How ABSOLUTELY INSENSITIVE.

As you know, one of Cornelius's many embarrassing "jobs" is transcribing adult videos. I guess it was just a matter of time before he came across some of my partner Rod Huggins' work. Let me just say that he spared no acidic, over-wrought insult in his flaying of Rod, and although Rod is taking it well enough (he is in the family room eating Christopher Elbow ganache and reading heavily-scented fan letters), I'm as mad as a lathering hornet.

Here's how my phone call to that senseless old fool went.

- - -

PAT: Cornelius! Are you responsible for subtitling Chuck Wagon Chubbies Eight: Blowdown at the Bunslinger Corral?

CORNELIUS: I...it sounds familiar. Patrick, you sound angry.

PAT: Rod is DEVASTATED by your descriptions of him and his acting!

CORNELIUS: Rod? Rod...your partner? Goodness no! Patrick, if I had known that was—

PAT: Ahem. “The goateed chap with the accordion-like love handles and picnicky shoulders hoists his bilious girth over the corral’s top-most beam, severely testing the workmanship of the anonymous cowpoke carpenter who long ago labored to build a containment device with a far nobler—and nimbler—animal in mind...”

CORNELIUS: Goodness, that is a bit astringent. I am so—

PAT: AHEM. “...As the two suet pots bumble artlessly with one another, the viewer feels the urge to stir seeds and bits of chopped raisin into the deep, unctuous folds of their jobbly midriffs, thereby creating a nutritious place for birds to eat."

CORNELIUS: Oh dear. I regret I cannot take it all back, as I believe it is committed to a special track on all distributed copies of the title. Is Rod much distraught?

PAT: Never you mind Rod's feelings! I'm just calling to let you know that you've really screwed up THIS time!

CORNELIUS: Patrick, please let me come over and offer a proper apology to—

- - -

Too late. I'd made my point, and I didn't want to let him come over and hem and haw and pretend like this wasn't his fault. Because it was. He did that, he was rude and nasty, and now he's going to have to pay. Rod and I are going to have a dinner party for all our closest friends soon, and he's DEFINITELY off the guest list. Just his luck, because I'm breaking out my latest, labor-of-love recipe for cashew bean "cassoulet" with sumac tofuouille and Rhodac pine extract.

Soytopia.

Well, you're probably wondering what happened to Soytopia: An Ecological and Sociopolitical Clarity Bar. It's been a few months since the opening, and I've been so busy an update is long overdue.

After the first disastrous morning, I shuttered the place for good. I have no patience for the sort of social organism that can't immediately respond to a literal gem in its politiculinary landscape, and I didn't want to waste another dollar on Spuni grass that would never get eaten, so I did the smart thing and cut my losses. I feel great about it -- makes me feel superior to this stupid-ass town and all its wannabe thinkers. I heaved all the food into the dumpster out back but locked it so the freegan dickheads wouldn't get a gram of my investment. I'd rather bacteria and seagulls ate it than a bunch of free-loaders with perfectly functional wallets.

What have I been so busy with since then? I've been watching a lot of documentaries about South America and the damage the chocolate industry has wreaked down there. I'm getting my notes together for a project that will hopefully destroy the entire cacao production system from the ground up. You won't get chocolate any more, but you'll live in a better world.

There is no "you're welcome" on the front lines. It's not why we do what we do. So I don't expect to hear it, and I don't need my inbox filled with it. I'll fix things, you just sit and watch. That's how the system works.

Soytopia: Opening Morning!

I had started to think it would never happen! Soytopia: An Ecological and Sociopolitical Clarity Bar finally opened its doors last Thursday. Whew. I could write a book. Actually, once we get in the black, I think I will. It should be a scandalous exposé of the joke that is the private contracting industry. God, those grease-labes.

I clicked the latest, most expensive, code-compliant brass locks open at 6:59.59 AM on Thursday, and gently propped the doors into an open position (it is my opinion that my "bar" should always be room temperature, so my doors stay open all day). Things were quiet for a bit, when all of a sudden a bird of some sort dove in and started attacking the granola bar! I shooed him away with a broom, but not after he had defiled the contents of every single ingredient tray. That invasion cost me over $39.78 in product, not to mention valuable time. Fortunately, no one was in yet.

Around about noon I noticed that word had still not gotten out, so I began to hang my pièce de résistance above the bar: a recumbent penny-farthing, antiqued to look like a relic from the 1920s. I suspended the bike with twine and temper cable and I have to say it looks awfully damned fine where it hangs. Reminds me of that U2 stage with the small car, only more intelligent and provocative. Once that was done, I began to prepare a few of the various live sandwiches and lavoshes -- the ones I knew would be highest in demand during the lunch rush.

By one o'clock the town's enlightened had still failed to arrive, so I stuck my head outside to see if there had been an air raid warning or police cordon at the end of the street. The idiotic customers of the Dude and Catastrophe were spilling out onto the sidewalk, arm in arm and singing bawdy songs about maids named Mary whose nether regions could kill a canary, so I slammed the door. Room temperature be damned, I didn't want them to think they could ramble into MY establishment having that kind of time. Just to be safe, I put the CLOSED sign in the window, dropped the blinds, and turned the chairs up on the tables.

All in all, not the best opening day, but not the worst. Some time around six PM a wanderer named Michael started playing guitar on the sidewalk out front, which I took to be a good omen. He's asleep out there now - I may slip some live lavosh under the front door so that he has a snack. It would be a shame to waste it.

Soytopia a few steps closer to opening.

Soytopia: A Sociopolitical and Ecological Clarity Bar! (I'm thinking of keeping the exclamation point in the title) is three months closer to opening, and you'd think that'd mean a lot, but you'd be wrong. First, here's what's been holding off progress on the space itself:

1) Is it possible to find a contractor who won't pass judgment on a socio-homopolitical lifestyle? Every time these clowns get a clue that I'm of a certain persuasion, they start playing pranks. They whistle when I walk by, pretend to pull down their tool belts, and in some cases call me "Lucy." I've had to fire three crews so far, and every single time someone manages to quickly draw a penis on the wall before they clear out. I swear I've got my eyes peeled, but they always sneak this past me. I have to paint over it myself, naturally, so the next group doesn't get a head start.

2) What is "FOX" motorcycle racing? Is that something that people who have not heard of falafel or Europe enjoy? I swear, every one of these goons has a FOX sticker on his truck, and one dope's ice cream-shaped girlfriend ("BODY BY ICE CREAM," I laughed to myself) even had the FOX tattoo across her shoulders. Unless they have their wedding on a big dirt jump ramp, that's going to look pretty stupid come the big day. I mean, as opposed to the rest of the time, when it's a lovely statement of what she believes in (noisy machines piloted by twitchy valley trash named Jamie-Kye). When I saw that girl, I told the crew they were off the job.

I was primering the wall by the counter until 3am.

3) With forward-thinking food products, you unfortunately see a lot of brands folding before the market makes time to understand them. Daffy Dave, Pablo Ingrèsu, even Tim Fadone's "Breath of a Healer" Wicksocks™ are gone (poor Tim - I emailed him, don't worry). I've got to line up at LEAST a dozen new foods to stock, and keep a close eye on them. I hear good things about the "LiveWire" living baby kombu "papardelle" - still has the root in sand and everything. Brilliant.

4) Admittedly, my informal poll on the bar's concept resulted in a less than red-hot response. I'm clearly going to have to host some workshops and "theme nights," to keep things going during the critical first six months. It'll just be the usual suspects from around town - Tantric SkyFucking, with Melody Rain and Dan; Dr. Bert's Banjo Tuning Seminars; Tumbling for Tots with Teacher Steve. I wish I had a back room for this stuff. I'll have to close completely on those nights, draw the blinds, and hope they all come back on regular business days.

Wheesh. This is a lot of work. I'm not saying I respect other bar/restaurant owners, because I know they cut corners every chance they get, but I do at least "get" why so many of them throw in the towel before they've tried even HALF as hard as I have.

Pat.

SOYTOPIA: A SOCIOPOLITICAL AND ECOLOGICAL CLARITY BAR!

You thought I was full of it, didn't you? Well, once again, you've managed to be wrong. Just like I said, my uncle Bradley has a vacant shopfront not thirty yards away from the Dude and Catastrophe, and he said I could turn it into a competing establishment. Get ready to eat your own asses into the dirt, Ray and Cornelius. Business is war, and you just met the Harry Truman of sustainable, zero-impact veganism. I'm going to drop a V-bomb and your business will go up in an eco-friendly, smokeless pyre fueled by organically ruined dreams.

Whew. I'm a little giddy after that last sentence. That was good, even for me.

Aside from the usual stupid carpenters and motorcycle-weekend idiots with white trucks, things have been going AWESOME. Check out these additions to our menu (some of which are based on my chats with people from the local boards and cafés):

1) Lever Bee's Bananas Thermidor (a sweet banana substitute for an unsavory old lobster monstrosity - imported from England)

2) Pablo Ingrèsu's "Disproportionate Snack" (rough translation). This is the first Hispanic fortune cookie I've ever seen, and the fortunes are enormous. The three I've tried each ran to over five hundred words. One was even some important Central American poetry.

3) "Punk Slake." Everybody knows how committed the punk rock movement is to the Straight Edge philosophy of purity and responsibility, and now they've got a vitamin drink processed by machines that run on northeastern energy grid overstock! (One of their dads works for a company that hedges against this particular grid — it's complicated, but it WORKS.)

4) Tim Fadone's "Breath of a Healer" Wicksocks™. Wear these dense gauze packs on your feet, forehead, and wrists while you eat, and they'll normalize the temperature imbalances caused by normal mealtime pulmonary-thermal release. I plan to have a coin-operated dispenser by the front booth. If you order enough, Tim will print your company's logo on them, so I need to come up with a logo asap. Some quick thoughts are...circles, spheres...globe...carrot piercing the globe...no, too violent. More on this later.

5) Tofupia. What's Tofupia? Only the tastiest "nIce cream" sandwich around. Best part? They're raw. Yeah, good luck finding one of those at the crappy Dude and Catastrophe.

It's a little too early to set an opening date, what with all these moronic contractors who can't seem to find their rear ends with both hands, let alone their calendars (perhaps their calendars are up their asses! Hah! There's a thought). Anyhow, just bookmark this page and check back once or twice a day to see what's new.

Pat.

Cornelius's new pub absolutely disgusts me.

We have a new pub—which, by the way, is short for "public house"—in town. Unfortunately, I am not invited to this "public" place. The fact that they don't even have the guts to say it to my face has me spitting mad. What's worse is that the pub, the "Dude and Catastrophe," is run by two "friends" of mine: Cornelius and Ray.

It comes down to this: there is not a single item at this public house which I can consume or enjoy, either physically, artistically, or intellectually. I am quite simply not welcome, as nothing is offered for me. It's as though the whole place was designed to keep me, and specifically me, out.

Proof #1: the jukebox. The jukebox only contains stupid English "pop" music from recent decades. Who can have an intelligent conversation while Mick Jagger is in the room? Who can take themselves seriously with the stupid Beatles yabbering away about trite boy-girl situations in the background? Sure, as a concession to reason they have a little U2 featuring Bono, but none of the ones that I like. They only have the older macho stuff.

Proof #2: the food. There is not a single eco-friendly dish in the place. Pies? Fries? Burgers? Wings? Their menu is essentially a mass grave of barnyard animals. Would it kill them to place little complimentary bowls of chickpeas or edamame on the bar? They don't even serve organically-produced beer — not that I'd drink it.

Proof #3: the restroom door gendercators are simultaneously vague and horribly sexist: "COXSWAINS," for men, I think, and "MUFFETS," I think, for women.

You know what I'm going to do? I'm going to open up a competing establishment, right across the street. You heard me, and you know I'm serious. My uncle has a vacant shopfront not thirty yards away, and he'd let me do whatever I want with the place. I'm going to open an all-vegan, emissions-free pleasure utopia. Oh—this just came to me! I'm going to call it—get ready for this—"SOYTOPIA: A SOCIOPOLITICAL AND ECOLOGICAL CLARITY BAR"! How GENIUS! We'll serve all my personal bestitute favorites: "air-fried" Vegus chips, Dotty Dan's Double-Xanthan Chewy Chowder, Okra River's oversized "whole pickled okra not-dogs," and Legion of the Leaf brown rice and raisin dolmas. On the radio? There's a free college jazz station that comes in downtown — perfect. Bathroom doors? MEN and WOMEN will probably work, call me crazy. Although, in an effort to be sensitive, I might have accommodating modern spellings, such as, "WOMYN," "MYN" (the Y indicating the male's Y chromosome), and "MXCN" (a nod of the head to the M2F Cross-gendered community whose second chromosome more closely resembles an X than a Y). Hm. I may need to have a third bathroom for transsexuals. I need to get on the phone. I'm sorry, I have to go. That's how serious I am about this.

That BITCH.

That piece of shit! That lousy BITCH! That CUNT!

I'll explain, but I'm not happy about it. You're going to find out something about me that will have you rolling in the aisles. Whatever. I couldn't cash a check for a shit and two peanuts with what I think of you.

First, I'd been particularly vulnerable to colds for the last several months or so, and so on the advice of Ray's doctor (he is reviewed as the best in the area) I agreed to consume beef once again. ONLY IN SMALL DOSES. For medical purposes. It's not like I was deep-throating skirt steak at Chili's, like the rest of you schlubs who clean your ears with System Of A Down and get nervous if you take a shit smaller than a baked potato.

So there I was, my tightly-tied baggie with the styrofoam container of beef sukiyaki ("Ohayooo!" - $6.95) harnessed carefully against the passenger door of the Insight, trying to back out of my parking spot on the busy main street downtown. As it is the Christmas season, the street was jam-packed, and I knew that waiting for a person of decency to let me out could be quite a while.

Finally my window of opportunity came. A small black Mercedes held position when traffic moved forward, and I backed slowly out.

To my horror, the driver began to honk and advance! I was aghast. What was this betrayal? Then I SAW it! She had been typing on a phone! She hadn't been trying to let me in at all!

With a haste of rage she pulled into oncoming traffic to get around me. Oh, she succeeded, alright (the Insight isn't the fastest rocket ship in the universe), but you can be sure I yelled out of my window at her ("WHAT THE FUCK IS YOUR FUCKING PROBLEM YOU BITCH YOUR CUNT IS REAL ESTATE AND ITALIANS THROW FRUIT AT YOUR MIND!").

Man, did that juice me. I hadn't felt that good in ages. The fellow behind her was watching it unfold and I was able to pull into traffic right behind her. I laid on some pretty hard stares but she kept pretending to text on her cell phone. I wrote her license plate # in my dashbook and if I ever see her here again I'll give her a few miles of Pat Time. Did I mention I've hooked the Insight up with a dash cam? I'm sure she'll fuck up again. I may go back to that stretch tomorrow at the same time to see if it's an area she regularly uses. Usually it is.