Blog d'Elisson

CURLY

2009-11-07T22:26:00.004-05:00

Hakuna curls up in her bed, doing her best impression of a Kitty-Fetus.

Update: Friday Ark #268 is up at the Modulator. Sunday evening, be sure to stop by and visit Carnival of the Cats, the 295th iteration of which will be at Nikita’s Place.

FRIDAY RANDOM TEN

2009-11-06T14:08:00.003-05:00

Hey! It’s Friday, time yet again for the weekly collection of Random Musical Selections as spewed forth by the iPod d’Elisson.

Let’s take a look and see what’s playing today:

Money for Nothing - Dire Straits
Roland the Headless Thompson Gunner - Warren Zevon

Roland was a warrior from the Land of the Midnight Sun
With a Thompson gun for hire, fighting to be done
The deal was made in Denmark on a dark and stormy day
So he set out for Biafra to join the bloody fray

Through sixty-six and seven they fought the Congo war
With their fingers on their triggers, knee-deep in gore
For days and nights they battled the Bantu to their knees
They killed to earn their living and to help out the Congolese

Roland the Thompson gunner...

His comrades fought beside him - Van Owen and the rest
But of all the Thompson gunners, Roland was the best
So the CIA decided they wanted Roland dead
That son-of-a-bitch Van Owen blew off Roland’s head

Roland the headless Thompson gunner
Norway’s bravest son
Time, time, time
For another peaceful war
But time stands still for Roland
’Til he evens up the score
They can still see his headless body stalking through the night
In the muzzle flash of Roland’s Thompson gun
In the muzzle flash of Roland’s Thompson gun

Roland searched the continent for the man who’d done him in
He found him in Mombasa in a barroom drinking gin
Roland aimed his Thompson gun - he didn’t say a word
But he blew Van Owen's body from there to Johannesburg

Roland the headless Thompson gunner...

The eternal Thompson gunner, still wandering through the night
Now it’s ten years later but he still keeps up the fight
In Ireland, in Lebanon, in Palestine and Berkeley
Patty Hearst heard the burst of Roland’s Thompson gun and bought it
Mozart: Requiem in D Minor; K626 - 13. Agnus Dei - Herbert Von Karajan
Bustin’ Surfboards - The Tornados
Thinking About You - Radiohead
Someone In Your Garden - Philip Glass, Notes on a Scandal
Cemetery Polka - Tom Waits
The Mikado, Act II: The Criminal Cried As He Dropped Him Down - D’Oyly Carte Opera Company
The Cold Part - Modest Mouse
One Note Song - Tenacious D

It’s Friday. What are you listening to?

SOMETHING FISHY

2009-11-05T13:14:00.003-05:00

Found Art at Harry’s Farmers Market.

Fan mail from some flounder?

Here’s looking at you, kid!

ONE OF THOSE MORNINGS

2009-11-05T12:57:00.002-05:00

It was one of those mornings. Every Man-Jack (and Woman-Jill) among us has had ’em.

The Australian aboriginal people speak of the Three-Dog Night, a night so cold that one must snuggle up to not one, not two, but three dingoes in order to keep from freezing. Well, I had a three Q-Tip Morning... and I’ll spare you the details and explanations.

As if that were not bad enough, I proceeded to botch my Morning Shave.

Look: Shaving isn’t all that difficult, especially in this age of multi-laminar safety razors. But there is one cardinal rule that you violate at your extreme peril. Always be sure the path of the blade as it travels across your face is perpendicular to its edge. If you get careless - even for a second! - you will not merely nick yourself - you will flense yourself. That’s what I did, and it’s a damn good thing I had the stub end of a styptic pencil within reach.

Last time I saw that much blood come out of me, I was at the Red Cross, donating a pint of my good old A-Positive. Thank Gawd SWMBO was there to help me bandage it up.

Aside from these few Ablutionary Adventures, though, everything has been going swimmingly. Hope your day is as much fun!

LOVE-SHEEP AND ROCKETS

2009-11-04T19:58:00.008-05:00

The Tellico Junction Café, a landmark of downtown Englewood, Tennessee. [Photo courtesy Teresa.]

Set aside your brain
And get on the little train to the junction.
(Tellico Junction)
You won’t get much sleep,
There’s Inflatable Sheep at the junction.
(Tellico Junction)

Lotsa curves, you bet -
Even more when you get
To the junction.
(Tellico Junction)

There’s a little blogmeet
That is really neat near the junction.
(Tellico Junction)
With the Straight White Guy
You can go get fried at the junction.
(Tellico Junction)
And that’s Grouchy Denny,
He’s actin’ sorta friendly at the junction.
(Tellico Junction)

There are people of a Certain Age who will have no trouble recognizing the (somewhat altered) lyrics to the theme song of a television program that ran from 1963-70. The show was one of several popular sitcoms that celebrated the virtues of Rural Life and the idiocy of Rural People. Or so it seemed to me at the tender age of, say, eleven.

We have our own way of celebrating Rural Life in this day of the Internet; of blogs, Facebook and Twitter; of texting, sexting, and Swine Flu Infexting. And that is to head out to McMinn County, Tennessee on a weekend in late October, there to celebrate the birthday of Eric, the Straight White Guy.

The Straight White Neighborhood at dusk.

The agenda varies from year to year in its minor details, but there are generally certain Traditional Elements. Friday dinner, a honkin’ big salad and several pans of baked ziti by the lovely Boudicca (this year with meat sauce contributed by Eric hizzownself). Saturday morning, a typical Southern country breakfast at the Tellico Junction Café. Saturday evening, Eric’s country-style ribs and a pot of Englewood Baked Beans. Sunday morning, a pile of scrambled eggs and whomp biscuits whipped up by Yours Truly, accompanied by SWMBO’s amazing Apricot Kugel... after which everyone scatters to the four winds.

There are other activities besides Face-Stuffing, of course. For example, there is a certain amount of Drinkage, to be expected any time a small mob of Online Journalists gathers. And there are sundry other pleasures.

This year, alas, no shooting, thanks to a week of wet weather that left the range a bit swampy. But we have Eric’s pool table by way of compensation... and, this year, a fleet of model rockets courtesy of Yabu. (I even brought one that had been moldering in my basement for 27 years... now it’s moldering in the woods behind the Straight White Compound, where it is likely to stay for the next 27 years.) And we have Dolly, the inflatable Love-Ewe. And the Bully. And the Pachinko Machine. And guitars. And pith helmets. (“No matter who you’re with, it’s good to take a pith!”)

The best part about the weekend is the chance to reconnect with Blodgy Friends... and make new ones. Dax Montana, Grouchy Old Denny, Recondo 32 and Georgia, LeeAnn, Bou, Jerry, Teresa, Yabu, Richard, Tommy, and El Capitan were all there this year. (A few of the Usual Suspects were, alas, missing this year... but that’s life.) Nevertheless, we have ample time to swap stories, fire rockets, test people’s olfactory capabilities (“Get a whiff of this with your eyes closed. Can you guess what it is?” “Why... it’s a Bull Scrotum!”), and watch Eric tweeze belly-hairs from an absinthe-raddled, passed-out Dax.

These annual Hysterics at Eric’s are a little hard to describe to those who have never experienced a blogmeet, but you can take it to the bank - we know how to enjoy a weekend. All that’s missing is the railroad water tank for the ladies to use for skinny-dipping!

THAT TIME OF YEAR

2009-11-02T18:37:00.004-05:00

Yes, it’s that time of year... the season of delicious legumaceous soups.

The weather has cooled off, and the cool mornings and evenings put one in the mood for rich soups of peas or lentils, often enriched with beef sausages or flanken. It’s one of the things I love about the fall.

Tonight we’re having Split Pea and Sweet Potato Soup, courtesy of the Mistress of Sarcasm, who is on the way to becoming a dab hand in the kitchen.

Click the link if you want the recipe.

At the moment, this fine pottage is in the State of Becoming Soup. Lookit:

Split Pea and Sweet Potato Soup on the simmer. Mmmm, mmmm, good.

Isn’t it beautiful? All those warm, autumnal colors. By the time it’s ready, it’ll be plain old green, but the flavor will still have all those colors. Meanwhile, the house is perfumed with the aromas of onions, garlic, sausage, cumin, and ginger... and I am a Happy Daddy.

NEW DEVELOPMENTS IN MODEL ROCKETRY

2009-11-02T12:57:00.003-05:00

A Bloggy Rocket heads for the firmament.

I’ve written before about one of the great Nerdly Hobbies from my youth: Model Rocketry.

Apparently, I’m not the only nerd out there... because the infamous Yabu loves his rockets, too. So much so that he brought a pile of rocket-launchy supplies to the recent Hysterics at Eric’s.

There’s something magical about the combination of rocket-powered projectiles and half-drunken bloggers that sets the blood a-tingle. And Eric has the perfect location, with no nearby trees or obstacles that might interfere with recovery. Not.

We’ve indulged our Rocket Jones at earlier gatherings, most notably three years ago. But this year’s flights were exceptional. We made five successful recoveries out of seven launches, leaving two rockets to decompose slowly in the woods that surround the Straight White Compound. And every flight was picture-perfect, with the recovery systems deploying exactly as designed.

Speaking of recovery systems, we managed to steal a march on the model rocketry industry by inventing a totally new method... something that does not involve the conventional techniques of induced instability, parachutes, streamers, or gyroscopic motion - all long-established techniques of ensuring a rocket’s safe and undamaged return to earth.

I’m proud to introduce the Inflatable Ovine Recovery System (IORS).

Here’s how it works:

A helium-filled IORS (a spare unit is visible in the photograph below) is attached to a ground-based tether and released to an altitude equal to the expected maximum altitude of the flight.

The rocket is launched, using standard electrical ignition protocol.

Launch using standard electrical ignition, with spare IORS to right. [Photo courtesy of Teresa of Technicalities]

Activation of the ejection charge causes the rocket to dock with the IORS, in the special Docking Receptacle provided. The tether is then reeled in for a successful recovery.

I’ve posted a post-launch image below the fold to illustrate the configuration of the rocket and IORS after a successful recovery. The world of model rocketry will never be the same!

Post-deployment photograph of model rocket with Inflatable Ovine Recovery System (IORS), illustrating successful docking configuration.

FALLING BACK

2009-11-01T01:00:00.000-04:00

Hey! A minute ago it was an hour from now!

ON THE ROAD

2009-10-31T21:31:00.003-04:00

The Road to Hell is paved with good intentions,
And also-rans, and Honorable Mentions;
The back-pats that puff up our self-esteem,
The MVP’s for ev’ry member of the team,
The “atta boy” for mediocrity,
The trophy that is purchased for a fee.

When men no longer care if they excel,
They’re rolling down the Boulevard to Hell.

BABY’S FIRST HALLOWE’EN

2009-10-31T20:25:00.006-04:00

Hallowe’en, 1982.

“Baby,” in this case, refers to the Mistress of Sarcasm, here enjoying - or, more probably, putting up with - her very first Hallowe’en, twenty-seven years ago today. The photograph was taken less than five miles from here, in our old neighborhood... during our first sojourn in the Atlanta area.

There’s been a lot of water under the bridge since then, and she has outgrown that bunny costume. Lookee:

Hallowe’en, 2009.

Now a full-fledged Grown-Up, this year she’s dressed as a Jazz-Age Flapper. [A glass of Bathtub Gin would make this outfit complete, but the Mistress does not care for Hooch.]

And yet, some things don’t change. She may be twenty-seven years older, but she still loves her Hallowe’en candy... thanks to the sweet tooth she inherited from her Daddy!

IT PAYS TO PLAN AHEAD

2009-10-30T16:35:00.005-04:00

It was sometime Wednesday that I noticed an item in my electronic in-box: a coupon that invited us to Houlihan’s - one of those popular American restaurant chains, in case you live outside of the U.S., or in a cardboard box in a swamp - where we could enjoy any burger or sandwich for a mere five simoleons.

That offer sounded attractive enough. There’s a Houlihan’s close by, and the food there is reasonably good. I don’t usually order their burgers or sammitches, but I’d be willing to do so given the price incentive they were dangling in front of me. And all I had to do was bring my iPhone and show our waiter the e-mail - I didn’t even have to print it out! Gotta love that Modrin Technology.

And thus we headed over to Houlihan’s in the evening... only to be greeted by a mob of people and a forty-five minute projected wait. For everyone else on the planet had received the same e-mail offer.

We normally don’t wait excessive amounts of time for a restaurant table, especially at a chain operation... but a lot of people were bailing, which meant our wait turned out to be not nearly so long. And, by coincidence, our friends Barry and Malka showed up, so we decided to join forces and dine together.

When we were seated, we saw plenty of empty tables. But with a long wait on what normally is a quiet night, what was going on? Well, it seemed that the place had not laid on extra waitstaff in anticipation of the rush of business the e-mail campaign would generate. Either Corporate was not communicating with the local operations... or the local shop’s manager did not have his shit in one sock.

We ordered our meals... and, some fifteen minutes later (!) were informed that they had run out of burgers.

Run out of burgers... on the day of a major Burger Promo. Genius, I tells ya!

Corporate: “We’re going to have a special e-mail promo that will double your store’s traffic. Be sure to order in plenty of hamburgers.”

Local Management: “Naaah.”

The waiter was polite (albeit harried) and energetic. We suggested that it would be a good idea if we could order an alternative dish - and not necessarily a sandwich - at the five-buck price. We thought this was a reasonable request, given the length of time it took for them to figure out that they couldn’t give us what we had ordered. The waiter agreed... and the manager did, too.

And thus it was that we dined like kings for mere pennies. I had a an iceberg wedge salad and a steak... the Mistress a huge pile of pot roast... the Missus an ahi tuna salad... and each one, only five bucks.

Dined like kings? Well, maybe very patient kings... for our dishes were long in arriving. I’m figuring the crew, from waitstaff to kitchen, was overwhelmed. Completely in the weeds. And then, at the end, our check was miscalculated and had to be redone.

The meal took about an hour longer than it should have. Oy!

All in all, if the objective of Houlihan’s burger promo was to get people into the house, they succeeded. Partially. But if it was to make a good impression, it was a dismal failure. Only our knowledge that it’s not always like that will keep us coming back. (Plus, the food is pretty good.)

Message to Corporate... and to the Local Management, too: It pays to plan ahead!

FRIDAY RANDOM TEN - HALLOWE’EN EDITION

2009-10-30T12:55:00.003-04:00

SWMBO’s Scary Nails: this year’s edition. Check out them hand-painted thumbnails!

Not only is it Friday today, it’s the day before Hallowe’en, that most sacred of days to people in the party supplies, costumery, and candy businesses.

Eunoia, AKA Old Phat Stu, left a comment with a Hallowe’en-related question: “Elisson, you often blog about various Jewish holidays, so I was just wondering what’s your equivalent of Halloween?”

There’s a two-pronged answer to that. If you’re referring to the semi-pagan, semi-Christian holiday that is a vague amalgam of Samhain and All Hallow’s Eve - a holiday that is involved with witchcraft, demons, sorcery, the Spirits of the Dead, and all that goyische narrischkeit (non-Jewish foolishness), the answer is “no” - we Jews have no equivalent. I remember my Hebrew School teachers telling us that we shouldn’t go out trick-or-treating because Hallowe’en was a Christian holiday at best, a pagan, superstitious celebration at worst, certainly nothing any self-respecting Jewish kid should have anything to do with. Nevertheless, given the completely secular nature of Hallowe’en in the U.S., we just ignored our teachers, costumed ourselves, and cadged candy from our neighbors just like everyone else.

But if you’re referring to a holiday on which people dress up in costumes and exchange gifts of food, the answer is “yes.” Our version is called Purim, a holiday that celebrates the deliverance of the Jews of Persia from a plot to annihilate them - a story that is related in the Book of Esther. It has nothing to do with ghosts and Evil Beasties, however.

Now that we’ve answered that question, it’s time to check out the assorted musical randomosity of the Little White Choon-Box. What’s playing today?

Barbara’s House - Philip Glass, Notes on a Scandal
Alice Childress (iTunes Originals Version) - Ben Folds
Sand Mandala - Philip Glass, Kundun
Gun Street Girl - Tom Waits

Fallin’ James in the Tahoe mud
Stick around to tell us all the tale
Well, he fell in love with a Gun Street girl
Now he’s dancin’ in the Birmingham jail
Dancin’ in the Birmingham jail

Well, he took a hundred dollars off a Slaughterhouse Joe
Bought a brand new Michigan twenty gauge
He got all liquored up on that roadhouse corn
Blew a hole in the hood of a yellow Corvette
A hole in the hood of a yellow Corvette

He bought a second hand Nova from a Cuban Chinese
And dyed his hair in the bathroom of a Texaco
With a pawnshop radio quarter past four
He left Waukegan at the slammin’ of the door
Left Waukegan at the slammin’ of the door

I said, John, John, he’s long gone
Gone to Indiana, ain’t never comin’ home
I said, John, John, he’s long gone
Gone to Indiana, ain’t never comin’ home

He’s sittin’ in a sycamore in St. John’s Wood
Soakin’ day old bread in kerosene
Well, he was blue as a robin’s egg and brown as a hog
He’s stayin’ out of circulation till the dogs get tired
Out of circulation till the dogs get tired

Shadow fixed the toilet with an old trombone
He never get up in the morning on a Saturday
Sittin’ by the Erie with a bull-whipped dog
Tellin’ everyone he saw, “They went that-a-way, boys”
Tellin’ everyone he saw, “They went that-a-way”

Now the rain like gravel on an old tin roof
The Burlington Northern pullin’ out of the world
Now a head full of bourbon and a dream in the straw
And a Gun Street girl was the cause of it all
A Gun Street girl was the cause of it all

Get ridin’ in the shadow by the Saint Joe Ridge
And the click clack tappin’ of a blind man’s cane
And he was pullin’ into Baker on a New Year’s Eve
With one eye on the pistol and the other on the door
One eye on the pistol and the other on the door

Miss Charlotte took her satchel down to King Fish Row
Smuggled in a brand new pair of alligator shoes
With her fireman’s raincoat and her long yellow hair
Well, they tied her to a tree with a skinny millionaire
Tied her to a tree with a skinny millionaire

I said, John, John, he’s long gone
Gone to Indiana, ain’t never comin’ home
I said, John, John, he’s long gone
Gone to Indiana, ain’t never comin’ home

Bangin’ on a table with an old tin cup
I sing, I’ll never kiss a Gun Street girl again
I’ll never kiss a Gun Street girl again
I’ll never kiss a Gun Street girl again

I said, John, John, he’s long gone
Gone to Indiana, ain’t never comin’ home
I said, John, John, he’s long gone
Gone to Indiana, ain’t never comin’ home
Big Bang Baby - Stone Temple Pilots
Damn Bugs Whacked Him, Johnny - Minus the Bear
Back In The U.S.S.R. - The Beatles

This is the version from the White Album, the one with which most of us Old Goats are familiar.
Heroin - Velvet Underground
Too Much Too Young (Live) - The Specials
Act III: I Can Keep Still - John Adams, Nixon in China

It’s Friday. What are you listening to?

LITTLE ADVENTURES

2009-10-29T22:06:00.003-04:00

I’m sure many of my Esteemed Readers are waiting with the clichéd Bated Breath, waiting for me to post some sort of Epic Piece o’ Doggerel based on last weekend’s Hysterics at Eric’s...

...alas, you will have to wait a bit longer, as I have been preoccupied with other weighty matters... but I will not disappoint you...

[after a weekend at Eric’s, I apparently still need to brush the ellipses off my pants]

Today had all kinds of little adventures. Morning minyan, followed by breakfast with Da Boyz... nothing too unusual there. Then, off to the dentist, there to repair a filling that went AWOL a couple of weeks ago, leaving a strange notch at the base of my right mandibular second premolar.

Novocain? Eet ees for pooseez.

Upon leaving the dentist’s lair, I discovered to my dismay that the Elissonmobile would not start. I suspected a dead battery - mine was over four years old and living on borrowed time - a diagnosis that was confirmed (and quickly remedied) by Triple-A. That enabled me to get back home in time to meet She Who Must Be Obeyed, who had taken time off school to accompany me to the cardiologist.

Yes, the Heart-Doc. Not that I was having any problems, mind you... but SWMBO is notably testy about these matters, given that her daddy suffered a fatal infarct at the tender age of fifty-seven. My age. And so we were going to get me a baseline stress test... and find out the results of the calcium scoring cardiac CT scan I had had two weeks prior.

The stress test is no big deal. They wire you up and put you on a treadmill, taking your blood pressure and running EKG’s periodically as you take what amounts to a brisk uphill walk. As they speed up the belt and jack up the incline, your heart rate and BP head north. I guess if you don’t keel over, you pass.

I got a clean bill of health - hooray! - along with the expected Supplemental Instructions: lose a few pounds, get more exercise, etc. Believe me, it’s a relief to know that your heart is happily functional.

A bit of shopping - SWMBO is making breakfast for a hundred of her closest Work-Buddies - and dinner, and here I am.

Oy.

FRED, ABED

2009-10-28T17:18:00.005-04:00

One of the small pleasures of a weekend at the Straight White Compound is the opportunity to visit with Eric’s cats. There’s the grey, gregarious Fred, shown here curled up in a couple of his beds...

...and there’s Bob, who showed up on the doorstep one day and never left. Bob keeps to himself a bit more, but will wander around the celebrating multitudes now and again and give out with his plaintive, screechy miaow.

I noticed that both of the cats divided their time between hunting varmints in Eric’s big, woodsy back yard (“Hey, Fred - why is that snake steaming?”) and observing the Horde o’ Visiting Blodgers with a wary, bemused eye. They’ve been to these affairs before, clearly.

Update: Friday Ark #267 is afloat, per its custom, at the Modulator. More kitty bloggery is avalable at Carnival of the Cats, the 293rd edition of which is up right now at Elms in the Yard. Number 294 should be posted at Three Tabby Cats in Vienna Sunday evening.

Update 2: CotC #294 is up.

PLEASING TO THE EYE,PLEASING TO THE PALATE

2009-10-27T20:08:00.002-04:00

Yesterday evening, before dashing off to my weekly poker game, I put together a dinner that was worthy of a magazine cover.

A science fiction magazine cover.

I have a thing, you see, for Weird Food. The exotic always appeals to me... provided, of course, that it tastes good.

We had a couple of flatiron steaks. The Mistress of Sarcasm and I had taken a spin by Harry’s Farmers Market to pick up a few odds and ends, and among those I had hoped to score a hanger steak. Alas, none were to be had, and so I went with an acceptably beefy-flavored substitute. A little kosher salt, a little black pepper, and a sprinkle of ground thyme (on my steak only - the Missus is not a fan of Herby Flavors), and these babies were ready for a quick turn on the grill. (A hot skillet is a perfectly good alternative.)

For the veg, I steamed some asparagus and garnished it with a few slices of Australian blood orange. Unusual, maybe, but not outright weird. I saved “outright weird” for the starch: Mashed purple sweet potatoes.

Yes - purple sweet potatoes.

These are locally grown and have a dark purple flesh in lieu of the familiar yellow-orange of your everyday sweet spud. But the taste isn’t too different. We’ve had ’em before, chopped up and roasted... and the idea of mashing them up to make a pile of purple paste somehow appealed to the Bizarro-Child within me.

It was a simple matter of peeling the tubers, hacking them into chunks, boiling them until tender - about twenty minutes - and then running them through a ricer. Whisk in some milk, salt, and butter, and Bob’s yer uncle: mashed sweet potatoes, but with a truly oddball appearance. Delicious. (A dash of cinnamon and nutmeg would be welcome additions next time.)

What? You don’t have a ricer? If you like mashed potatoes, a ricer is an indispensable tool. It forces the food through a perforated plate, creating the perfect airy texture in mashed potatoes... and it works brilliantly with other root vegetables like carrots and parsnips. A food mill does the trick nicely as well.

Bottom line: a tasty repast, prepared from scratch in less than 45 minutes. Pleasing to the eye, pleasing to the palate. (Well, one out of two ain’t bad, Mister Science Fiction.)

PIE GUY DIES

2009-10-23T10:30:00.004-04:00

Soupy Sales, 1926-2009. Requiescat in pie-face.

Milton Supman, better known to the public as Soupy Sales, died yesterday at the age of 83.

Soupy Sales was the past master of pie-in-the-face comedy. I remember with fondness his afternoon show on WNEW-TV in New York, a show that ran for two years while I was of middle-school age. The show was funny, all right... but it was only as an adult that I began to appreciate just how funny. Sales was an improvisational genius who could combine puns, arcane references, and plain old slapstick to create Works o’ Comedic Genius on a daily basis... all this on a children’s show with a minuscule budget. To say that you could never do it today is beyond obvious.

A small private memorial service is planned, during which mourners will be encouraged to pelt the casket with pies. Dirt pies.

Ah, Soupy... we’ll miss you. The world needs its funnymen these days more than ever, and now we’re one short. Ave atque vale.

FRIDAY RANDOM TEN

2009-10-23T09:00:00.002-04:00

It’s Friday, time for the weekly collection of Random Musical Selections as belched out by the iPod d’Elisson.

What’s playing today? Check it out:

The Wind - Cat Stevens
Pepperland Laid Waste - The Beatles
Maze - Phish

The overhead view is of me in a maze
And you see what I’m hunting a few steps away
Well, I take a wrong turn and I’m on the wrong path
And the people all watching enjoy a good laugh
Embarrassed with failure, I try to reverse
The course that my tread had already traversed

So doing the trauma engulfing my dream
Invaded through what was an unguarded seam
The torrent of helplessness swept me away
To the cavern of shame and the hall of dismay

Inside me a voice was repeating this phrase:
You’ve lost it, you’ll never get out of this maze
You’ll never get out of this maze
You’ll never get out of this maze
You’ll never get out of this maze
You’ll never get out of this maze
You’ll never get out of this maze
You’ll never get out of this maze
You’ll never get out of this maze
You’ll never get out of this maze
It’s All About Money - Bobby Slayton
Mountains o’ Mourne - Don McLean
Eloi - Klaus Badelt, The Time Machine (2002)
So What - Miles Davis
Brandenburg Concerto #3 in G major - III. Allegro - Wendy Carlos
3rd Planet - Modest Mouse
Slip Away - Clarence Carter

It’s Friday. What are you listening to?

GIMME A SKRITCH

2009-10-22T17:39:00.009-04:00

That’s what Hakuna is saying here, using her most eloquent body language.

She’s sitting on the sofa with She Who Must Be Obeyed, watching as Dr. Phil dispenses TeeVee Advice to the usual assortment of losers. Today’s special: The husband who refuses to nail his horny wife.

Hakuna says, “Where the hell do they find these people, anyway? Good Lord.”

And then she cranes her neck, croaking out a guttural meow, as if to say, “What are you waiting for? There’s a kitty here that is in desperate need of a good head-scratching!”

Update: Friday Ark #266 is afloat at the Modulator, who also informs us that Carnival of the Cats #293 will be posted this Sunday evening at When Cats Attack!

Update 2: CotC #293 is up... but not at When Cats Attack! Go, instead, to visit my old friend Rahel at Elms in the Yard, where the pinch-hitter has smacked one right out of the park!

FLATFOOT FREESCHTICK*

2009-10-21T22:13:00.004-04:00

*[“Freeschtick” being the Yiddish word for “breakfast.”]

Yesterday morning, as we were sitting at our usual table at the Local Bagel and Smoked Fish Emporium, three uniformed police officers walked in and sat down at an adjacent table.

This is nothing unusual. Many of Cobb County’s Finest may be seen enjoying the excellent Toroidal Provender at the Local Bagel and Smoked Fish Emporium on any given day of the week.

I couldn’t resist the impulse. I walked over to their table and, using my thumb to indicate the nearby Dunkin’ Donuts shop on the other side of the parking lot, said, “Guys, the donut place is over there. These things here are bagels. I know they look kinda like donuts, but they’re not donuts.”

That’s when they all grabbed their nightsticks. It wasn’t the pummeling that bothered me, though... it was being tasered. Twitching like one of Galvani’s frogs in front of the Minyan Boyz was not amusing. To me, anyway.

[I actually made alla this shit up. At least, the part that takes place after the cops walk in and sit down...]

TASTE SENSATION

2009-10-21T21:42:00.003-04:00

There’s a new taste sensation... and it’s soon gonna be sweeping the nation.

I’ve often heard it said - hell, I’ve said it myself - that everything tastes better fried. Think about it: Have you ever had anything fried that didn’t taste good? Or at least better than its unfried counterpart?

Southern fried chicken versus broiled chicken? Southern fried wins.

Doughnut versus slice of pound cake? Doughnut wins.

Fried filet of flounder versus broiled fish? Fried wins.

Hell, the Mexicans fry their ice cream... and the Scots will fry damn near anything. Deep-fried candy bars? Aw, hell yes. Deep-fried pizza? Of course.

The only reason we don’t fry every damn thing we eat - like breakfast cereal - is because everything would taste so good, we’d never leave the table to accomplish any meaningful work. Plus, we’d all weigh half a metric ton and would have to hire people with wet mops to clean us after we crapped our living room-sized beds... which would be located as close as possible to the kitchen. No: that way lies madness.

But I digress. We were talking about a new taste sensation, weren’t we?

It was only a matter of time before somebody figured out that gefilte fish - that classic staple of the Ashkenazic Jewish table - would also taste better fried.

It’s a simple dish, really. Just take slices or loaves of gefilte fish, dip in egg wash, and coat with a suitable breading. Panko is fine, but for real authenticity, why not use matzoh meal? Season it with salt and pepper, blend well, and you’re ready to coat your fish. Then drop it into a deep fryer until golden brown.

What type of gefilte fish you use is up to you. That crap in the jars? Fine. Better yet, use the frozen loaves available in many supermarkets. Poach or bake the fish so it’s in ready-to eat form before frying, and you’re good to go.

Don’t forget to serve plenty of horseradish along with your fish. Or, given how well tartar sauce goes with other kinds of fried fish, why not make up a horseradish tartar sauce? Blend some mayo with a spoonful or two of pickle relish, then add white prepared horseradish (drained and pressed dry, preferably) to taste.

What do I call this wonderful new dish?

Hush Guppies, of course.

[Tip o’ th’ Elisson fedora to Nancy Isenberg, who has actually experienced the glory of Fried Gefilte Fish. Yowza!]

OCTOBER GUILD EVENT

2009-10-21T06:19:00.004-04:00

Come all without, come all within
You’ll not taste nothing like the Mighty Zin
Come all without, come all within
You’ll not taste nothing like the Mighty Zin

Everybody’s here with their hats and coats
Some are opening bottles, others write tasting notes
Everybody’s thirsty, every girl and boy
But when the Zinfandel gets here
Everybody’s gonna jump for joy

Come all without, come all within
You’ll not drink nothing like the Mighty Zin

[Apologies to Bob Dylan]

Ahhh, me.

Time for another Sommelier Guild event. This one’s at Violette Restaurant tonight, and it will feature Zinfandel. California red Zinfandel, that is, with each flight focused on a specific subregion.

I expect Denny will be there, as will Houston Steve. Alas, I will not.

The dishes, all of which use wine in their preparation, look like they were carefully selected to pair up well with the Mighty Zin. Mighty appetizing, that’s for sure. Here da menu:

Speaker’s Wine
(TBD)

First Flight
Norman “Monster Zin” Paso Robles 2006
Ridge “Dusi” Paso Robles 2007
Turley “Dusi” Paso Robles 2007

Coq au Vin: Dark chicken meat cooked in red wine sauce

Second Flight
Rosenblum “Planchon” Contra Costa 2005
Cline “Big Break” Contra Costa 2007
Turley “Duarte” Contra Costa 2007

Boeuf Bourguignon: Tender beef marinated in burgundy wine

Third Flight
Klinker Brick Old Vine Lodi 2006
Mettler “Epicenter” Old Vine Lodi 2006
Turley “Dogtown” Lodi 2006

Steak Forestière: New York strip served with mushrooms and port wine sauce

Usually, this is where I insert a bit of Winey Whining, but I’ll spare you the faux misery and griping over what “torture” it is to attend these events. This time I’ll just whine because I’m not gonna be there. Crap.

GETTING ORGANIZED

2009-10-20T20:54:00.003-04:00

We love Chez Elisson, we really do - but one thing the people who built this house skimped on was Closet Space.

We were spoiled in Houston, with a good-sized pantry and a nice walk-in closet in the master bedroom, one that was big enough to accommodate the storage needs of both me and the Missus. But since moving here eleven years ago, we’ve had to deal with smaller-than-optimum closetry and crappy cabinets.

It’s almost as if the people who built this house (we’re the second owners) wanted as much unreachable dead space as possible. Bozos.

Actually, it’s not so much the size of the storage spaces that’s annoying. There’s enough square footage, really. It’s just oddly shaped, in the case of my bedroom closet... and in all cases, the racks and bars are that nasty plastic-coated metal grating. It looks like shit, and it makes pantry storage a major pain in the ass: Narrow boxes will not stand up straight.

Well, that’s over and done with. We replaced that wire crap with real honest-to-Gawd custom-fitted shelving. Now my bedroom closet looks almost civilized, and the pantry no longer resembles a mare’s nest. Now I can actually find all the Weird Food I keep in there!

Yeah, I know this topic might be a little Fluffy-Sounding to some, but trust me: Keeping your shit organized is a true Manly Endeavor. Me, I keep it in hundreds of little piles throughout the house... but now I have more usable space in which to shove alla them piles.

SHAKY GROUND

2009-10-20T13:38:00.005-04:00

Last Saturday marked the twentieth anniversary of the Loma Prieto Earthquake - AKA the Quake of ’89, AKA the World Series Earthquake - that struck the San Francisco area on October 17, 1989.

This was no rattle-the-dishes temblor. It was a major quake, 7.0 on the Richter scale, that resulted in the deaths of 63 people. Many of those people were killed in Oakland when a 1.25 mile long section of the Nimitz Freeway’s Cypress Street Viaduct collapsed, the upper part of the double-decker roadway pancaking down onto the lower deck. It was a scenario right out of a Disaster-Porn movie, the ultimate Bad Commuting Day for 42 hapless drivers.

We get the occasional earthquake here in Georgia, believe it or not, the most recent being just last Saturday - a 2.3 magnitude baby centered just 45 miles southeast of Atlanta. But here, about the only clue there’s a quake going on is the rattling of our glass shower doors in their frame. There are no dramatic scenes of the earth splitting open and swallowing up whole neighborhoods, no houses collapsing or roads with weird kinks.

San Francisco didn’t get off quite that easily, alas.

The thousands of Oakland Athletics and San Francisco Giants fans who congregated at Candlestick Park to see the third game of the World Series - the quake occurred as the teams were warming up and was broadcast live on national TV - may have been disappointed that the game was postponed... but nobody at the stadium was hurt.

I didn’t find out about the disaster until the next morning, owing to the fact that I was in Switzerland drinking massive quantities of wine and snarfing up plateloads of Lake Geneva perch with various Bidnis Associates. And it was a fortnight later, as I flew into San Francisco enroute home from China - the penultimate leg of a grueling, three-week around-the-world trip - that I could see with my own eyes the darkened hulk of the San Francisco-Oakland Bay Bridge, shut down due to the collapse of one of the sections of the upper deck. It was more than just a little scary.

Listen: Everyone blathers about “The Big One,” the giant quake that will split western California away from the rest of the continental U.S. and sent it sliding out across the Pacific (or to the bottom thereof) - but the next really humongous quake may very well be one that strikes the Southeast. There’s this little thing called the New Madrid Seismic Zone, and it has a demonstrated ability to pooch out temblors measuring 8.0 magnitude and higher... which would screw us all up to a fare-thee-well. I’m trying to picture a tsunami on Lake Lanier.

ACE: A 100-WORD STORY

2009-10-19T15:23:00.003-04:00

Duff was worn out. Bored.

His bakery was world-famous, thanks to his Food Network show. Everyone went to him when they wanted the most whimsical, unusual, or just plain impressive creations. But the constant stress of having to outdo himself day after day was beginning to pall.

He needed a new career. But what?

Suddenly, a flush of inspiration struck. He would take his creative talents and turn them in a new, unexpected direction that would allow him to impress a completely different audience.

Decorating ideas began to flow. He set to work...

...as the new Ace of Urinal Cakes.

ON THE HEADGEAR OF RED SEA PEDESTRIANS

2009-10-17T20:25:00.004-04:00

As most people know, it is a tradition among Jews to keep the head covered.

Whether one covers the head at all times or only when engaging in religious activity is one of those matters that distinguishes between the various denominations. Orthodox (and some Conservative) Jews always keep their heads covered; Conservative Jews typically while at synagogue or at other religious functions; Reform Jews not at all.

Wearing a headcovering is a way of acknowledging God’s presence. While the Talmud states that one should cover the head “in order that the fear of heaven be upon you,” there is no formal requirement that one do so: it is neither a Torah commandment nor one of rabbinic origin. It is, rather, a custom (minhag) that through long and widespread practice has acquired the force of law.

The archetypical Jewish headcovering is the skullcap, AKA the yarmulke (in Yiddish) or kippah (in Hebrew). Another Yiddish term, kappel, comes to us through the old Gothic and is related to the word “chapel,” the distinctive architectural feature of which is the skullcap-like dome.

Kippot come in all styles and varieties, from the velvet hemispheres favored by ultra-religious Haredi Jews (who will also wear a black fedora atop their kippot), to the half-dollar-size knitted versions used by Modern Orthodox. Amongst Conservative Jews, you’ll see everything from the classic sateen “beanie” (with or without a button at the apex, lined or unlined) to medium-sized leather versions.

It’s common practice to hand out customized kippot at special events such as weddings, Bar Mitzvahs, et al. Usually these are inscribed with the names of (say) the bride and groom, the location, and the date of the event, and make dandy keepsakes. Over the years, I have amassed a considerable pile of these giveaway yarmulkes... in no small measure because of my regular Sabbath attendance at synagogue.

I have yarmulkes in every style and color. I have yarmulkes that range in age from over sixty years old to brand spanking new. And, in an effort to curb my natural Pack-Rat Tendencies, it’s gotten to where I am very picky about the kippot I keep. These days I favor the leather models, although cloth versions may pique my interest if they have a suitable design.

Yes, design. Kippot can be had with all kinds of nutty motifs: music, baseball, you name it Some people wear personalized kippot with their names embroidered or stitched in; some have their favorite sports teams’ logos appliquéd... the varieties are mind-boggling.

But last Saturday, She Who Must Be Obeyed and I were present at a Bat Mitzvah where the Giveaway Kippot were... strangely inappropriate.

No, it’s not like they had crucifixes or crescents imprinted upon them. (Man, that’d be weird.) No, there were cream-colored leather, with various Designer Logos imprinted thereon in silver. Dior. Dolce & Gabbana. Fendi. Chanel. You get the picture.

A kippah is supposed to remind you that God is always above you. These seemed to be intended to remind people that the Shopping Mall is just down the street. Feh.

SWMBO and I looked at each other, thinking the same thing. Blogpost!

Did I keep one? Of course I did. For evidence. Plus, it was leather.

My motto: “Finders, kippahs... losers, weepahs.”