticeably bad drivers out there. What's this world coming to when decent people can't even gossip about fellow drivers doing incredibly stupid shit? I thought this was America. Clearly it is not actually America. I appear to have been misinformed in this regard and instance.

Of course, not having a laptop also somewhat shoots my backup plan (i.e., moving on to the poster and trailer synopsis of Leprechaun 3, which is apparently Warwick Davis' favorite Leprechaun movie. The fact that Leprechaun 3 has reportedly received a rating of zero percent fresh from Rotten Tomatoes further cements that Warwick Davis is a terrible person and is contention with me for the title of History's Greatest Monster) right in the kneecap. Not even around it, either. The bullet hit a few tendons, but it's also lodged just right there in the patella. It is pretty well disabled right now.

However,  let's see what some copying and pasting from other articles can do for us tonight. Around now is where I'd try to include a funny picture or gif (probably of the Office Space guys beating the circuits out of the terrible office printer, and probably with an attempted zinger for the caption (like, "anticipated audience reaction), because I'm wacky like that), but, again, laptop isn't going to make it this weekend, so we're relying on my capacity to type on a small keyboard and lack of understanding of copying, lasting, or even highlighting while using a smart phone. I can't even count my words. Truly this is the worst.

Anyway, while I was living and loving and losing in France, I noticed a list which I am certain (good Lord did my phone want to capitalize "certainty") was viewed as some sort of parenting gospel by Bev. It was also among the worst things I have ever read. It was a refrigerator magnet (or a list turned into a refrigerator magnet) detailing tips for dealing with teenage boys as a mother. These were tips like, "Don't talk to him about the future. Talk to him about love. That's what interests him." My mom is a lovely person, and she is an intelligent and reasonable person. I bring this up because Bev was seldom any of these traits. That said, if my mom had tried to use that strategy on me, I would probably need a crutch to walk around because I would have gnawed off my leg to get out of there. I had an awkward enough time freshman year of college when both of my parents decided to reiterate that I should always use condoms in separate conversations in uniquely terrible ways at a time during which I was not sexually (seriously, phone? You don't recognize the world "sexually" and suggest "sexy ally?" You are being just terrible tonight.) active. Hell, I had a conversation with my dad that consisted of, "You don't have a girlfriend. You're sixteen. I think you'll just be much happier if you have a girlfriend." Maybe? I also have other things going on, and how did we get on this topic again? I'm asking so I can be sure to avoid whatever triggered this conversation in the future. If Bev had come at me talking about love (romantic love, that is, as opposed to love for the planet or our fellow men, which she certainly did try to talk about with me, during which time she disparaged vaccines and maintained that modern medicine is a mafia), especially when I was a teenager, I would have walked right on out the door and kept going straight until morning.

I say all of this because I think I have finally come across a list with even worse advice. This is brought to you by a Facebook status that read: "for all my parent-friends: this is a good read if you want to be an effective mentor in their lives" (no, he didn't put a period at the end, nor did he deign to capitalize anything). This is from "25 alternatives to 'What'd you learn at school today?'" I would provide a link, but it says I have to select text, at which point it no longer gives me the option to insert a hyperlink. Oh, Blogger app. How inadequate you are. Anyway, here's the list.

1. When did you notice yourself most interested and curious today?
2. Was there a time today when you were especially confused? How did you respond?
3. What is one thing that was hard to believe? Not confusing, but surprising?
4. If you were more ____ today, how would it have impacted the day?
5. When were you most creative today?
6. Tell me one fun thing you learned, one useful thing you learned, and one extraordinary thing you learned.
7. What does a successful day at school look like to you? Feel like?
8. What sort of different reasons do your friends go to school?
9. Who worked harder today, the teacher or the students?
10. How else could you have learned what the teacher taught?
11. How do your teachers show they care?
12. What do you know, and how do you know it?
13. What would you like to know more about?
14. What is the most important thing you learned today? The least?
15. Tell me one chance you took today, and how it ended up.
16. What is one thing you learned from a book?
17. What is one thing you learned from a friend?
18. What is one thing you learned from a teacher?
19. What still confuses you?
20. What is something you say or heard that stuck with you for some reason?
21. Based on what you learned today in ______ class, what do you think you’ll learn tomorrow?
22. Tell me three facts, two opinions, and one idea you heard today.
23. What should you do with what you’ve learned?
24. When did you surprise yourself today?
25. What’s stopping you from being an (even more) amazing learner?

I can respect what this list is trying to do. When my parents would ask me what I learned at school, I would tend to grunt and smack in their direction and be a generally sullen teenager. The article wants to enable parents to be positive mentors in their kids' lives. That, I can get behind. I can even respect the use of specific but open-ended questions, but pretty much every one of those questions sounds like it belongs in a doctor's office more than on a car ride home. And, yeah, I get it, I'm not a parent and I don't really work with kids, so I'm not an authority on any of these subjects. That said, I do remember really not wanting to answer the "What did you learn today?" question, mostly because answering it would take a lot of effort to go through what was learned throughout the day and whether or not I actually wanted to share it at the risk that it might continue on to a more extensive and in depth discussion when all I wanted was to finish dinner and get back to instant messenger and playing video games. All of the questions from that list seem to have the same problem. They're trying to make you think, which is great and all, but kids (should) do plenty of that at school, and they probably just want a break when they get home.

Frankly, all of these questions are too open-ended. They're right in the principle that kids and teenagers like to talk. Teenagers love to talk (even about school), but the authors are wrong to assume that teens want to talk to their parents. The authors are trying to be clever and design questions that can give the most possible information with minimal queries. That is WAY too clinical (to the point that I would strongly suspect that it's psychiatrists and psychologists writing this, which in hindsight would probably be a pretty reasonable assumption anyway), and it'll make kids clam up for the same reason they go silent after being asked what they learned. I would rather see questions that are more discrete and based on something that's happening. Questions like, "What class is that for?" leading to "What are you studying?" to "How's that going?" Yes, it's more work to ask more questions and stay engaged rather than just remembering tricks from a list. Yes, it's possible that the kid will clam up anyway. That is a thing that happens. Deal with it. Some kids want their privacy, some kids will want to share everything,  and almost all kids will switch between those two attitudes, and that's their prerogative. They are becoming actual people (even if they're not real people until at least 22 or 23, because everyone needs at least one good ego-breaker before they're ready to face the world), so they have some degree of autonomy (even if it's not legal yet and should not be legal yet, because teenagers make terrible, terrible decisions).

If you want to be a good mentor, you need to lead by example. Yes, you need to stay involved, but there's only so much involvement a kid can take. More importantly, you need to challenge them to do even better. I actually got really hopeful when I read one of the questions that was phrased with an "even better." It gives encouragement both for what has been done and what can be done, and I think that's the core of good mentoring. The question they gave wasn't awful- it's important to find what's holding you back, but I think it's more effective as an implicit exercise than as an explicit question. Instead, trying to show kids what the next step up is (for example, arithmetic to basic algebra to higher concepts) and showing them that there's always more to learn, and it's all pretty cool.

Well, maybe calling it cool is the wrong call if you're a parent.

Look, this is really just filler. You might as well skip it, because it's just meta filler. I'm sorry. The stat post had to happen sometime.

You know what we haven't talked about yet this year? The Novemblog stats. Also, as a note to those who don't read linearly, my battery has now dropped to 9 minutes. This will become relevant later, sort of. Well, it will be relevant, but it certainly won't be important. Its relevance will only be because I mention it. I am a god among my blog's content. Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair. Anyway, we should go ahead and talk about the Novemblog statistics so I can make sure I'm doing right by you guys in terms of word counts and the like.

Yeah, it's a pretty bad idea.

Returning readers to the Novemblog experience (Are you Novemsperienced?) remember that around this time of year, I tend to do at least one post about statistics for the month thus far. Usually it ends up being around the fifteenth, which I suppose is when I tend to lose motivation much of the time (although this month I was either talking about P.T., which was an okay post, I guess, or about how "It's Thanksgiving" is really a retelling of Lord of the Flies, which I thought was a pretty solid post).

"Fancy thinking the beast was something you could hunt and kill! You knew, didn't you? You knew, didn't you? I'm part of you? Close, close, close! I'm the reason why it's no go? Why things are what they are?"

However, having missed a few posts and with the Thanksgiving holiday approaching (meaning that I'll have minimal wireless internet access and will thus be on my phone and have little access to word counter software, potentially leading to shorter posts), I wanted to take stock of the situation. So, without further ado, here are some important tidbits- well, useful bits of information- well, true- stories- well, okay, fine, facts. Their importance, utility, and veracity may be disputed at any time.

I guess that was a bit of ado, wasn't it?

Anyway, so far in November, I have written twenty-three posts (which will be twenty-four with this one). This means that I have missed one day in Novemblog, and that day was duly noted. Had I made up that post, we might certainly be in a different situation than we are today. Everything could be different. Everything is not different, though, because I didn't make that post. This must be distinctly understood, or else nothing wonderful may come of the tale I am about to relate.

Charles Dickens: The original gonzo journalist.

Novemblog requires fifty thousand words over the course of November for an attempt to be considered successful. Of those fifty thousand words, I have (before the writing of this post) written 42,559 words. For those who are interested, that's 238,042 characters, which is up there with Les Misérables for total characters (because, see, Victor Hugo wrote a lot of individual characters. It's supposed to be a pun. I'm having trouble subverting the joke by explaining it. You win again, puns.). If I take out the spaces and other science fiction stuff (because nobody respects science fiction anyway unless your last name is Clarke or Asimov), the character drops down to 197,098. Interestingly, only three of these characters are named, and none of them are named in this text. None of these three is the protagonist. How avant garde.

Because there have been 23 posts, the average words per post is 1,850.4 (roughly, because dividing into 23 makes things awkward, as it is large and ungainly despite being... in its prime! Ha ha, the puns, they are going to be flying fast and furiously tonight).

Just like the cars in the Fast and the Furious franchise!

If we account for the fact that there is (theoretically) a 24th post that consists of zero words and zero characters, then the average word count (that is, the average word count per day) is 1,773.291666666666... etc. This means that, despite having taken a night off from Novemblog, I am still on track to hit fifty thousand with some words to spare. Which words, you ask? Well, I am partial to lugubrious. I'm also a fan of transcranial magnetic stimulation, even though it feels like somebody is snapping a rubber band in your sinuses.

In terms of word density, the top two (according to wordcounter.net, which I think may be ommitting prepositions and articles but including stuff from image links, which may be artificially inflating my word counts, but don't tell anyone that because this is just how we're gonna roll tonight. In fact, I have no idea what you're talking about. What are you accusing me of? Why do I keep using propositions to end my sentences with?) words being used are "pretty" and "time." I'm sure that this could be used to underscore how my blog is paradoxically obsessed with both the worldly and the philosophical, but I think that lends itself to comparisons with Jaden and Willow Smith, which frankly sounds pretty awful. I don't know if my heart could take that kind of stress and disappointment.

Also, I would like to clarify something about how I have been doing the word counts. I have gone into each post and copied the body of the post and pasted it into the little text box on wordcounter.net. Although this does include the hyperlink text as words, it does not count the titles of the posts, which adds a little bit to the word count. Even though the titles do not add nearly as many words to the posts as my image hyperlink text, admitting this fact to you has given me the moral high ground, upon which I intend to establish a base of command and a group of artillery ready to fire when commanded, because nobody is going to take this high ground from me. You hear that? Nobody.

By combining the moral high ground with the army of unnamed space characters mentioned above, the resulting army may be used to lay waste to cities far and wide, resulting in an empire that will outlast all those living today. However, as time goes by, a young man  (or woman) will yearn for frredom. He (or She) will do little to achieve said freedom, but stories will be told to the children and grandchildren. Eventually, a hero will rise to overthrow the space characters and usher in an age of unparalleled scientific regression. We're talking straight up "I'm going into a Whole Foods" levels of stupidity and inanity,

On an unrelated note, Rob's eyes are not staying open, so if there are any odd typos (usually a misplaced space or an extra letter here or there), then that is why. Sleep deprivation is a cruel mistress, but she's such a manic pixie dream girl that you get intrigued. It's like, "Hey, you can do whatever you want! Let's go dance in the rain without shoes!" and then in the second act you're dying of pneumonia in the hospital, and all of this could have been avoided if you had done what all of our ancestors did when it rained and SOUGHT OUT SHELTER. I mean, come on. This is not rocket science, guys.

Rob is working on his laptop, and, having forgotten his charger tonight, he is currently at around 20 minutes of battery life remaining. The laptop is laggy under the best of circumstances, but adding in a time component and battery issues cannot end well. Also, having a laggy laptop with internet access is a superior option to the phone, because I still haven't figured out adding pictures while in the phone. Surely it can be done. But, anyway, yes, 20 minutes (more or less) of battery life. We now have a ticking clock. Time to get the fastest five hundred words that I can muster.

I'm sure that I could dig up some vaguely interesting statistics regarding the timing of my posts and correlate that with creativity or quality of writing (based on metrics such as self-satisfaction, vocabulary, and typos) and that these statistics would be incredibly enlightening for my sleep schedule and how it affects my ability to work. Right now, it is putting quite a damper on my ability to get through all of this (as partly evidenced by my obscenely vague use of "this" before this parenthetical. I mean, come on. Get your shit together, Rob. It might be interesting to see the times at which each post was published, but I can all but assure you that pretty much all of these posts were written, at least in part, in the dead of night. This has led to a bit of sleep deprivation and the nosedive in motivation, performance, and critical reasoning. Normally, I'd put a pithy remark here (possibly about David Hassehoff (which took at least three tries to spell somewhat correctly, and I am not convinced that I hit it properly that time)), but good heavens, I cannot keep my eyes open right now. We're down to fourteen minutes of battery. It's going to take some pretty fast typing to beat this clock. Can Rob do it?

I think it's entirely possible. I mean, let's face it. This was padding before Thanksgiving. It's the filler episode before the climactic end of the season fight against whoever has been terrorizing the heroes all season long. And this time, the real villain is... well, it's ultimately time, isn't it? We all get older, our skin wrinkles, we lost our muscles and our good looks, our batteries start dying on us, and our kids are moving away. You can try to fight time with fancy cars or younger love interests, but then you're either being seen as skeevy (whether or not all rich old guys are or not- maybe it was true love this time) or you end up being the cast of Sex in the City and... I don't know. I had another movie in mind. It's not there anymore.

Well, good news. I just went up to the top of the entry and added in that first paragraph, which you've long read by now, and it put me just over the word limit! I'm sure this sentence is helping a bit as well. Now, I need to sleep so I can be effective in lab tomorrow.

Oooh, poor picture choice.

It's currently around 9:36 P.M., and I am on the laggy laptop. Oh, laggy laptop. How I long for the days when you weren't laggy and McAffee didn't constantly try to bombard me with messages about how my subscription has expired and therefore I need to buy things from you. Oh, McAffee. You don't even know.

More importantly, I have not yet eaten dinner, but I am currently working on remedying that (well, honestly, I'm currently typing, but the dinner part is next). I'm trying to make some sort of vaguely Mexican themed omelette (i.e., onions, peppers, garlic, pepper Jack cheese, and some cheddar), and it will probably not end well. It'll be okay, I guess. Worst case, I'll have some scrambled eggs to work with. Whatever, man. It could be worse.

More importantly, even when compared to the previous paragraph (I know- we're just raising the stakes all over the place right now) [OMELETTE UPDATE: The omelette actually came out fairly well. I went overboard on toppings, but I did manage to fold it and get it out of the skillet without it entirely breaking. It tastes pretty good, although some ham or sausage would have really helped it out.], I'm feeling rather like baking tonight. Now, normally it would be a terrible idea for me to start baking this late, but, I mean, I'm going to be up for Novemblog writing anyway, so I might as well kill two birds with one stone by talking about the baking for tonight's post. Furthermore, both The Lady and my roommate are sticking around Charleston for Thanksgiving, so I figure that I should hook them up with something to eat while I'm gone. Having now finished the omelette, I can assure you that this is a terrible idea that will end in tears and recriminations. Let's watch.

But before we get to our regularly scheduled programming, let's take about an hour and a half to talk to the roommate, who is FAR more accepting of baked goods than Bev was. Oh, Bev. Now, in that hour and a half, I did manage to prepare the batter and assemble both cheesecakes for the evening. Did I not mention that? Yeah, I'm making cheesecakes. Both are double-layer pumpkin cheesecakes, with one having regular cheesecake batter and the other having chocolate cheesecake batter. Currently, I'm waiting for the oven to cool down a bit (as I had set it about 125 degrees too high, which would have surely ended poorly) and ruining my pancreas with what's left of the dough and batter. A porter has also been involved, and it is quite powerful and pairs surprisingly well with the batter. That may be the porter talking, though.

Anyway, yes, despite The Lady's protestations (which amounted to, "Hey, it's pretty late. Maybe you should try to get a decent night's sleep for once instead of going all baking crazy." You know, reasonable and logical complaints that I'm going to ignore), I have begun the process of making cheesecakes this evening. It has been at least a year since I recall making a cheesecake, as I've been branching out with things like mousses and crêpe cakes and truffles, all of which have been wonderful. Cheesecakes, however, hold a special place in my heart, because they've been my go-to dessert for so long. Normally with a post like this, I'd take you through the recipe for the cheesecake that I'm making along with my blunders, revisions, and pithy commentary. There would probably also be pictures. The thing is, those were rarely done in real time, because I was using an actual camera and had to transfer the files to my computer to get them to work. Since my current camera is my phone (which is a superlative camera), I don't really upload those pictures, because there isn't a good way to add in pictures using the Blogger app on my phone. Well, maybe there is, but I haven't found it yet.

But, yes. Cheesecakes. For cheesecakes, you really need two basic things: the crust and the filling. Yeah, I know. Really complicated. You'd be surprised. Honestly, I usually buy the crust, because my one experience making the crust from scratch led to the C'thulhu cheesecake, and I would prefer to not add to the nightly dreamscape horrors. The storebought crusts are usually pretty decent, but they are not particularly solid. If you're using a spoon to spread the filling (more on that later, I'd imagine), it may tap the crust, and suddenly you're missing an edge (well, arc, I suppose). Should you decide to make your own crust, there are plenty of recipes out there, and may God have mercy on your soul, because it's going to be hellish.

Difficulties of the crust aside, the basic filling is pretty simple (in theory). For an average cheesecake, you'll need about two 8 oz. packs of cream cheese (some recipes call for three, and even though they're heathens, it's okay). For every two packs of cream cheese, you'll use (roughly) a half a cup of sugar and probably 10 shakes of vanilla. Yes, some recipes will call for discrete measurements of vanilla that will probably be around half a teaspoon, but those recipes fear adventure and have not seen the light shone upon us by vanilla. They, too, are heathens, but unlike the previous sort of heathen, these are not okay. They are impinging on our freedoms, and I though this was America. Is this not America? I'm sorry. I thought this was America. It must not be America though, what with all these folks treading on me. Oh, you'll also need an egg for each pack of cream cheese (i.e., wo eggs for two packs). Some folks like to throw in some lemon zest, which is probably fine for a plain cheesecake, but I've never been big on throwing in sour flavors for my cheesecakes.

There was a time when I would mix all of these ingredients by hand, and there are times when I long for such simpler days. However, you can also use an electric mixer, which, as I discovered tonight, makes things immensely easier. This is unfortunately the first step where you can really screw things up. See, an ideal cheesecake is smooth, right? You don't want any cracks. If you overbeat your batter though, you're going to get cracks. Having never used an electric mixer before, we'll see if I overbeat the batter. Usually you're fine if you just go until things are smooth (and they get pretty darned smooth with an electric mixer, I tell you what).

Having properly mixed the batter, you're on to the next big question- do you dare to dream? As I said above, some people like to toss in a bit of lemon zest, because they, like the housewife sitting with her 2 o'clock chardonnay before the kids get home, don't act on their dreams. Cheesecakes are wonderful things because they are versatile. You can add fruits, you can add other flavors, you can make layers, you can do almost anything with a cheesecake. I'll walk you through the steps on some of my basic iterations of cheesecake.

Fruit Cheesecakes (or A Berry Unberryable Set of Puns)- For fruit cheesecakes, I tend to slice the fruit appropriately (very thin for strawberries, maybe in half for blueberries and raspberries) and set some aside to make a coulis (possibly with the addition of a bit of confectioner's sugar if it's too tart). You intersperse the berries if you are so inclined and you add a nice swirl of coulis halfway through the cheesecake and then again on the top. That way, you've got some good berry flavor in any given part of the cheesecake.

Chocolate Cheesecakes (or The Dark Side of the Cheesecake)- Chocolate cheesecakes, I think, are by far the easiest of the cheesecakes to work with. Lots of recipes advise that you melt some chocolate chips(or other chocolate of your desired cocoa percentage) and fold  it into the basic batter. Personally, I tend towards a much richer Dutch chocolate feel, which is achieved by adding straight cocoa powder to the batter. When you first add it, yes, it's going to be really powdery. As you work it in, though, it will turn towards a very deep brown. The other advantage of the cocoa powder approach is that you can easily tune the flavor. If you've added too much cocoa, add a bit of granulated sugar to offset the bitterness. If you haven't added enough cocoa, ADD SOME MORE COCOA. This isn't rocket science.

Spiced Cheesecakes (or The Cinnamon Must Flow)- These are what I view as the hardest cheesecakes to get just right, mostly because it tends to be a pretty narrow window of the various spices. These include gingerbread cheesecakes and pumpkin cheesecakes, which I think are the most popular of this group. I'm sure that you could do others, but I don't know what they would be off the top of my head. The reason these can be so difficult is twofold. One, they rely on what tend to be pretty delicate base flavors (especially pumpkin). Most recipes for pumpkin cheesecake will advise that you use half of a cup of pumpkin pie filling. They are lying to you, because you need at least two thirds of a cup to really get the flavor out there. Once you've added enough of the base, it's time to tune it with the appropriate spices (almost invariably cinnamon and nutmeg with the occasional cloves and ginger, depending on the recipe). At this point, it pretty much becomes guesswork and repeated tasting, but the good news is that once you find the right mix, you will know it. The flavors will become much more intense, and it will just taste right.

Once you've got the batter ready, you're all set to put it into the crust. The tricky part with this can be with the thicker batters (especially the chocolate ones). You need to be careful on spreading, because as I said, the crust is delicate. If you're trying to layer multiple flavors, you just need to go one at a time and make sure that each layer is reasonably flat and smooth. With the cheesecake assembled, it's time to bake it. Usually they go with a somewhat low heat (around 325 or so) to keep the cake from drying out and cracking. There are those out there who like to use water baths to keep the oven humid and prevent such a thing. I'm not one of those people. It's an aesthetic thing, which is important, but I've often felt that a water bath is more trouble than it's worth for a cheesecake. After 30-45 minutes, the cheesecake should look pretty set. That is, it will look less moist on the top and will appear to have firm and set edges. At this point, turn the oven off. No. Stop that. Stop reaching for the oven mitt.

For cheesecakes, I like to use a trick that I learned back in organic chemistry. If you're trying to crystallize something (i.e., have something precipitate out of a supersaturated solution with a well defined crystal structure), you want to work slowly. You turn off the heat, but you leave it on the heat for a little while. Once it's cooled enough there, you move it to a surface that isn't quite as cold as the benchtop. After a while, you move it to the benchtop. And so on and so on until you've moved it into an ice bath. That way, you won't have things come crashing out of solution all willy nilly. The same principle applies to cheesecake, except that overly rapid cooling here leads to cracking (which is again a purely aesthetic issue and not the most important thing ever). My usual strategy is to cut the oven off but leave the cheesecake in the closed oven. After a few minutes, I open the oven door. On the one hand, this ensures that everything really did get cooked, so you shouldn't get salmonella or any other nasty bugs from potentially undercooked eggs. However, the oven is warm and dry, so you might get some cracking anyway (but it won't be nearly as noticeable as if you just move the cheesecake straight to the refrigerator). Once the oven has cooled with the door open, I move the cheesecake to the counter. At this point, I use the plastic that came with the crust as a makeshift lid to keep it from drying out too much and to protect it from any bugs that may be wandering around.

Once I get around to it, I move the cheesecake to the fridge. I like to leave them in there overnight, because a.) I like my cheesecake like I like my luggage for a quick getaway- all set, and b.) because I do what I want.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have dishes to take care of so that I don't use the rest of the batter to obliterate my pancreas.