tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-75112362024-03-05T20:28:10.256-08:00"Awesome!" A Blog.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger152125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511236.post-86627203260322964472016-12-25T00:24:00.000-08:002016-12-25T00:32:03.017-08:00Some News to Wrap Up 2016.Hi, you.<br />
<br />
I remember you from the handshake at the book signing in Austin, hours after the shop should have closed. 2008? 2009? Your wife was sick and asleep in the car, but you wanted to say hi, you had driven hours, I had signed for six hours straight on my feet, and I wanted to make time for you too. You committed, and so would I. <br />
<br />
The book tours and connecting with you have been the single highest thrill of this whole ramble. (Now I'm talking about you, the readership, not just you, that one poor guy, who was probably starting to feel really weird about this letter.)<br />
<br />
You were in the line at Rocketship, Brooklyn, that stretched for so many blocks that even Brooklyn noted that something was different in Brooklyn that night. Sazeracs were the fuel they gave me. James from Yo La Tengo took me out for Venezuelan burgers, after, in an area of town called Flushing. I recall little; I was face-up dead in the back of James's blue hatchback.<br />
<br />
You were in the first Achewood line ever, at Isotope, in San Francisco, ten years ago, my first signing. Another line around the block. It was scarcely believable, this momentum, but I leaned into it because there was nothing that could have filled my heart more, after all the silent, solitary, hard work.<br />
<br />
You were at the Achewood Chochachocon in Portland last year— Cons of which there have been very many now. I flew to the one in Boston this year, so unique and warm and kind were you all.<br />
<br />
When I finally got over my fear of meeting the Internet, you, readers, people, hearts, were so loving to me. You made me want to keep giving to you, because you were such wonderful people that you deserved it, and your laughter was my real payment. To this day, I have created what I do because I know you are there and appreciate it. Your happiness gratifies me like little else. Your stories of the work getting you through hard periods validate it even more than the stories of unencumbered laughter.<br />
<br />
I relaunched Achewood a year ago on Christmas Day, putting it up on Fridays, and I wanted to give it one full, solid year. I wanted to prove I could come back as strong as I ever was. And I wanted to make you happy again. So I did (at least, the first one — the second one I can't speak to). And now I am walking away from it again. It's necessary for me.<br />
<br />
Achewood takes a huge give from its producer. It's so slippery, so complex, so vast, so <i>old</i>, and I hold it to such a high standard, it becomes all-encompassing. When I do Achewood, I can't focus on or give enough time to the securities I need to build for later in life, or to my human relationships.<br />
<br />
There are other reasons. I know a very successful man who likes to reinvent himself every decade. I have been the Achewood guy since 2001. There are hundreds of things I wish I could focus on in life, and I am forty-one now. I was twenty-six when I started this. I want to do something different.<br />
<br />
I still haven't written a proper book, and that is first among my ambitions. I also need to commit full-time to the fascinating business my friend and I started, <a href="http://portlandsyrups.com/">Portland Syrups</a>. It's expanding at an overwhelming pace, and it deserves my focus if it's to grow at the head of its market.<br />
<br />
I have the sincere feeling that I won't be able to stay away from Achewood forever. The itch occurs every few years. I do not promise that it is over, in any capacity. But I am going to go quiet for a while and refresh my perspective. I will continue to produce gallery artwork, as that is a creative outlet that's truly come to fascinate me these last two years. It will appear in the <a href="https://achewoodgallery.wordpress.com/sold/">gallery shop</a>, and if you've never been there, please check it out. The evolution that's taken place in there might interest you.<br />
<br />
This last little storyline—Golden Tabloid—intentionally ended by directing the reader to the blogs. I want to make you go into the Achewood blog world to get closure, and while you're there, I want you to see that if you haven't read these blogs, Achewood isn't actually ending for you. It's starting all over, in a world of more and deeper material than you could hope to read in years. The blogs are where I personally think the heart and soul of that universe live. They've just been hidden — in words. In words I haven't had to maddeningly jockey into tiny speech bubbles.<br />
<br />
(And if you do know the blogs, I am willing to bet that you haven't nearly read them all, or might notice new threads and interconnections you didn't before.)<br />
<br />
Thank you for taking me on this journey, all these years. You made it matter. I'm sure I'll be seeing you again.<br />
<br />
Chris<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511236.post-23288961492720938192013-04-01T12:16:00.000-07:002013-04-01T12:45:20.515-07:00The Achewood Shop Re-Opens! <span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Dear Friends of the Library, </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As the Achewood machine slowly, carefully reanimates itself—blinking and aware in its droperidol-impregnated ticking shroud, but mindful of the ouzel on the doorstep, which will chirrup ceaselessly when it deems the coast clear—we have a series of announcements for you (the television project was the first one). These arrive on no predetermined schedule, as I always hated that sort of thing. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Achewood's hiatus has been the stuff of much speculation, and the lack of information from me has contributed to this. In some cases, silence on my part was construed as disregard; this truly was never the reason for it. Some of my personal struggles became all-consuming and needed addressing. We can go over the unsavory details later. I'm grateful—and lucky—to be able to tell you that these are, after a long, dark tea-time, behind me. But during this period, many of my relationships suffered. Some were with my readers and supporters. For you affected by my difficulties, I sincerely apologize. Please know I'm working to restore that relationship—first and foremost by addressing the second cookbook—and will have good news on that to share with you soon. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Today, I am pleased to share more of the first fruits of my efforts. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This afternoon's exciting news—exciting to me, anyway—is that thanks to my talented friends at Amplifier, we are once again able to offer a tremendous selection of classic and new Achewood <a href="https://achewood.myshopify.com/collections/t-shirts">shirts</a>, <a href="https://achewood.myshopify.com/collections/posters-1">posters</a>, and <a href="https://achewood.myshopify.com/collections/coffee-mugs">mugs</a>. Over 500 of our most popular <a href="https://achewood.myshopify.com/collections/comics">strips</a> have been <a href="http://achewood.myshopify.com/blogs/news/6062924-the-achewood-shop-returns">remastered</a> to a 12" x 18" sheet and made available for purchase. This small miracle of merchandising has been made possible by Amplifier's new <a href="http://apps.shopify.com/merchify">Merchify</a> tool, the best current retail system for artists and designers. There are no risks of nondelivery as the entire line of Achewood products are <i>made upon your order</i>, and all production and delivery is handled by them, at their massive shipping center in Austin, TX—you can shop with confidence. </span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://achewood.myshopify.com/"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRneumHnHSysvxODALqfkEEPTaKZ7KKGfPoBw5385et1aJpBxQMVp3pVsaNhLumAA4zn7IYBrNn7voV-cFRUICOLdYpHdmRFSHQaaTMzMfMhmXbdyKZ-6BsuL_Y6BdgrIyzjJz/s1600/april2013_shirts.gif" /></a></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It has been years since shirts like <a href="http://achewood.myshopify.com/collections/t-shirts/products/what-we-need-more-of-is-science">What We Need More of Is Science</a>, <a href="http://achewood.myshopify.com/collections/t-shirts/products/rabbit-ambulance-t-shirt">Rabbit Ambulance</a>, <a href="http://achewood.myshopify.com/collections/t-shirts/products/special-boy-t-shirt">Here Comes a Special Boy</a>/<a href="http://achewood.myshopify.com/collections/womens-t-shirts/products/special-girl-womens-t-shirt">Girl</a>, etc., were available, and now—thanks to a print-on-demand technology that is not just as good as silkscreening, but has surpassed it in look and feel—these favorites can be yours once again. Shop directly in the <a href="http://achewood.myshopify.com/">Achewood Shop</a>, or from within our new <a href="https://www.facebook.com/achewoodshop/app_184367687735">Facebook Shop</a> should you prefer. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This has been a long time coming. Much creative work was stockpiled during this hiatus, and while emerging from it has come in uncertain fits and starts, with the first buds and warbles of spring I feel energized and excited about the prospect of a return that has been at the center of my mind for a very long time. Please keep us in mind, and for now, please come and visit the old hall of profane iconography. We’ll have more news for you soon. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Best, </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Chris Onstad </span><br />
<i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Achewood
</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></i>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">PS: This is no cynical April Fool's joke, despite our timing. (Remember, we have a knack for this sort of thing, having unwittingly launched the strip on September 11, 2001.) If you seek further assurance, please witness this photograph taken by a customer who shopped during our soft launch: </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0Pt0CCMouJv4FgRDuNB3nPaSUeizGOc29Bh0koxOunKeVGvMSAVQt54f6nRXDjxzff6JFnw1LstiLVboaO-bPcxUVfvXgnjjRU1s0qADy4f-QEkaip2UcSqC6yEu3eArGIk55/s1600/soft_launch.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0Pt0CCMouJv4FgRDuNB3nPaSUeizGOc29Bh0koxOunKeVGvMSAVQt54f6nRXDjxzff6JFnw1LstiLVboaO-bPcxUVfvXgnjjRU1s0qADy4f-QEkaip2UcSqC6yEu3eArGIk55/s320/soft_launch.png" width="317" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511236.post-28288995913183994172013-02-24T23:27:00.000-08:002013-02-24T23:28:03.373-08:00Achewood, 2013.<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Hi. I’m back. I have some good news for you. It’s been a long time coming. A lot has changed since I fell off the face of the earth. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">First and foremost: I’ve been working with a team of artists, engineers, and producers to bring Achewood to life. To give it the voices, richness, and opportunities it never had as a comic strip. We have a little something to show you:</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://vimeo.com/60365255">
<img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha77CqHHgMmkJ5QBgL-1LGG_XmKGrzJ57lQWcDyqI9el-I85hu9QlxVGvyhAYDfEIjfDV7-2HGRvAH-Evim79-j-DJ9dtxAlFXsBSGbkkKWMuA2WwGY9RJHeEB3tkT1kVwCM4b/s320/philippe_tv_gift.gif" width="320" />
</a>
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><i><a href="https://vimeo.com/60365255">Click Philippe to go to video.</a></i></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
I’m flying to Los Angeles today to begin a week of network pitch meetings. If things go well, we’ll find a home for our show. Please cross your fingers for us, send us your good energy. And please, share this clip with your world. I’m very proud of what we’ve done. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
There are many other things I want to share with you. About Achewood, about this, about all the loose ends, and about my plans for it going forward. This is the tip and the bulk of the iceberg, but there is much more. It’s been a very busy couple years, full of life-size tragedies, manifold germinations of happiness, and surprising rebirths—just like Achewood. But all in due time. For now, please enjoy this new form our momentary diversion on the road to the grave has taken. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
I’ll be in touch. I’m back around. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
Best, </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Chris Onstad </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Portland, Oregon.
</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511236.post-84683290213501195132011-12-16T11:55:00.000-08:002011-12-16T12:08:34.357-08:00<span style="font-style: italic;font-size:100%;" >Roast Beef Kazenzakis, Observed, December 2011.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:100%;" ><br />As Told by C. Onstad.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br />The rain spat and drizzled without conviction as Roast Beef sat at his workstation. The sky was twenty percent gray and the window was open wide, letting the chilly evening air blow over his mouse hand. He liked it this way.<br /><br />He checked a few math websites to make sure he still had his game about him, then felt the first stirrings of hunger. Molly wouldn’t be home until later; he considered a solo trip to get won ton soup. Maybe a cigarette if no one was watching. He fished around in the back of his desk drawer and found the old pack of Nat Shermans, which yielded a solitary cigarette of extremely high quality. He himself never spent nine dollars on luxury cigarettes; these had been left outside after a party at Ray’s. The second-to-last one had been smoked alone in the narrow space between the pool house and the neighbor’s fence; he’d immediately gone inside to wash his hands, brush his teeth, and gargle afterwards. Instead of drying with a wash cloth, he had used paper towels which he threw away in Ray’s trash can, along with his toothbrush. Molly had been staying overnight at a girlfriend’s house, watching Steel Magnolias and getting chatty on Campari, but no precaution was too great.<br /><br />He walked with his contraband for a while before lighting it with a pack of matches he had found on the mantle, and was pleased that it only took one strike; she would never notice the match missing. He tucked the lid of the matchbook into the ring which held his keys so that he wouldn’t forget to replace it on returning home, and considered getting some handi-wipes from the corner store to clean the smoke off his hands. They had wipes at the bodega for customers who bought the heat lamp fried chicken and jo-jo potatoes; perhaps a snack of these things would help erase the odor which would dwell deep within him.<br /><br />As he turned the corner to enter a dark, wooded section of the park, he saw a familiar silhouette in the tall grass which grew between the pines. It was Ray, and he was swishing a golf club around in the rough, looking for something. He glanced up and smiled when he saw his friend.<br /><br />“Yo Beef!” Ray exclaimed, taking a nip from a hip flask he’d secured inside his puffy winter jacket. He was wearing a Tam o’ Shanter in garish road work safety colors.<br /><br />Beef steeled himself and resolved not to toss his cigarette aside; he allowed himself this one small pleasure.<br /><br />“Oh uh hey Ray what you got goin’ on down there.”<br /><br />Ray pointed at Beef’s cigarette. “That’s a secret,” he said in a knowing confidence, free of judgment. It was a strong understanding between men. <br /><br />“Thanks dogg, I got night feet pretty bad and needed a mile.”<br /><br />“You seen a bonchity-bonch Titleist anywhere up ins? I straight-up shanked this damn new hybrid sand wedge and the thing got a wild hare up its ass. I never even saw it.”<br /><br />“Well uh I’ll help you poke around for a bit. How come you hittin’ balls in the park anyway though, Seven Pines gettin' like aerated or such?”<br /><br />“Urban golf, dude! It’s hella great practice for the short game, all with crazy lies and slopes. You ever putt down a slide? Bank one off a plywood fire engine? Teach a child to sing? Thrills, man! I’m makin’ the game feel ALIVE again!”<br /><br />“Ain’t police down on you makin’ a ruckus all with clubs and balls flyin’ everywhere?”<br /><br />“Police? Nah, dogg! Plus, there ain’t signs against golf. Just alcohol.” Ray took another swift nip and slid the flask back into his jacket pocket.<br /><br />“Well uh I mean ain’t it just common sense that hard little balls that could go in any direction real fast might not be too welcome in a public area…I mean they got like kids and way litigious moms and stuff in parks.”<br /><br />“Well, all the better they ain’t someplace else, then,” Ray said distractedly, picking at his teeth with a wooden tee. He had found his ball behind a large garbage bag that looked to be filled with filthy towels, discount popcorn bags, orange peels, and sticky emptied cans of Monster energy drink. “Heads up!”<br /><br />A choppy three-quarter swing sent the cold little orb off through some trees, and Roast Beef carefully tracked its arc, noting the approximate amount of energy the vector contained and roughly calculating how far it was likely to travel on its path of woodland surface ricochets. He pulled on his cigarette and told himself he had one more good puff left, then surveyed the area for cedar branches or pine needles with which to camouflage the scent on his hands. Ray made off into the underbrush, and he followed close behind.<br /><br />Their journey led them to the banks of the creek, where they were plussed to find old Cornelius angling in a slowly purling pool of thick brown water. Beef stamped out his cigarette before the old man could see him.<br /><br />“Yo, Connie!” Ray beamed. “You see my damn Titleist chompin’ round in this rough?” He hacked and spat.<br /><br />Cornelius eyed them with a barely perceptible measure of displeasure. Roast Beef sensed immediately that Ray’s ball had disturbed the water, sending any already-skittish aquatic life darting beneath distant logs and shadowy outcroppings. “Sssh,” he hissed at Ray. “You gonna scare the fish even more than the ball with all that yellin’.”<br /><br />“My Titleist go in the water, Connie?” Ray asked, incredulous. “For real?”<br /><br />Cornelius gave Ray a brief dose of eye contact which was not unlike solid public steel in its overall effect—in its effect on Roast Beef, the party of the third part, at any rate. Ray poked around in the reeds for a creel, hoping to compliment the old man on a productive evening of sport. Beef stiffened as muddy eddies languished out into the larger waters, now alerting even the most remedially sensate of fish to the dangers which came from shore.<br /><br />Cornelius gnashed his teeth with a brief, compact efficiency and set his pole down on the shore next to where he sat. Within moments he had produced a small thermos of orange pekoe and a ham biscuit wrapped in waxed paper. As Ray rustled and kicked about in the underbrush, he continued to spread his modest repast out in silence. Though none of this production’s uncomfortable silence was for Roast Beef’s benefit, it was perhaps felt by him the most. He nervously smelled his hand to see how badly the tobacco had perfumed him. It was strong, but he didn’t dare stick it in the creek, as he thought he remembered that smell travels even more quickly through water, and he didn’t want to taint it for the fish. Tobacco is a very polarizing substance in nature, and generally indicates an imperfect environment, he reasoned.<br /><br />“Strawberry, Strawberry, the dopeman’s ho,” Ray sang to himself as he fished for his ball. Beef silently told Ray not to run this song down around Cornelius, as it would no doubt offend his aged ears and sensibilities and make an already bad situation worse, but could not make himself verbalize the admonition. He merely stood and felt his blood pressure rise within him. Ray took another nip from his flask and then had a noisy coughing fit as the volatile, pocket-warmed liquor dissolved the mucus in his throat. </span> <span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br />When his spasm had subsided, he offered the flask to Cornelius. Beef watched nervously; there were many signs posted against the consumption of alcohol, and if Cornelius’s fishing license were revoked there would be hell to pay. It was one of his last pleasures, along with agreeable temperatures and recording payments in his ledger.<br /><br />“Yo, hit this, Connie,” Ray insisted. “You gonna get bored if you don’t, dogg.”<br /><br />Cornelius stood his ground for a moment, and then, with an affable elevation of the shoulders, shrugged off his mantle of displeasure and accepted the offering.<br /><br />“Es tut sie kein gutes in der Flasche,” he said. “It does you no good in the bottle.” He sipped genteelly from the brushed pewter, held the liquor on his tongue to evaluate its quality, and then swallowed without air. It was the practiced device of one who is used to accepting dubious snorts from strange vessels.<br /><br />“Thank you, Raymond,” he said, passing back the flask. “I believe you will find that your gutty has come to rest beneath the taller of the two manzanitas just ‘round the bend.”<br /><br />“Dang, Connie!” Ray chuckled. “You let me do all that splashin’ around in the water for nothin’?”<br /><br />The warmth spreading across the inside of Cornelius’s chest extinguished a choice acerbic retort, and he merely mentioned that he had been looking for an excuse to break out his evening rations.<br /><br />Ray clambered off over the uneven terrain in search of his quarry. Cornelius offered Roast Beef a hand-rolled from an old engraved case in his breast pocket.<br /><br />“You will enjoy the flavor of a fresher tobacco on your evening stroll,” he said. “And if you wish to keep from scenting your hands, I find that gloves are a happy accoutrement.” Beef noticed that the old man was wearing black leather driving gloves. He accepted the cigarette, an anise-flavored hard candy, and a dab of vetiver oil which Cornelius instructed him to rub on the offending area.<br /><br />A loud thud sounded from behind the trees. “Fuck me, man!” Ray yelled to no one, amid the sound of crackling twigs and the rustle of nylon clothing.<br /><br />“Some are to be endured as we sally forth, arm in arm, unto the familiar embrace of death,” Cornelius said serenely as he surveyed the waters.<br /><br />Roast Beef nodded, thanked him for the sundry goods and services, and made off for home. Perhaps he would take a shower and find some won ton soup, he thought. The chill was now bracing, and something hot would do him good. <br /></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511236.post-25746377312192540802011-03-20T22:16:00.000-07:002011-03-20T22:24:02.822-07:00Hiatus, Explained Tenderly and with a Great Gentleness.<span style="font-style: italic;">[Editor's note: this is an emergency relocation of the original Fanflow release, as I did not realize those servers would be down for maintenance for the next day or so.]</span><br /><br />Hello, friends and readers.<br /><br />As you have likely noticed if you have any interest in Achewood, output has been next to nil for the last several months, and was slowing down before that. Here, let me explain. Have a seat wherever you like.<br /><br />You see, whenever I sat down to write over the last year or so, I had a growing, nagging feeling that, after nine years, 1,700 strips, 1,000 character blog entries spanning twelve characters, thirty books, 700 subscriber pieces, the New Yorker pieces, tours, hundreds of interviews, terabytes of vitriolic hate mail (incoming), running a merchandise mini-empire, and just generally feeling under the gun to dance for the public, I was getting a little burned out.<br /><br />Whenever I cracked my knuckles and attempted to start a fresh strip with an idea that had popped into my head that day, I’d get halfway through it and realize I’d already done that particular gag, say, six years ago. Frustrating. Had I run through everything that my finite brain knew to talk about? Couldn’t be...I’d boasted in earlier times that a good writer could write his way out of anything. What a cocksure young man I was. Maybe it’s time to recharge.<br /><br />Another nagging idea which slowly grew from a whorl in the tub to a Pacific gyre was that, as I wrote piece after piece, it seemed like I was just imitating myself, if that makes any sense. I had always prided myself on not being formulaic (say, Monday jokes and lasagna jokes), so this presented a grave problem. I have always wanted Achewood to be something that didn’t exist before, including earlier versions of itself. <br /><br />Like a sparrow birthing a clenched human fist, Achewood must be reborn in strange ways over time to achieve this ideal. This may mean the occasional hiatus, or span of dark strips that do not make you laugh. This may mean a week of heavily-Photoshopped scans of pencil sharpeners, or simply stenciling a “bobby” on my garage door in a cheap imitation of Banksy.<br /><br />I know it’s irritating that I can keep no regular schedule; that’s what RSS is for. Also, whatever I put up on Achewood.com is free to the world, and I won’t entertain a bunch of entitled whining. Here’s a <a href="http://journal.neilgaiman.com/2009/05/entitlement-issues.html">great essay</a> by the wonderful Neil Gaiman on that subject. This essay is a gift to writers and artists everywhere.<br /><br />I take inspiration for Achewood’s future from the great P.G. Wodehouse, who wrote with furious zip and consistent institutional tone literally until the day he died—aged 93, in an armchair, pipe in hand—next to a fresh manuscript. He wrote Jeeves and Wooster for longer than I’ve been alive, so that gives me some hope that I can drop back into the feeling of Roast Beef and Ray’s dynamic, or the sordid stories of the rest of the cast. I do love them; though I am a different man now than the kid I was when I invented them, perhaps they can “grow in the telling.” <br /><br />I can enumerate a few more of the concerns I’ve had. If you’d like to skip to the end, though, and look at the picture I commissioned of the OH SHIT kitten finally falling from the branch, please hit the “End” key on your extended keyboard. But please, clear any children from the room first.<br /><br />One thing that’s always made me a bit sad is how Internet presentation seems to devalue content. So much art, writing, and news is suddenly available to us that each piece seems nearly a throwaway, lost in the gullet of our now-insatiable appetite for information. Here in the future, everyone is famous for 15kb. Fifteen reTweets. Fifteen LOLs. Should I work fifteen hours on something that will take fifteen seconds to read? The answer is yes, of course, because I love what I do, but after nearly a decade one wonders if one couldn’t do more for people with that time. Create greater and lengthier entertainment. I’d like to focus more on prose; despite the heavy foot I seem to have planted in the comics world, perhaps I can balance both by shifting the weight a bit. Some might count themselves kings of infinite space when bounded in the nutshell of six panels, but personally I’m finding it a bit cramped.<br /><br />I’m also trying to gently withdraw from life as a semi-public figure, impossible as that sounds given my medium. I just don’t feel suited to it. It’s very bad for your head (well, my head, anyway) to be intensely praised and intensely hated by a decade’s worth of strangers. I loved meeting the thousands of kind readers on my tours, but the stress of the constant travel, constant demand, and unstanchable 24-hour communications have me longing for a wingback chair, a quiet inbox, and perhaps a calming agent in some cut crystal. That said, you can follow me on Twitter!<br /><br />In sum, I think Achewood will be back sooner than later. As will other projects, and the sun, and my solo album with Greg Lake (he’s on vocals and guitar). I’ve needed time to reflect on what all this is, but it’s been a good long time, hasn’t it? I still love the work when I look back over it, and don’t want to take it off the ventilator. Cross your fingers, do that RSS thing, and I hope to see you again before too long.<br /><br />Thank you,<br />Chris Onstad<br /><br />PS: Subscriber content will continue to be updated. To try and keep my brain active I’ve been writing chapbooks, nearly 400 pages’ worth. I think that if you like the Achewood mentality and approach to things, you’ll enjoy these. They’re available here, and the first one is free to all. A new one will be posted in a few days’ time. There will also be my Achewood experiments, writings, and attempts at progress. If you’ve never been in the Fanflow, for $2.99 you get access to about three years’ worth of content you’ve never seen before. [As luck would have it, the Fanflow servers are down during the next day or so for maintenance—please check back!]Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511236.post-56206076790994906482009-01-16T21:02:00.000-08:002009-01-19T19:39:43.777-08:00A Good Employee Is Available In This LandDear Friends of the Library,<br /><br />As a Non-Recognized Nice California Company (NRNCC), we try to do what we can for the people who help us do what we do. When our Warehouse Guy's new job offer fell through recently, I told him I'd help get him in his search for a new gig.<br /><br />His résumé follows. What it doesn't tell you is that he is a sterling individual, conscientious and proactive, a loyal fan of good work and hard comedy, and highly adaptable. Often was the night when it was him nagging me to get one more order filled. Also often was the night when he called me aside, in all seriousness, to watch a new Tim And Eric internet video, or something about "Bub Rubb." He can also hold forth extensively on the subject of baseball, though we did not use that part of him.<br /><br />The <a href="http://www.achewood.com/ccrane_resume.pdf">résumé of a one Chris Crane</a>, for your evaluation.<br /><br />All he asks in return for his excellence is a position.<br /><br />Talk to him, people. If your business needs a happy, bright, versatile chap who scored 1580 on his SAT and can meet any situation with a winning spirit and attention to detail, he is that man. I am happy to provide reference.<br /><br />Thanks for your time,<br />Chris OnstadUnknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511236.post-55297757674474576552009-01-11T23:08:00.000-08:002009-01-12T12:17:46.791-08:00Achewood State of the Union, 1/2009Dear Friends of the Library,<br /><br />They say that the devil you don't know is worse than the devil you do. In that same spirit, I posit that the Achewood State of the Union update which you can read is better than the one which you can't.<br /><br />If you've been following Achewood in any capacity for the last year, you've noticed changes afoot. Most particularly, I'm sure you've noticed that the strip itself, always the flagship of the enterprise, has run less frequently.<br /><br />I want to apologize for that. After seven full and happy years, though, production of the strip has had to find space for itself among other projects. Book development, animation development, and most recently, the rapid relocation of my little family to another state. That's the big killer. We lived in Silicon Valley until today. Until three weeks ago, we thought we were going to live here forever. It's a complicated story involving eminent domain, the stewardship of the American financial continuum, and a poisonous dog named Nasturtium. I'll tell you about it sometime.<br /><br />There's no way for me to do good work while taking care of my family and all of our interests during this move. You would see scabrous comics—literally injurious to the eyes—anxiously uploaded from a laptop in a stall at the Mount Shasta Bathe-n-Shat. You would see strips about crying. You would see shakily-drawn strips about cantaloupes with wedges missing, in a half-hearted attempt to ape that whole Shel Silverstein thing. It would be wrong.<br /><br />I expect this official strip hiatus will last about two weeks. I hate not being able to produce it for your entertainment, but I would hate more to rush the work and injure the archives for the sake of quantity. Thank you for your patience and dedication, and please find a home for us in your RSS feed aggregator.<br /><br />Sincerely,<br />Chris Onstad<br /><br />PS: All orders are being fulfilled, and there will still be Fanflow premium content during this time. Ain't nobody gonna get burned on this deal.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511236.post-21426370809255873512008-09-23T22:21:00.000-07:002008-11-12T10:58:25.585-08:00North American Achewood Tour Dates and Times.<span style="color:red;">Last updated 11/12/2008 10:50AM PDT</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">Los Angeles just announced! See below.</span><br /><br />Gentle Reader and Friend of the Library,<br /><br />Here are the dates on which you and I will meet, chat, and conduct friendship, as I come through your approximate area. I hope that the events, once over, will carry on long into the night, at a place that is not too far and has room for all. Except for when I have to be dragged off to a plane, my pen trailing a line down the carpet aisle and out the door.<br /><br />In cases where your city does not yet have a venue/time listed, Dark Horse (my publisher) and I are working out the details with the shop and will update this information as soon as things are official.<br /><br />- - -<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">PORTLAND, OR</span><br />Portland events <a href="http://s22.photobucket.com/albums/b311/hotmaps/?action=view&current=AchewoodPosterSM.jpg">poster</a>!<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Thursday, Oct 9</span><br />Floating World Comics, 6-8PM. Signing. BYOB.<br />20 NW 5th Ave #101<p> <span style="font-style: italic;">Friday, Oct 10</span><br />Skeleton Key Tattoo, 9PM-close. Free tats (limited spaces), kind of a loose general hang-out thing. I will sign anything you bring, but not with a tattoo gun. 1729 SE Hawthorne Blvd.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">SEATTLE, WA</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Saturday, Oct 11 </span><br />Comics Dungeon, Inc. 2PM-4PM<br />250 NE 45th Street</p><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">ANN ARBOR, MI</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Monday, Nov 3 </span><br /><a href="http://www.aadl.org/events/list?search=achewood&location=">Ann Arbor District Library</a>, <span class="adr" id="sxaddr" dir="ltr"><span class="street-address">343 S 5th Ave</span>, <span class="locality">Ann Arbor</span>, <span class="region">MI, </span></span>7-8:30 (Q&A, brief signing), then afterparty/full-fledged signing at Vault of Midnight Comics, <a href="http://www.vaultofmidnight.com/pages/exit.php?url=aHR0cDovL21hcHMuZ29vZ2xlLmNvbS9tYXBzP2Y9cSZobD1lbiZxPTIxOStzK21haW4rc3QrYW5uK2FyYm9yJnNsbD0zNy4wNjI1LC05NS42NzcwNjgmc3Nwbj02Ny40NzEzNDEsMTAxLjc3NzM0NCZsYXllcj0maWU9VVRGOCZvbT0xJno9MTcmbGw9NDIuMjc5OTY4LC04My43NDgzMTgmc3BuPTAuMDAzOTM3LDAuMDA5NzMxJml3bG9jPWFkZHI=&entry_id=1" title="http://maps.google.com/maps?f=q&hl=en&q=219+s+main+st+ann+arbor&sll=37.0625,-95.677068&sspn=67.471341,101.777344&layer=&ie=UTF8&om=1&z=17&ll=42.279968,-83.748318&spn=0.003937,0.009731&iwloc=addr" onmouseover="window.status='http://maps.google.com/maps?f=q&hl=en&q=219+s+main+st+ann+arbor&sll=37.0625,-95.677068&sspn=67.471341,101.777344&layer=&ie=UTF8&om=1&z=17&ll=42.279968,-83.748318&spn=0.003937,0.009731&iwloc=addr';return true;" onmouseout="window.status='';return true;">219 S. Main St, Ann Arbor</a>.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">TORONTO, CANADA</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Tuesday, Nov 4</span><br />The Beguiling. Signing. 7PM-close.<br />601 Markham Street<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">CHICAGO, IL</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Wednesday, Nov 5</span><br />Comix Revolution, Evanston. Signing. 4-7PM.<br />606 Davis St.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />Thursday, Nov 6</span><br />Quimby's. 5-7PM. Signing.<br />1854 W. North Ave<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">BROOKLYN, NY</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Friday, Nov 7</span><br />Rocketship. Signing. 7PM-close.<br />208 Smith St.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">BOSTON, MA</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Saturday, Nov 8</span><br />Million Year Picnic, Harvard Square, 2-4PM.<br />Afterparty with Freezepop, location TBA.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">AUSTIN, TX</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Saturday, December 6</span><br /><a href="http://www.austinbooks.com/history.php">Austin Books</a>, 7-10PM - <a href="http://www.mapquest.com/maps/map.adp?country=US&countryid=US&addtohistory=&searchtab=address&searchtype=address&address=5002%2Bn%2Blamar%2Bblvd&city=Austin&state=tx&zipcode=78751&search=%2B%2BSearch%2B%2B" target="_blank">5002 North Lamar Boulevard</a>.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">LOS ANGELES, CA</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Friday, December 12th </span><br /><a href="http://www.meltcomics.com/map.html">Meltdown</a>, 7pm to 10pm.<br />7522 Sunset Blvd @ N. Sierra Bonita<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"></span>Our events throughout the northwest, midwest, and northeast have been blowouts, so bring your good-time game and get ready to stump me with Achewood trivia. I look forward to seeing you. <p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511236.post-7055864898443957622008-09-16T16:48:00.001-07:002008-09-16T17:14:19.262-07:00Gush-Love Hemisphere, and other B-SidesI "blogged," (I'm going to stop putting that word in quotes someday, but not today) and you responded. Here is the tentative roster of cities we're pretty sure to hit in October — I can't name specific shops yet, but these are pretty nearly locks:<br /><br />Los Angeles, CA<br />Portland, OR<br />Seattle, WA<br />Austin, TX<br />Chicago, IL<br />Ann Arbor, MI<br />Boston, MA<br />Brooklyn, NY<br />Toronto, ON<br /><br />These will generally be in bookstores or prominent comics shops with lots of space and a history of having beer and wine during signings, to make the lines bearable. Dark Horse will be hammering out the details from here, but I do appreciate all the white guys with glasses who have been writing in with suggestions. In some cases we're scheduling a secondary event, which will be a more low-key meet-and-greet type thing, and less of a signing, although I'll be happy to sign "whatever" (ladies?).<br /><br />Stay tuned as we firm up locations and dates. Thanks to all the shops who are offering to sponsor travel and/or hotels -- that definitely helps make things happen.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511236.post-19096467432031345962008-09-14T18:32:00.000-07:002008-09-15T11:52:55.809-07:00Achewood World Tour, Pt. 1The pens sit on the shop's counter in the low morning light, drained of ink. A partially consumed <a href="http://twitpic.com/bl0r">rotisserie chicken</a> stinks in its plastic supermarket carry-out dome, having been forgotten under the bar the night before. Thirty miles away, the official Achewood car sits in the official Achewood driveway, holding much less merchandise than it did when it last departed, and the official Achewood cartoonist is wondering how to politely suggest that his warehouse guy unpack and inventory all of it. The body is idle, but the mind races.<br /><br />Last night marked the first public signing of the first proper Achewood book, and it was an event which wicked free vodka into its attendees at a medically significant pace. The Isotope, San Francisco's premier comics shop, kept the stuff flowing for a crowd of hundreds of young white men with glasses, and your humble narrator stood planted in place from 8:30PM until 1:30AM, greeting and signing his little body off. Despite the long line, the "vibe" was energetic and upbeat, and we'll have to do it again real soon, because it was like a wedding: everybody gets a second, but nobody gets a minute.<br /><br />What do I remember of the event?<br /><br />* There is a crazy guy named Don who lives in San Francisco. He wears a fez and black-tinted 1920s driving goggles, the circular kind with little leather panels on the side (such as Trent Reznor might wear if he were flying a biplane past a leather storm cloud covered in zippers). He has long hair and a handlebar mustache, but he does not seem dangerous...unless you are, say, a comic book that does not want to be read, <span style="font-style: italic;">because comic book, he's gonna read you.</span> <br /><br />* I also met <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/katieweber/2854541317/">this guy</a> at one point. (I'm the white guy with glasses; he's the white guy with glasses to my right.)<br /><br />* The only chest I got to sign was that of a white guy with glasses. Bevy of beautiful women in attendance, where were you on this one? F-minus, beautiful women. Get out of here.<br /><br />I wasn't sure what to expect at the First Ever Achewood Book Signing and Party-Off, as I've been relatively inaccessible for most of my writing career (piano lessons). It was a treat, and as soon as we returned home I contacted my publisher with urgent plans to set up signings in the following major metropolitan areas:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Portland, OR</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Los Angeles, CA</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">New York, NY</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Boston, MA</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Austin, TX</span><br /><br />If you're local to any of those and would like to suggest a comic shop as a venue, or would like to suggest another city which could hold a signing, by all means contact me (Canada—what's up, girl?). I greatly enjoyed a night with you all, and would like to punctuate autumn with several more of the same.<br /><br />/C<br />aka MC chris@achewood.comUnknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511236.post-46188474252881664272008-04-21T23:00:00.000-07:002008-12-10T19:28:13.295-08:00For your consideration.Two quick items of note this week!<br /><br />The first photograph comes from <span style="font-weight: bold;">Matt</span>, who claims to have upgraded from the <span style="font-weight: bold;">Ford Taurus </span>pictured here:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaSFcZmlj7UX7hu0RQPSeCpiRoi10WDtZHfrTUflzcvEIF7hv7KrnYih-9aedxax0BxIT4838G0WwD5aBhd1QskKaJo_RFgKz98ydhHur0irAc8f2WgiC_Yc3dcfvlaOeXOOCE/s1600-h/a_dudes_car.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaSFcZmlj7UX7hu0RQPSeCpiRoi10WDtZHfrTUflzcvEIF7hv7KrnYih-9aedxax0BxIT4838G0WwD5aBhd1QskKaJo_RFgKz98ydhHur0irAc8f2WgiC_Yc3dcfvlaOeXOOCE/s400/a_dudes_car.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5191946418203564018" border="0" /></a><br />And the second lovely little tidbit comes from newlyweds <span style="font-weight: bold;">Ty</span> and <span style="font-weight: bold;">Bev</span>, who had a one-of-a-kind pair of cake toppers constructed:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSDs6IJTodNFkOiTcsAgt64gdhkyOla-7B8yUZbUAhHbY2PSx7-7nvItIbLyMjHuAw3kMCokNXPBBT0T0JPiLFHm4WJc_q73zp6-sxbKx-FzVdyskhX0XP_m18KuYbQvl4pS-Y/s1600-h/a_dudes_cake.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSDs6IJTodNFkOiTcsAgt64gdhkyOla-7B8yUZbUAhHbY2PSx7-7nvItIbLyMjHuAw3kMCokNXPBBT0T0JPiLFHm4WJc_q73zp6-sxbKx-FzVdyskhX0XP_m18KuYbQvl4pS-Y/s400/a_dudes_cake.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5191946787570751490" border="0" /></a><br />Let's wish them all a lot of luck, especially <span style="font-weight: bold;">Matt</span>, as he recovers from <span style="font-weight: bold;">Taurus ownership</span>, and as ever, send in any and all photographs that you deem germane and amusing.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511236.post-14432107616001026342008-03-25T09:22:00.000-07:002008-03-25T09:28:41.927-07:00Hello and There Have You Been!It struck me that I haven't been making much of an appearance in the old "public figurena" lately, and that it was high time we checked in with one another. I know that you know that I'm not much for this kind of thing, so I'll keep this brief and to the point. I will also ramble, and go on at length, and take many breaks to view Internet pornography about maids.<br /><br />1. "Hey, did you quit or something?"<br />I've been posting the four weekly Achewood strips in the morning lately, and this has caused some confusion. It upsets routines. It drives people in Australia up the wall, because their "morning" is actually something like sixteen hours later, and their coffee has long since gotten cold, and they've drummed their fingers to the bone. <span style="font-style: italic;">It's hard to please a twenty-four hour world, people.</span> So, why the different posting schedule? Well, I've been doing the strips at night, often very late at night. Sometimes I finish them so late that my synapses are actually sitting in a pile next to my mousepad, and I don't have the use of them. I've found that I like to look over the strip when I wake up, gently burnish it here and there, and then send it on its way. Why don't I work a day in advance, you ask? Well, that's kind of like asking me why I'm a boy. God put what he did where he did, and now I'm prone to thinking of Chuck Norris every few days. I make no apologies. I doubt Chuck would either.<br /><br />2. The Child.<br />A little while back I got all high on my abilities and had a child. I posted updates about her life, and then I stopped doing that when she got to be about two and a half. She's three now, and I can't say that she's let up much. We went to Disneyland recently, and late one night when I was on a bipedal errand I fetched some cereal milk and bottled water from a liquor store a block past our hotel. Plumbing around for a personal nadir, I ducked into a Del Taco for a cheeseburger and a side of fries. The food was disgusting. The patty was a disc of paste like you might peel off a roll of waxed paper. The fries were crinkle-cut relics from a joyless factory thousands of miles distant, their crenulated surface informed by food styling trends set in the early '80s. I was glad she was not there to witness as her father stuffed three dollars worth of expedient gunk into an sticky, overflowing trash bin and wandered back out into the night.<br /><br />3. The <span style="font-weight: bold;">Great Outdoor Fight</span> book<br />This is a big one. We've had it in the works for a while...roughly since before YouTube and Facebook emerged to remind us all that we should have learned how to write computer programs. Dark Horse will release this hardcover in the fall, and it will be on Amazon as a pre-order starting sometime in mid-April. What I recommend is getting a case for your trunk, so that you can make friends wherever you go, and also keep a stack in the front hall for departing guests. It might also be prudent to keep a few dozen in a large bowl in your office or waiting room.<br /><br />4. The 2nd <span style="font-weight: bold;">Achewood Cookbook</span><br />It's an open secret that Achewood sells a cookbook, and in the five years since its release I've been testing, learning, tasting, and documenting my further experiments in the kitchen. It's just a gigantic mess of a Microsoft Word file at the moment, but I hope to have it dressed up and pretty by summer. Whereas the first book is full of basics (who else will tell you how to <span style="font-style: italic;">really </span>cook rice and hot dogs?), this one is more advanced, more sophisticated, and assumes that the reader has a cutting board.<br /><br />That's about it for now...I need to go draw gorillas with somebody.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511236.post-19956004499740056442008-03-04T00:01:00.000-08:002008-03-04T09:35:24.373-08:00New Adventures In TextLike many quasi-computer people my age, I passed whole years at a stretch plumbing the depths of HHGG (remember the silly little gifts that came with it? What were they?), Planetfall, Leather Goddesses of Phobos, A Mind Forever Voyaging, Zork...the list actually doesn't go on much from there, but indelible marks indeed did those games leave. A couple stale-smelling guys in a dorm room at MIT could combine five or six interesting sentences with a diagram of seventeen rooms and you, the user, would create entire mental worlds in the white-on-black 80-column universe. So spare was the imagery and explanation (it had to be: these came on 128kb floppies, remember) that by the time you wrapped up a successful trip through any one of them, you'd imagined more copy than the combined works of John Irving, only no one would be referring to you as, "a fairly important novelist from New Hampshire" (unless you were, of course, J.D. Salinger, in which case why were you dicking around playing Zork?).<br /><br />Several years back, a very talented fellow coded a Java-based environment, complete with GUI, in which I could develop a retro-style Achewood text adventure. He was a good man, with the best intentions, and he was magnificent with computers. Unfortunately, I could never install the thing properly, make sense of the user interface, or run it anywhere without a bunch of gray pop-ups saying things about Java and failure. Wherever you are, C., forgive my ineptitude. I hope you were able to use the code in some other way, perhaps to mind your eggs and milk.<br /><br />It is in that spirit that I put the following query forth to my readership: does anyone know of a good, easy-to-use environment in which to develop interactive text adventures? I stopped programming computers well before the Internet replaced the Vuarnet, and we've been on uncomfortable footing ever since, so it would need to be something which ideally did not expose one to a command line. I mean, of course, in the making of the product — not in the use of it. Funny how that goes.<br /><br />Please email me with any suggestions. Thank you for any and all, and if I do not reply it is nothing to do with you, but rather because I am a lousy fellow.<br /><br />(Edit: as of nine hours later, I have about sixty replies, most of which are recommending something called the "Inform-7" interactive fiction platform. Thank you everyone! And here I was, thinking Inform-7 was some sort of Swedish boy band.)Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511236.post-50361303619633298792008-02-27T22:42:00.000-08:002008-02-27T22:47:11.707-08:00Just what have I been doing with my sick old myself!Well, that was just about the biggest non-holiday Achewood comic production break I've taken since I don't know when. Sorry for being sick and tir—no, I'm not sorry. Even guys like me get sick and can't string two words together sometimes, particularly ones that I have faith will be even slightly amusing in the morning. That said, I will try to arrange my sick time for weekends (you know, going to the airport Friday morning and shaking lots of hands in the International terminal, licking Taco Bell employees, etc) but cannot make any promises (some men just refuse to be licked, often for religious reasons). <br /><br />I would be remiss if I didn't take time to thank all of you who wrote in with "get well" messages, people who at least thought, "poor bugger, he's ill, it seems," or at the very least did not go online to "haxX0rz" me and Photoshop ASCII runes all over my picture.<br /><br />In other news...if you're like me, you know the power of watching Gordon Ramsay yell at people. He is truly fantastic at it. He is the Jimmy Page of becoming angry. I'm almost afraid to make fun of him here, as I have a tiny fantasy of running into him at the San Francisco Airport executive lounge. He is one of the very few people I would touch on a weekday there, as the thousands of YouTube videos of Hell's Kitchen, Kitchen Nightmares, etc. (and there is quite a lot of etc.) show him to be a man who just might yell at <span style="font-style: italic;">himself</span> in the bathroom mirror if he didn't "wash up" after using his much-referenced "widger" to "do up a proper boys' piss." So, in a nutshell, if you are a member of the SFO executive lounge, I would very much like to visit with you while keeping an eye out for Gordon Ramsay. Some wish they could have seen Gehrig hit his first home run, some wish they could have seen an intact Led Zep play at Wembley, but I'd love to see Gordon Ramsay give a proper dressing-down to the next Taco Bell food court employee who gives me meningo-form coccxylampreys, or whatever it was I contracted recently. <br /><br />Coming up in the next weeks: updates on the status of the <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Great Outdoor Fight</span> hardcover I'm doing with Dark Horse, Achewood Cookbook II, the "how to make a living off web-comics" book I hope to distribute as a PDF soon, and a really kickin' version of the 1969 GOF announcement poster. (I am trying to at least do one of these from each decade.)<br /><br />Howdy, yet goodbye,<br />/CUnknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511236.post-23655434766928117792007-12-25T22:07:00.001-08:002007-12-25T22:57:21.892-08:00Christmas 2007Good evening. Happy holidays. Are you all set, there by the fire, snug as a bug? I see you have put down your book, but have not finished your brandy. Is it because you are tired? Well, then I had best make this short. <br /> <br />I am writing to you from my new twenty-two inch monitor. (Is it unnecessary to mention that it is flat panel any more?) I've got Gordon Ramsay's "The F-Word" playing in a YouTube screen to the right of this text editor. I feel like I'm "blogging" at a rich friend's house. It may take a while for me to take the word "blog" out of quotes, since it's such a stultifying neologism (or is it a portmanteau?). I definitely don't want to hear from anyone who has an opinion on the things in that last sentence. I have a hard enough time just wondering when I am going to take all the ugly junk off my front porch, let alone read all kinds of stuff regarding people's thoughts about ideas. <br /><br />Christmas was good to me in other ways, as well. I got a case of mixed wines from my father's travels, the latest food industry books, a lot of flavoring agents, and a small device which measured rum in the 1930s. Why did they measure rum in the 1930s? I always thought it was kind of a crazy time, a time when businessmen in double-breasted suits would drain off immoderate amounts of rum and agree to finance the sort of Broadway musical where the chorus girls kick their legs up in the air and the female lead warbles like her throat was being pinned beneath a boot at the bottom of a salmon ladder. <br /><br />Hmm...what else did I get...oh, who cares. A lot of beef dinners and sausage breakfasts. The end of the holidays has left me feeling as though a dexterous raptor with seven feet of Saran Wrap could just roll me up and poach me like a plump boudin. I wish I didn't feel this way about myself. <br /><br />Maybe 2008 will find me in an improved state. I did join a gym, and have been going with a pleasing regularity (there is this one chick — damn. You know the one? FOX Motorcycle tattoo across the back of her neck?). I've mainly been doing the machine near her.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511236.post-46859129102623444692007-11-08T21:04:00.000-08:002007-11-08T21:12:50.687-08:00Bedding and Breakfasting with the BohemiansThe woman on the telephone returned from her revels in the ether long enough to affirm that yes, they did serve hot breakfast in the lobby of their beach town B&B, although it wasn’t, in spite of the place’s Germanic title, a proper German breakfast. To hear her tell it, their “all-American” breakfast was actually quite popular with the Europeans who were attracted to the place by its multilingual website.<span style=""></span><span style=""></span> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>So, hard-boiled eggs, cheeses, and great fanned trays of sliced leberkäse would not be mine, but at least I would be fed and offered coffee within twenty feet of my pillow the morning after the wedding we would be attending, which meant the residents of this hidden seaside community would be spared my chartreuse visage at least until checkout. <span style=""></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>Feeling tentatively alive on the morning after my old friend’s nuptial bash, I slipped downstairs and surveyed the promised buffet. A cereal bowl of scrambled eggs, a picked-over Pyrex brownie pan with a few cubes of unctuous home fries, and a suspiciously full crock of sautéed hot dog slices (cool to the touch) seemed to apologize for themselves from a sideboard which also featured a disused toaster and a photograph of an Italian.</p><span style=""></span><span style=""></span>I lifted a red disposable Dixie cup off the stack by the coffee urn, and then jumped a little when I saw a name Sharpied on it. Upon closer inspection, all of the Dixie cups revealed the telltale droplets of having been run through a dishwasher.<p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>My wife wasn’t having any of my leaving-the-room shenanigans, so I wandered out into the bright morning sun alone. A strong, handsome white pit bull sat in the middle of the quiet road and gave me a sleepy smile that seemed to suggest he’d been out late at a little doggie wedding of his own the night before. A block further was a café offering a Bellini for four dollars, so I strode in, placed my order, and appreciated the funky little town for being exactly what it was: the sort of place where a tired man can afford to buy a dog a drink on a Sunday morning. <span style=""> </span></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511236.post-19864518254413443772007-11-05T23:02:00.000-08:002007-11-05T23:24:41.696-08:00Bacon No. 8 (Retrofill Comes Later)Bacon no. 8 is "North Country Cob Smoked Bacon," and it's a welcome throwback to my first and favorite shipment, <a href="http://chrisonstad.blogspot.com/2007/03/bacon-no-1-is-here-what-now.html">Father's</a>, in that it is a thick, smoky, down and dirty slice of meat. To touch it raw with your fingertip and then bring the digit slowly to your nose is to be wrestling in a dusty logging camp alongside a buried row of ember-lidded Dutch ovens. Grizzled lumberjacks clap and holler, and great gallon growlers of forest-temperature steam beer are hoisted and drained in a minute by groups of three, as you and your opponent plant your worn jack boots against each new body blow. North Country is every bit as American as Tom Sawyer lighting a corncob pipe off a tightly rolled Indian treaty, with a flavor depth you'll never find in the supermarket. To discover these smoky climes, unfortunately, requires aggressive consumer action. Again, please refer to the <a href="http://www.gratefulpalate.com/">Grateful Palate</a> if in search of exceptional bacon.<br /><br />We'll talk more about what I've done with North Country in a later post. It's time to come clean with my most consistent bacon epiphany, if I can even call it that any more:<br /><br />Bacon is at its best by itself, eaten like a long potato chip, while standing over whatever you used to drain it. It doesn't seem to take or want help from other ingredients.<br /><br />Think about it: the product hits on almost all cylinders when simply rendered and left to rest a minute or less. Sweet, salty, smoky, rich, fatty, chewy, warm, multi-textural...a symphony to everything that our palates know to be right. What's going to do anything other than dilute that perfect experience? Is there any other foodstuff so well rounded? Put some seared foie gras on brioche next to a slice of properly smoked and seasoned bacon, and the liver will lose every time. We like chew, we like depth. We don't just want to eat meat butter. Anyone with an honest palate knows that we eat foie gras in front of people, but we want bacon when we are alone.<br /><br />I've seen my dog growl and get nasty when we try to tickle her after we set down her bowl of manure pellets (or whatever it is we feed her) — but try pulling a piece of bacon out of my hand as I lift it to my mouth. I'd give my own mother a sharp elbow in the solar plexus, and I love her as much as any good son. This raises unpleasant questions about primacy and my character in general, but those among you who didn't feel a pang of sympathy just now, rise up and shuffle off. Bacon is as close as food gets to a narcotic, and, like marijuana, it's the sort of thing you really won't appreciate until you order special versions through the mail.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511236.post-2991367356755454552007-07-13T16:08:00.000-07:002007-09-15T23:10:25.447-07:00Bacon No. 5: Hempler's Peppered BaconHempler's Peppered Bacon arrived yesterday. It's thick-cut, looks like a pastrami, and is far lower in fat than its predecessors because it's mostly meat (they say the bellies are trimmed before curing — huzzah from one who's been eating pure pork fat for the last four months). Hempler's is wet-cured, maple- and hickory-smoked, and flavored with black pepper, mustard seed, paprika, and onion powder: this is by far the most gussied-up bacon I've received from the Grateful Palate's Bacon of the Month club. It comes to us from Washington state. <br /><br />I was inspired to plant myself at my desk at 4pm on a Friday afternoon by a sandwich I just made with this bacon. Normally at 4pm on a Friday I'm in the back yard with the family and the dog and a beer, throwing tennis balls around, looking up at airplanes, and helping people point the hose into the kiddie-pool. Today, however, a confluence of events steered me into the kitchen for a mid-afternoon snack: the wife is away watching the new Harry Potter, the tot isn't moving from the Curious George marathon she's arranged for herself, my new "cereal for breakfast and lunch" diet has me seeking the support of door frames and banisters all the time, and we had a leftover "artisanal" sandwich roll so light and velvety to the touch that I could not bear to watch it go stale. "Why not make a sandwich and do a bacon update," I thought, as I cracked open a nice chilly beer. "We've got that three dollar heirloom tomato, after all."<br /><br />In <span style="font-style: italic;">The Reach of a Chef</span>, Michael Ruhlman contrasts the cooking of Thomas Keller (driven, tortured, laborious, masochistic yet sadistic, and highly technical) and Masa Takayama (zen-simple sushi, served only omakase style, most dishes prepared in seconds). The philosophy of my sandwich was in the latter camp. I've been overthinking bacon thus far in the experiment. It is inherently a good, finished product and it needs little adornment or technique to guide it into its state of perfection. Case in point:<br /><br />1 The aforementioned "prince of rolls," something like a personal ciabatta, sliced and lightly toasted, slipper-softness is key<br />3 Slices thick bacon, cooked but not crisp<br />2 Thin slices heirloom tomato, never refrigerated, pulp gently massaged out<br />1-2 tbsp Mayonnaise to lightly coat inside of sandwich<br />1/2 tsp or so Cream-style horseradish to work into mayonnaise<br />salt and pepper to season dressed bread before filling<br /><br />We didn't need to turn it into lardons for Coq au Vin. We didn't need to purée it and use it to caulk red mullet into papillote. We didn't need Grant Achatz to dangle it off a miniature fishing rod while strapping dorsal fins to our backs. This was a BLT. Some L would have been nice, but I was out. Did you notice the horseradish? You might know it as that searing, unbroken condiment that ruins many a plate of beef. This tiny amount, worked into mayonnaise, is gentle, warm, and just a bit spicy. Please, pick up a little jar of it. I think the cream-style preparation is even milder than the others you find on the shelf. Rediscover horseradish. I think it's going to have a big 2008. <span style="font-style: italic;">Here, touch my hand.</span><br /><br />This is a sandwich bacon. It's not the thin sort that you wrap around things. It's big and meaty and rewarding to chew through. This will likely be a strong sandwich month here at the Bacon Blog. I won't disappoint you by doing a bunch of hackneyed California stuff with avocados and boneless skinless chicken breasts. I may finally work out a banh mi for my common-grocery honkeys, and how about a proper breakfast burrito? I grew up on those, and I have iron-fisted opinions about what should and should not be.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">* The review of Bacon No. 4, Edwards Brown Sugar Bacon, will appear here shortly. </span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511236.post-63040078693548183602007-07-05T17:15:00.000-07:002007-07-05T17:16:37.889-07:00Tennis: Sport of Slick Princes.Maybe two months ago the warehouse guy found a couple of old cheap racquets in our back storage shed, and suggested we might take them out for a spin. Mrs. Onstad and I had bought them very early in our courtship, a few addresses ago, while trying to identify a second mutually enjoyable physical diversion. It never took between the two of us, but I did end up playing many memorable sets with the son of the fellow who chose the fonts for the first computer at Xerox PARC. Funny how life goes. More on that never.<br /><br />I'd always hoped that the tennis experiment would turn into something, but was forced to lay down the "stick" when my fancy friend moved away. Liz was having none of the game, claiming an "annoyance in the knees." She was fine to rollerblade around, of course, and drag me into that Land of Lucifer, where I promptly wibble-wobbled through a schoolyard and hit my elbow so hard on the pavement that several types of priest had to be summoned. The racquets moved with us three times—nothing more than burdens for the last eight years. Like my rollerblades, but with less mouse poop rattling around in the foot cavity.<br /><br />After eight years of hanging in the dark, I suspect their frames and string beds aren't in peak form. Often now, when I give a shot my all, it sort of "thubs" off over the net, giving up once it's crossed the tropic and begun its fall to the ground. I think the sweet spot has shrivelled to a point, the way the dot of white light collapses in the center of an ancient black and white television set when you've had enough snowy Leave It To Beaver and just want to crawl in bed and cry the cabin vacation away.<br /><br />We think we may be good. Even with these petrified clubs in our hands, we have some pretty fantastic rallies. We thock-thock-thock those balls across the net with inches to spare, "baseline play"-style, as I think it is said. I often focus my personal anger into a serve or return, and feel furious joy as my opponent (friend) is destroyed (misses the ball) by my violence (a Dunlop #6). It is incredible to watch him fall to his knees (reach into his pocket) and burst into flames (ask me if I'm ready) before hurling a glowing brimstone spear (another Dunlop #6) at my center mass. Later, we will drink water that has been organically siphoned from a federally recognized aquifer a thousand miles beneath the earth's surface ($3.99).<br /><br />Still, though, I have some questions about how to improve basic aspects of my game. Are any of my readers tennis pros? Tennis pros, these are my issues:<br /><br />1. On "off" days, the arc of my forehand return tends to mimic the beautiful parabolic curve of the St. Louis Arch. How can I keep this from happening? I desperately want to hit the ball horizontally, with a little sprinkling of devilish topspin. Sometimes I can do this, but not reliably. Far too often, I treat my opponent to a mini-vacation in Missouri.<br /><br />2. My racquet is probably fairly bad. It's called, like, the "Kenny Boy Fat Duo" or some such. Aggressive and sporty, but strange. It's 105 inches, "oversize," I suppose, and I think it cost me thirty dollars in 1999. The strings have never been changed. Am I waxing dandy about Coors in a room full of Trappist brewers, here? In other words, am I a tender-hands blowhard with a gentle tummy, accidentally let into the private airport lounge and bothering Michael Madsen about Oceans Eleven, which he wasn't in? To put it bluntly: should I be ashamed of even talking about this shit racquet while claiming to be getting serious about tennis?<br /><br />3. What's the idea with a backhand? That's a weird one. I see better players do them in proper, clearly-trained form, and they look like twits.<br /><br />4. My serve is incredible. I call it the Steamboat Willie, because I put so much spin on it that it curves through the air like some crazy little boat. It almost corkscrews. I don't need any help there, thanks. It basically Fosbury Flops over the net, and the warehouse guy is left standing there, screwing his face into the angriest mug that his muscles will make.<br /><br />That's it for now. I momentarily forgot that I am supposed to be writing about golf and bacon, and I've got to get to those. Thanks for sticking through this tennis bit. Hopefully I'll become so good at it that I won't need to speak to anyone about it, ever.<br /><br />/C<br /><br />AFTERWORD, FOLLOWING A TRIP OUT TO THE CAR:<br />It seems the racquet is actually a "Kennex PowerZone." In my opinion, the name sounds weak and trite. Whoever came up with it lacked dignity and clarity of purpose. And the paint job is just a mess. Like a pixelated red zebra caught on bad film. I am certainly not proud of it, and welcome the opportunity to purchase a new one, perhaps with a plain-color rim and a smart logo in the middle.<br /><br />(Okay, I didn't actually go out to the car. I think that's the name, though.)Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511236.post-3490433201584287102007-06-26T22:01:00.000-07:002007-06-26T22:09:03.683-07:00Golf Memoir No. 6: Going Modern"Chris, I want you to take a left turn at History, and park the car at the intersection of Progress and Usability."<br /><br />That is what the oblong, hermetically sealed, gift-wrapped cardboard box might have whispered to me as I cut apart the binding tape of its short end and pulled out its contents: a gently used set of stiff-shafted Taylor Made "Burner" irons, which my father had procured on eBay for a song. They were beautiful, glowing silver in the outdoor light of our cabin's back porch. They felt smart in the hand, and the sexy contours of the polished perimeter weighting had me mentally crushing balls down an impossibly green contrast-cut fairway someplace tropical.<br /><br />If you have wandered through my earlier golf memoirs, you will recall that until now I have played with the 1975 Wilson Staffs that my father bought for himself when I was born. I have made it a point of pride to not cave in and use the myriad "crutch" club design technologies which have come along in the last three decades. Reasoning that I'd have a more disciplined swing if I could play well with simple irons that had a relatively small sweet spot, I laughed off new equipment with a quiet superciliousness. Like a man with diphtheria who raises his nose at the latest antitoxin mushed up from Anchorage.<br /><br />From a certain coign of vantage, and well aware of my position on the matter, dear old dad told me what I'd be getting as a gift a month before my birthday. This was just after a session at the Danville driving range where I'd tried one of his new Taylor Made irons. Actually, I ended up trying several of them—all of them, in fact—and marveled that when I so much as chucked one of them at the ball like a javelin, I'd get a good 180 yards with decent spin. When I went so far as to take the club in my hands and employ waltz time, I was a man reinvented. The nine-iron went half the range, easy. The three-iron was bouncing off the back screen, something I thought only Greg Norman could do. (You may wonder why I do not instead reference John Daly, the king of the long ball. That is because instead of being on the range with me, he would be in the clubhouse, holding five lit cigarettes between his index and middle fingers and squeezing pasty Irish girls.)<br /><br />After that dalliance with space-age casting, I was of two minds. In this crappy, modern world, I wanted to hold fast to something traditional — to my old clubs. Then again, when these old clubs were new, the purists played with hickory-shafted gleeks and niblicks, swatting pickled ortolans around sheep-shorn fairways with half a bottle of Old Fuckall sloshing about in their guts. Also, I reasoned, life is hard enough as-is. I have a two year-old. I try to make a living off a comic strip. Why in the GOD DAMNED HELL SHOULD I PICK A FIGHT WITH MY GOLF CLUBS ONCE A WEEK.<br /><br />Goodness, what happened there. Excuse me, I'll get the mop and the disinfectant.<br /><br />So, I got the clubs, and my folks even gave me a nice black bag to put them in. One of those new ones with the embarrassing backpack-style carrying harness. It was a lot of change to handle all at once, as you can imagine. What sort of dildo-craving genetic bust-out wears his golf bag in the style of a backpack? The thing even had a built-in retractable stand. After a bit of experimenting in the privacy of the cabin's spare bedroom, thankfully, I discovered that one of the loops serves reasonably well as a standard shoulder strap, so the rig was essentially serviceable.<br /><br />Last week, before our shifts, the warehouse guy and I headed over to the range to plow through a few buckets. Upon manning the mat, I once again discovered that even the grossest swing yielded something straight, true, and needing binoculars. At certain points I was so ashamed of how easy the game had become, I actually looked up to give a good-natured shrug to whomever might be watching.<br /><br />The teetering, tottering, wheeze-box firing line that snaked out before me was heads down, slapping their own low irons up against the far screen wall.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >(Author's note: You may notice that Golf Memoir No. 5 has yet to appear. I'm working on that one separately, and expect to complete it at...a date.)</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511236.post-38279313366739663622007-06-11T22:47:00.001-07:002008-12-10T19:28:13.771-08:00GIN OCEANI went to a pretty expensive college, and sometimes people at pretty expensive colleges actually do something that doesn't make me want to gouge my eyes out with a tastevin. Please observe this case in point, a Kairos house homage to Achewood's <a href="http://achewood.com/index.php?date=05172007">May 17, 2007 strip</a>:<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyYWAvkhK_su-yyeO1svo9S1tcXV0D0yL_cbA_GSLIbBUY9l_g5QuUjRR7ahySQo1lpkiZeK8qVDzAvsUJ8Zt5Ia9d9zkFoPtMCh39oxxroJ1LIgGel01sjco_vGEZZ-gMLX7S/s1600-h/kairos_stanford.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyYWAvkhK_su-yyeO1svo9S1tcXV0D0yL_cbA_GSLIbBUY9l_g5QuUjRR7ahySQo1lpkiZeK8qVDzAvsUJ8Zt5Ia9d9zkFoPtMCh39oxxroJ1LIgGel01sjco_vGEZZ-gMLX7S/s400/kairos_stanford.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5075050986738465154" border="0" /></a> <br /><br />Bless all ye holy on the Mayfield row.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511236.post-10139375649619388472007-06-01T22:51:00.000-07:002007-06-01T23:04:09.079-07:00A Return to Bacon, the Senses, and the Stove.In deference to the lingering illness that had me running wounded on three of my five sensory cylinders this May, I decided to make soup. Soup is a troublesome topic in my house, as my wife prefers a smooth purée and I like a spoonful with a variety of textures in it. I ask you, how can you eat something that's going to be precisely the same uniform liquid experience sixty sips in a row? The brain softens. The spine goes insensate. Dignity takes a dive and the dog wanders from the table. There is no joy for her here. Give me a spoonful of hot broth in which I can quickly determine a bean, a bit of ham, tiny flecks of carrot, and perhaps something small and green, and I am comforted. The dog returns and assumes her expectant tableside seat. A plane lands. Everyone is safe. Everyone is home. A setting sun refracts through a ruby glass of wine...then a restorative sup. A sweater beckons from a drawer, a book beckons from the floor by that bronze thing that adjusts the disconnected furnace. <br /><br />Speaking of my wife, she is also not much for the high art and pastime of meat-eating, so her gift of the Bacon of the Month Club was an open invitation to make foods we wouldn't be sharing, which is normally taboo in our family of two (the tot doesn't count yet, as she thrives solely on a diet of Bunny Grahams and alphabet-shaped pasta). Kill two birds with one stone, then, I thought: make a chunky white bean soup and flavor it with some cubed Canadian-style bacon that has had the hell browned out of it. From the mythical three-day Toulousain cassoulet to the cheap chop with black-eyed peas of my youth...one hates to invoke the term "gestalt," so I won't, but if I did, would you walk out on this sentence? <br /><br />I'm by no means an accomplished soup cook, but I've done my share of reading, so I set at it with a knife and a hot little cuprous-complected fellow we picked up at the wedding. One of the discoveries I took away from this go was just how many cans of beans thirty-two ounces of chicken stock can absorb if you take a stick-blender to the pot (hint: the upcoming Achewood Cookbook II will have this highly controversial and hotly debated information). <br /><br />Other soup cookery discoveries: <br /><br />1) You hear it all the time -- even occasionally in an empty room, which causes you to jump with a start -- but soup really is best a day or two after the initial preparation. The ingredients have heated and cooled and heated and cooled and essentially rotted a little longer -- "rotting" being a word that you won't find in many cookbook titles. The art of controlling the process of going bad is the secret of many of the table's greatest pleasures: aged beef and pheasant, cheese, wine (particularly the aptly named "noble rot" Botrytis), then vinegar...the list is as long as the time Europeans can find to laugh at our refrigerator culture. <br /><br />2) You can use a Benriner or mandoline to quickly julienne the carrots for your mirepoix. From there it's just a quick pass with the knife until they're a fancy little brunoise. Why am I talking about this? Because I am praying that Christopher Kimball will show up at my doorstep with a Ford Ranger King-Cab limo and a passel of glycerine essays about what lath and plaster walls mean to him. <br /><br />3) Kidney beans are kind of nasty. I'm not sure why they're around. I can't put my finger on their flavor but it's sort of like something that would be smeared on a building to keep coyotes from urinating on it. <br /><br />4) If you own a building and coyotes are always urinating on it, consider smearing kidney beans around the foundation, instead of using them in soup. <br /><br />Fondest Regards, <br />ChrisUnknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511236.post-12842238183037294882007-05-18T00:12:00.000-07:002007-05-18T00:13:39.569-07:00Bacon No. 3: Carlton Farms Canadian-Style BaconFood and I have had a rough couple weeks. Late last month I attended a remarkably well-apportioned bachelor party for an old friend, and in the two nights after that I officiated at a few high-octane events for my beloved Stanford Chaparral. What was once a typical three-day bender — one which might have ended with a bit of waterskiing and a mid-morning trip to a steak restaurant in another state — put me on the rails so hard that my immune system was reduced to an unconvincing leukocyte in a dirty Superman costume. Disease after disease ravaged my body, exhausted my lungs, and diddled the dobro of my swan song. Wakefulness was agony, marked by periods of joyless work and difficult parenting. <br /><br />Somewhere along the endless toilet paper ticker tape into which I blew my nose, or perhaps expectorated against some luckless street tree, rested the conjoined apparatus of my taste and smell organs. Food had no flavor, rotten items in the refrigerator had no odor. My own clothing, to which I am deeply sensitive, betrayed none of the telltale fragrances of overuse. To eat was to cough, and to think was to worry that I'd never enjoy food again. Sure, I'd wind up looking like Scott Weiland, but skinny people are never happy. They lack the blood chemistry which activates a convincing smile. <br /><br />The UPS man dropped a fat little package of a new sort of bacon into the rattle of all that misery. This time it's <span style="font-weight: bold;">Carlton Farms Canadian-Style Bacon</span>, dry cured and alder/hickory smoked, from Oregon. My mind peered forth from the shroud of tubercular angst long enough to appreciate that unlike the all-fat belly and jowl bacons I'd been receiving, this sample was cured center-cut loin. An all-meat spacer in the opening salvo of pure lard.<br /><br />Still on the recovery trail, ready for nothing and able of less, I sliced a few pieces off the uncut loin and pan-fried them with some bread and an egg. The Carlton Canadian-Style Bacon isn't the tough-love rubber you get on pizza; it's tender and evenly seasoned. This is the bacon I'd like to use in a carbonara -- something that's not just egregious fat in a recipe already filled with unctuous yolks and cheese. Fat sneaks into a happy diet from so many cracks and seams -- the bacon should be adding salt and smoke, not grease.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511236.post-52569804121126430512007-05-02T00:46:00.000-07:002007-05-02T01:57:32.242-07:00This is My Jowl, and it Freaks Me Out! (bacon 2 post 2)I'm not particularly scared of jowl bacon, actually. The first time I ever encountered face meat—veal cheeks, to be precise—in a restaurant, I was in the early throes of a passion for brave new foods, and ordered them without hesitation so as to seem gustatorily advanced in front of my future in-laws. Fortunately, they just turned out to be plump little brown things (the veal cheeks), not unlike shank or pot roast. This was a relief, because at the time I had been "pretending" my way through a lot of sashimi. (To this day, I still can't join ranks with those of you who think you are big scary bears.)<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Application #1</span><br />Tired of charitably wrapping bacon around bland meats like chicken breasts and scallops, I thought I'd go for a real speedball with this latest test. I strode up to the longest butcher's counter in town, ordered a handful of lamb tenderloins, and grabbed some mint and jalapeños on the way out. This dish was going to have "game," I decided. (The game in question turned out to be Retchin' Retchin' Hippos, as opposed to an event where Michael Jordan springs off the half-court line, propels himself off the top of the backboard, and continues on into space.)<br /><br />Having seasoned the lamb strips, I wrapped them in jowl bacon and let them sit at room temperature for a while, figuring the fleshes would become tacky and stick together better. Meanwhile, I hummed and chatted with myself as I chopped mint and jalapeño for the sauce. I'd do them in a pan, and when the fond had built and the grease had rendered, I'd deglaze with a little red wine. I'd throw the mint and jalapeños in, stir quickly, and pour it all over my tight little browned marvels.<br /><br />High on the taste of an unsauced test bite of bacon-wrapped lamb, I turned off my brain and operated by instinct. I threw in the wine. It hissed and steamed in that pleasing way. I threw in the mint and chili. Finding my sauce volume lacking, I went for a bit of dairy to fill it out. My hands were guided to a tub of sour cream, from which I cast a good dollop and whisked.<br /><br />The resulting sauce was thick and pink, the wine mixing with the dairy and creating something which, at a family reunion, could probably call over the photographer and clink glasses with Pepto-Bismol. Blinded by the juices of bacon and lamb, I spooned it over three servings of plated tenderloins: one for me, one for the warehouse guy, and one for my mother, who was over that day.<br /><br />We sat on the old iron patio set and slid our special occasion brass-fitted Laguiole steak knives from their burnished case. Why not break the good stuff out whenever you can, I say — what good does it do you to die with nice things in the garage?<br /><br />The freshly-sharpened edge of the knife fell through the meat with surgical efficiency (to this day I swear I saw Anthony Edwards run across the back of the yard, give me a quick double-thumbs up, and then plow headfirst into the apple tree). I pushed the morsel around in a good batch of pink sauce and lifted it to my lips.<br /><br />- - -<br /><br />MOM: Mmmm! Delicious, honey!<br /><br />ME: Oh my god this sauce is terrible.<br /><br />MOM: No! You did good! I'm so proud my boys like to cook.<br /><br />ME: Agh it's all acid, and heat, and it looks like a pink Converse pinched one on my plate.<br /><br />MOM: [giggles] Oh, I don't know. I like it.<br /><br />ME: I'm sorry, mom. I'll do better next time.<br /><br />MOM: [stiffens, sets fork down] You said that about Stanford.<br /><br />WAREHOUSE GUY: [plate is mysteriously clean, dog is retching over by the shed] Good stuff!<br /><br />- - -<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"></span> Indescribably bad. Wine on jalapeño on sour cream was just the type of triple-acid funnycar you'd expect. Plus, it was quite spicy, and you couldn't taste the meats very well for all of that.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">UPDATE</span><br />Just this last weekend my old friend Steve came in to town from Cleveland, where he regularly receives heartbreaking email about his oncology and hematology (cancer and blood disease) patients. (Actually, he just did that at my kitchen table for a while — I have no idea what his day-to-day is like. Table tennis in the lounge?) Needless to say, he takes his happy days where he can get them, and insisted on whipping me up his special wilted spinach salad with bacon and tangerines.<br /><br />We all know the sort of cook who has a few staple recipes that he can pull off in his sleep. Steve is one of them. Bacon spinach salad, T-bone steak with Emeril's essence, a mean Austin-style breakfast spread...he's got it. If Steve were a restaurant, he'd be in business. If I were a restaurant, my dog would be retching on the front steps of City Hall while the cameras rolled. I was wondering what would happen with Burgers' Jowl Bacon. Steve happened to this bacon, and it was tasty.<br /><br />I have a few slices left. I'm thinking of doing a banh mi: a Vietnamese baguette sandwich typically with some kind of cured or otherwise strong meat, cilantro, pickled daikon and carrot, thinly sliced hot pepper, and dressing. Banh mi are like girls: your first real experience with one will forever have you driving around low-rent strip malls looking for more.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7511236.post-12028791002046823402007-04-13T23:07:00.000-07:002008-12-10T19:28:14.084-08:00Burgers' Jowl Bacon (bacon #2)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoKgh19ZGbVEm1g7nBu6zYFUmsTzj4PJNTVZUht-Vq5mT_86K2F6YNVaXbhVU241y2tZdtU4T8lu7XJbCZJF5nKZfO_7w7szC35QkLRYNhjsfnfJSvQQuIb95QpKncKbDgPBkz/s1600-h/burgers_jowl.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoKgh19ZGbVEm1g7nBu6zYFUmsTzj4PJNTVZUht-Vq5mT_86K2F6YNVaXbhVU241y2tZdtU4T8lu7XJbCZJF5nKZfO_7w7szC35QkLRYNhjsfnfJSvQQuIb95QpKncKbDgPBkz/s400/burgers_jowl.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5053163701383764402" border="0" /></a><br />A few days ago, the dog started barking and a corn-fed man in a brown uniform strode back down my sunny driveway, having just deposited a hearty parcel of pork on my doorstep. Is there any tableau so quintessentially American? I nearly stood at attention, hat held proudly over heart, humming the Pledge of Allegiance. (I quickly remembered that the Pledge of Allegiance is not the national anthem, and sat back down.)<br /><br />That is correct: Bacon of the Month Club shipment No. 2 is here. This one is Burgers' Smokehouse "Sliced Country Pork Jowl." It comes to us from the curiously named California, Missouri.<br /><br />Being face bacon, rather than belly bacon, I suppose it's akin to guanciale, the mythical product that Mario Batali has been espousing for so many years. What I notice is that it's nearly pure fat, with very little meat. This is no bad thing. It's a cooking tool like any other, and I can see it as a sort of "final jammies," wrapped around so many different grilled foods, basting them while protecting their tender flesh from direct heat. I think of using it like caul fat, like the fancy fellows do on Iron Chef. To hold things together. Will I finally buy a weird little frozen quail? Will I finally do a scallop wrapped in bacon? I think all of these horseshoes are at least leaners.<br /><br />I've only had a small sampling of Burgers' -- my typical "control group slice," done plain in a pan. It was pure fat, without any streak of meat, though most of the rest of the package does have a pencil of pink in it. It's nothing like Father's bacon. Tasting it does not bring to mind scenes of a randy redneck taking advantage of Ned Beatty in the woods while a cross-eyed hillbilly plucks a banjo on a porch. This product has none of that dense hickory perfume, and is just itself, pure pork essence. It's a much more subtle flavor.<br /><br />I'll keep you posted. As ever, thanks for the recipes and techniques that continue to flow in. I read them all, and mull over them, and on occasion have even had them recur to me as I stood in a line or waited at a traffic light.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com