Buffeted By The Buffet

Is there anything more American than a buffet? Endless opportunities, unlimited indulgences, and unrestrained gluttony at its finest. Should a metal chaffing dish ever grow empty, a new one will appear, bountiful and beguiling, ready for the next round. It’s an odd phenomenon that I find impossibly fascinating, representing a Venn diagram that overlaps between bliss and revulsion.

Do I really need another plate of fried miscellany, just because it’s there? How many more servings before I’ve gotten my money’s worth? How long has that unrefrigerated potato salad really been sitting out? Why do most buffets have abysmal health scores? Some things are best not thought about.

Despite all the ostentatious trappings of the modern American buffet, we can’t lay claim to its invention. The US is still a nascent country compared to the most of the world, all of which had a huge head start on culinary development. Though its reliably a realm for the wealthy to showcase their largess, it hasn’t always been about quantity over quality.

Scandinavians can reasonably take credit for the original concept dating back to the 16th century. Brännvinsbord were served as a pre-meal snack of cold items like cheeses, bread, and other small tapas-like dishes, set out for guests to help themselves while mixing and mingling. By the time the early 18th century rolled around, these appetizers were expanded into smörgåsbords, encompassing a full meal and including hot dishes as well. However, the term “buffet” itself originates from the French, in reference to the piece of furniture where food was displayed.

Its original European elegance has worn thin after many years overseas, evidenced by the proliferation of steam table mystery meats and troughs of limp, oily fries. I know that a buffet will never be a good idea, especially as a vegan who can only safely consume about 1/10th of the questionable wares on display, and yet, I’m drawn inexorably to them, like a moth to the flame. The culture of buffets is a whole separate dogma, drawing a different set of social norms and expectations, like a crazy microcosm of the worst of human behavior. The people watching is top-tier; worth the price of admission alone.

The food is bad, yes, but there’s so much of it, which makes it good! Prices are steeper than an a composed entree, but you get to eat far more than you’d comfortably like to, so it’s a bargain! I get trapped down these spiraling, conflicting thought patterns, fully aware and yet fully willing to take the plunge. Do I want to go to the buffet? Yes, of course. Do I want to eat at the buffet? No, please god, anything but that.

Though the buffet has faced steep criticism and near extinction during the COVID-19 pandemic, it continues on, regaining lost ground particularly in hotels, casinos, and similar tourist traps. It’s part of the American experience now, no matter how abjectly terrible that may be. Consider it entertainment more than a meal, and you may have a better experience.

Pride

Pride Month is, or at least should be, about more than just rainbows and parades.

Reduced down to its most basic elements to be more palatable to the mainstream, so much is lost in translation. It should be about celebrating alternative sexual identities, yet fails to be truly inclusive. Some people still call it “Gay Pride Month” which does a genuine disservice to the larger queer community. Strides have been made to recognize greater nuance beyond the swath of hetero-normative values that dominated western society for all of recorded history, so why does it still feel like such a fight? Why is it still so hard to be heard? Why is it still so hard to be seen?

Do my words not matter? Are my colors not bright enough?

Purple, White, Grey, and Black Macarons

I’m asexual. Should I even say that out loud? I was always told to leave it unsaid, let people guess or come to their own conclusions. It doesn’t matter. No one needs to know if I am or am not having sex.

It’s true, but also incredibly shortsighted.

It isn’t even about me anymore. It’s about standing up and modeling the representation that I never saw when I needed it most. Asexual people are out there, being successful, living full lives, but remaining largely invisible. I didn’t even know that it was a thing until I was in my 30s. I thought I was just… Nothing. Or broken. Or wrong.

A label doesn’t change anything, but it does help things make sense. In a society that sexualizes everything, would it be so terrible to talk about something that runs in the opposite direction?

Asexual people are queer people. More importantly, asexual people are people. Let’s make this the new normal.

Artificial Intelligence = Artificial Ingredients

What’s wrong with artificial intelligence?

Well, to put it simply, AI has no taste.

Watching technology rapidly evolve and advance, it’s an effort to be cheered overall, with incredibly positive implications in countless fields. Some tasks never required human input and ideally, this substitution will free more people to use their talents where they’re needed. What critics get wrong is exactly which tasks are which.

AI-generated photo meant to represent food blogging

Creatives have been under acute pressure from the moment everyone and their best friend began generating stylized self-portraits to flaunt all over social media. Copyright issues aside, the hype was overblown from the minute it began; immediately, egregious, laughable flaws surfaced, namely in the form of missing or extra fingers, phantom limbs, and wildly exaggerated features. Even when the day comes when the fakes aren’t as easy to spot, let’s not forget the one key ingredient in this whole controversy:

AI cannot create.

From art to music, the results that AI can churn out on demand seem new and novel, but it’s really just yesterday’s leftovers mashed together with some pantry staples and spices, reheated, and served lukewarm. Anything that AI makes is only as good as what humans can make, and humans will always come first. AI doesn’t know how its creations taste nor can it give you an opinion about them. AI doesn’t know if the meal it served is edible or poisonous. Yet human taste testers seem to receive each plate as if it was thoroughly vetted and approved for consumption.

AI-generated photo meant to represent food blogging

Yes, these artificial concoctions will change the conversation around creative content, as does any societal progress at large. And yes, it may very well make life harder for creatives trying to make a living as they once did. We may need to reach a reckoning about what art is truly worth, and who’s willing to pay it; true art may be reserved only for the ultra wealthy, and artists may dwindle in numbers. However, it will never negate the need for actual artists. If you’re worried about these people or the beauty, life, insight, and overall joy they bring to everyday life, remember that what happens to them depends on other humans, not machines.

How will you address AI from now on?

An Everyday Kinda Birthday

Happy Belated Birthday To Me!

What does it say that I’m late to my own party?

The law of diminishing returns would suggest that I’ve passed peak celebratory years, jaded to the passage of time. While there’s a good dose of truth in that statement, it’s far from the full picture. Let’s turn the concept on its head for a moment.

Cupcakes with "Happy" Candles

What if, instead of reserving the festivities for a single calendar date, we lived every day a little bit more like a celebration?

  • Instead of saving the best bite for last, we dug right in and savored it along with the rest?
  • Instead of keeping prized collectables pristine in their packages, we tore them open and played without restraint?
  • Instead of saving cake for special occasions, made the act of eating cake a special occasion in and of itself?

Becoming an adult requires you to do one of two things: Give in, or give it your all.

So here I am, another year older. It doesn’t feel significant because, quite frankly, it’s not. It’s one birthday of many, not the greatest but absolutely not the worst, with many more to follow. It’s special precisely for the reason that it’s not.

I’ll be out here living everyday a little bit more like it’s my birthday from this point forward. Who’s with me?

Memories

Memories are like tattoos. They’re a permanent stain on our person, staying with us for life. Some visible to others, some not, they may change our perception of the world, or how the word perceives us. Indelible as they may be, no matter how many layers of skin the ink penetrates, no matter how deeply our thoughts alter our present, they do change.

Slowly, imperceptibly over the years, lines begin to blur. Colors become muddy. Once vibrant, sharp, crystalline pictures fade into confusion and darkness. Can you trust your own mind? Can you understand the symbols painted on your body? Does it all still make sense?

Memories can be painful, seared into our consciousness through traumatic events. Once they’re there, it’s almost impossible to remove their lingering outlines entirely, forever tracing around wrists and ankles like ghostly shackles. Cover-ups are like bandages with weak adhesive at best. No matter how many solid color blocks you add or intricate geometric designs, they’re still there, lurking beneath it all.

Sometimes our memories are tattoos, literally, and vice versa. If you could go back, would you change them? Would you paint a new picture? Would it even make a difference? The body underneath is always the same. It only matters what you do with it.

Portraits of and artwork by Squiggle Tats.

Thunder Lullaby

Thunder rolls ponderously, ominously overhead. Unseen but felt, like a heavy weight it rumbles and shakes, groans and snaps, sounding off on pain that mere mortals fail to comprehend. Speaking a language we can’t translate, it is unreachable, inconsolable. On and on it wails into the dark of night, interrupting the continuous staccato of rain bouncing of asphalt shingles and aluminum siding. For what, for whom does the thunder grieve so achingly? There is no soothing this profound pain. The thunder suffers alone, but with all the world in attendance, until it cries itself to sleep.