Sports Fandom

Confession – I love sports.  I’ll watch almost any competitive contest just because I love competition.  Weirdly however, I don’t have any favorite teams or really follow any teams regularly.  I’m more interested in thinking about competitive outcomes within a historical context (like for instance experiencing a transcendent performance or season).  I find it more fun to root against teams sometimes.  I’m also always more excited to experience the “better” story.  When people learn this, they look at me askew but there are very specific reasons why this has been the case.

Most individuals are handed down their rooting interests from their father or grandfather.  Well, my grandfather on my dad’s side lived in another country and I never really spoke to him extendedly.  My mom’s father on the other hand was a hairy asshole more concerned with banging out randoms and drinking whiskey, so he wasn’t in my life at all.  So what about my father?  Well he isn’t exactly the portrait of a sportsman and there’s evidence to back it up.  The evidence – younger sister and I are the same age for 10 days of the year.  Chew on that.

Both born in winter months, my sister and I prevented my father from enjoying any winter sports.  Also, an argument can be made that he didn’t really get into the spring sports since he was too busy humping my mom’s vagina.  That sort of stuff happens when you are poor and have no TV, you go around having kids that are 11 months and 3 weeks apart.

Also working against me, I’m a contrarian.  I dislike liking things “just because.” Growing up in Jersey, the local teams available for rooting interest were the Nets, Mets, Yankees, Jets, Giants, Devils, Rangers, and Knicks.  

·      

• The Nets never appealed to my sensibilities because their name was stupid, they sucked major King Kong dick, and played in an arena so dilapidated that not even the homeless would squat there.
• The Mets played at Shea Stadium with its façade of a neon swinging baseball player which I knew even at 6 years old was amateurish.
• The Yankees – well everyone and their mom around me was a Yankees fan and how fun can it be to join the lumbering masses in rooting for those soulless turds?  Plus pinstripes only serve to make you look like an asshole, always.
•  As for the Jets, we can all agree that the image best conjured by their fans is that of a Vinny from Staten Island with a constant spittle on the side of his mouth.   And that Fireman Ed guy is a complete piece of shit.  Take it from someone who worked at the stadium and interacted with him countless times.  I hope he chokes on a bucket of dicks.
•  The Giants – in 5^th grade I had a classmate named Jimmy who wore Giants clothing twice a week and was absolutely obsessed with the team.  Stats spewed from his mouth in the depressing manner of someone trying to convince himself fully of something.  I really hated that kid and his Giants sweats.
•  Devils and Rangers – I’m Spanish, hockey is out of the equation.
•  Knicks – I loathed Knicks fans the most growing up, especially when they would refer to that shit hole Madison Square Garden as the “basketball mecca.”  I hated Patrick Ewing, the missing evolutionary link and how he’d leave a puddle of sweat on the court where he stood.  I hated the orange and blue color scheme.

So I never followed any of these teams, or entertained the notion.  I grew up detached yet loving competition which is where I stand now.  It does lead to issues at times such as when I’m at a bar that has aligned itself with a particular team and I show up to root for the opposite team.  I find it fascinating how irrationally passionate some people are about their fandom.  FINE, I shouldn’t have said your quarterback is into beastiality, but don’t threaten to shank me.

Welcome to Ohio

As I write this, I am currently in Columbus, Ohio for business.  I took an early flight from Laguardia via US Airways on Tuesday.  It’s my first time traveling for work and really, I was unprepared for the small dead feeling that accompanies being on a plane in one’s work clothing.  I became my own worst nightmare: the guy who uses 3 bins at the security line in the airport.  I had my travel bag, laptop bag (which must be checked separately from my laptop), coat and other personal effects.  I was the guy fumbling around with his belt while trying to put my laptop away in the bag with one hand.  Oh no, did I wear dress socks with holes in them?  Why yes I did so suck it.  I got dressed at 4:45am while still dreaming about living Leonardo DiCaprio’s life. C’est la vie.

I know what you are saying.  Traveling isn’t that bad and traveling on someone else’s dime is awesome.  Well sure in theory it is but in practice it is much more insidious.  You start doubting certain things in small quantities.  A creeping feeling makes it way down your spine that you’re now an asshole, someone closer to Willy Loman then is reasonable.

As it was, I made my way down to the gate to join a sluggish group of lugubrious characters all dressed in their business worst.  Brooks Brother’s black 3 piece suit? Check.  Iron free Oxford in white? Check.  Plain blue or red tie? Check.  Depressingly shiny Oxford round tip shoes? Check.  Who were these compatriots in arms?  These fellows with eyes that never screamed “Say Hi to me” but rather “Ask me for my business card. Please.” Some looked busy on important calls, other had their noses buried in some deck of powerpoint slides, circling or underlining useful information so as not to sound like an idiot at the intended destination.  Oh look those two are making small talk.  Can you guess what’s next?  If you guessed an exchanging of business cards then you win and I’ve got a special vile of arsenic with your name on it.

And so it goes.  Yippie, they are starting the boarding process!

“We are now boarding passengers in Zone 1.  Repeat, only Zone 1 passengers can board” is what the lady who looks like she got fired from Walmart says through intercom.  I look down to my ticket half desperate and half hopeful.  Please be Zone 1.  Oh fuck, Zone 3 – the plane’s welfare cases.  Great.

Zone 3 loads and I enter the plane.  I check my ticket and look back up at the seat numbers posted at eye level within the cabin.  Back and forth the eyes dart trying to reconcile my seat number with the seat numbers on the side of you when the realization sinks in – “I’m in the last seat on the plane.”  Great, you’ll get all the recycled fart air from the plane at the back as well as the not-so-fresh air that escapes the bathroom every time someone exits it.  Hey you, yea you guy with the pit stains, please don’t eat a fajita the night before a flight, you’re killing me.

You find your seat and determine its time to put your bigger bag in an overhead compartment and the laptop bag under the seat in front of you.  Unfortunately this is a small domestic flight with storage space tighter then a…well you get my meaning.  Suddenly, depressed married guys in matching haircuts are arguing over compartment space.  One guy asks if he can more my bag to make space for his cookie cutter roller suitcase.  I’ve wearing my noise cancelling headphones – the ones that make me look like I’m wearing plastic ear muffs – but my ipod is off so I can hear him.  It’s too early for communication so I stare at him until he feels uncomfortable.  He makes some motion with his body that either means he wants to bang me in the ass or move my bag.  I say sure with the implicit meaning that I did not mean an ass banging.  It’s not what I would imagine my first mile high club joining experience to be.

I’m still wearing my pea coat in my seat.  I look downright terroristy – or homeless – but fuck it I’m comfortable and lazy.  I’m not taking it off so I clip on my seat belt over my coat.  I then start remembering what I was dreaming about before this sordid ordeal so I start to drift away slowly.

“Ladies and Gentlemen” comes over the intercom in a husky faux-southern twang which seems like some joke since the plane is a contained sausage fest, “this is your captain.  We are being delayed due to a traffic control problem.  Sorry folks.”

Whatever.  You’ll get to the destination eventually right?  You pass out gently.  The plane shakes and you realize you are landing.

“Ladies and gentlemen” begins a new announcement.  “Welcome to Columbus.  The local time is 10am.  Sorry for the delay.”

Oh great, we were delayed by a whole hour.

Sexual Education

As humans, we love to argue.  We argue about things which can’t be solved like creationism vs evolution or tits vs ass.  These arguments don’t really excite me as I can’t offer a solution.  One argument though, that has been looming large in my medium sized dome is that of sexual education.  This is an area argued mostly by religious folks and busy body moms, and usually breaks down into two camps: those that believe in Safe Sex Education – teaching kids to wear condoms and use birth control and be safe when engaging in sticking P’s in V’s – and then Abstinence Only Sex Education – making sure every student is terrified of any sexual contact lest their giblets fall off in wart riddled stumps.  While I’m firmly entrenched in the Safe Sex Education camp, I do believe there is another method which could be just as effective: The Virgin Sex Education.  Let me explain.

The Virgin Sex Education method revolves around the theory that there are certain things boys and girls can do to remain virgins and ensure no one will want to have sex with them at all.  Of the many benefits, the biggest would be taking out the peer pressure element of having to say “yes” or “no” to sex and instead ensuring the student can be comfortable knowing no one will preposition them for sex.  Also, students wouldn’t feel anxious and pressured to carry around condoms and be safe and worry about things like being cool.

So what is the Virgin Sex Education method?  It boils down to giving students the tools used my millions of virgins.  Let’s break it down by gender shall we.

·         Boys

o   Play role playing games where creating avatars are necessary

o   Wear t-shirts with “funny” sayings such as “Touch My Nuts” with a picture of pecans

o   Let your hair grow out without washing it

o   Grow out the peach fuzz mustache

o   Talk in public about “Magic: the Gathering” and how you would have won if only you’d received a “Spells” card

o   Consistently mention how no girl can ever compare to your mom

·         Girls

o   Wear mom jeans.  For extra coverage, bedazzled mom jeans would work best.

o   Wear pajama jeans and brag about how comfortable they are

o   For spring break, go to Disney World

o   Tell everyone how your idol is a Disney princess.  Dressing as a Disney princess once a week for school would be doubly effective.

o   Don’t shave or tweeze

These of course are merely the beginnings of a more comprehensive curriculum.  It would require an in-depth analysis and interviews with those that were able to remain virgins not through choice but rather through circumstance.

Goalless Activism

"Hey man, I just want like to end greed man."

I won’t bore you with facts about my life since it’s really not that exciting but I happen to work on “Wall Street” in some capacity.  I use quotes on “Wall Street” since the firm that I currently work at isn’t actually located on the street, but it is part of the “street” at large.  I am by no means a titan of industry or self described master of the universe.  I am not in a position to make any financial decisions which would impact faceless individuals or the economy.  I don’t make millions of dollars a year trading exotic (and barely legal or understandable) financial instruments.  I’m just a worker bee in this shitty world trying to get my slice of the pie.  So excuse while I rant a little about these dirty hippie protesting assholes giving me shit during my day.

I’m not sure how you operate but it takes every fiber of my being not to stomp the creeping Jesus out of some dread locked white boy telling me I’m going to hell for being greedy as I walk to work.  So because I’m wearing a suit and tie I’m going to burn for my sins huh?  I didn’t realize earning a paycheck was evil, but thanks for the commentary.  And really, I’m in a no win situation.  How are you going to go after some pacifist who may or may not have lice?  No one wants “beat hippie to a bloody pulp” on their permanent record.  It’s like being the skinny kid at fat camp – you might win at the contests, but really, did you win?

More problematic, no one has given any clear indication of why they are protesting.  There have been some vague comments made by Kashi-enthusiasts about “greed” and “corruption”.  But now word is coming out that the message of these protests have been expanded to include foreclosure prevention, climate change, and various other social and justice related issues.  Confounding things further, these issues are being lumped under the umbrella being called “occupy Wall Street” which has apparently expanded to other cities around the country.  Because you know, indirectly Wall Street is responsible for the ills in the world, including albino alligators and paper cuts.

Now I’m not an idiot (despite my writing deficiency and grammar of a 6^th grader) and realize that things aren’t all that fucking peachy in the good ole US of A.  I’m all for a good shit raising.  We should be getting in touch with our inner contrarians and asking more of those in positions of power.  I’m all for trying to achieve some sort of equality or asking for change.  But for fuck sake, have a clear message.  Have a clear, defined agenda that you can talk to.  Have clear *goals* in mind for what you want to achieve.  Stop harassing normal working folk just trying to get through their day with limited homicidal thoughts.  Stop perpetuating the image of yourselves as dirty, tree hugging vagabonds.  And for the love of sweet fancy Moses, stop with the spoken word poetry readings in public.

Permissions and Acceptance in Swimming

Life can sometimes be boiled to terms so simple that they can be cruel.  Most of the time, life is simply about having the right permissions or acceptance to do something.  You aren’t really sure why you MUST do this thing but not being able to or not accepted yet seeps its way into your bones like a lonely pathetic disease.  You MUST go to this college.  You MUST date that girl.  You MUST see that new rated R movie.

Childhood is a constant struggle in obtaining the right permissions.  It first starts with parents who surely are conspiring against you in an evil plot to keep your brilliant brain from experiencing all there is to experience.  And don’t even start me on teachers.  Who are they to dare have specific rules about raising one’s hand and asking if you can go the bathroom?!  And then they have the gull to snarkily comment “I don’t know, can you go to the bathroom?” at which point you’ll have to clear your head of the possibility of pissing (or shitting yourself) and ask in a tone dripping with disdain “May I go to the bathroom?”.

All these though are small apples compared to my biggest gripe growing up: not being able to enter the deep end of the pool.  Growing up a child with limited access to any bodies of water safe enough to swim in, the deep end of the pool represents Shangri-La.  It’s the biggest thing in your life.  You wonder, what could be hiding under all that water?  What would it be like to be free of a floor you can touch with your feet?

I first encountered the tempting fruit when my parents decided I was too much of a hassle and needed to be pawned off for a couple hours a day to some poor sucker.  They signed me up for the local Boys & Girls club in Queens and were always about half a mile away when they remembered to say “bye” to me.  The Boys & Girls club was fantastic anyways.  I was able to take arts and crafts classes or Tae Won Do, but what really captured my heart were the bi-weekly swimming lessons.  I’d never really seen a pool before so the sight of this enclosed body of water with a diving board at one end and countless small bodies struggling not to drown set my heart aflutter.  I joined the class the next day full of excitement.

During my first class, it dawned on me that I had never really swum before and this was my first time shirtless around strangers.  Sure I’d probably run around naked as a 1 or 2 year old but who remembers those sorts of things?  Anyways, it didn’t matter, I was ready to swim!  The teacher started the class in the casual manner of someone who is hung over or really just there for the extra $50 a week.  We got several meek warnings about proper pool safety (NO RUNNING! NO ROUGHHOUSIN’!).  We were also told to stay out of the deep end – which was sectioned off with buoys.  Then it was time to get in the water.

The lessons were standard operating procedure – holding on to the ledge, kicking, kicking, KEEP YOUR HEAD UP, kicking, kicking.  For some reason (alright, I had ADHD) these lessons bored me and I decided I would not be shackled by the tyranny of evil men.  I was going in the deep end!  I got out of the pool (because just swimming to the deep end would have been too obvious), walked to the deep end of the pool and got in.  Unfortunately, the instructor scolded me as soon as I entered the water.

“You can’t go in the deep end until you pass the swim test!”

“What do you mean swim test? How do I take one of those?”

“Well, you have to ask me for permission to take the test and then I’ll let you take it.”

“Ok so can I take the test?”

“OK…swim from one end of the pool width wise, back and forth.  Do that and you’ll pass”

Easy enough right?  I jumped back in the shallow end and told the instructor I was ready.  I started swimming and then realized I was getting tired so I would stop.  I alternated swimming and stopping along the way until I completed my test.  I successfully arrived back at the starting point without drowning, fully sure that I had passed this test and would now be awarded full deep end privileges.

“Sorry, you failed.  You have to swim both ways without stopping.”

This motherfucker had tricked 9 year old me.  He had consciously denied me access to the glorious deep end.  I was distraught about this lack of permission.  Why wasn’t I allowed to go in the deep end, because I could possibly drown?  Isn’t it the instructor’s JOB to ensure I didn’t drown?  Surely I would learn more from trying to survive in the deep end then holding on the ledge of the pool with the other sheep, kicking our legs in a depressingly static position.

I left class and vowed to eventually pass the test.  Unfortunately (or fortunately depending on your attitudes regarding pollution) my family moved to New Jersey before I could attend another class.  I never got my revenge on that suck-hole of an instructor.  I never got the permission I so sorely needed.

Weekly Enemies of the State

Today's missive will be brief but decisive.  It's time to list out the weekly enemies of the state.  These are individuals whom I'm never met other then maybe passing them by on the street or subway.  Even though I don't know these people, I'm almost positive they are all horrible individuals.

1) Guys who wear pleated khaki slacks - Stop dressing like the lonliest child molester.

2) People who smoke cigars at lunch time - while you may have the same girth, you my friend are NOT Tony Soprano.

3) People who brush their teeth in the bathroom at work - you aren't clean, you're just the asshole with a brush and toothpaste at his desk.

4) Girl's who spell out OMG like "OH EMM GEE" - These girls need to immediately contract bird AIDS.

5) Guys over the age of 25 who still wear their college graduation ring - so did they teach you do be a douche at nondescript Ivy League school?

6) People who talk about how "big" they've gotten because of boxing - you know what's gotten big?  My urge to choke you out.

A "Fictional" Tale

He’d really never been a stylish individual, unless round and nerdy can be considered a style.  After his horizontal growth spurt, aided in part by fast food and his parent’s insistence on eating their product at the bakery, he entered junior year with a new fleet of comfortable clothing – sweats and pajama bottoms.  And so began another year of anonymity…in sweats and pajama bottoms.

That year also bought about his favorite class – Geometry with Mrs. DiGorda for 5^th period.  Besides the obvious allure of dealing with all sorts of angles, triangles, straight lines and segments, he had managed to grab a seat near Maria.  Positively sure that she’d never considered his existence, she had been his object of affection ever since the water fountain incident[1] of the prior year.  So they sat there, by the window overlooking

Pasley Boulevard

learning about proofs; Him in his sweats, her in all her mediocre beauty in the seat to the right.

The seat behind him was occupied by Omar, a friend by all the insane measures that one can consider someone a friend in high school.  Omar was square headed and by virtue of working in his father’s liquor store after work, one of the more gregarious students in the school.  He also suffered from tiny warts on his hands leading to much embarrassment.  He learned to cope by not shaking anyone’s hand but rather opting for hugs.  Hugging other guys in high school of course meant he was always the subject of gay rumors.  This being high school, rumors of being gay were far better then the reality of being perceived as physically deformed with warts.

One day, Omar began talking bout the latest Sega Saturn game, “Nights”.  Who he was talking to wasn’t really important since this was video games, the most important thing in the world obviously.  This game posited that the gamer take control of jester dressed flying blue beings.  It really wasn’t a great game but allowed one to image flying around causing havoc unencumbered by laws of psychics or sloppy bodies.  Omar was rambling on about the merits of this game when suddenly Maria interjected in her wonderfully shrill voice.

“Are you talking about “Nights”?  I was playing that last night.  It’s sooooooooo much fun like really.”

He turned to her and then to Omar.  Both of them were mouth agape at this interjection of interest.  A girl playing video games?  A girl with boobs playing video games?  AND the video game to end all video games that year?  He started to answer but the bell rang signaling the end of class.  Even the bell was bullying him around.  The class started to empty but he felt particularly odd.  And that’s when he realized why he felt odd.  He was sporting an unimpressive raging boner.

Suddenly he cursed his new fashion styles.  Why hadn’t he just worn denim which as all males know, is much easier for hiding an erection?  Why did he wear the dark beige wind breakers which now clung hopelessly to his erect member?  So he sat there quietly, slowly gathering his effects as the room emptied out.  Each student out the door representing a tiny paper cut in his dying dignity.

“Hey man, we’ve got to get to the next class” opined Omar.

“Yea, you don’t want to get detention” chimed Maria.

Great, NOW she was talking to him?  Apparently she only conversed with guys once they were fully humiliated.  He looked up at both of them but didn’t offer anything other then a shrug.  Omar squinted a knowing squint and let out a small chuckle then excused himself to the next class.  Suddenly it was just him and Maria as the new student started filing into the room.  He had to make a decision before it was too late so here it was.  He started getting up in sections.  First the knees swung to the left, then he bent over exaggeratedly hoping the pressure would squash his boner, then with his right arm he grabbed all the books on his desk, and as he prepared to get up, he slammed the books against his crotch to cover the offending member.

“Um what is that?” asked Maria.

Unfortunately, he wasn’t really athletic or quick in any sense so while his movements in getting up struck him as lightening fast, they were in fact slow and clumsy.  She had seen everything and was now pointing and staring at the mass of books covering his crotch.

“Oh ummm just some pens were sticking out my side.  You know, sweats and all” he nervously let out.

“…yea sure…” she said.  And that was the last time she ever spoke to him again.

---

[1] During the 1^st semester of sophomore year, not long after the school year had started, he suddenly found himself running down the eastern corridor of the second floor by the AV room.  Why he was running, he never really remembered since it was inconsequential (although knowing him, it probably had to do with a smart comment directed at the more popular types who dealt with such matters in fist-y fashion).  Regardless, he was running and not really paying attention when he hit a patch of wet floor caused by a broken and overflowing water fountain.  This sudden lack of traction resulted in wild arm and leg swinging and a general loss of control.  As he careened down the hall unable to control his expanding mass, Maria had exited her class to go to the bathroom.  She opened the door and started down the hall opposite of the direction in which he was heading.  He saw the door and was able to grab onto it and halt the momentum that would have surely led to a quick and painful meeting with the lockers down the hall.  Maria never turned around or realized what had happened but he fell in love after mentally taking note that she had saved his life.

Putting on Mood Music

In some movies of the adult kind, there will sometimes be a scene where characters are about to bump uglies.  One of the characters will go over to their stereo (what an antiquated idea huh?) and put on some “mood music.”  This mood music is usually classical in nature, some variation of jazz, or some boning easy listening R&B.  Putting on this “mood music” is the “Let’s Bone” bat signal.

Now I’ve spent a fair amount of time thinking about mood music since I started having sex.  I always thought it was what you were supposed to do.  Before getting it on, you put on some song and go about your business.  I never questioned why this was, just accepted that its how adults worked.  Pop culture never lies.

As I got older, just accepting things was no longer copacetic and so prior acceptance turned into panic; new neurosis cropped up suddenly.  No longer was it enough to worry about someone else seeing you naked or wondering if having that remaining slice of cake two days ago was prudent or hoping you didn’t have any dingle berries from the morning’s shit.  No longer would berating yourself for only shaking your penis twice after pissing, fully sure that some droplets of urine made their way onto your thigh, be enough.

Suddenly you are worried about the message being sent by your musical choices.  Do you go for easy listening, something for “easy riding”?  Do you dare put on some industrial heavy rock to send the message you are ready to fuck her not-so-gently?  What happens when you put on a song you actually like?  What if you find yourself humming or mouthing lyrics in between kisses, completely unaware of how awful you look?  What if you happen to put on a song that reminds her of an awful relationship or period in her life and she storms off in a heap of tears and barely understandable babble?

The other problem lies in the time.  All of a sudden you have an accurate barometer for how long you’ve been banging.  You’re fully aware that the song you picked is 4 minutes long and so when you cum 20 seconds into the session, you’re full of self hatred for having to sit through another 3:40 of a song that all of a sudden is sung in mocking undertones.  Fuck you Beatles for mocking my lack of performance!

Conversely, not putting on any ambient noise presents a different issue all together.  You become aware of the peculiar sounds that can emanate from the human body during coitus.  What the fuck was that popping sound?  Did we just make a fart noise with our chests?  Is that you or me moaning?  Also, the music helps break up the post sex session awkward silence.  Because as everyone knows, nothing says “sorry for being so disappointing” quite like a song.

Burnt Sugar Ice Cream

A couple months ago I purchased a basic ice cream maker from BJ’s at the bargain price of $24.  My original intentions were to occasionally make some vanilla or chocolate ice cream.  You know, not get too crazy with it being that it is a cheap contraction and my kitchen is the size of an opulent coffin.  As I started making ice cream, I stuck to vanilla and it’s boring cousins – mint, mint chocolate chip, etc – and didn’t really dabble in chocolate too much.  However, armed with free time, boredom, and idle hands, I’ve decided to try my hand at making some exotic flavors.  Today we’ll look at a recipe I found at Epicurious for Burnt Sugar Ice Cream.

Now contrary to it’s fancy name, Burnt Sugar Ice Cream is essentially just caramel ice cream.  However, saying “burnt sugar” is decidedly more badass and confusing so we’ll stick with the nomenclature.  This recipe called for the following ingredients:

• 2 cups whole milk
• 2 cups heavy cream
• 1 cup of sugar split into ¾ cup and ¼ cup portions
• 5 egg yolks
• Vanilla Bean

I made a trip to my local supermarket in search of these simple ingredients.  While the first 5 ingredients posed me no issues, I had a hell of a time finding vanilla bean.  I ended up asking one of the workers who was busy putting fresh putting up for sale.

“Excuse me sir…I wonder if you could help me find something”

“Sure”

“I’m looking for vanilla beans”

“What the fuck is that? Like beans?”

“Well I guess its for taste.  Like vanilla extract is made from it”

“What’s is for?”

“Uh well baking I guess”

“Then look in the baking aisle”

I trudged my ass back through the baking aisle where I’d been wandering aimlessly for about 10 minutes prior looking through the 900 variety of spices.  Cinnamon sticks? Check.  Whole all spice?  Double Check.  And then I found it – my white whale – the vanilla beans.

As you can see, these beans were $15.  And listen, I’m not cheap or anything but I’m not paying $15 for some beans for ice cream.  Cry me a river about purity of products and sticking to the recipe but I settled for the $5 (still too expensive) bottle of vanilla extract.  The only problem would be deciding what the equivalent amount of vanilla beans (2 per the recipe) would be in extract.  Either way, I headed home with my final load - at a total of $18 and change - pumped for some exotic burnt sugar treats.

The first steps in the recipe call for 3/4 cups of sugar to be added to a pot with 3 tablespoons of water and stirred over medium heat.  As you are measuring out the sugar, you might feel a slight pit in your stomach, which is totally fine.  That's just the oncoming Diabetes making its presence known.  Regardless, stir this saturated sugar water mixture until the sugar all dissolves.  At this point, you might notice that the mixture looks like a large load of semen.  That's when you know its time for the next step, when you are stirring what appears to be elephant cum.

Sweet elephant cum

At this point, please jack up the heat.  Slowly the elephant cum/sugar mixture will start bubbling.  Now science takes over for a fantastic chemical reaction.

As the sugar starts to heat up, the particles start to blast around rapidly in the pot.  Sure you can't see this because it's microscopic, but trust me, it is happening.  As these particles move around rapidly, they start to separate and break down.  Eventually they all realize they are running around like lunatics and get angry while joining forces.

I would be remiss if I didn't note that you shouldn't use your mixing spoon here to stir the mixture.  If you do, the mixture will stick to your spoon in jagged pieces and it'll just be an ugly mess.  Instead, just swirl the pot around to spread the heat evenly.  You'll start seeing the outter edges of the mixture start to brown slightly.  Then a tiny amount of smoke will start radiating from the mixture.  Please take this time to measure out the 2 cups of heavy cream.

One the mixture reaches a bubbly soothing brown, but not dark black because then it is REALLY burnt, color, add in the heavy cream mixture carefully.

This is about the right color you'll want your mixture to be.

Now again, please be careful when adding the cream.  The cream and hot sugar mixture will react with teenage angst at being paired together so pour slowly.  The mixture will start to bubble up like a small atomic bomb has been set off but don’t fret, it’ll be fine.  Finish adding the mixture completely.  Next up, introduce milk to the proceedings.

Now sugar, don't be so mean to cream.

This is where the recipe calls for an addition of 2 vanilla beans to smooth out the sugary/caramel flavor.  So if you have the cash for $15 vanilla beans then by all means go ahead and drop the beans in there you opulent bastard.  As for me, I decided that 3 small drips from the vanilla extract would approximate the 2 beans.

Once the milk and vanilla are added, keep stirring the mixture while it boils for about 10 minutes.  I should note that milk and sugar don't boil nicely.  They tend to increase exponentially in mass in the pot.  I had to keep shutting the stove off and on again because my mixture kept threatening to break the levees provided by the pot.  And by shutting the stove off and on I of course mean that I lost track of my mixture while I tended to the eggs only to turn and see it mushrooming over the pot and start to spill.  I'm a good cook.

After 10 minutes, you can lower the flame and let the mixture simmer.  In another bowl, start separating the 5 egg yolks from their 5 egg whites like some egg Nazi.  This was by far the hardest part of the process for me.  I started to think I suffer from a rare case of egg dyslexia.  The first two eggs I tried separating, I ended up throwing out the yolk while leaving the egg white in the bowl.  I had to stop for 2 minutes to clear my mind because clearly this task was above my mental acuity.  Eventually the process of separating the egg yolks resulted in egg spilling all over my kitchen floor and garbage can.  Fun times!

Once the five egg yolks are in a bowl, whisk in ¼ cup of sugar.  The eggs and sugar will combine to form a brilliant yellow sauce.

Now you'll want to take the sugar mixture you've been keeping over a low heat and slowly start to whisk it into the egg mixture you've just put together.  Please introduce these two partners together and watch them make sweet, sweet scientific, gastronomic love to one another.

Once these two are well acquainted, pour the big mixture back in to the original pot and heat over medium heat for about 7 minutes.  This is mainly a cautionary step to kill off any nasty microbials in the eggs like salmonella which will cause you to shit ice cream if you aren’t careful.

Once the heating period is over, grab your trusty strainer and hold it over a medium bowl.  You will need to start pouring the mixture into the bowl through the strainer.  You'll probably have to stop half way through in order to use a mixing spoon to move around the particles in the strainer obstructing the fluid from floating through freely.

Once the mixture has made it fully into the bowl cover it and store it in your fridge for an over night freeze.  This will help the flavors meld together better as well as solidy the mixture a bit which will make for better ice cream.