Food Blogging - (Almost) 100 Recipes

The other day I wrote about attending a Los Angeles Food Bloggers gathering. On my blog, Men Who Like to Cook, you can see the almost 100 recipes contributed by group members.

For some reason subscribers who received an email copy of the article did not see the recipes.

For those of you who didn't have the opportunity to check out the recipes. Here is the link.

Food Blogging is More Fun with Friends

Generally speaking, I'm not a joiner.

It's not that I'm a loner--well, maybe, a little bit--but I'm not a joiner of clubs, groups or social circles. I belong to the Modern Language Association--the MLA--because a long time ago I was an English professor with a specialty in 17th Century English Literature. I belong to the Writers Guild of America, West--the WGA--because I write for television. And that's about it.

In August I met with Food Bloggers, Los Angeles---the FBLA. A dozen of the group gathered to share recipes and talk about blogging. They were nice enough to invite me to join them.

Since this was the end of summer, the topic was tomatoes and zucchini, two summer vegetables (yes, I know tomatoes are a fruit) that are available in great abundance.

I contributed a pasta with roasted tomato sauce and grilled corn and Vietnamese style pickled zucchini, cabbage, carrots and onions.

What people brought to the gathering covered a meal from soup to nuts, as my grandmother would say.

Tomatoes and zucchini found themselves turned into soups, appetizers, casseroles and desserts.

Coming to a food writers' gathering has so many benefits, not the least of which you get to enjoy what other people like to cook.

Everyone at the gathering had a dish to share and a camera. We not only ate one another's dishes, we photographed them as well.

I don't believe I had ever met another food blogger. What fun to meet in the group and talk about issues only a blogger would love.

Topics like which was better Word Press or Blogger?

What are the work arounds when Blogger won't post your photographs?

What are your reasons for blogging?

How can you expand the number of readers who see your blog?

FBLA meets once a month. The meetings have a theme or topic. Food is always shared, I'm told, along with information of interest to the group.

I'm looking forward to joining them again.

Zombies Can be Gay, Right?

The meager circumstances of my life might be about to change. Blogging don't pay much y'all (as they say here in the South) so I've been busily diverting my creative goo into a screenplay. It's more of a treatment, in truth, which is what I might really be needing once it's made into a movie. Called "When Worlds Collide", I've cleverly weaved a number of popular themes into one.

The covering letter (39 networks, publishers and agents so far) in part reads like this:

When Worlds Collide is a funny and heartwarming story of two zombies. Zach and Augustus are two gay zombies recently fallen in love. With TriBeCa as the backdrop, they move into a cute loft to start their lives together eating brains and doing what zombies do. But there's a hole in their life. They want a family. So, given their keen sense of community, they do what any other gay zombie family would do - they adopt! In their case, a gorgeous little Venezuelan girl, orphaned at birth. WWC follows their antics learning how to raise a normal human baby in the midst of zombie mayhem. It's a triumph of the un-dead spirit!

Yes, it's a niche tale, but it has 'Indy cult film finds mainstream audience and fame for the writer' written all over its gorgeous derriere. See you at Cannes.




Bottoms Up, Zombie Lovers.

He's a Sociopath, She's Quirky.

I had to look up the definition of 'sociopath'. Tossing around psychiatric terms with no knowledge can land you in Blogger Court, where there's no right of appeal. Better to bluff your way through or hire The Juice's legal team...which would be fine except that most them are dead.

In any case, never plead guilty - Blogger Jail is full of lying bluffing sociopath writers who know the real meaning of giving someone a cup of 'sugar'.

The qualities of a sociopath are so wide-ranging that not having one of them would disqualify you from the human race. And the most obvious skill is not mentioned, namely the ability to have six concurrent girlfriends and never call one by another's name.

That's truly superhuman.

Sociopath Profile from here [link]

# Glibness and Superficial Charm

# Manipulative and Conning

# Grandiose Sense of Self

# Pathological Lying

# Lack of Remorse, Shame or Guilt

# Shallow Emotions

# Incapacity for Love

# Need for Stimulation

# Callousness/Lack of Empathy

# Poor Behavioral Controls/Impulsive Nature

# Early Behavior Problems/Juvenile Delinquency

# Irresponsibility/Unreliability

# Promiscuous Sexual Behavior/Infidelity

# Lack of Realistic Life Plan/Parasitic Lifestyle

# Criminal or Entrepreneurial Versatility


Tell me you have none of these.




Bottoms Up, Empaths!


Pic of Lorraine Bracco from here [link]

Friends With Benefits

Her: I thought you wanted to be my boyfriend?

Wombat: I do.

Her: When?

Wombat: Not right now.


Expectations kill relationships. They're the rocks that wreck super-tankers and sailing boats alike. No relationship is safe from them, and no chart shows them all. GPS works perfectly most of the time, but without knowledge of where not to go, metre-accuracy will only tell you precisely where you ran aground.

The ocean called "Friends With Benefits" is one with an unusually jagged coastline. As enticing as the concept appears, I fear most of us compartmentalize the 'friends' and the 'benefits' as if they can be. Like a watercolour Venn Diagram in the rain, those two can only bleed into each other with potentially messy results. Art is rarely the outcome.

Doc30ty highlights my point in her post. [link] Her male FWB half clearly didn't include exclusivity in his mental image of FWB. His thinking was more Benefits with a Friend, dare I say an expectation at variance with that of our beloved Doc30ty.

There are three ways to find a FWB relationship:

Friends first -> add benefits.

Simultaneous creation of friendship including benefits.

Beneficiaries first -> add friendship.

Is one way better than another? That's not for me to decide. What experience tells me is that my expectations will differ from my lady friend's, and the problem with that is that we both think there won't be any complications arising therefrom.

This is the temptation of the FWB deal: the simplicity of it appeals mightily, but it's impossible for any of us to not expect stuff beyond the raw acronym. We set sail in light winds and smooth seas but wake that night to the sound of crashing waves on gnarly rocks.



Bottoms Up, Landlubbers!



Diagram from here [link]

Edited for tense and incorrect plurals, as well as overuse of 'variance' - the usual thesaurus of Wombat idiocies.

Rock Her World.

At first it's amusing, this habit of porn stars taking nominative determinative screen names. There's Anna Malle (RIP), Chesty Larou, Busty St Clair, and Shy Love, to name a few women. Nothing malign in that, of course, the history of false nommes is long and illustrious. George Eliot's successful books were written not by a man, but by Mary Ann Evans, who, amongst several other reasons, wanted to keep her affair with a married man secret.

Even bloggers sometimes choose to supplant their real-life tag with something more evocative. Ahem.

So it's not the fact of taking a fanciful name that plants the seed of doubt, it's the quality of the name. Really: John T. Bone?

This whole field speaks to how The Industry looks upon us, the end-users of porn, or 'mooks'. That's how they refer to you people who like a bit of video filth, by the way, which leaves even the cynics and manipulators from Hollywood looking like soon to be beatified saints - at least they call us 'the audience'.

The difference between The Valley and Hollywood is only a small range of hills and a slight shift of attitude. They're both after your wallet. One takes what they think is the high road, and the other one shows you the pussy. One makes you go to the movie theater, and the other has the decency to allow access from your computer. One says "...fuck you, this is the way you should think..." and the other one says...well, just choose your preferred hole.

Which brings us to Mr Seymore Butts. First negative: that name. Had he chosen 'Seymour', we might assume a modicum of cleverness. But he didn't. Which is the nub of porn's problem, that it's a caricature, a two-dimensional medium just close enough to possibly reflect real life, and yet it so obviously doesn't. He's a porn star of some standing apparently, boasting over six-hundred notches on his bedhead. That gives him more insight that the average mook, and he chose to let us all know how much insight in his recently published 'Rock Her World: The Sex Guide for the Modern Man.'

Mr Butts' book is a how-to for guys wishing to become as good a lover as its author. It's his way of giving back, I suppose, but giving back in the same way that the IRS gives back tax refunds; it's all your dough to begin with. Yes, he steps out in logical style running through the equipment and various techniques in the three sections of the book: About Him, About Her and About Sex. Diagrams and humorous quotes pop up at odd times (reflecting a porn shoot perhaps?) but the Kama Sutra this ain't.

His description of the Missionary position "Allows for total access to both her pussy and ass, plus it is perfect for eye contact!"

Or in About Her: "3. Knowledge of Your Anatomy. The more you know about your body and how it works the better!"

Frankly, I did not read every word in this opus. It's the same principle I use when playing Russian Roulette with a loaded revolver. Sometimes less is more. This is sexual information written by someone who has literally seen it all, but seen it all through the mindset of a thirteen-year old. And a myopic, anal-obsessed thirteen-year old at that.

Which is pretty much what porn is. It's Warner Brothers with an orgasm, Saturday morning cartoons on Viagra, or two-dimensional voyeurism watched on the basis that VH1 is only showing repeats today.

Seymore Butts? No thanks.



Rock Her World, The Sex Guide for the Modern Man, by Adam Glasser, AKA Seymore Butts. Published by Gotham Books, a Division of Penguin. ISBN 978-1-592-40447-6



This review is part of the Blogger Critics Network. (Note the name change from Blogger Review Network.) Next to review will be 30ty, of her Life Begins at 30ty blog.[link] Yes, I know this is a book designed for men, but you never know, she might pass it on to a male blogger after she's critiqued it for us.

Send me a good real-life mailing address, Doc30ty, and I'll send you this magnificent work.


Bottoms up! (Quietly.)


My pic.

Blog Crush

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Absinthe Makes the Heart Beat Faster, Cheri

It's a romantic conceit, of course, a vision as imaginary as it is unobtainable. Living in a Parisian garret occasionally crosses my mind, devoting my hours to creating something lasting from words, and perhaps gaining a French lover or two along the way.

The aim is to find any place a couple of levels above the street, because I'm not sure about the supply of garrets. One big room would be best, with floor to ceiling windows, preferably with a view of something louche - the rear of a boudoir or the window of a rich man's pied-à-terre so I could write about the women coming and going.

My bed would be big and low. It would live in the style of a loft, half-way between the main floor and the ceiling. A short flight of stairs - a ladder, really - would give it the feeling of being the top bed of a set of bunks. The fun of watching women climbing up would be worth the small awkwardness.

The pace of the day would be strictly French. (Hopefully) morning sex upon waking. Coffee and croissant for le petit déjeuner, then writing. A little yoga around noon, followed by lunch with a friend. Wine, to loosen my Protestant mind. A little more writing.

With good planning, a lover would arrive around a cinq heures, to indulge that most sophisticated Parisian scene; the cinq à sept aka love in the afternoon. We'd share dinner, perhaps eating out, perhaps cooking for ourselves, all the while watching for goings-on across the street. Material for writing is what I'm here for, it's not a vacation. On weekends we might head out, to a wine bar or for some absinthe.

My heart grows fonder at the thought.




Miss Paris from here. [link]

Edited for greater pomposity.

Sex in Space

Look, does anyone really know what's happening on the International Space Station? I've been suspicious of this low-orbiting satellite since the first bits went aloft in 1998. NASA has this huge website telling us how wonderful and space-licious this thing is, but, I mean, can they point to one thing they've actually achieved there? [link]

Pictured is Astronaut Nicole Stott. Congratulations to Nicole for just returning from 91 days on board the ISS. While she was up there she blogged, she tweeted, she checked her email and she looked out the window; in short, she spent her day much like the rest of us. [link] Has space travel become as boring as my own life?

Congratulations too, to Astronaut Randy Bresnik. Randy’s wife, Rebecca, gave birth to their baby girl, Abigail Mae, in Houston late Saturday night. [link] To celebrate, he went for a walk outside the Space Shuttle - which was attached to the ISS at the time - to smoke a cigar, which mightily ticked off NASA people. Then he posted on Facebook.

I think it's clear what's going on here. Abigail Mae is America's first space baby. She was actually born on the ISS two weeks ago to Astronette Nicole, and Tiger Woods is the father. That would explain his domestic misadventures, given that he neglected to tell his wife, Elin, that Nike had paid him a truck-load to father the first 'alien' human. [link] No sex, just a donation, you understand, all they wanted was his DNA.

So now it's all turned pear-shaped, because Elin went batso with a putter over Tiger's head. He then knocked over a fire hydrant and now won't talk to the cops. NASA's hugely peeved (again) that they can't point to wee Abby as the crowning achievement of $100 billion spent on an orbiting cathouse.

Nike's the only winner. Abigail just got her card for the Ladies' PGA tour, and they have her sponsorship locked up from here to Pluto.

Beloved Mistress, Miss English

It's maddening. The English language can be inspiringly precise, or horrifyingly opaque. With this mercurial tool we attempt to convey to others everything about ourselves: emotions, feelings, ideas, and all kinds of complicated stuff. It's incredible, when you think about it, just how much we can move from our heads to others, and pretty accurately too.

At one time I spoke and read fluent Bahasa, the national language of Indonesia, a much less nuanced tongue. My appreciation of her beauty began when I understood just how much better one can express oneself in English. Maybe the reason she is so valuable is because of her flexibility. We use old words, make up new words, steal words, synthesize words and generally mess with Miss English's undergarments without even asking her first. And yet she blushes not at all.

So I'm in love with Miss English, but she sometimes doesn't love me back. It's probably the fact that I attempt to shove her into a blouse that's too small for her, namely texting, and her boobs keep popping out. I loathe texting. The mis-communications that happen over simple things is astonishing to me, and I wonder if I'm not cut out to text. Perhaps I am trying to dress Miss English for a ball, when all she really wants is an old shirt to go get some groceries.

It's a shame to have this beautiful woman, capable of so many things, only to dress her down with the likes of txtng. She'll always be a Princess to me, no matter how others defile her.


Illustration from here.

Friday Fluffer - Rock Her World

One advantage of writing a blog vaguely about sex is that people send me interesting things. Like this book. I quote from the back-cover blurb:

"...women were asking me how they could get their men to be better lovers. It didn't take me long to figure out that 2+2=69 and that there was a need for a book like this."

There you have it, ladies and gentlemen, porn arithmetic.

Review follows.

Ten Dates, Ten Days, Ten Kisses, Whatever

A little history. Years ago I posited the idea that we should delay fist sex (whoops, Freudian slip, FIRST sex, although beginning with that other way would be awesome.....where was I?) to prevent our hormones running away with our lives. As Maryanne says, chemistry is not love.

Pretty boring stuff, but here it is:

Ten Date Rule Part One.

Ten Date Rule Part Two.

At the time, the second installment created a shitstorm in comments (some of which are sadly deleted, narcissism at work) because I referred to oxytocin. I dared to suggest that women are more susceptible to this hormone, and that its power might overwhelm their best interests in the long-term. The gall.

My motivation for all this argy-bargy was to hint that delayed gratification might save lots of heartache.

The idea of ten dates being the magic number is risible, of course. Everyone is different. The point was to open up discussion about some general realities of the way men and women behave around the early stages of getting-to-know-you. The point I'm trying to describe is when a man's ardency (word?) is modified by noticing that the woman is a person too. It might be at the first date, and it might never happen. Only you will be able to tell.

People still laugh at the concept, which is fine. I wish there was a catchier title than 'Ten Date Rule' - something like 'early sex might lead to a sex-only based relationship' or 'when he calls to simply chat without conditions you're good' capture the meaning, but not the spirit.

Happily there are no relationship police, because we're all self-policing. Which really works a treat.



Picture from here.