It’s all just a dream.

Last night I dreamt that a hurricane was coming.  I’m not sure if it was a warning, or a testament to my survival instincts.  The dream began in a hotel.

People were being huddled in the lower floors of the hotel as the storm approached.  Every window was darkened by the sky outside, a turbulent van gogh of swirling patches of gray and black.  The storm would hit soon and reports that it had already destroyed several oil tankers and cargo ships out at sea were buzzing around the room like grade school gossip, no one taking it too seriously.

The eyes of the people around me were brightened with an idealistic hope that suggested that the storm would pass, that it couldn’t possibly be of any real consequence to us.  I knew no better than the rest, but decided that the stage being set around me wasn’t one that suited my intuition.

I found myself back in my room, sorting through my things and taking only what was ultimately irreplaceable and stuffing it into a backpack.  None of it really mattered, so I willingly left most of my belongings behind.

I made my way to the basement of the hotel, as was the evident trend for those that chose to stay.  Several friends of mine, old friends, college friends, were already there and waiting, joking and taking nothing seriously as they’d always done.  The threat that the storm might be destructive was no more real to anyone in the room than the possibility that Narnia awaited in the back of some hotel room wardrobe.

Through narrow basement windows I saw that the rain was picking up, people were scrambling outside, seeking shelter, exodus.  I envisioned the room around me flooding during the storm, people in their lackadaisical state turning to animalistic panic.  I didn’t want to be a part of it.  I knew too well how to take care of myself.

So I left.

My old friends, uncaring but motivated by adventure, volunteered themselves to follow.  I didn’t care.  As long as I controlled my own destiny.

I guessed that the worst of the storm was maybe an hour away.  Maybe.  At best.  That should be plenty of time to reach the highway, knowing the shortcuts that I do, and before the brunt of the storm slams into the coast we could be an additional twenty miles inland at the very least.

A friend spoke up, that his car was just around the corner.  Mine was much further away and sensing that every moment was crucial to our departure, I obliged his offer.  This was the moment that dream overrides reality.

We escaped rather quickly, hitting traffic where I expected it to be, but only minutes from the expressway.  The clouds overhead were beyond the standard definition of ominous, they were down right paralyzing.  I could sense the magnitude of the storm, utterly engulfing the heavens above.  The two in the front seat laughed at some irrelevant conversation while flipping through a CD booklet, wondering which album from the college days would be most situation-appropriate, to them “situation” meaning “road trip”, as if we were on our way to a concert, or a festival, or a petting zoo.

That’s when I instantly regretted not being in my own car, something the dream made all too convenient.  I was helpless, now reliant on two bumbling characters who seemed no more part of the story than for pure comic relief.  If only they’d been funny.

I considered hopping out of the car and running back to my own, but we were already several miles away.  There was nowhere near enough time.

I thought about having them turn around, but even that would set us back twenty to thirty minutes, a length of time that could mean a difference of hours on the highway.

I crossed my fingers.  Too late for that now.

Terrified of the answer I’d receive, I asked a question that suddenly seemed to be a determining factor in our fate.

“Is the gas tank full?”

The driver, once a dear friend, now a shining example of the dimness of mankind, glanced at the dash and responded as casually as if I’d asked him to lend me a pencil.

“No.  I’m almost out.  We’ll have to stop and get some.”

We’ll have to stop and get some. As if that would be a possibility.  It seemed all too obvious that it would not.

And that’s where I found myself – with a fool at the wheel during a mass exodus from a hurricane with no gas in the tank.

A warning of things to come?  Probably not.  More likely it was a reminder to trust my instincts, and always drive myself.

I aced this test. And so should you.

Test?  What test?

Yeah, I didn’t know either.  Were we supposed to study?  Was there homework?  Did I miss something?  Fuck.

I first figured it out Saturday morning, that it was a test, and once I did, it just got easier.  It took a lot of physical pain, incidentally.  I recently had a handful of stitches sewn into my leg – a haphazard, otherwise uninteresting lab accident – and the wound got infected, albeit mildly.  So I had to resort to home remedies to sorting out the infection, right?  A little baking soda here, a splash of water there, and voila!  A shitload of pain.  But the infection itself became defeated, wilted, and swam away, diluting eloquently into my bloodstream, presumably devoured by my rather aggressive white blood cells.  And it was in this elaborate process that I was caused an excruciating pain so vehement and violent that I broke into cold sweats and nearly fainted…

And whilst dribbling upon that crest between vacancy and awake I stumbled into a brilliant realm of clarity.  And it was the test.  The test presented itself so brilliantly that I couldn’t help but chuckle in the heavy handed acknowledgment that I’d been participating for an eternity already.  There it was, the answer and the question intrinsically interwoven into a spindle of momentary, if not altogether profound truth.  I’m testing, currently, as are you.  We all are.

And fuck if I’m not a genius at this shit.  You seem to be good at this, too.  We should form a team.  A team of testers that are fucking brilliant ass geniuses, manipulating our physical forms into a vast, animated universe in which we can pick, and choose, and do everything and anything we want to do.  Molding the dynamic realm of infinite possibility into a customizable, pocket sized respite.  A glimpse, if you will, into our own nature.  An ignorance of convention alongside an enthusiasm for iridescent boundaries.

Sounds like my kinda place.

Test me, test me.

The LOST Supper.

Yes, yes.  I’m celebrating the season finale of LOST tonight with a no-holds-barred culinary splash of island cuisine, inspired by the show.  The last six years of my life has seen so many tedious, hair-pulling moments because of this series that it’s only suiting to go all out and indulge in the delights of surf and turf.

Pictured above is the final product.  Southern Style Pork Ribs (inspired by the wild boar on the island), crab rangoon (Sea Urchin wasn’t available), and a mango salad with grilled shrimp.  The end result was a flavorful mashup that excites me to no end, and created enough leftovers that I’ll be surviving quite well fed for long enough to build a raft and get back to the mainland.

The wontons for the rangoon, I should note, I made using this recipe, and learned how to roll them here.

With that, I bid you good eating, and a fond farewell to one of the most maddening shows I’ve ever stuck with for so long.  It’s hard to believe that six years has come and gone and I’ve remained this dedicated to a television show, but there it is.  The LOST supper.

Food, stupid food. And a recipe.

I’ve never been one for counting calories.  I find it difficult to associate myself with the gargantuan folks in the office who demand to know how many calories are in every bite of food they eat, while simultaneously putting down half a cake after lunch because “it’s what’s-her-name’s birthday”.  Further, I’m willing to use any measure available to distance myself from the dreaded term “weight watchers”.  As a self-proclaimed foodie, the denial of services inherent in dieting is absolutely unacceptable.

That said, I’ve spent the last week or so experimenting in portion control.  Enter Chicken and Veg Curry.

Yes, I own this picture. And the sexy skillet therein.

This experiment was far too much deliciousness to abide my self-imposed portion size standards, and I inevitably ended up throwing out half of it, but man, this salacious lady was a good time all around.  The end result combined the following list of ingredients:

• 2 pounds diced chicken
• 2 cups mixed veg
• salt and pepper to taste
• olive oil
• 1 chopped onion
• 1 clove minced garlic
• 1 tablespoon curry powder
• 1 teaspoon ground cumin
• 1 teaspoon ground coriander
• 1 teaspoon cayenne pepper
• 1 cup plain Greek yogurt
• 2 tablespoons cilantro
• 1/2 cup water

Most of these ingredients are basics, and should be in your spice rack.  If not, do yourself a favor and take notes.  Next time you’re braving your local supermarket, shell out the pennies for these goodies.  It’s worth it for that rainy day alone.

Start with the chicken.  Season it with salt and pepper, fry it up, dice it, set it aside.

In a medium hot pan, olive oil, onions, garlic.  Saute until softened.  Add all the seasonings except the cilantro.  Add a splash of water and stir it up – the seasonings will dry out the onion mixture in a hurry.  Add the yogurt – stir.  Add the chicken, vegetables, and cilantro – toss.  Add the rest of the water and stir it up to create that beautiful mass.  Let it simmer for 15-20 minutes.  You’re done.  Serve it over rice.

As packed with flavor and devious excitement as this dish may be, the potent spices act as a natural hunger suppressant, meaning, less is more.  And for God’s sake, if you really feel the need to celebrate “what’s her name’s” birthday, get her a card.

ii!! !!ii

Thought about a weird thing tonight.  Exclamation points and lower-case “i”‘s are opposites of one another (for an example, please see the title of this blog).

They frequently exist within the same sentences.  (again, see the title of this blog).

They also give high fives in back alleys.  They’re best of friends.  They go hand in hand and then disappear so that you’re left standing there wondering what happened to the exclamation points and lower-case “i”‘s.

Well I’ll tell you what happened to them, they melded.  They flippity flopped.  They touched on each other’s souls and decided, “hey, this is all we expected out of existence, so… let’s run with it.”

And that’s what they did.  And then they danced.  They danced until they collapsed upon the floor and became morse code.

5 Reasons I HATE the Grocery Store.

The endless fodder of the local supermarket never ceases to amaze and infuriate me.  Sure, I stupidly picked a Sunday morning to do some last minute shopping, but still, I remain shaking my head in shame.

Humanity at it’s worst.  Here are the five things that got the dominoes tumbling in my head:

5:  The floor.  It’s overcast and rainy, so the thin film of water on my shoes made cascading that horrid tile floor a squeakfest for everyone’s entertainment.  For whatever reason, my shoes were the only squeakers in the entire store.  So annoying did this sound become, that I found myself squeaking in an odd rhythm, as if making a game of the situation would somehow make me a cooler version of the dork I felt like.

4:  The lights.  Intrusive in their brightness and worsened by my hangover, the lights were misfiring today and shouted out an awful buzzing sound.  It didn’t help matters that random bolts of electricity kept shooting through the air, knocking entirely unnecessary items into my basket.  I have no idea what I’m going to do with three hundred taco shells.  Maybe it’s time I learned restraint.

3:  The prices.  A buck fifty for a box of imported sesame crackers?  Buy one/get one blocks of Havarti?  I can’t say “no” to this shit!  The goddam discounts are the only reason I keep coming back to this vile, overexposed institution.  Suck it up and charge me full price already!

2:  Faulty self-checkout terminals.  If I had to swipe my card ONE MORE TIME, I was seriously ready to walk out with my groceries without paying.

1:  People.  When people flock in public, they just get dumber and dumber by the second.  It’s as if they actually TRY to find a doorway, or a pathway, just to sit and park and hang out, thinking about life, or what they’ll be watching on TV this evening, or what they’re wearing to work tomorrow, or what setting they should adjust their “stupid meter” to.  One woman went so far as to block the entrance to the “italian” aisle with her cart and her fat ass, and when I said “excuse me” through gritted teeth she actually sighed at the prospect of having to move aside to allow me passage.  She freaking sighed!  Gee, ma’am, didn’t mean to intrude on your world.  It’s just that I left my magic wand at home this morning so I have to do all this shit the old fashion way.

I’m not even going to get into the guy who went overbudget on his foodstamps and took a full five minutes trying to decide which he had to put back, a can of peas or another can of peas.

And on that note, here’s a completely relative picture of a monkey.

The dumbfounded gaze of a primate in the shopping district.

(AP photo)

Relaunch.

Congratulations.  You’ve made it this far.  It hasn’t been easy, but hopefully you’ve enjoyed the ride.  I welcome you, friend, to the next phase in your evolutionary cycle.  And it is with this sentiment that I thank you for visiting the most recent version of Flying Karma.

Some of you may recognize the name, while others may empathize with the concept.  It is my sincere desire that all of you will find some semblance of entertainment.

That said, what would a reintroduction be without a glimpse at the history and nature of this blog:

Flying Karma was a website in the time before blogging was blogging.  Back in the relative infancy of the modern web, when sites were largely created in a cut and paste because learning HTML is retarded vacuum, Flying Karma housed a variety of writings, stories, thoughts and considerations, and my very own “Week in Review” – the very effort that became my first blog.  After some time, when advanced web design became too unbearable to maintain, I broke, crumbled, and resorted to a user-friendly blogsite.  A few fallen spacebook pages later, wordpress became our home.  I’d pay them a debt of gratitude if it weren’t for the lack of control they allow over the layout and settings of this site.

Alas, free is as free be, so here we are.  I offer a fair warning, for it is inevitable that I will insult so many of you, that everything here is for a laugh.  Even the drowning puppies.  They’re not real.  Get used to it.

Always sincere in my criticism,

-KB