Writing is my greatest pleasure when it comes to production, but with the reign (or perhaps I should say the irresistible temptation) of the computer, it's not particularly a tactile pleasure. When it comes to sensuous productive enjoyment, it's cooking for me. Now I am a rank amateur, knowing little about chemistry and disdaining cookbooks—indeed, one of these boorish reactionaries who thinks you can cook with a free intelligence, without sullying your brain with theory! (Don't worry, I harbor no similar illusions about reading/writing.)
On weekends, I watch the Food Network. My favorite show is called something like Home Cooking with Paula Dean, a sassy white-haired fat southern lady who puts a few sticks of butter in everything.
(During the commercials was one for the army: a young man playing pool with dad, insisting that he was only joining the reserves, that they'd train him locally until they needed him, that he wanted to be part of something greater. The ad ended with text encouring parents to “help them grow.” Damn you, selfish parents! How dare you keep your children to yourselves when we need them as precious ingredients in our savory home-cooked dish of war! But yeah, they'll train him locally till they need him, then when he's scattered across a sidewalk in a city he's helping to demolish, they'll zip him into a bag and throw him away and then lie to his parents though they were so selfless, so willing to contribute him. Man, fuck all these fuckers.)
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