Apologia Vegetarianum

Pig is a beautiful thing. Notice that I'm not saying that A pig is a beautiful thing, but pig, pork, the food that a pig makes, is a beautiful thing. I know people from Texas will sing the praises of cow and people in the Mediterranean world will fawn over lamb, but the pig is probably the single most impressive edible animal. Now, it's hard to argue for something like this because taste is subjective -- I don't particularly like mushrooms, for example. But you know what, when I'm honest with myself, I don't dislike all mushrooms. I can handle someone saying they don't like a part of a pig -- maybe you don't like ribs. Maybe you don't like ham. Maybe you don't even like bacon. But you can't not like all pig. The flavors, textures, smells are all different. You can't not like ALL of them. It's like saying you don't like music -- you may not like some kinds of music, but you can't dislike MUSIC. Pork is like that. And me, I love it all.

Take this for example. This is a pig's shoulder after one hour on the grill.


This is the same pig's shoulder after six hours on the grill.



Even if you do claim to hate pig, even if you have religious issues with pork and so have never tasted it, you have to admit that the shoulder of a pig that's been sitting in a 250-degree grill and periodically immersed in hickory smoke is a beautiful thing. Look at the color, the glisten -- you can hate meat but you can't hate aesthetics. And if you don't hate aesthetics, and you don't believe that if you eat pork you'll be unclean, taste pig. And please, don't ruin it with a tomato-based sauce. That'd be evil.

Chicago vs. MLA

I just spent the entire afternoon converting an essay I've written from MLA (which is my default citation style) into Chicago style because some journal I want to submit it to uses that style. It was serious pain in the ass. Now look, I understand that different people like different things, but if the Modern Language Association is essentially the governing body for English departments and all things literary and they have their own approved citation method, a journal that publishes scholarship on literature would abide by it. But noooo, they want Chicago, so I have to take all my parenthetical notations and turn them into endnotes. Trust me, it's much more of a hassel than it sounds.

Chicago style, though it does look elegant when all's said and done, just feels pretentious when you're trying to abide by it. MLA seems so old and comfortable in comparison. It's like the difference between straight whiskey and a manhattan -- the whiskey gets the job done and can be pretty nice by itself, and the manhattan has this pretention of refinement and probably looks down on the stright whiskey. But in the end, a manhattan tastes pretty damn good.

I need a drink.

Thoughts on America

Recently I rented a car and got a bonus. When I made the reservation online, it gave me a 1-class upgrade, which meant I wouldn’t be forced to get the “economy” car—something probably akin to a Powerwheel. But, like most things, the upgrade was based on “availability,” so there was a chance I wouldn’t get it. When I got to the counter and asked about it, the guy told me one was available, which was great. Then he leaned in a little and asked if I wanted a Mustang. I’ve never driven a Mustang, never driven anything that could be considered a “muscle car.” (I’m sure there are plenty of people out there that wouldn’t consider a 2007 Mustang a muscle car—to those people, I don’t care. It’s American, it’s got a big hood, and it looks mean. ) So I, naturally, said yes. It was more than an 1-class upgrade, but the guy gave it to me anyway. Thanks, white dude from Hawaii who works for Hertz in Newport News, VA.

Now, I don’t really care if my 2007 automatic Mustang is not a Shelby GT stick and I don’t care if it drank gas like ‘97 Wes drank Coronitas. I don’t care if it had a back seat that only a midget could fit in and if the seats had odd stains on them. I don’t care if it had a a dent by the back tire that I swear I didn’t do, and I don’t care if it was speeding-ticket-magnet red (which should be a color description for cars). I don’t care if our hotel was 3 blocks from the conference hotel and I’m the only person who drove those three blocks on a regular basis instead of walking them. I had a Mustang, dammit, and I was going to use it.

And God was happy about it. I know this because one day my wife and I drove to Jamestown and the Lord smiled on me. The road to Jamestown is called Colonial Parkway, and it is a glorious driving road. It’s very wide, but has no lane lines. There are no buildings between Williamsburg and Jamestown—its 15 miles of asphalt and woods, with very little traffic. As soon as I pulled my Mustang onto Colonial Parkway, with the Sirius radio tuned to some station called “Classic Vinyl,” what song was beamed to my little American-made muscle car from the heavens?

Freebird.

Oh yeah…Freebird. How can you not love America when flying down a wide two-laned road in a Mustang, windows down, beautiful woman beside you, with Freebird blasting around you, and heading to the place where America started? You can’t.

SSSL and Williamsburg

I'm sitting in the Charlotte airport with my wife waiting over three hours for our flight to Memphis so we can drive another hour back home. Travelling home is never as poetic as it seems like it should be, especially when you want to move away from that home.

But the conference...it was great. We both presented wonderful papers, and my wife created a good bit of buzz for herself with the paper she gave. It was great, and I was very proud of her. Mine went well (not like hers, though), but it probably could have gotten a better reception if it had a better title. A paper titled "John Smith and the Liminal Coastline" isn't going to bring in the crowds anywhere. But if I had called it "Cannibalism CAN be Funny: John Smith, Sailors, and the Genesis of Southern Humor," I'd have had a line of people trying to get in. But oh well.

Williamsburg itself was great--especially the time we got to spend drinking eighteenth-century style with our friends. And if the ale at Chowning's was any indication, our American forefathers drank well (I recommend the Tavern Ale), and if the food at King's Arms was accurate, they ate pretty damn well too. Just remember, don't be like that couple we sat beside and walk out without paying. That was crappy -- I don't understand how people could do that. I mean, I DO understand that people steal every day and it's really no different, but there's something odd about stealing restaurant food. Because what you're really stealing is trust, and that's worse than stealing goods. You have this waiter or waitress (the gender-neutral form of this word is "waitron," but I can't use it--I just can't) who is concerned only with making sure you have a good meal, and they trust that if they treat you well you'll tip them in return. I guess, really, leaving without tipping is just as bad as leaving without paying at all, only noone knows you did that except you and your waiter. Anyway, I don't want to go off on a rant about this, but you people who ate at King's Arms on Friday night, April 18, 2008, you suck.

Jamestown was awesome, especially because the old guy who was working out at the site was asking ME questions. It was the first time in my life that I felt like a legitimate scholar outside of academia. Here was this guy, probably a retiree, who worked out at the Historic Jamestown site and had his little notebook of answers he could use to make sure people knew what they were looking at out there, and he was listening to me. It was pretty cool. I think I was also in a good mood because I sweet-talked the woman working at the information desk into letting us in for free. Five of us. Who knew that knowing that John Smith had his balls blown off in Virginia would save 5 literature instructors $50 one day. Thanks, John. I'm trying to bring your rep back, buddy.

One last note on Williamsburg. We had gorgeous weather during the conference. I mean gorgeous. We stayed 2 days extra to make sure we got to do all the things here we wanted to. The minute, and I'm not exaggerating, the minute the conference ended, it started raining. And it didn't stop the rest of the time we were there. Then, fittingly, as we boarded the plane in Newport News, the sun came out. Nice.