TIGER EXPLAINS IT ALL...

...right here.

Or, more properly put, Skippy explains it all. L’affaire Tigre, that is.

CHEESE, LOUISE

You can keep your pies of mince
And your scented jams of quince
But give me to eat
A cheesy treat
The noble, tasty Blintz.


A brace of cheese blintzes, gently frying in butter.

One of the benefits of having SWMBO’s Momma visiting us is the chance to tuck into that most excellent of Ashkenazic Jewish dairy foods: the Cheese Blintz.

Technically, a blintz is a pancake. A central European sort of crêpe, if you will, gastronomically related to the Russian blini, which are, classically, wheat or buckwheat pancakes raised with yeast. (Crêpes are made without yeast, but blintzes may be made with or without.)

Blini - the archetypical blintz - are usually decorated with butter, sour cream, jam or preserves, or (even better) caviar. Blintzes, on the other hand, will typically be filled with either a mildly sweet cheese mixture or fruit, rolled up and pan-fried.

I’ve had both fruit- and cheese-filled blintzes over the years, and my vote goes for the cheese. A properly prepared blintz, pan-fried in golden butter and served with sour cream and a dab of orange marmalade alongside, is ambrosia of the highest order.

SWMBO’s Momma is a blintzeteer extraordinaire. She is the Princess of Blintzes. And she is gracious enough to share her recipe:

Cheese Blintzes - Momma d’SWMBO Style

This recipe is enough to make about 50 blintzes.

Filling
32 oz farmer cheese
3 8-oz packages cream cheese, softened
10 Tbsp butter, melted
1 tsp salt
3 egg yolks
¾ cup sugar
1 tsp vanilla
½ tsp lemon zest

Wrappers
3 cups flour
2½ cups water
1 tsp oil
3 tsp salt
12 eggs

First make the filling. Blend together the farmer cheese, softened cream cheese, melted butter, salt, egg yolks, sugar, vanilla, and lemon zest. You can use small-curd cottage cheese as a substitute for farmer cheese - just drain it as much as you can, using a cheesecloth-lined strainer. (Your filling will be a bit runnier if you use cottage cheese.)

Refrigerate the filling while you make the wrappers.

For the wrappers, beat the eggs and oil together, then add the water and mix well. In a separate bowl, blend the flour and salt, then add the liquid ingredients and whisk together. Don’t overwork the batter.

Heat an eight-inch nonstick skillet over medium-high heat and add enough batter to coat the skillet with a thin layer - about ¼ cup per wrapper. When the batter sets up, and begins to come away from the pan at the edges, it’s done - dump the pancake out on to a clean dishtowel and start on the next one.

While the next wrapper is cooking, assemble the first blintz. About one-quarter of the way up from the bottom of the wrapper, place a heaping teaspoon of filling, then roll up the wrapper around it like a burrito: center, sides, then center again to seal the edges. Place on a tray or large plate, seam-side down. If you pile the blintzes up in more than one layer, place aluminum foil between the layers to prevent sticking.

Now all you have to do is melt some butter in a skillet (enough to cover the bottom of the skillet completely) and lightly fry those bad boys until they’re golden brown on top and bottom. Serve hot, with lashings of sour cream and/or the jam/jelly/preserves of your choice.

Calories? Who gives a crap? These are blintzes, baby!

BAD-ASS BUGS

Our friend Donnie Joe takes the occasional photograph of the local fauna. Here are a few of his latest:



This little guy reminds me of Boris, who built an enormous web in the ivy alongside our driveway a few years ago.



Manny the Mantis.



A chipmunk. I can’t see one of these little guys without thinking of the Austin Blown-Star Blodgemeet.



A fire ant.

Those fire ants are tiny, but they pack a wallop in their sting. Imagine, then, what it would be like to run across one of these:


Red Velvet Ant, AKA “Cow Killer.” Image courtesy Adventures in Furryland.

You’re looking at a Red Velvet Ant, which is actually not an ant at all, but a flightless wasp.

The first time I ever saw one of these in the wild, it was in Texas. Of course: Everything’s bigger in Texas, including the bugs. Roaches, wasps, you name it - they’re all humongous.

It looked like an ant, all right - the biggest honkin’ ant you could ever imagine, almost an inch long and covered in bright red velvety hair. I almost shit myself. Ants grow this big? Was it a Queen Ant of some kind? Gaaaaahhh!

A little research established that I had happened upon a Red Velvet Ant. Normal size, nothing special. The females can deliver a mighty sting, thus giving rise to the nickname “Cow Killer” - although it’s a matter of speculation whether they ever actually manage to sting, much less kill, any cows.

As scary as these critters are, though, they don’t fly. Unlike, say, the Cicada Killer Hornet. Yeah, I’ve seen those motherfuckers in Texas, too. Think of your average hornet... then multiply its size by about a factor of five. Yep: a hornet the size of your thumb, with the females bearing a nasty-looking stinger. Checkit:


Cicada Killer, qu’est-ce que c’est?


Photo courtesy Salt the Sandbox.

They’re really not as horrible as they look - despite their humongousness, these wasps are (supposedly) not especially aggressive toward humans. But if you’re a cicada, watch out. These hornets will sting you into paralytic submission, after which they will lay their eggs in you, following which you will be devoured from within by the growing wasp larvae. Yeef, whatta way to go.


Get this frickin’ thing offa me! (Photo courtesy PlantAnswers.com)

Cockroaches, as huge as they grow ’em in warm, moist climes like coastal Texas, Louisiana, and south Florida, may be disgusting, but at least they’re not scary. Cicada Killer Hornets? Red Velvet Ants? That’s another story.

Oh, and here’s one of my own pics:



Hoppity Hopper, here shown next to a quarter for scale. Alas, he wasn’t particularly lively when he posed for this shot. I suspect he was dead.

TOTSTOSTERONE

No, it’s not a typo.

According to SWMBO, totstosterone is the hormone that makes grown men act like little boys.

We were driving along a few days ago and, as usual, I was busily amusing myself by making up silly song lyrics, producing disgusting noises, and indulging in any number of forms of Childish Behavior. Hey: It’s what I do. And that’s when She Who Must Be Obeyed had a flash of insight. An epiphany.

There had to be a physicochemical explanation... preferably one involving Big Words. And what better explanation than totstosterone... a hormone that, in males, is in all-too-good supply? (Plus, it’s a Big Word.)

Totstosterone. It’s what makes a Hugh Grant - happily married to a gorgeous woman - go get a blow job from a random crack whore. It’s why a guy will sit in a box seat at the opera... happily picking his nose. It explains most sports, along with institutions like NASCAR and Hooters.

When you’re on a hot date and your witty conversation is punctuated by attempts to crack up your dinner companion by making fart noises, you may be suffering from a surplus of totstosterone.

Alas, there is no cure. Don’t ask me how I know this.

FUN WITH COHERENT LIGHT

Bruce Springsteen once sang about being “Blinded by the Light,” but Hakuna is merely fascinated by it.

I speak of the Elusive Laser Mouse. Elderly dowager that she is, Hakuna reverts to kittenhood when its red glow flits and flicks across the expanse of carpet. On occasion, she will even go so far as to chase it downstairs, where her frantic slipping and sliding on the hardwood floor provides moments of amusement for her Human Companions.

HONESTY IN EULOGY

This morning, She Who Must Be Obeyed drew my attention to an obituary in the AJC - what Denny calls the “Atlanta Urinal and Constipation.”

SWMBO reads the obits every day. She figures that if she doesn’t see her name there, she’s OK.

“Check this out,” she said. “This reads like something from Speaker for the Dead!” The reference was to Orson Scott Card’s novel, a sequel to his immensely popular Ender’s Game. Speaker for the Dead is a thoughtful and brilliantly-drawn story in which the titular character speaks at people’s funerals, revealing their real essence as human beings, warts and all. A Speaker delivers not a mere eulogy, but a complete deconstruction of a person’s life... and not all of it is pretty.

And so, when she saw this death notice for one John Fedesky, it really got her attention:

JOHN WALTER FEDESKY, 56, of Atlanta, died November 9 of cancer of the brain and esophagus. John was a truly colorful character. He had all the habits of Southern politeness, but suffered from a lifelong mental illness... After his father died in 1967, John, only 14, reacted by participating in the drug culture which helped to trigger his schizophrenia. The resulting damage affected him the remainder of his life. It was many years before doctors had available the optimum combination of drugs for his mental illness without the side effects that had caused him to reject them...

...John was baptized in the Church of Christ in 1971 and from then on studied the Bible devotedly for the rest of his life. He wanted to be either a minister or missionary or President of the United States. He spoke to almost everyone around him. For those who had income, he incessantly asked for money, but his notion of necessities were often considered by the donors as luxuries, and the relationships always eroded. For those with no income, he was generous with whatever he happened to have at the moment. He was unable to earn a living most of his life...

Ya gotta admit, it has the ring of honesty. Not a lot of lily-gilding going on here. And amidst a page full of puff pieces about the local Good Ol’ Boys who went to church regularly, were president of their local Kiwanis or Rotary Club, and who went to their reward surrounded by a small army of loving children, grandchildren, aunts, uncles, and Second Cousins, the End Story for Mr. Fedesky stands out like a polo pony at a NASCAR event.

FRIDAY RANDOM TEN - BLACK FRIDAY EDITION

Today is not only Friday, it is Black Friday - the semi-official start of the Christmas shopping season, the day on which massive retail sales will fill corporate ledgers with black ink. At least, so hope the retailers.

[I say semi-official mainly because the Christmas season seems to begin earlier every year. The Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade used to serve as a sort of starting gun to the festivities (it’s almost more of an Advance Christmas Day Parade), but now that seems to have been pushed back to Hallowe’en.]

We’re sitting here at Chez Elisson, comfortably bloated after yesterday’s festivities. The fridge is packed with leftovers, the counter stacked with pies. And it’s time once again to see what sort of Random Choonage my Little White Choon-Box will disgorge.

Let’s check out what’s playing today, shall we?

1. Jungle Boogie - Kool & the Gang
   
   
2. Act III: When I Woke Up - John Adams, Nixon in China
   
   
3. Sirba Matey Matey - The Klezmatics
   
   
4. In Dust We Trust - Chemical Brothers
   
   
5. Tones for Joan’s Bones - Chick Corea
   
   
6. Sports & Wine - Ben Folds Five
   
   
7. Does This Bus Stop at 82nd Street? - Bruce Springsteen
   
   Hey, bus driver, keep the change
   Bless your children, give them names,
   Don’t trust men who walk with canes
   Drink this and you’ll grow wings on your feet
   Broadway Mary, Joan Fontaine
   Advertiser on a downtown train
   Christmas crier bustin’ cane, he’s in love again.
   
   Where dock worker’s dreams mix with Panther’s schemes to someday own the rodeo
   Tainted women in Vistavision perform for out-of-state kids at the late show.
   
   Wizard imps and sweat sock pimps
   Interstellar mongrel nymphs
   Rex said that lady left him limp -
   Love’s like that (sure it is).
   Queen of diamonds, ace of spades
   Newly discovered lovers of the Everglades
   They take out a full page ad in the trades
   To announce their arrival
   And Mary Lou she found out how to cope
   She rides to heaven on a gyroscope
   The Daily News asks her for the dope
   She says “Man, the dope’s that there’s still hope.”
   
   Señorita, Spanish rose
   Wipes her eyes and blows her nose
   Uptown in Harlem she throws a rose
   To some lucky young matador.
   
   
8. I’m Willin’ - SeaTrain
   
   
9. Rikki Don’t Lose That Number - Steely Dan
   
   
10. Get Your Hands Off My Woman - Ben Folds
    
    

It’s Friday. What are you listening to?

ADVANCE PREP

The kitchen is redolent with the aroma of browning chicken and onions, all to be incorporated into the Cider-Calvados Gravy with which we will adorn our turkey tomorrow. The stock for said gravy will be simmering away for the next five hours or so.

The Missus has baked up a batch of Chocolate-Pumpkin Brownie Bites and a pot of curried butternut squash soup. Her next project will be the traditional Sausage-Rice Stuffing with Pine Nuts and Golden Raisins. It’s a tradition here at Chez Elisson, anyway. She’s been making it for twenty-seven years now, and it beats pretty much every other stuffing we’ve had like a red-headed stepchild.

The turkey, a fresh (never frozen!) twenty-two pound monster, is sitting happily in a brine of apple cider, Granny Smith apples, ancho chilies, salt, dark brown sugar, and a metric buttload of garlic.

I’ll put together the Infamous Green Bean Casserole yet again... but per my usual practice, it’ll be made from scratch with fresh green beans. No canned beans and Campbell’s Cream of Mushroom Soup for this boy, no, no.

Tomorrow, we’ll just shove that bird in the oven and I’ll finish off the gravy... and then we’ll cart the whole mess over to Gary and JoAnn’s to eat it. Which means we don’t have to deal with the minutiae of setting the table or washing the dishes. Sweeeet.

SPORTS POKER AND WINE

Lately, our Poker Night has taken on the trappings of a Sommelier Guild event.

Generally, whoever is hosting our weekly game sets out a few Grownup Libations. Fine bourbons, single malt Scotches, premium vodka, and the like. Nothing adds to the joy of winning a big pot... or mitigates the agony of a rotten hand... like a fine tipple.

But now one of our number, a gentleman who is possessed of a fine cellar, has decided to share a few of his dust-caked old bottles with us. And they are mighty interesting bottles.

Last week, for instance, we had a Beringer cabernet sauvignon from 1980. After twenty-nine years, it still was packed with fruit... a real treat.

Last night, we enjoyed a 1970 Château Nenin Pomerol, a bottle that had been purchased sometime in the early 1970’s for the princely sum of $7.03 and that would set you back something on the order of $175 today. [That, by the bye, works out to an annualized return on investment of just over 9%... not too shabby.] Think of it: This was wine from my freshman year in college... wine from the year the Beatles broke up! A little past its prime, perhaps, but still eminently drinkable, with the mellowness that comes only with long cellaring.

Next week? There’s a 1970 Chateau Monlot Capet Saint-Émilion that has our collective names on it... and it oughta be a doozy.

IMMUNE SYSTEMS

There has been a Metric Buttload of attempts to understand the role of Islam in the Fort Hood massacre in the weeks since the November 5 incident. Were Major Nidal Malik Hasan’s (“alleged”) actions motivated by his Islamic beliefs, or were they the product of plain old psychosis? Was the massacre a case of a nutcase acting out, or was it jihad? And what are its future implications concerning the role of Muslims in our armed services?

Without dwelling too much on the specifics of the Hasan case, the real issue that has been thrown into sharp relief is the relationship between Islam and Western civilization, two entities that have been in more or less continuous struggle since the days of Muhammad. Does the Western proclivity for assimilation and tolerance, for multiculturalism and the embrace of The Other, contain within it the seeds of its own destruction?

Before you answer, go to Malcolm Pollack’s blog and read this thoughtful piece. Be sure to read the comments as well, consisting (mostly) of an exchange between Pollack and Kevin Kim. Then feel free to weigh in with your opinion, either here or at Malcolm’s place.

It’s not an easy question... but the ones about the Future of Civilization rarely are.

DREAM JOB

Joe and Chelo S. were long-time residents of Chicagoland who moved to the northern suburbs of Atlanta to be with their daughter Debbie and son-in-law Sid. That’s how we met them... for Debbie and Sid were (and are) friends of ours.

We would see Joe and Chelo a few times a week, at Shabbat services and at dinner after Thursday evening Minyan... and at the occasional Big Event, like the storybook wedding of their grandson Adam in Malibu, on a cliff overlooking the Pacific.

A lovely couple, they were... and Joe had an interesting backstory, for he had had a long career in a line of work that most of us Penile-Americans would consider a Dream Job.

Joe, you see, worked for Playboy Magazine. He was the guy who prepared the printing plates... which meant that, months in advance, he saw every picture that appeared in that Venerable Periodical, as well as those that didn’t.

Joe know all the secrets. He knew that Miss March had a strawberry birthmark on the left cheek of her ass, and that Miss September had a tuft of pubic hair sticking out of the crotch of her bikini. All of these minor defects were, of course, artfully airbrushed away before the rest of us Lowly Mortals got to gaze raptly upon the finished product.

And he got to make the occasional visit over at the Mansion. Icing on the cake.

Alas, Joe is no longer with us, having suffered a stroke a few years back that sent him to a different sort of mansion... the kind that floats in the sky. But we all remember him fondly, and I think of him with just a tinge of envy when I walk past a newsstand.

HOT, HOT, HOT

Right on the heels of my post about pancakes comes more evidence of my Breakfasty Obsession. Today being one of those chilly, rainy, blustery November days, what better time to consider the glories of a bowl of Hot Cereal?

Those of us of a Certain Age may remember the old ads for Maypo breakfast cereal (“I Want My Maypo!”), a cereal that touted itself on the basis that it “tastes like maple sugar candy.” Me, I was never a fan of the Maypo... but there were plenty of other hot cereals that I did like.

There was Cream of Wheat and Cream of Rice, the Tweedledum and Tweedledee of bland wheat-based cereals, and Farina, their kissin’ cousin. When I was a kid, these cereals were just plain boring... yet as an adult, I can appreciate the subtle flavors of these farinaceous Tabulae Rasae far more.

Oatmeal is a reliable old standby. I sneer at the “instant” or “quick-cooking” versions, which have a texture falling somewhere in the middle of the Mush-to-Snot spectrum. Old-fashioned rolled oats, which still cook plenty fast enough (five minutes), have a lot more “tooth.” But my real favorite in the Oat Department would be Irish steel-cut oats. Instead of little flakes made by crushing the oat grains between steel rollers, Irish oats are little pellets made by slicing the grains with metal blades. They require longer cooking than rolled oats, but their nubbly texture and nutty flavor make them worth the time investment. A bowl of Irish oatmeal doesn’t need any decoration, either, although most Americans will sweeten it up a bit.

Another old favorite is Wheatena, which comes from the same people who make Maypo (yes, it still exists). It’s made from toasted wheat and has a pronounced “buckwheaty” flavor, a little like kasha... a perfect way to start the day on a late fall or winter morning.

Maltex, which I haven’t seen in years, is basically Wheatena doped with malted barley syrup. Tasty good, if my hazy recollection is worth anything. I’d love to have a bowl of Maltex again... haven’t seen it since I was in elementary school.

Living in the South, as we do, I cannot talk of Hot Cereal without mentioning grits. (“Hominy grits?” “A whole buttload of ’em.”) Grits, however, are not merely a Hot Cereal: They are an institution. A proper bowl of grits deserves butter, salt, pepper, and (if desired) cheese. A sprinkle of chopped jalapeños is a fine topper. But woe be unto him that treats grits like a Hot Cereal, adding sweeteners and (gag) milk.

Today there are all kinds of weird-ass hot cereals, with grains we never knew in our Snot-Nose Days. Kashi. What the fuck is Kashi? It ain’t kasha, that’s for sure. Millet? Quinoa? I don’t know... but I’ll try anything once.

Now: What’s it gonna be? Irish oatmeal? Or Wheatena? The saucepan beckons...

WE FLIP FOR FLAPJACKS

What’s round and extremely tasty?



Pancakes!

Pancakes rank right up there with the best Comfort Foods. They evoke warm memories of childhood, of leisurely weekend mornings. And these may be the best I ever tasted.

The recipe comes courtesy of the Food Network’s official Food Nerd, Alton Brown. I suspect Brown’s übergeeky TV persona is just that: a persona. It’s perhaps a fitting one owing to his knowledge of food science, which knowledge is useful in understanding why a given recipe or kitchen technique will work better than another.

He’s a local guy, you know. One of these days, I figure, I’ll bump into him as he’s filming a segment in Harry’s Farmers Market just down the road.

A few weeks ago I caught a “Good Eats” episode in which the good Mr. Brown was expounding on the proper way to make pancakes. This got my attention, as our homemade pancakes, while good, never seem to measure up to the ones the commercial establishments make.

Alton’s recipe isn’t especially complicated. He likes to make up a good-sized batch of premixed dry ingredients - flour, salt, baking soda, baking powder, and sugar - which he keeps on hand just in case a Pancake Jones should strike.

It’s what he does with the other ingredients that makes magic happen.

He separates the eggs and then mixes the whites with buttermilk and the yolks with melted butter, after which he combines these two mixtures. The wet ingredients are then dumped on top of the (preblended) dry ingredients and whisked together - but just barely. (If you beat the batter enough to remove all the lumps, you’ll cause the flour’s gluten to develop, resulting in rubbery cakes.)

I tried out his recipe, and I am happy to report that the results are not merely good, they are ridiculously good. Maybe next time I’ll stick some blueberries in ’em... but they’re fine sans fruit, decorated with a pat or two of butter and a liberal drizzle of warm maple syrup. (Real maple syrup, thank you - none of that Log Cabin / Aunt Jemima / Mrs. Butterworth crap.)

Don’t you want a flapjack right now? A whole mess of ’em? Sure you do.

REUNITED

Reunited and it feels so good
Reunited ’cause we understood
There’s one perfect fit
And, sugar, this one is it
We both are so excited ’cause we're reunited, hey, hey

- Peaches and Herb, “Reunited”





The Momma d’SWMBO is reunited with her old Nancy Lee doll, a doll she was given as a child... 67 years ago.

Earlier this year, we dug Nancy Lee out of the cedar chest in our basement and arranged to have her restored. Seeing Mom’s reaction this afternoon when she encountered her old friend was priceless.

DYSTOPIA

A few weeks ago, Velociman (who writes like a chimerical combination of William Faulkner and Hunter S. Thompson) e-mailed me a link to some amazing conceptual art: images from a video game that is being designed for the Wii system by Warren Spector and his Junction Point Studios. “Epic Mickey,” they call this Work-in-Progress.

Imagine Walt Disney World after the Steampunk Apocalypse, and you’ll get the flavor of it. Twisted Bizarro-World versions of the EPCOT dome, Cinderella’s castle, et alia. The Magic Kingdom as seen through a glass, extremely darkly...



Remember in Back to the Future Part II, after the Biff Tannen of 1955 gets hold of Marty McFly’s 2015-vintage sports almanac? With his knowledge of the results of future sporting events, Biff makes a fortune gambling and remolds the formerly idyllic Hill Valley into a mini-Vegas of casinos, luxury hotels, and cheap hookers... an evil Alternate History. Warren Spector has wreaked a similar transformation on Mickey and his friends.

Velociman and I discussed the matter at length. Was this dystopian, dark vision of Disneyish innocence laid waste not simply art to be assessed on its own merits, but a visual analogy of the current State of the Union?

“You’ve got to post about this,” I told him. “It’s right up your alley.”

I sat back and waited... and waited... and waited. Knowing Velociman’s strange Bloggy Work-Ethic, I knew that the much-anticipated (by me, anyway) post had a probability somewhere south of 30 per centum of ever appearing.

But, at last, it has appeared... and it is eloquent.

Look: Nobody writes quite like Velociman. Whether he’s engaging in a political rant, ruminating on the twists and turns of daily life, reminiscing about childhood days with the legendary Senator, or posting photos of some horrific injury, there’s never any denying the man’s incredible verbal gifts.

In this post, however, he eschews using his own words, relying instead upon one of the great American bards to set lyrics to the visual music. And he swats it right out of the park.

Go thou and read it. It is food for thought... with some nice Eye-Candy for dessert.

FRIDAY RANDOM TEN

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

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

1. Free As A Bird - The Beatles
   
   Paul McCartney, George Harrison, and Ringo Starr added vocals and instrumentals to a 1977 John Lennon demo to create this haunting song.
   
   
2. La Valse Des Monstres - Yann Tiersen, Le Fabuleux Destin d’Amélie Poulain
   
   
3. Battle Hymn of the Republic - Seymour Rechtzeit
   
   In Yiddish, no less.
   
   
4. Shhh Peaceful - Miles Davis
   
   
5. Brandenburg Concerto #1 in F, BWV 1046 - 3. Allegro - Trevor Pinnock; English Concert
   
   
6. Negro River - Philip Glass
   
   
7. Bride of Rain Dog (Instrumental) - Tom Waits
   
   
8. Höyhensarjan maailmanmestari - Tuomari Nurmio & Alamaailman Vasarat
   
   
9. I Like Big Tits - Joe Walsh
   
   Uh huh
   I like big tits, uh huh
   
   You see ’em on the street
   Left and right
   I like big tits, that’s right
   I try to look away but I can’t resist
   Every time I try to call it quits
   Here come some tits, (uh huh) that’s a big 10-4
   Uh huh
   
   I like big tits, uh huh
   Tits
   
   Well they come in twos
   Hard to choose
   Your favorite tit
   Uh huh
   I like tits for dinner or a noon time snack
   I like tits for lunch, a big tit attack
   I like tits for breakfast
   Eggs Benedict tits, what it is
   What it is
   They’re where it’s at
   Tits
   They give me shivers when they bounce around
   Buckled up or hanging on the ground
   I like big tits
   Uh huh
   Tits save it all for me
   Tits
   
   
10. Lengthwise - Phish
    
    

It’s Friday. What are you listening to?

CRYSTAL BLUE PERSUASION

Look over yonder what do you see
The sun is a-risin’ most definitely
A new day is comin’, people are changin’
Ain’t it beautiful - crystal blue persuasion

Better get ready gonna see the light
Love, love is the answer and that’s all right
So don’t you give up now - so easy to find
Just look to your soul and open your mind

Crystal blue persuasion, mm-hmm
It’s a new vibration
Crystal blue persuasion, crystal
Blue persuasion

Maybe tomorrow when He looks down
Every green field and every town
All of his children every nation
There’ll be peace and good brotherhood
Crystal blue persuasion

- Tommy James and the Shondells, “Crystal Blue Persuasion”

There’s an awful lot of hand-holding, Kumbaya-singing, hopey-changey sentiment in the song lyrics above, but one needs consider that they are a product of their happy-hippie times... a tad over forty years ago.

But we have our own brand of Crystal Blue Persuasion, right here...



...in the form of Hakuna’s crystalline baby blues, here seen peeking out through a gap between two balusters.

No doubt she is trying to use them to persuade me to (1) feed her, (2) clean out her litterbox, or (3) leave her the hell alone. (My money is on Number Three.)

Update: Friday Ark #270 is afloat at the Modulator, with Hakuna batting lead-off. If you still want to look at more Kitty-Pics, drop on by at Pet’s Garden Blog this Sunday evening for Carnival of the Cats Edition #297.

Update 2: CotC #297 is up.

ZOOM

Travelers never came through space to visit the Earth. They had no need.

They had found universes in grains of sand.

- Greg Bear, Blood Music

I am so glad this did not exist back in my University Days. I can only imagine the hordes of weed-baked longhairs gazing into their computer monitors while thin streams of spittle leak out of the corners of their mouths...

Click here: ZOOMQUILT

...and zoom happily away. You can control your speed - forward or backward - by using the control bar on the left. Centering the bar stops the motion. You can hide the control panel by placing your cursor in the right-hand side of your monitor screen.

The best way I can describe it? It’s like Hieronymus Bosch piloting the Millennium Falcon.

[Tip o’ th’ Elisson fedora to Jerry Foster for the link.]

ATLANTA AT DUSK

[Click to embiggen]

Atlanta at dusk, as seen from the Four Seasons Hotel in Midtown, looking south.

A MESS OF POTTAGE

This morning at Minyan, as is customary on Mondays, we read from the Torah, AKA the Pentateuch, AKA the Chumash, AKA the Five Books of Moses. Today’s reading told the story of Jacob and Esau, the sons of Isaac, and how Esau gave away his birthright - the claim to the greater share of his father’s estate, his by right of his being the elder brother - for what is rendered variously as “a mess of pottage” or “lentil stew.”

Esau has just come in from, presumably, a hard day of running around chasing various Tasty Beasts. We can only assume he has not had a particularly good day, since he is hungry and thirsty to the point of passing out. And there’s his brother, stirring a yummy pot of stew over the fire.

Esau: “Give me, please, some of that red, red stuff, for I am famished.”

Jacob: “First sell me your birthright.”

Esau: “What good is a birthright to me, when I’m dying [of hunger]?”

You can accuse Jacob of being a tad mercenary here, but it’s pretty clear that Esau does not place much value on that birthright. And Jacob, somehow, understands a key principle of negotiation: that the value of goods or services is always greater before they are provided. Several thousand years later, Chester Karrass would call this concept “The Callgirl Principle” in his negotiation training seminars.

But there is a lesson in this story for all of us.

How often do we pay an exaggerated price for momentary pleasure? How often do we squander our wealth on things that seem oh, so very important today - right this minute! - instead of the things that will matter to us down the road?

If a pile of money suddenly landed on you, would you buy long-term disability insurance with it, or a gold-plated heated toilet seat? Blue-chip stocks or a vacation in Maui?

Our government has been in the “selling birthrights for a bowl of stew” business for many years now. Screw the grandkids... we want pork! Right now! Never mind that that Government Cheese comes with a hefty price tag, because we won’t be the ones paying for it.

We’re all guilty of selling our birthrights, whether it be on an individual basis or as part of the Great U.S. Collective. And there will come a day when we will all realize what we no longer have... and we will know how badly we fucked up.

Hope that lentil stew tastes mighty good... but I suspect it will leave a vile taste in the back of the mouth.

Update: Was it subconscious inspiration from this morning’s reading, or just my Meat-Jones kicking in? Regardless, for the evening’s repast I prepared a red, red Mess of Pottage... but with beef and onions in lieu of lentils. And it was tasty, all right - real Birthright Trade-In Material.

SWEET TALLULAH

I’m not sure what started it, but last week Houston Steve and I were conducting a brief review of the life and many (many many) loves of the late Tallulah Bankhead.

Tallulah Brockman Bankhead, those of of a Certain Age will remember, was an actress in Hollywood’s salad days. Not just an actress: she was a Bon Vivant of the first water, a party animal that could make Madonna blush even before she went all Kaballah on us.

She was from a politically connected Alabama family, her father having served as Speaker of the House of Representatives from 1936-40. [Democrat, of course. Back then, Republicans were thin on the ground down South.] Both her grandfather John H. Bankhead and her uncle John H. Bankhead II served as U.S. Senators; the Bankhead family apparently disliked the exercise of selecting new names for its scions.

[An aside: Senator John (the elder) was a leader in the national highway building movement well before the advent of the Interstate Highway System. The eponymous Bankhead Highway began in Washington, D.C., passing through Virginia, North and South Carolina, Georgia, Alabama, Mississippi, Tennessee, Arkansas, Oklahoma, Texas, New Mexico, and Arizona before finally arriving in California. Here in Atlanta, a section of the Bankhead Highway was renamed the Donald L. Hollowell Parkway owing to the notoriety of the old name, a notoriety that arose from the high-crime neighborhoods through which the Bankhead route passed as it headed through the western side of the city.]

Tallulah was never considered - least of all by herself - a great beauty, but her sharp wit, smoldering looks, and husky voice gave her sex appeal that few others could match. Coupled with her astonishing sexual voracity (did someone say “coupled”?), these qualities made her downright legendary.

It takes a certain degree of unselfconsciousness - nay, downright chutzpah - to show up at a party completely nude... or to drop trou and take a whiz in the midst of a conversation with the First Lady... or to respond to Chico Marx’s elegant pick-up line (“You know, I really want to fuck you.”) with a quick “And so you shall, you old-fashioned boy.”

Other classic Tallulah quotes:

“If I had to live my life again, I’d make the same mistakes, only sooner.”

“They used to photograph Shirley Temple through gauze. They should photograph me through linoleum.”

“I’m as pure as the driven slush.”

“I’d rather be strongly wrong than weakly right.”

“Cocaine isn’t habit forming. I should know - I’ve been using it for years.”

“I was raped in our driveway when I was eleven. You know darling, it was a terrible experience because we had all that gravel.”

“I’ve tried several varieties of sex. The conventional position makes me claustrophobic. And the others give me either stiff neck or lockjaw.”

(To a group of Salvation Army band members who were passing around a tambourine to collect money, and to whom she had just given the then-extravagant sum of $20) “There, dahlings, I know it’s been a rough winter for you Spanish dancers.”

(To a priest carrying a smoking censer) “Darling, I love your drag, but your purse is on fire!” [this one pointed out by the inestimable Velociman]

“I’ll come and make love to you at five o’clock. If I’m late start without me.”

Next time you see Disney’s 101 Dalmatians, pay close attention to Cruella deVil, the film’s antagonist. The character’s outsize personality was modeled on that of Tallulah B herownself.

Ahhh, they don’t make ’em like Tallulah any more.

ARE THE TWITS TAKING OVER?

Brandon Hoover, who writes at javajive, asks a timely question: “Has micro-blogging destroyed your blog?”

As new social networking and communications platforms like Facebook and Twitter gain in popularity and influence, it’s not an idle question. I see more and more bloggers on Facebook these days, and there are a few who have drunk deep draughts of the Twitter Kool-Aid, for better or for worse.

Here is what I told Brandon in his comments:

I’ve been quoted as saying that Twitter is blogging for people with ADHD.

Bad Twitter feeds are full of the minutiae of people’s lives... good Twitter feeds are like little blogposts. But while 140 characters is wonderful for pithy aphorisms, it is no substitute for the rich language of a well-written blog post.

I will post maybe two to five tweets a week... and twice as many “real” blogposts. But I have seen other bloggers go off the deep end, neglecting their blogs but spewing forth hundreds of tweets. Feh.

In the ideal world, there’s a scenario in which the quick, viral nature of Twitter, the “selected audience” character and interactivity of Facebook, and the “throw it on the wall and see what sticks” quality of blogging reach a dynamic equilibrium, complementing and enhancing each other. We’ll see.

Now: Whadda you think? Do Facebook and/or Twitter mean the end of blogging as we know it? Or do all these platforms somehow enhance each other, creating a synergistic Face-Twit-Bloggity-World in which the whole is greater than the sum of its parts?