ON COMMAND

Let me tell you of Ed “Poppa” Squizzot
Who can crap you a crap on command:
He’ll respond to a whispered suggestion
Or a casual wave of the hand,
And then he will curl you a steamer
Delivering at your request.
If you need a turd, pay Pop Squizzot a vizzot,
’Cause of all the Length-Crimpers, he’s best!

FALL OF A WALL

For many of the younger people walking the planet today, it is hard to imagine that, once upon a time, a wall separated East and West.

Actually, there were many walls, most of them philosophical and political: the walls that divided the centrally planned economies and authoritarian governments of the East with the captialist, free-market economies and representative democracies of the West. But I refer to a physical wall, the wall that separated East and West Berlin.

The Wall was forbidding, surrounded by No-Man’s Land, topped by barbed wire, illuminated by searchlights, guarded by machine-gun nests. It was not built for defense or protection. It was no shield. It was, rather, like the walls of a prison... for those on the eastern side were trapped, unable to cross to the other side. Even family visits were forbidden, lest the good citizens of the East be exposed to dangerous alien ideologies.

The Berlin Wall came down twenty years ago this week... but the events that set that fall in motion started with Mikhail Gorbachev’s liberalization of Soviet communism. The glasnost and perestroika movements - latter-day attempts to create a more “human” communism - inevitably doomed it... for communism, as an economic system, can only be enforced by a heavy-handed, iron-fisted government. As the atmosphere of reform spread throughout Eastern Europe, riots and unrest struck East Germany.

I was in West Germany on October 18 1989, the day Erich Honecker - the leader of East Germany and the man who built the Wall - was forced to resign. We were on the Autobahn, enroute from Frankfurt to Worms-am-Rhein, when we heard the news on the radio. It was a little like hearing the rumble of a distant earthquake, one that would eventually swell to world-shattering proportions... reminiscent of that moment in Lord of the Rings when the evil Lord Sauron realizes, too late, that his Ring of Power is about to be tossed into the Crack of Doom and that he is well and truly fucked.

My German colleagues were ecstatic; they knew that with Honecker gone, reunification was just a matter of time. Just how little time it would take, of course, nobody could imagine.

Within two years, the Soviet Union itself would be history... and the Wall, the hated Wall, would be in the form of little chunks, all peddled to people interested in owning a piece of history.

COUSINS

Valéry Giscard d’Estaing (L) and Arnold Stang (R). Identical cousins?

Valéry has lived most everywhere,
From la Tour Eiffel to Napoléon Square.
But Arnie’s only seen the sights
A guy can see from Brooklyn Heights -
What a crazy pair!

But they’re cousins,
Identical cousins all the way.
One pair of matching bookends,
Different as night and day.

Valéry adores a minuet,
The Ballets Russes, and crêpes Suzette,
Our Arnie loves to rock and roll,
A hot dog makes him lose control -
What a wild duet!

Still, they’re cousins,
Identical cousins and you’ll find,
They laugh alike, they walk alike,
At times they even talk alike -
You can lose your mind,
When cousins are two of a kind!

CURLY

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.

Update 2: CotC #295 is up.

FRIDAY RANDOM TEN

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:

1. Money for Nothing - Dire Straits
   
   
2. 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
   
   
3. Mozart: Requiem in D Minor; K626 - 13. Agnus Dei - Herbert Von Karajan
   
   
4. Bustin’ Surfboards - The Tornados
   
   
5. Thinking About You - Radiohead
   
   
6. Someone In Your Garden - Philip Glass, Notes on a Scandal
   
   
7. Cemetery Polka - Tom Waits
   
   
8. The Mikado, Act II: The Criminal Cried As He Dropped Him Down - D’Oyly Carte Opera Company
   
   
9. The Cold Part - Modest Mouse
   
   
10. One Note Song - Tenacious D
    
    

It’s Friday. What are you listening to?

SOMETHING FISHY

Found Art at Harry’s Farmers Market.


Fan mail from some flounder?

Here’s looking at you, kid!

ONE OF THOSE MORNINGS

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

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

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

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

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

ON THE ROAD

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

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

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

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?

1. Barbara’s House - Philip Glass, Notes on a Scandal
   
   
2. Alice Childress (iTunes Originals Version) - Ben Folds
   
   
3. Sand Mandala - Philip Glass, Kundun
   
   
4. 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
   
   
5. Big Bang Baby - Stone Temple Pilots
   
   
6. Damn Bugs Whacked Him, Johnny - Minus the Bear
   
   
7. 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.
   
   
8. Heroin - Velvet Underground
   
   
9. Too Much Too Young (Live) - The Specials
   
   
10. Act III: I Can Keep Still - John Adams, Nixon in China
    
    

It’s Friday. What are you listening to?

LITTLE ADVENTURES

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

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

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

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

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:

1. The Wind - Cat Stevens
   
   
2. Pepperland Laid Waste - The Beatles
   
   
3. 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
   
   
4. It’s All About Money - Bobby Slayton
   
   
5. Mountains o’ Mourne - Don McLean
   
   
6. Eloi - Klaus Badelt, The Time Machine (2002)
   
   
7. So What - Miles Davis
   
   
8. Brandenburg Concerto #3 in G major - III. Allegro - Wendy Carlos
   
   
9. 3rd Planet - Modest Mouse
   
   
10. Slip Away - Clarence Carter
    
    

It’s Friday. What are you listening to?