Let's mosie (mosey? Oh god no the parentheticals have already started save yourselves before you get caught in a blog title factory it is just the worst)

Aherm. Title aside (because that shit's paratext or some business) (and Wikipedia's my hypotext for this) (Oh, what's that? Rob actually took a literature course that wasn't in French? And he remembers things from it? ALL IS LOST. CALL DETECTIVE HEART OF AMERICA.)

He's saving the day.

And of course, talking about paratext got me all a-thinkin' about business relating to the nature of discourse and the various forms therein. I would have used clearer terms, but, see, I didn't remember any of the terms until a few minutes ago, and I figured I'd share the vagaries. Yep. I just misused that word. And for that, I apologize.

It was Bakhtinian discourse of which I was thinking. What with the skaz and such. And the fact that he looks like the Scottish geologist or whatever from Prometheus. You know, the one who didn't say, "HEY, IT'S A SNAKE-LIKE THING. LET ME TAUNT IT." We hardly knew ye.

And then Rob decided to look at old blog posts. It's impressive how little he remembers from some of them. Whatever could be the cause of-

Oh.

Still, impressive. Meanwhile, I'm going to have another sip of bourbon. Delicious. Not the best ever. Not the bourbon I need, but maybe, just maybe, the bourbon I deserve

Watkins Select: The Batman of Bourbon.

 I just saw a penny on my desk move. I... well, I won't talk about what that might mean for me, but I will say that it starts with an X and ends with a Man.

Except... crap. No. Wait. Okay. Yes. There is at least one X-Man who is telekinetic. Most of the rest are X-Women. Buxom X-women in tight spandex. I mean, I guess if you're telekinetic, it doesn't ride up or otherwise get uncomfortable? Maybe?

I like to think that I'll have more pouches. He doesn't look quite prepared enough in the pouch department.

And like that, we've gone from literary theory to comic books. That's a good blog post by any standards, right?

I'm going to hope so, because I'm out.

Rob Needs To Tone Down The Google Image Searches

You know, I started this not knowing what to say.

That's not to say that I know what to say now, but I igure it's time to get back to an old muse.

No, not Grumpy Cat. That minx.

No, we're talking about bourbon and British television on Netflix. I mean, what else could possibly be done on a Saturday night? Going out? Doing things other than trying to be "productive?"


Get out of here, Tard!

But enough of that. I need to get some actual bourbon. It wouldn't be proper elsewise.

Ah, bourbon. You saucy vixen, you. (Get it? SAUCY? You know, like, "hitting the sauce?" Try to keep up. This is some complicated humor going on right here.) Unfortunately, I think I may have been ruined by my pop's (yeah, Dad, you get to be a "pop" tonight. Watch out for hopping children, now.) FANTASTIC taste in bourbon.

BELLIES BEWARE

I am just going bonkers on the images tonight, aren't I? Amn't I? I've never quite gotten that grammatical construction. It doesn't make a lot of sense. I blame the MLA. APA, don't think you're getting out unscathed.

He gives money to medical schools so we know how to do this EXTRA well. Take THAT, APA.

Well, now that I've wasted a solid page to say, oh, you know, effectively nothing, because I'm awesome like that, I suppose it wouldn't hurt to say something of some sort of substance.

For example. Because if you don't like Emma Stone, you don't like America.

Now that gif is making me laugh like gangbusters. Curse your incredibly expressive face, Emma Stone (and mostly the fact that it cannot be miiiiiine but not in a weird creepy serial killer way because that would be weird and could result in restraining orders and other judicial action. And that's terrible.)


No, not "Trouble." Terrible. It's an easy mistake to make, Professor Hill. Don't be so hard on yourself.

I... I think I've had more images than I've had actual text. I would say that this is somewhat surprising or some such, but let's face it, I haven't exactly been a pinnacle of verbosity as of late.

Okay, so the Mormon episode of South Park is on Netflix right now. I enjoyed it pretty well the first time that I saw it, and there was some decent sort of satire of the religion without being flat out malignant against the believers (okay, they're a little malignant). And, I mean, then there was The Book of Mormon, which had some catchy tunes, because the South Park folks can put together a mean musical (see: South Park: Bigger, Longer, and Uncut, which was pretty freaking amazing). But South Park is not the issue here. You here me? SOUTH PARK IS NOT THE ISSUE HERE. Heck, Mormonism is NOT the issue.

MORMONISM IS NOT THE ISSUE HERE, DUDE.

Let's have a brief flashback, shall we? (Lord knows I get enough of those during the day, AM I RIGHT? Oh, I just made this weird, didn't I? Sorry about that.) March, 2011. I'm almost done with my time in France (for better or worse). There are good times past and good times to come, but those aren't the issue. My parents had come to visit, and we were ALL UP ON the Normandy area. It was a pretty good time. We took trains around some various places and saw various things, none of which are the issue here. Well, one of them is.

See, we're in the train station, which of course means there's a newsstand shop, where you can buy magazines and such. Some things are pretty universal. Like those little shops, for instance. Anyway, we're waiting for our train, and I take a look at this newsstand (like I do, because I don't actually want to BUY a magazine or newspaper, but headlines are all you need, right?)

Well, I see a headline that (literally) translated to "Who are the Mormons?" I did a quick Google search for the phrase (in French, of course), and while I couldn't find a picture of the actual headline, I did find several articles from at least one high profile French newspaper talking about how Mormons are trying to rule the world and how, no, "they aren't Amish," and then proceed to explain who the Amish are.

I get that there are some denominations that are pretty limited to the US. I get that these can seem a bit ridiculous to other countries.
But when I see a certain other group's HQ located next to a closed historical landmark, I have to wonder if they don't have their priorities mixed up.

We're on to you. Not in a lawyering way. That would just be ridiculous.

Power. Wisdom. Courage.

Yes, yes, I'm late. Sorry about that. Things got out of hand last night,  by which I mean I just didn't get home until late and had forgotten about it by that time (I had remembered earlier in the day and had been thinking about what I could write about. More on that later).

And by later, I mean now. Yeah. Once again, I've got nothing. Tell 'em, Ed.

He ain't got nuffin.

Strong work. Tell 'em, Batman.

Well, okay. You don't have to be rude about it.

My computer monitor is wobbling like Michael J. Fox right now. Too soon? Too soon. Also, I apparently type too hard, or, you know, more likely, the desk is just a crappy white plastic table. But it serves its purpose of holding up a computer monitor, random pairs of eyeglasses, and a bag of Harvest Cheddar Sun Chips.

Almost as good as Cheez-Its, which is like saying that Watson was almost as smart as Holmes. Or Franklin. This all depends on the Watson to which we're referring. The drug addicted one with questionable morality or the fictional character. NERD BURN.

However, speaking of fictional heroes, remember my post a few months back about how nobody wants to write non-edgy characters anymore? Of course you do, because you probably just clicked on the link to see that great picture of Neil Gaiman, because that man is amazing.

I've... I've got something in my eye.

Well, feast your eyes on this article from Cracked. Well, specifically number 2. I feel vaguely validated, even though there's no link to my blog in it (and why should there be? It's not like there was any thievery or any such, and it's not like there's enough exposure here to make him aware of this blog's presence.), because he works with the exact same premise.

I have reasonable hopes for the new Superman movie. I enjoyed 300, propaganda and all (since, you know, THAT'S WHAT IT IS IN UNIVERSE), and Watchmen grew on me. He can make a faithful and filmable comic book adaptation. But, as the article points out, it's going to go all origin story on us, and it's going to try to turn Superman into Batman.

Sorry, "The Goddamn Batman."

I haven't read much Superman over the last... ever, but there is one story that stands out, which, coincidentally, is the story from which Jor El's monologue in the trailer is taken. (Yes, they've already made an animated version, but I can still hope.) It doesn't deal with any origin stories, and, yes, there's a bit of grittiness, because Superman starts to die. And, hey, maybe that's the only way to portray Good characters these days. They have to die because they're too good for this sinful earth (or because it's hard to keep them Good without losing people's interest or making them sound moralizing or any of the other numerous faults volleyed at such characters), and in so doing, they get to show how Good they are, hopefully without becoming a Mary Sue.

Okay, maybe he's not THAT good.

Welcome to the FUTURE

Well, it's been a while. There are good reasons for this. Okay, maybe they're not good, and I'm sure they're not GREAT, but they're reasons.

And what are we without reason, So-crates?

Neil Patrick Harris is wearing overalls. No, I am not retracting this statement. That would be silly.

Anyhoo, yes, it's been a while. I've been in the middle of study week, testing, drinking after said test (because it was just awful), generally being exhausted, going to the lab, going home, making delicious chocolate mousse with far too many steps consolidated into one (seriously, Martha Stewart. One step should be, "Whisk egg yolks until frothy and pale," and NOT, "Whisk eggs while heating a corn starch, water, and sugar mix and also by the way melting some chocolate and then mix it all together and pour it into ramequins." Polysyndeton belongs in a 3 year-old's wish list to Santa, not in recipes), coming back to the lab, and also playing some trivia and such.



Still delicious, and decadent as FUCK. Some of you might find that inappropriate. You obviously didn't have the mousse.

There are a few things I would like to post about at some point. Tonight is not that night. One day, you might hear about the worst ways to break up with someone, the best and worst Christmas Eve services ever imagined, some chili, more cooking stuff, and probably a few more iNstaNces of Rob goiNg absolutely batshit iNsaNe.

However, rather than do all that, I figured I'd go back to my roots a bit.

See, for those of you who have been here since the beginning (or have trawled your way through the old entries) will remember that this was really started for a New Year's Resolution about baking (and sure, also traveling and enjoying life more). Well, I did make some New Year's Resolutions this year (and for some ungodly reason continue to capitalize "resolution"). None of them are about cooking this time, mostly because I don't know that I'll have time to keep up with it. I mean, I didn't manage to keep up with the "Bake something new once every two weeks" thing of 2011 once I got to Charleston. There's no way I'd keep up with things with BOARDS.

However, I find it prudent to give y'all some sort of idea of what's going to happen in 2013.

1.  I'm going to make it to the gym 3 times during the week and once during the weekend. So far, so good.

2. I'm going to post here at least once a week. It may very well be on Sunday nights after I should have gone to bed, but it'll happen.

3. I dunno. Spanish? Sure. Spanish.

Oh, arteries

Well, I've had a bit of bourbon, and Zelda is just all over me making a blog post tonight. It sure was a delicious measure of bourbon.


You sassy temptress, you. Let's get you out of that glass and into my liver.

I'm honestly pretty burnt out, what with the studying and the attempting to study and the failing to study effectively. 
I could talk to you about some delicious cheesecake that I made. (What, you thought that I didn't bake anymore? You sassy dickwaffles. I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. I was just a bit upset by you implying that I don't bake anymore. Can't you just believe me when I say things like this? I know that I haven't been blogging every day, but that's no reason for us to grow apart like this, and it's certainly no reason for you to say such hurtful things. I mean, people liked this. They said things like, "Rob. This is really good. ROB. THIS IS REALLY GOOD." You may mock, but it was delicious.)

Basically, this. Emma Stone, you sassy temptress, you. Let's get you out of that glass and into my liver. On second thought, let's not. That'd probably cause some pretty serious hemorrhage.

But no. We're going to talk about a different kind of deliciousness. This is the sort of deliciousness that vaguely resembles poop. But it's not. Because, see, it's deliciousness.

I am, of course, talking about cevapi.


NO. If there's not trouble, I have no use for River City.

"What is this so called "cevapi?'" you may ask.

It was April of 2011 (not "oh-eleven," because that makes no sense). I was on a whirlwind tour of the Balkans with my friend who we'll call Mateo for similarly convoluted reasons as I often use. Anyway, we're chilling out in Sarajevo.

Much as Franz Ferdinand of old. Nothing bad could happen, right?

So night is starting to fall (really, since it's April in the northern hemisphere, it's really more a light dusk), and we're starting to get hungry. We quickly realize that there is just nothing on the downstream side of town. I mean, maybe there's a McDonald's or something, but why would you do that? You're in THE FREAKING BALKANS, so WHY WOULD YOU GO EAT AT A MCDONALD'S?

Well, maybe because you don't know of any Balkan cuisine. Maybe you were just going there because, hey, it's someplace you wouldn't go to normally, and it seems like it'll be pretty cheap. Maybe you wren't thinking about what you'd eat out there. YOU JUST DIDN'T KNOW. YOU DIDN'T THINK THE FOOD IN BELGRADE WOULD BE SO BAD (except for that one place, which was pretty great, but I don't recall whether or not we're there yet. Maybe we were. It's a tough call, because it's been a while).

And then you're wandering around the historic Muslim quarter, and you find this little place. It looks like it could be a hollowed out Subway or some such. But it's got this stuff called cevapi, and you've heard decent things. Maybe you'll give it a shot.

Around this time, your arteries are weakly protesting, because, well. Look at this.

"GODDAMMIT, NOT AGAIN," said Rob's arteries.

That's beef/lamb sausage (because you can't have pork or some such). Sorry. That's not entirely accurate. Using a singular? Ha. You wish. There are, oh, 20ish in that picture.

Yeah. 20 sausages. In a pita. With sautéed onions. And that white stuff? They call it "kajmak." It's delicious. What's that? You want to know how to make it?

Well, here's a recipe I found earlier today for the very kajmak.

"INGREDIENTS:

1 quart milk
1 pint heavy cream

DIRECTIONS:

Boil the milk in shallow enamel pan. Carefully, pour the cream in holding it as high as possible. Simmer mixture on low fire for about 2 hrs.

Turn off heat. Let it stand without mixing for 6 hours. Then turn on heat again and simmer on very low fire for 1/2 hour. Cool without mixing.

Then carefully place pan in refrigerator for 24 hours. Cream has formed. Loosen with the point of a knife and remove it to a flat plate. Cut into squares. It is delicious served on anything which calls for whipped cream or eaten alone."

Paula Deen could not be reached for comment, as she was too busy ogling.

Ladies and gentlemen. Kajmak.

Somehow I survived eating that on two consecutive days. I can only imagine the damage I did to my arteries in doing so.

Oh, wait. I don't have to, thanks to the SCIENCE OF MEDICAL SCHOOL. Hurrah for studying.

I'm going to go ahead and make a bold statement. If you say that you don't like puppies, I will fight you. Maybe not to the death, and more than likely, I'll lose, but I'll get in a few weak, limp-wristed hits before I curl up in a fetal position and play dead until you go away.

Possibly with this exact face. I am not a fearsome fighter. OR IS THAT EXACTLY WHAT I WANT YOU TO THINK?

Somehow this topic managed to stick. I love dogs. Well, love might not seem to be the right word. I really do like dogs. I've been accused at several points of that not being the case, and I'ma defend myself on these two cases.

1.) Big Dogs that Strike Me As Crazy

Let's talk about Hawk.

Hawk was my grandfather's German shepherd. My grandfather was a pretty cool guy in a lot of ways, not the least of which was his perpetual collection of dogs, several of which had been German shepherds. His dogs were almost always pretty cool, and I got along fairly well with them. My family (really, my sister and my mom) had a beagle at home that was about as cute and as dumb as dogs get. Seriously. This dog was so adorable, but she just wasn't that bright. I'm sure there are great stories out there to elaborate on this point (like when she did a backflip off a tree while trying to chase a squirrel), but this isn't about how amazing my dog was.

Seriously, though. This dog was pretty great.

I met Hawk when I was about 10 years old. Ten years old, and probably about, oh, 90 pounds? I was a skinny kid, and this dog had teeth. This dog also had a hefty dose of something with which I am only moderately endowed- crazy. I have a rather vidi memory of one day in particular. See, I was going to go hang out with my grandfather for a bit, and I step out onto the stairway, and there's Hawk. He's looking at me. I take a step.

Hawk barks. Now, let me clarify. This (to me) was not a, "Hey, you're not usually here. What's going on?" Kind of bark. No. This was a, "What the fuck are you doing in my house? Take another step, and I will end you. I will end you, those you love, those who owe you money, and all those that they love. Go ahead. Take that fucking step, you motherfucker."

Author's interpretation

Needless to say, I did not take that step. There was apparently some fallout from this between my parents and my grandfather, but, to his credit, Hawk didn't do anything to physically hurt me. He did, however, proceed to prove his utter nutbonkerness by biting a friend of the family, and that shit don't fly.

So, with big dogs, I'm a bit wary to begin with, because they can still probably kick my ass and rip me to shreds. Besides, do you REALLY want to start rassling or roughhousing with an animal that's as big as you but with much larger jaws? That seems like a poor choice. Apparently, this comes off as me not liking dogs, though, so whatever.

2.) Small dogs

This really only applies to REALLY tiny dogs, and even then, similar bone structure can make it apply to larger dogs as well. The reasoning here is pretty simple.

I feel like I'm going to break them.

No, seriously. People try to hand me small dogs (or cats) and expect me to be able to carry them. "Oh, it's just like carrying a baby," they say.

Do I look like I have a baby? Do I look like I've ever held a baby? I'm the youngest one in my immediate family, and the gap between me and the next closest relative (i.e., the oldest one in the next generation) in my extended family is about 10 years younger than I. I have no instinctual bearing on how to hold a baby, and my attempts at using instinct to hold small animals has left them looking exceptionally uncomfortable.

Not shown: Rob trying to hold a cat. It is begging for some sort of release.

So, please. When I don't rush to play with your small animal, don't assume that I hate it. I just don't want to be its next meal, and I have no idea what to do with a baby. It's the way of the world, and you can deal with it for a bit.

Well that degraded quickly

Well, apparently I need to keep posting here in order to keep your respective interests. Who could have guessed?

You shut your British mouth.

Well, after a reasonably productive weekend off, I'm back on the radar, or the grid, or whatever we call it these days, AND BOY DO I HAVE TALES TO TELL.

Well, I'm sure I do somewhere. I... well, I spent a lot of the weekend in the library or thinking that I should be in the library.

Oh, wait. I forgot that I apparently am only capable of writing whilst in my pajamas. Since they're currently in the laundry, I'm afraid that I will have to give whatever NSA folks are monitoring my through my webcam (I just waved. Hi guys! How's the coffee?) a bit of a show. I apologize for the glare. You can't be as dazzling pale as I am without a bit of that going on.

Well, that was interesting. Wasn't that interesting, NSA folks? I'm sure it was.

Moving on.

No, we aren't going away just because Novemblog is done. I'm sure I'll do an all-out debriefing at some point, but that's a perfectly good post that I can save for later. Alas, my ADD is going crazy, and I've been rocking a headache most of the day.

Plus, you know, tests and such on testes and such. THANK YOU AND GOODNIGHT.