Professor Donshades Korobase: Tombstone Citizen

That's right! Last night I finally got to become an official Tombstone, SL citizen.

I was stoned at the time (note avatar SL joint in my hand)

You Are What you Eat

Yet somehow, having the "F Word" on vaguely in the background, somewhere in your flat while you cook your dinner can be demoralizing. I'm sure Ramzey would laugh in my face for even entertaining the thought that I'm ok in the kitchen. Just look at the evidence:



Fuck Ramsey; over-rated pig head arse-fucking snob; I don't need his complicated cavalier culinary ostentatiousness; I know what I'm doing. Tonight I sharpen my flat mate's best knives and go to war with:

Salmon. Fresh - Season with lime, pepper and ground garlic. Smell it.

Refrigerate.

Mean while get some Basmati rice on the hop, while heating extra virgin olive oil in the flat pan.

2 Tomatoes. Chop.

Half a small red chili - slice and dice.

1 Large mushroom. Slice - make sure each slice has some volume.

Take a hack out of your other flatmate's past-its-best coriander and dice it until you can smell the sap.

1/2 and onion. dice and throw into the pan just as the olive oil smokes.

I love that noise.

Now add your tomatoes and coriander, a generous pour of red wine and you're covering the onions and tomatoes with mushrooms then lay your salmon fillet on top. Leave on a low head so that the mushrooms are cooked by the steam coming from the tomatoes, and the salmon cooks slowly. You see the heat rising through the flesh of the salmon.

15 minuites. Plate up. Smell. Delicious. Great. Fuck off.

What's wrong with my evening? Somehow this exercise isn't as fun as it was. I switch the television off as I sit down to enjoy my meal with some Kruder and Dorfmeister providing aural nourishment. The fish tastes great, it is by no means over cooked, however the slow pan cook has given its texture butter-like quality. The rice is light and fluffy and the mushrooms are fleshy and rich, having soaked up the steam from the red wine. Chili gives a kick

but wait.

I am eating alone. I have cooked for one. And slowly the absent feeling to the whole exercise is explained.

So If I am what I eat, and I eat what I cook; do I cook who I am? It's a strange feeling when you go to your cupboard one day and find that you ran out of the ingredients that you thought you had an endless supply of. Reality check. Recently I've not had time to cook. It's been more: Pub. Pint. Drink. Snort. Smoke. Lovely. Refrigerate the brain for a night with orange juice before bed, then season with some more wine the following lunchtime.

When you stop, you have time to listen; take stock and question. When I stop, I find time to cook; it's one of the most relaxing things that I can do. I love it, however cooking for one just isn't as much fun.

A Note from my Inspiration

"INSTRUCTIONS FOR READING GONZO JOURNALISM"

Written by Hunter S Thomson

November, 1971
Washington D.C.

Half-Pint, 10-inch hypo-needle (the kind used for spinal taps & inoculating bulls)

Fill This full of rum, tequila or Wild Turkey & Shoot the entire contents straight into the stomach, thru the navel. This will induce a fantastic rush- much like a 3.4 hour amyl high-plenty of time to read the whole saga...

Clients arn't All Bad

Last night I drank and drank to send off my good friend and colleague Ade Rowbotham. After almost a year of sitting opposite him in the new Dare HQ we've shared many stories, laughs and web 2.0 freakouts as we've slowly been turned from cynics of things 2.0, to happy subscribers of a continually connected lifestyle. Half way through the furious party however, I popped over the road to watch a client play drums in his band at a seedy underground club on Frith Street. Expecting to be not even mildly impressed I happily bore witness to what turned out to be a great prog rock gig with keyboards; fat synth and conceptually led guitar solos. It's often easy to assume that there's nothing behind the suit of a client other than the bare bones of brand loyalty, bottom lines and lists of things to amend so it was great to see a human side to someone who represents a very inhuman brand. Rock on!

We all Hate McDonalds

A nice Ad:




"I still hate them though." - Ade Rowbotham

Today I am sick. Sick in the body, sick in the mind... and now sick in the soul. My body I can heal with rest, sleep and hot whisky toddies. My mind is difficult to heal, it must be nurtured and cared for as a young newly germinated seedling if I am not to burn up and become more ashes left at the bottom of Advertising's relentless bonfire. My soul suffers a long sickness of surrounding. London. Such a rat-race as this exists in few places on Earth. The dizzy heights of modern society is to be found here, amongst the Fitness First rucksacks mounted on suited backs up close and uninvited; invading your personal space like rapists on the tube. A Noise so loud, a shout so meaningless. Here in this jungle of overworked lab-rats there is no silence to find your piece of mind. No space between the words to find subtlety or subtext. Here McDonalds owns everything and all signs point to a fast-food life style where the only winners are those who leave their morals behind and join the un-righteous march of progress.

McDonalds? McShit I say.. Fuck your French fries. I piss on your salad and excreta in your burger you tower of reconstituted waste dressed as lifestyle food. You may be able to afford nice advertising and crafty product photography however nothing you do can conceal in my burning, dull cow eyes the trickery, the burglary, the lies you spread; the lives you corrupt, the taste buds you fool the crimes against mastication committed through ignorance in your name. You want a piece of me? Then it is done - Kitchen knives at Dawn and we'll see who makes the better salad....