DAMAGED Cooking: SANTO STEW (CON PUERCO)!!!

Every time a gringo makes a big batch of chile verde--um, excuse me, I mean "green chile"--I'm always the first guy they come to for approval. It's actually quite precious and totally endearing to see them, Walter Keane-eyes widening in glazed anticipation as to whether or not it passes my stringent Mexican guidelines.

And, typically, it doesn't. Ever.

Oh, of course I say it's "good", because, well, I'm not a total jerk. But I know and, especially, they know, that it's pretty bottom of the barrel but, bless this white little hearts, they try. And I can't fault them for that! Usually, they all fall prey to one big problem: they get a recipe off the Internet and make it comically hot, almost to the point where you can't even taste the flavors of the chiles and spices because you're desperately gasping for air as you run to the nearest bucket of ice water like an extra in a Tex Avery cartoon. Look, guys: HOT does not equal MEXICAN FOOD. The only thing it equals is TRYING TOO HARD.

But, still, when made right, I absolutely love love LOVE a good chile verde and, per usual, if you want something done right, you just gotta do it yourself (that's really becoming my culinary mantra, isn't it?). Of course, I put my own little twist on it, turning it into more of a stew, filling it with, in addition to the cuts of pork, a handful of cans of Ro-Tel (with lime!) and the like, plenty of corn, white onions, green onions, pinto beans, black beans and, for best effect, about three or four fistfuls of roasted green chiles, preferably made and bought off the back of a beat-up Ford F-150 in the Mexican part of town.





OK, so it's all been cut up and dumped in your pot, you got it cooking on medium...what's next? Nothing. You sit your ass down and wait SEVEN HOURS for it to cook properly. You can read ATLAS SHRUGGED, knit your dog a wool-cap or, as I did, lay on the floor and stare at the ceiling while silently crying over all the irrevocable mistakes you've made in your life. Regret!

Also, stir occasionally.



Seven or so hours later, you've got a spicy, insanely flavorful chile verde stew--SANTO STEW, as I have been known to call it--that will amaze all your white friends, except for that one friend-of-a-friend douchebag with the backwards ball-cap who says "Um...this is good bro, but I would have added, like, twenty habañeros because I can take the heat, you freakin' gaywad!" (Seriously, man--why do you always invite that guy???)

I served this with fresh crumbly queso fresco (made with a combination of cow AND goat milk), some fat-free sour cream and a couple of warm tortillas, fresh from the Mexican store.



Now you're probably wondering why I call it "Santo Stew". You know how, according to commercials, that professional football players apparently eat multiple bowlfuls of Chunky Soup while resting on the sidelines? I'd like to think that luchadors, whether in-between sparring or fighting Aztec mummies, would like to kick back and enjoy a nice, steaming bowl of my chile verde. It's provides all the energy they need to perform a triple-suplex on a werewolf, and it would make for a helluva commercial. Suck on that, Donovan McNabb!

BIG LOTS, BIGGER DEALS: My Big Lots Closeout DVD Purchases for 02.24.10!!!

I know, I know. Many of you may think you're "too good" for discount store Big Lots. I was once like you, until one day a year or two ago I wandered in and found so many great DVDeals. And while they always had great stuff, for some reason in the past six months, Big Lots' acquisitions have gone from great to insane in the membrane. Insane in the brain, if you will. They are getting real DVDs from real studios and, best of all, all for only three bucks! Here's my haul from this week--feel free to post yours in the comments!



I took a couple of months off from Tha Lotz, as I had gotten my quotient of $1.00 tin-buckets of cheddar cheese Elvis-brand popcorn over the holidays, ignoring even the various nerdy message-boards I frequent where they were going on and on about all the new closeouts and cut-outs that the world-famous last hope for merchandise general store were getting in. Like a battered wife, I went crawling back a few weeks ago when my pal (and fellow Lots Plotzer) John G. came up from Denver. Lately, I've been spending all my "bargain dollars" on $5 Hank Williams, Jr. CDs from Wal-Mart's bargain bin area, so I told myself that I'd spend, oh, let's say, about ten or twelve bucks, promising not to go crazy.

I effed up, big time.

I ended up spending over $30, even putting back a handful of titles like Andy Kaufman's HEARTBEEPS and the in-name-only-sequel ROADHOUSE 2: STILL BOUNCIN'. I can justify it though: many of the titles I picked up have been on my wish-list for forever now, but couldn't bring myself to pay $19.99 or more for most of them. Three bucks each, however...time to dig out the Player's Club Card!

* CAT PEOPLE - I try to collect anything with Malcolm McDowell, who, if you don't know, is my favorite actor of all-time. This 1982 hyper-erotic remake, directed by Paul Schrader, is pretty dirty, what with all the brother-sister fucking, but I've loved it ever since I saw it on HBO as a child, even leading to a young crush on Annette O'Toole, who I think was much more of a looker than star Nastassia Kinski.

* SHAFT / SHAFT'S BIG SCORE / SHAFT IN AFRICA - Everyone who owns a DVD player owns a flip-case copy of the original SHAFT. When the players first came out, those Warner titles were always the cheapest, going for only a few bucks, making the investment no question when cornered with the absolute excitement at enjoying this new format on your new player. Right? Sadly, I never picked up the two sequels, so, thanks to Big Lots, my life is now justified. It's a dollar a SHAFT!

* THE GLIMMER MAN - I never owned a single Steven Seagal movie until Big Lots. So, with THE GLIMMER MAN, starring Seagal and a then-career-having Keenan Ivory Wayans, I bring my bargain Seagal collection up to ten. Ten Seagal movies, all of them brutally entertaining.

* THE HOWLING III: THE MARSUPIALS - Fresh from NOT QUITE HOLLYWOOD, the whacked-out Australian sequel that, literally, has to be seen to be believed, and you know how much I hate that term.

* THE NEW KIDS - "From the director of FRIDAY THE 13TH!" High-schooler Lori Loughlin takes on neighborhood bully James Spader...with bats and axes! (I think. I still haven't watched it yet. The box promises so much!)

* LOST HIGHWAY - I forgot how much of Patricia Arquette's rack you see in this movie! I mean, she's naked throughout 95% of it. The other five? Bill Pullman playing jazz, Balthazar Getty brooding, Robert Blake asking people to talk on his comically large cell-phone and Robert Loggia screaming about safe highway driving. All in all, it's one of David Lynch's best!

* THE SPIRIT OF '76 - Remember in the early 90s when we had that short-lived nostalgic love of all things 70s? No? Well, we did and this was the sum-total of those efforts: a time-travel comedy starring David Cassidy, Leif Garrett, Devo and power-poppers Redd Kross. Believe me--it played a lot funnier in '91.

* JABBERWOCKY - Starring Michael Palin and directed by Terry Gilliam, JABBERWOCKY is like the first Wings album, compared to Monty Python's full Beatles discography; you can see flashes of brilliance here and there, but, until BAND ON THE RUN comes out, it's still a pale imitation. (Gilliam's BAND ON THE RUN, by the way, is TIME BANDITS.)

* HEAVY METAL 2000 - Never before have I wanted my money back on a $3 bargain-bin movie. Until now.

* I LOVE YOU, ALICE B. TOKLAS - One of my cheap-movie rules? If you find a Peter Sellers flick, buy it! A wonderfully dated relic of the peace 'n' love generation, here we find Sellers' uptight lawyer-life changed after ingesting pot brownies. He immediately dumps his stereotypically social-climbing fiancee, hooks up with a stinky-yet-clean-cut slutty hippie-chick and becomes a total parody of the brain-dead love-beaded imbeciles of the time. I was kinda hoping that his character would've been shipped off to 'Nam, but, instead, he discovers his true self. LAME!

* THE ILLUSTRATED MAN - Every wanted to see Rod Steiger's naked, plump, glistening body? Me too! An anthology movie based on three stories from Ray Bradbury's collection of the same name, this is pretty hit-or-miss, with a slow, languid pace that would never work today. Also, has Steiger always looked 65-years-old?

* IT'S ALIVE - This classic mutant baby flick looks like an ugly snuff film. (But it's not, Charlie Sheen. Calm down.)

* JULIEN DONKEY-BOY - Somehow, a Harmony Korine "movie" in a Big Lots bargain-bin seems extremely apropos. No one supports the Dogme 95 movement like a closeouts superstore!

DAMAGED Cooking: Tex-Mex Chicken-Fried Steak (with Creamy Jalapeno Gravy)!!!

If there is one thing in the kitchen that has drastically changed my life, it's the cast iron skillet. And by change my life, I mean will probably be the ultimate death of me. But, mortality aside, if you have to fry anything, use a cast iron skillet. And it's the cast iron skillet that has reaffirmed my love with the chicken-fried steak.

I've been craving it for over five years now, at least since I left Oklahoma. You can't get a good chicken-fried steak in Fort Collins, even at the Goddamned Cracker Barrel! Used to be, the CB was synonymous with incredible CFS, but, somehow, even FC managed to suck the JZ out of that too. As a matter of fact, the only worthwhile one I've had has been at a Flying J Truck-Stop outside Cheyenne, Wyoming, a few weeks ago. Not being able to get what I truly want, once again, I gotta just do it myself. Like a Mexican has to.



I picked up some nice 'n' tender cube steaks at the local carniceria. I wanted to pick up a couple of plate-sized cuts, but all they had were smaller, palm-sized ones. Maybe next time. Sigh.





Flour, eggs, milk and my secret blend of Mexican herbs and spices, dipped, sifted, dipped again and dusted heavily. The smell of red pepper was strong enough to make me sneeze, but, as soon as the meat hit that melted lard--yes, rendered animal fat, for Hispanic authenticity, mind you--that mas incredible smell wafted up and it smelled like childhood. A fat, Texas-based childhood that, sadly, was long dead thanks to the brutal murder of my culinary innocence due to heart disease, polycystic kidneys and a genetic predisposition to subdural hematomas. In other words, reality.

Cooking each side for a 5-8 minutes, getting a nice golden brown with speckles of mouth-watering red chili seeds peeking through the coating. When done, I put them on a plate with paper towels to soak up the excess grease. The grease left in the pan, however? Well, that for the gravy. Sweet, creamy, delicious, heart-clogging gravy.



On low-heat, mixing in some milk, water, more flour and the rest of the aforementioned secret herbs and spices, I toss in a handful of jalapenos for that extra kick in the teeth. Serve it liberally on top of the Tex-Mex Chicken-Fried Steak and a big helping of mashed potatoes--sadly, here they aren't homemade, but made from a crappy powder. The more gravy on these fake potatoes, the better!



Now this isn't something I can eat everyday, even though I wish I could. This is one of those rare treats nowadays that I have to savor, taking slow bites and enjoying it like it was my last meal. Some people treat themselves to a Sonic banana-split or a decadent slice of chocolate cake. Other people are lucky enough to get anal. This is my one treat. For the rest of the week? Miso soup tomorrow with tofu tomorrow, brown rice and steamed broccoli the next. But, man...it was worth it.

I HOPE THEY SERVE BEER IN HELL: Where's Valerie Solanas when you need her?

I HOPE THEY SERVE BEER IN HELL
Starring Matt Czurchry, Geoff Stults, Jesse Bradford
Directed by Bob Gosse
20th Century Fox Home Entertainment
Review by Louis Fowler

Even though most of I HOPE THEY SERVE BEER IN HELL takes place in bars, no one, at any point in the movie, smashes a beer bottle and shoves the jagged glass in Tucker Max's neck, unleashing a well-deserved torrent of grue on the floor. He doesn't even really come into any danger for his actions. Not when he tells a woman that “fat girls aren't real people”, not when he pays an elderly Mexican woman to clean up his supposedly-comical shit and, best of all, not when his buddy tells some chick “I will gut you and grind you into pig fodder.” No one gets in his face and physically punishes him for his actions. Quite the contrary: he's rewarded with sex from numerous drunk mid-level sorority skanks to little person porn actress Bridget Powerz.

But, perhaps the worst crime Max is guilty of is his sense of humor, or total lack thereof. He's got as much comedic depth as an Axe Body-Spray ad in the middle of a copy of MAXIM, yet, by the Aryan frat-boy crowd, he's heralded as a god of hooking up, an unabashed, unashamed asshole who will always get by on his crass charm and come-hither twink-wink. He's the Ferris Bueller of date-rapists. He's today's modern man.

Today's. Modern. Man. He's who most men want to be. Hell, even writing this now, it feels like sour grapes. I look at him—and by him I mean smarmy actor Matt Czurchry, who is probably one step away from a contract as a day-player for Falcon Video—and I know that with my frame, face, whatever, that I'll never achieve what Max does, be it with women, blogging, books...fuck, multi-million dollar movies! I make a misogynistic joke and I'm strung up and beaten like a pinata full of day-old meat. He does it and they hand him a blank check.

It reminds me of that Chris Rock joke about Clarence Thomas: if Thomas looked like Denzel, it would have been nothing but coy, flirty giggles over Coca-Cola pubes. Because Max is a good—no, GREAT-looking fella, the whole would will always be his oyster and that oyster is filled with a neverending supply of pearls. If I was that guy in the bar, talking such explosive rectum-speak, I'd have that aforementioned broken bottle jabbed so far into my neck that I'd be shitting shards for a year. I guess that kinda leaves me in a quandary: who do I hate more? Max or the vapid women who think of it as some sort of conquest they can later use feminist revisionism to justify? Can I hate them both?

I HOPE THEY SERVE BEER IN HELL is so ultimately depressing, in that regard. It makes you hate everything about the current state of your generation. It's a manifesto for the next level of the white ruling class, the Skull and Bones secret hand-shakers of tomorrow. The WINNERS! It's enough to make you want to go Chuckie Whitman in a bar with a name like the Hynotiq Martini 360 Lounge. But then again, that's what they expect from an ugly fuck like you, right?

It makes me wonder: if I had all the opportunities laid at my feet the way he does--money, women--would I feel the same way? If I could get away with it, would I be the same way? Would all men? Honestly...probably. Oh, to be able to harness the seductive power of washboard abs and a gift card to American Apparel!

Come to think of it, if most women could get away with it, I'm sure they'd fuck him too. Don't kid yourself. We're all reprehensible people when it comes right down to it, I guess. It's all a matter of opportunity to express that reprehensibleness.

We're all eugenicists, only very few are ever granted a license to actually practice.

I guess you could say that it's a plus that BEER was a total box office disaster, making a little over a million. But this isn't a theatrical film anyway. It's a tepid, bar-lowering retelling of THE HANGOVER that will be eaten up by the Sigma Pi crowd on movie night. It will be their CITIZEN KANE. It will be their tome, passed from pledge to pledge before they even have a chance to wipe the semen from their upper lip. Keep that hand firmly over the mouth of your drinks, ladies.

It makes me tear up a little that Valerie Solanas, the writer of THE SCUM MANIFESTO, is dead. Who am I kidding: it makes me tear up a lot! She was the Anti-Max (or maybe he's the Anti-Solanas?), someone who we need more than ever right now. Someone with conviction to put her bullets where her mouth is! If drunken slobs in a bar won't confront him, maybe she would have... Wouldn't you have loved to of seen a debate between these two? Maybe on a college campus with lax conceal 'n' carry guidelines?

Fuck pumping a load of buckshot into Andy Warhol--that proved nothing, Val. Here's the guy you SCUM followers should have your cross-hairs on.