LOVELY SPAM, WONDERFUL SPAM

My recent missive on the topic of Lunchbox Horrors inspired this lovely lady to respond with a horrorshow of her own, talking about

...a weird sandwich my mother used to make us for lunches way back in the day; those lunchbox wonders we lovingly referred to as “guck sandwiches.”

The Guck Sandwich, when one deconstructs the ingredients, is essentially a SPAM and Thousand Island Dressing sandwich with some onions thrown in. I’m not sure what horrifies me more: the SPAM, or the flabby white bread the concoction is supposed to be assembled with. But as they (whoever “they” are) say, “de gustibus non est disputandum,” which means something like “all of your taste is in your ass, but I’m all right, Jack.”

Just kidding. Heh.

SPAM, its unsavory Internet associations aside, is of no culinary interest to me whatso-fucking-ever. I rank it right up there with the Indiana Brain Sandwich, Head Cheese, and Scrapple in the List of Substances That Are Only Marginally More Appetizing To Me Than A Human Turd. [That’s very similar, by the way, to the List of Foods That I Would Be Reluctant To Eat Even After A Nuclear Holocaust When Alternatives Are Quite Thin On The Ground.] But people who grew up with it - why, they love it. It’s a great illustration of the power of childhood-based nostalgia to influence our tastes.

Its lack of culinary appeal (to me) notwithstanding, I am fascinated by the fact that SPAM is, apparently, extremely popular in the islands of the Pacific Ocean. When the Missus and I were in Hawai’i, we observed first-hand that SPAM was everywhere. If you ordered musubi, the ubiquitous rice-ball snack, you would, like as not, find wads of SPAM buried in ’em. Yeef.

And it’s not just Hawai’i. Apparently, SPAM is popular throughout the Pacific region, from Micronesia to Samoa to Tonga to Tahiti. Hell, even Fiona likes it, and she’s in Singapore.

There are those that see this as a relic of the U.S. presence during and following World War II...or the natural growth in market demand for a product that needs no refrigeration in places that have none. But there’s another, possibly more sinister explanation.

No other commercially available meat product is so good at replicating the taste of human flesh.

Yes, the folks on a lot of those Pacific islands have an ancient (in some cases, not so ancient) history of eating their brethren and sistren…and, purportedly, SPAM’s flavor taps into that ancestral memory.

Travel writer Paul Theroux, in his book The Happy Isles of Oceania, says:

It was a theory of mine that former cannibals of Oceania now feasted on Spam because Spam came the nearest to approximating the porky taste of human flesh. “Long pig” as they called a cooked human being in much of Melanesia. It was a fact that the people-eaters of the Pacific had all evolved, or perhaps degenerated, into Spam-eaters. And in the absence of Spam they settled for corned beef, which also had a corpsy flavor.

Of course, this theory has numerous holes in it, one being SPAM’s popularity even in places that have no historical tradition of cannibalism. And even Paul Theroux later confessed that he had written the above paragraph with (you should excuse the expression) tongue in cheek.

And yet, I wonder.

I wonder why I like corned beef so much. And I wonder whether Jeffrey Dahmer was a fan of the Reuben sandwich.

THE WIT AND WISDOM OF YOUNG NEFOO WILLIAM

Our little nephew William was having a conversation with his Dad when the word “catawampus” came up.

“What’s a catawampus, Daddy?” asked William.

“What do you think it is?”

“Is it that stuff we take out of Ringo’s litter box?”

A PECULIARLY VILE, YET TASTY, LUNCHEON

Take a couple of corn tortillas.

Nuke ’em in the microwave for about 30 seconds to soften ’em up.

Now getcha a couple of wedges of Laughing Cow Light Cheezoid Material. [I used the Original Swiss flavor ’cause it was handy, but the Garlic & Herb would have served nicely as well.] Spread ’em over the warm tortillas.

Open a can of sardines. Drain well. Divide the sardines between the two Cheesy Tortillas.

Now, roll them bad boys up and eat. Think of ’em as Fishy Burritos con Queso.

Your breath will, as the Mistress of Sarcasm might say, “smell like ass” the rest of the day, but so what? Sometimes one must suffer for the sake of Art...and Fine Cuisine.

To be honest, I don’t know what inspired me to make this, aside from the desperation born of an abiding hunger coupled with an aversion for doing any serious Kitchen Work in the middle of the day. But it was vaguely reminiscent of one of the Lunchbox Horrors my mother (of Blessèd Memory) would inflict upon me from time to time: the Sardine and Cream Cheese Sandwich on Wonder Bread. Sounds heinous, no? Fact is, those sammitches were pretty damn tasty, the only really horrific thing about them being the Wonder Bread.

Laughing Cow cheese and sardines on a frickin’ tortilla. How can something so wrong taste so right?

SONG OF THE SIMIAN

[Sung to the tune of “Chim Chim Cheree”]

Chimp chiminey
Chimp chiminey
Chimp chimpanzee!
A chimp is as lucky
As lucky can be

Chimp chiminey
Chimp chiminey
Chimp chimpanzoo!
He’ll pick up a turd and
He’ll throw it at you
Yes, you’d better duck
Or you’ll get hit by poo

Now as the Song of the Primate’s
Been sung
You may wonder why chimps
Like to lob us their dung

There’s an explanation
That is honest and true:
Pan troglodytes
Ain’t much different from you

We humans, with all of those
Brains in our head -
We don’t throw our shit
We lob missiles instead

Ensuring that millions
Don’t see light of day
But the chimp is not cursed
With the same DNA
His weapon’s a turd
Not a poison-gas spray

Yes, he’ll crimp off a length
Pick it up in his hand
Chuck it at your head
If it hits, he feels grand

Though he’s covered with hair
From his head to his toes
He knows where his shit is
Wherever he goes

Chimp chiminey
Chimp chiminey
Chimp chimpanzee!
A chimp’s as evolved
As you and as me

A few nucleotides
Cleave our species in twain
And we naked apes
With our extra-large brain
Might do well to listen to
These Monkey-Words:
Get rid of your bullets
Replace ’em with turds!


[Photo credit: Christian Yared, Montreal]

CATCHING UP WITH CARNIVALIA

Elisson may have been gone, but the World o’ Bloggy Carnivals rolls on and on.

Just in case you may have missed ’em:

Friday Ark #122: Posted at the Modulator. When? Friday! Duh.

Carnival of the Cats #148: Posted at enrevanche by the estimable and inscrutable Barry Campbell.

Kosher Cooking Carnival #14: Posted at Elisheva Blogs, the KCC includes not only a fine selection of recipes, but a comprehensive update on the kashrus certification of numerous packaged foods. Sometimes a prepackaged food item will become newly certified (or recertified); sometimes decertified; sometimes there are label misprints; and sometimes there is intentional mislabeling. Caveat fresser!

That catches us up on the latest Carnivals. We now return you to our regular Blog d’Elisson program of dopey 100-word stories, cat photos, recipes, song lists, snarky Photoshops, and other random Stoopid Shit™.

LATE AGAIN

A snowy afternoon in Baltimore.

My flight was supposed to land in Atlanta at 8:00 this evening. We boarded half an hour late, then sat on the tarmac awaiting de-icing and a few ground holds due to Atlanta weather. Lucky for me I was able to score an all-too-rare First Class upgrade. Big-ass seats and free whiskey go a long way toward easing the pain of a delay.

We landed at 11:30, three and a half hours late. I felt sorry for the ten or so passengers who missed their international connections. They were going to lose a day out of their schedule.

The northbound MARTA train left at midnight. Two stops down the line, we were held up for unspecified “technical difficulties.” Another couple of stops, and we had to wait for a southbound train to pass. They were single-tracking due to maintenance.

It was well after 8:00 pm, so we had to change trains at Lindbergh Center to get to Dunwoody. Meh. Arrived at Dunwoody at 1:00 am. It was so late, the parking lot exit booth was unmanned, the gate open. Saved me $12. Woo-hoo.

Drove home on empty, rain-slick streets, arriving Chez Elisson 1:20 am. The alarm is set for 5:30.

Fuck.

FRESH FROM THE FARM: A 100-WORD STORY

After the Great Protein Shortage of 2029, the genetic engineers started getting creative.

People needed protein, and the existing sources weren’t getting the job done. Beef cattle were practically extinct after the BSE epidemics in the late teens. Fish were laden with heavy metals, poultry with pesticides. Legumes were fine - except for their unfortunate vaporous side effects.

But then a brilliant Belgian geneticist had a breakthrough. An excellent protein source: animals that lived in a farmable colony. Roughly three apples high, they made a perfect portion. And in time, people got used to the color.

Smurf and Turf, anyone?

THURSDAY RANDOM TEN

Ahhh...So Happy It’s Thursday™!

What, pray tell, is Elisson doing posting his Friday Random Ten on Thursday? You may well ask.

Tomorrow morning, as soon as I have dispensed with my morning minyan obligations, I will be headed off to the Baltimore (pronounced “Ballmer” by the locals) area for a training session - part of my preparation for assuming a leadership role in the Southeastern Region of the International Federation of Jewish Men’s Clubs.

Blogging over the next several days will be sporadic to nonexistent, alas.

The Missus will most likely use the Elisson-Free Weekend to run down to Savannah and visit the Mistress of Sarcasm. I am envious. My weekend will be filled with breakout sessions and presentations - as much as you can do over a weekend considering that writing on Shabbat is verboten. Her weekend will be filled with Mother-Daughter Fun.

But in the meantime, we have Choons to listen to, all lovingly selected in Random Sequence by the Little White Choon-Box d’Elisson...

1. Tapajos River - Philip Glass
   
2. Fred Jones Part 2 - Ben Folds
   
   Fred sits alone at his desk in the dark
   There’s an awkward young shadow that waits in the hall
   He’s cleared all his things and he’s put them in boxes
   Things that remind him: “Life has been good”
   
   Twenty-five years
   He’s worked at the paper
   A man’s here to take him downstairs
   And I’m sorry, Mr. Jones
   It’s time
   
   There was no party, there were no songs
   ’Cause today’s just a day like the day that he started
   No one is left here that knows his first name
   And life barrels on like a runaway train
   Where the passengers change
   They don’t change anything
   You get off; someone else can get on
   
   And I’m sorry, Mr. Jones
   It’s time
   
   Streetlight shines through the shades
   Casting lines on the floor, and lines on his face
   He reflects on the day
   
   Fred gets his paints out and goes to the basement
   Projecting some slides onto a plain white
   Canvas and traces it
   Fills in the spaces
   He turns off the slides, and it doesn’t look right
   Yeah, and all of these bastards
   Have taken his place
   He’s forgotten but not yet gone
   
   And I’m sorry, Mr. Jones
   And I’m sorry, Mr. Jones
   And I’m sorry, Mr. Jones
   It’s time
   
   
3. The National Anthem - Radiohead
   
4. Every Mother’s Son - Traffic
   
5. No One Mourns The Wicked - Wicked, Original Cast Recording
   
6. Toccata & Fugue in D Minor - Wendy Carlos, Switched-On Bach 2000
   
7. Purpose - Avenue Q, Original Broadway Cast
   
8. Bodhisattva - Steely Dan
   
9. I Got A Line On You - Spirit
   
10. Native Son - The Judybats
    

It’s Friday. What are you listening to?

BINARY

                   MIA (OS)
        Now I'm gonna ask you a bunch of
        quick questions I've come up with
        that more of less tell me what kind
        of person I'm having dinner with.
        My theory is that when it comes to
        important subjects, there's only
        two ways a person can answer.  For
        instance, there's two kinds of
        people in this world, Elvis people
        and Beatles people.  Now Beatles
        people can like Elvis.  And Elvis
        people can like the Beatles.  But
        nobody likes them both equally.
        Somewhere you have to make a
        choice.  And that choice tells me
        who you are.

                    VINCENT
        I can dig it.

                    MIA (OS)
        I knew you could.  First question,
        Brady Bunch or the Partridge
        Family?

                    VINCENT
        The Partridge Family all the way,
        no comparison.

                    MIA (OS)
        On "Rich Man, Poor Man," who did
        you like, Peter Strauss or Nick
        Nolte?

                    VINCENT
        Nick Nolte, of course.

                    MIA (OS)
        Are you a "Bewitched" man, or a
        "Jeannie" man?

                    VINCENT
        "Bewitched," all the way, though I
        always dug how Jeannie always
        called Larry Hagman "master."

                    MIA (OS)
        If you were "Archie," who would you
        fuck first, Betty or Veronica?
                           
                    VINCENT
        Betty.  I never understood Veronica
        attraction.

Filmgoers will immediately recognize the above exchange from Pulp Fiction, Quentin Tarantino’s magnum opus.

The premise of the scene is that there are, in many areas of life, two choices, and one must come down on one side or the other. You cannot straddle the fence.

Do you know where you stand?

Elvis or the Beatles.

Betty or Veronica.

Bewitched or I Dream of Jeannie.

Dick York or Dick Sargent.

Contemporary Western Civilization or Radical Islam.

And, possibly most important of all...

Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs (1937)


Baby Bottleneck (1946)

Disney or Warner Brothers?

[Tip o’ th’ Elisson fedora to John Kricfalusi for putting up these fine animated clips.]

LET ’EM EAT CAKE

Back when I was a wee lad, I developed an unfortunate affection for Tasty Pastries. Unfortunate, yes: for it has been a millstone around my neck in the daily struggle against excess avoirdupois. And yet...I would not part with my memories of the Goodies of Yesteryear.

I have written in these pages of my deep and abiding love for pie. It is a love that came unto me through the back door. Literally. For that is where the Dugan Man would appear, twice a week, to sell us our quotidian supply of coconut custard pie, Corn Toastettes, and blueberry tarts. I’m sure that, even today, I am still wearing some of those coconut custard pies around my midriff.

Dugan’s wasn’t the only option if you wanted pies and cakes. Entenmann’s, now a household name throughout the country, was a local operation back in my Snot-Nose Days. Their chocolate-covered doughnuts make the offerings from Krispy Kreme and Dunkin’ Donuts - fresh-made though they may be - pallid and nasty by comparison.

[You are probably thinking, “What up wit’ all da store-bought cake and pie?” It’s simple: My mother was not a baker. I remember her baking exactly one cake in the entire time I lived at home, from earliest childhood until after college. It wasn’t bad. It was some sort of spice cake, and I can still remember its cinnamon-rich aroma. But the Momma d’Elisson cared not how good it may have tasted or smelled. She only knew that baking a cake was a bigger pain in the ass than buying one from the Dugan man. It was not until I was in high school that I met people whose mothers actually baked fresh pies and cakes every day. WTF!??!]

Most people in the States are familiar with Hostess cakes. Those dark, incredibly sweet cupcakes with the squirt of cream filling and that asphaltum-like slab of icing with its signature squiggle of white running down the center...the infamous Twinkies...the Hostess Sno-Ball, like a junior-sized cupcake (complete with filling squirt), except in lieu of the icing slab there was an insulating jacket of springy fluorescent pink marshmallow specially developed by NASA. But we had our local options, too. In New York it was Drake’s Cakes. Their products resembled the Hostess line-up, but they had something called the Devil Dog that was perversity itself: a “bun” consisting of two vaguely bun-shaped chocolate cakes, surrounding a “hot dog” that was nothing more or less than a monster pile of Creamy White Filling.

To this day, our rabbi insists on breaking his Yom Kippur fast with a Devil Dog.

Alas, Drake’s Cakes are no longer independent, having been subsumed by Interstate Bakeries Corporation, the conglomerate that produces Hostess Cakes. Dolly Madison Cakes? Same story.

Philadelphians, of course, have their Tastykakes. If you visit Philly without experiencing (1) a soft pretzel with mustard, (2) a Philly cheesesteak, and (3) Tastykakes, then you have wasted your trip.

Upon moving South, I discovered one of the regional specialities: the Moon Pie. I had had these things up North (Burry, the outfit that sold ’em, called ’em Scooter Pies) and had thought them loathesome, but down South the same confection seemed to have a special cachet. Velociman would probably explain it as the Gourmandise of the Retarded, but I tend to not judge the Moon Pie so harshly. I can embrace it. I simply do not eat it...with or without the traditional RC Cola accompaniment.

But there is yet another Regional Speciality in these parts, one that has its fervent partisans while at the same time inspiring horror in the hearts of those who have not, as yet, acquired a taste for the Un-Chocolate...

MORNING SUN

Hakuna enjoys the morning sun.

Hakuna is the more shy and retiring of our two cats. She likes to sit under the chair at the top of our front staircase, where her smaller and more aggressive sister Matata usually will not bother her.

That thing sitting atop the chair is a cat bed. Once in a blue moon, one of the cats (usually Matata, who likes confined spaces) will actually sleep in it.

The morning sun casts a wan, watery sort of light through the balusters on these winter mornings. Winter or summer, I like to see the interplay of light and dark at the top of the stairs...but the winter sun is more gentle. It seems to fit Hakuna’s personality: a cat that will not walk upon you but that will curl up next to you as you sit on the sofa. And like the winter sun, Hakuna somehow manages to keep you warm.

IT’S A LIVING: A 100-WORD JOB DESCRIPTION

In my new job, I’m what you might call a specialist.

My profession is not noted for being selective about its clients. “If you got the dime, I’ve got the time” is the order of the day for most of my colleagues. Me, I’ve got standards.

My customers are all in the pipe and fixtures business.

Hey, it makes sense. The guys have plenty of cash - hell, they make more than surgeons. And they have needs.

I have needs too. My new job helps pay for my “medication.”

I’m not just a crack whore. I’m a plumber’s crack whore.

MINDLESS AMUSEMENT

That’s the order of the day here at Blog d’Elisson...and we are assisted mightily in that endeavor by this fine Web-Site.

I encourage you to click the link. Hours of Fun for the Feebleminded await.

[Tip o’ th’ Elisson fedora to Freddie of Warts & All for the link. Another Fedora-Tip goes to Lisa for pointing me to Freddie’s site.]

Everyone loves popping bubblewrap, but my connection to that Fine Substance is more personal. Over the years, some of my responsibilities at The Great Corporate Salt Mine have included sales...and as fate would have it, one of my accounts was the world’s premier manufacturer of bubblewrap. So, if you’re a veteran bubblewrap-popper, some of those bubbles you’ve popped very likely were made of polyethylene that I sold!

VEEN-OH!

Tonight was the Sommelier Guild of Atlanta’s January tasting, featuring the Bordeaux wines of 2000.

Denny, the Grouchy Old Wino Cripple, inveigled me into joining the Guild, and tonight was the first tasting I attended as a full-fledged member. (I had gone to the Guild’s Pinot Noir dinner in November as Denny’s guest but had missed the Champagne tasting in December owing to my travel schedule.)

What did we drink? Inquiring minds want to know...

[All vintage 2000 unless otherwise noted]

Speaker’s Wine:
Gravier Lacoste Blanc 2005

Flight #1:
Alter Ego (Margaux)
Pavillon Rouge (Margaux)
Clos du Marquis (St. Julien)

Flight #2:
Comtesse de Lalande (Pauillac)
Forts de Latour (Pauillac)
Pontet Canet (Pauillac)

Flight #3:
La Dame de Montrose (St. Estèphe)
Pagodas de Cos (St. Estèphe)
La Dominique (St. Emilion)

My personal favorite among all of these was the Pontet Canet, although the Forts de Latour (the crowd-pleaser) was hot on its heels. The Pavillon Rouge and the Dominique were also standouts...but there was not a lemon in the bunch. And as if all that were not enough, a few bottles got passed around as lagniappe after the tasting: a Château Haut-Brion (Graves) 1993 and a Château Lynch-Bages (Pauillac) 1985. Serious wines, these.

No dinner, per se, just piles of nice cheeses, grapes, and pâté to help absorb the alcohol and offer a counterpoint to the Veen-Oh.

Denny regaled us with tales of his just-concluded trip to Snowmass, and we talked a whole lot about topics ranging from Drinkage to Bloggage to Music. The boy is a Renaissance man, for sure.

Now to drift off to a fragrant sleep, a sleep perfumed by the Noble Grape...

Sucks to be us, don’t it?

A TALE OF WOE-RILLA

One of our Blown-Star Blodgers, Walrilla, has fallen into a bit of bad health, having had his left foot amputated below the knee last Friday.

Those of us who have met Walrilla know that underneath his fearsome outward appearance lurks a gentle soul. Gentle, perhaps; yet he can still hang with the likes of Eric the Blade, Chipmunk-Man, and the GOC without missing a beat. Anyone who can stay awake long enough to watch Mullet-Boy pack it in has definitely got what it takes. The boy has stamina.

And he will need it. It won’t be easy being a Walrilla minus one flipper - but fortunately, you don’t blog with your feet.

Please stop by and wish the Bewhiskered One a speedy recovery.

A tip o’ th’ Elisson fedora goes to El Capitan and to the Confabulator for spreading the news.

YUMMY

That’s the word for Carnival of the Recipes #125, which may be found over at New Hampshire State of Mind.

A new State Motto may be in order. How ’bout “Eat Well or Die”?

OUR NEW PET

Plissken, the snake.

She Who Must Be Obeyed got us a cuddly new pet this afternoon.

Plissken - that’s what I call him - is a little guy, only about six inches from stem to stern. But I figure a diet of small mammals will get him up to size pretty quickly.

I wonder how well he’ll get along with the cats.

TICKETY-BOO: A 100-WORD STORY

By the year 2032, advances in medical technology had made organ transplantation practically foolproof.

No longer did patients take anti-rejection drugs for a lifetime, waiting for their new organs to fail. One shot was all it took. Everything but the brain could be transplanted; lifespans of 135 years became common.

Only problem was, not enough raw material. Cloning might’ve helped, but the religious right killed that possibility. Then came the Anticrime Omnibus Bill of 2037.

All of which explains why Stewart, who had just received his third parking ticket, was headed for the organ banks.

Fucking parking meters, he thought.

JEOPARDY!

I’m sure many of my Esteemed Readers occasionally watch Jeopardy!, one of that rarest of all things: an intelligent television quiz show.

I know from Television Quiz Shows, having been on one a few times. And Jeopardy! is the king of ’em all, owing to its combination of challenging questions, interesting categories, the possibility of winning real money, and the elements of strategy and quick thinking that contestants must demonstrate. The unusual “we give you the answer, you give us the question” format gives it an extra fillip.

At dinner the other night, sometime between the salad and the Spinach Tortellini, a whole new Jeopardy! category popped into my head, one which they have never, to my knowledge, used on the show. Alien Civilizations!

People who are familiar with the classic canon of Science Fiction - movies, books, and television - should have no problem providing the questions to these Jeopardy!-style answers. The corresponding questions are below the fold.

Alien Civilizations

The Answers:

200 Dollars
Don’t get too attached to these aliens, frequent nemeses of Captain Kirk.

400 Dollars
He and his robot landed in Washington, but their mission of peace was endangered when a nervous soldier’s bullet nicked ’im.

600 Dollars
He started out as “Enemy Mine,” but a member of this race turned out just fine.

800 Dollars
In the film Forbidden Planet, their advanced civilization was no match for the cruel monsters unleashed from their own subconscious minds.

1000 Dollars
They were able to send out emissaries bearing the solution to the world’s problems, wanting only “To Serve Man.”

The Questions:

200 Dollars
Who are the Klingons?

400 Dollars
Who was Klaatu?

600 Dollars
Who were the Dracs?

800 Dollars
Who were the Krell?

1000 Dollars
Who were the Kanamit?

RALPH, WE HARDLY KNEW YE

[More bad news from the Georgia Aquarium, which suffered the second loss of a major attraction in as many weeks. Herewith a Déja Blogpost...]


Ralph, the late whale shark.

Atlanta is again in mourning upon hearing the tragic news that Gasper Ralph, one of the Georgia Aquarium’s celebrated beluga whales whale sharks and a favorite among visitors, died unexpectedly.

Gasper had been suffering from osteomyelitis, a bone infection, and his condition had deteriorated in the past several weeks. Ralph had recently suffered a loss of appetite and a deterioration in swimming patterns. Jeff Swanagan, the Aquarium’s executive director, said that when staff members noted that Ralph had stopped swimming Thursday afternoon, they put him in a sling and began intensive treatment.

“We rescued Gasper knowing that he was seriously ill, but were hopeful that we might have been able to save him,” said Bernie Marcus, Georgia Aquarium benefactor and chairman of the board.“At 1:30, Ralph was observed not swimming,” Swanagan said. “Our husbandry staff and veterinary staff gave him medical attention, and they did that for eight straight hours.”

“The entire staff is saddened by what has happened today.”

Surviving Ralph are tankmates Norton (a male), Alice and Trixie (females).

In related news, the Georgia Aquarium today announced plans to build a 50,000-gallon 200,000-gallon capacity toilet bowl to facilitate disposal of the remains.

FRIDAY RANDOM TEN

Geez, is it Friday already?

Yes it is - and that means it’s time for this week’s Friday Random Ten, the incredibly self-indulgent exercise in which I post whatever miscellaneous assortment of Musical Narrischkeit (that means foolishness, for those of my Esteemed Readers who are Yiddish-impaired) the iPod d’Elisson poops out.

What’s on the box today? Whaddaya say we take a look:

1. Stagger Lee - Professor Longhair
   
   It was early, early one morning
   When I heard my bulldog bark -
   He was barking at the two men
   Who was gambling in the dark.
   
   It was Stagger Lee and Billy Lyons, boys
   And they gambled there very late
   Every time Stag threw seven,
   Billy Lyons told him that he threw eight.
   
   Stagger Lee lost all of his money
   And he lost his Cadillac
   He said, “I believe you been cheatin’, Billy -
   Don’t be here when I come back.”
   
   Stagger Lee went home
   And he knocked upon little Bertha’s door
   He said, “Wake up, little Bertha, baby
   And hand me my .44.”
   
   You know, Bertha jumped out of the bed, screaming
   Boys, she was lookin’ at Stagger Lee’s eyes
   She said, “Come on in, honey,
   I can see some poor man’s gonna die.”
   
   Stagger Lee told Bertha
   That he had lost his brand-new Cadillac
   But he believed Billy was cheatin’,
   And she knew he didn’t go for that.
   
   Stagger Lee went back on the corner
   Boys, he stood up in the barroom door
   He said, “Don’t nobody move,
   ’Cause I got my .44.”
   
   You know, Stagger Lee shot Billy Lyons
   Oh, he shot the poor boy so fast
   The bullet went through Billy
   And it broke the bartender’s glass.
   
   Billy Lyons started to holler,
   He cried, “Stag, don’t take my life -
   You know I got two little children
   And a poor little old sickly wife.”
   
   Stagger Lee told Billy,
   “Yes, I know you got a cute boy and girl,
   But if you wanna see your family, Billy,
   Meet ’em in another world.”
   
   
2. Fortuna Imperatrix Mundi - Christian Thielemann, Orff: Carmina Burana
   
3. It’s In The Subtext - James Newton Howard, King Kong (2005)
   
4. Houses - Mitch Hedberg
   
5. Chop ’Em Down - Matisyahu
   
6. Life’s Been Good - Joe Walsh
   
7. Jesu, Joy Of Man’s Desiring - Wendy Carlos, Switched-On Bach 2000
   
8. Dona Dona - Moishe Oysher and Sholom Secunda
   
9. Everything You Did - Steely Dan
   
10. Chinese Combo Number 5 - Weird Al Yankovic
    

It’s Friday. What are you listening to?

FUZZY FRIDAY

Tig.


Gracie.

Tig and Gracie, the resident cats at Yourish.com, welcome you to today’s Friday Ark, the 121st edition of which is now sailing off into the deep blue Bloggy-Sphere Sea over at the Modulator.

And it’s as good a time as any to remind you that Carnival of the Cats #147 will be up this coming Sunday evening at Pet’s Garden Blog.

Kitties! Gotta love ’em.

Update: CotC #147 is up.

TIMEQUACK

[Following is my entry in the January, 2007 installment of Blogging for Books, Jay Allen’s venerable competition at The Zero Boss. This month, B4B changes over to a new format, one which more properly might be called Blogging for Bucks. Regardless, I haven’t participated in quite some time...and since this month’s topic is Time, I couldn’t resist.]

The Time Traveller began his story, sitting back in his chair at first, and speaking wearily. Afterwards he got more animated. In writing it down I feel with only too much keenness the inadequacy of pen and ink - and, above all, my own inadequacy - to express its quality. You read, I will suppose, attentively enough; but you cannot see the speaker’s white, sincere face in the bright circle of the little lamp, nor hear the intonation of his voice. You cannot know how his expression followed the turns of his story! At first we glanced now and again at each other. After a time we ceased to do that, and looked only at the Time Traveller’s face.

“I told some of you last Thursday of the principles of the Time Machine, and showed you the actual thing itself, incomplete in the workshop. There it is now, a little travel-worn; one of the ivory bars is cracked and a rail bent, but it’s sound enough.

“It was at ten o’ cluck today that the first of all Time Machines began its career. I gave it a last tap, put a dab of goose grease on the quartz rod, and sat in the saddle. I suppose someone facing a hunter’s shotgun feels much the same fear and wonder about what is to happen next as I felt then. I pressed the starting lever and almost immediately the stopping lever; I felt a sensation of flying; and, looking round, I saw the laboratory almost exactly as before. Had anything happened? Then I noticed the cluck. A moment before, it had stood at a minute past ten; now it was nearly half past three!

“I drew a breath, grasped the starting lever, and went off with a thud. The laboratory got hazy and went dark. Huey and Dewey came in and waddled, apparently without seeing me, towards the pond. I suppose it must have taken them a minute or so to traverse the room, but to me they seemed to shoot across like an eagle in flight.

“As I gained speed, night followed day like the flapping of a wing. The dim walls of the laboratory fell away; I suppose the house must have been destroyed. The sun leaped across the sky every few seconds, each passage marking a day; eventually, as I gained pace, it became a band of fire that swayed from solstice to solstice, marking the passage of the years.

“The landscape grew misty and vague, the surface of the earth melting and flowing before my eyes. Eventually my thoughts came round to the idea of stopping. I pulled the stop lever over - a little too fast, it turns out, and found myself next to an overturned machine in the year 802,701.

“Almost immediately, I was surrounded by a crowd of what I took at first to be ducklings. They were small and delicate in appearance and spoke in a soft, liquid tongue, quacking gently as they probed me and my machine with inquisitive feathers. After extended bouts of pantomime (for which my education at the Colorado School of Mimes more than adequately prepared me!), we were able to make ourselves mutually understood.

“They called themselves the Muscoveloi, and their diminutive size was, as I discovered, natural to their species. As I spent more and more time with them, I saw that they lived lives of careless indolence, their every need provided for by some mysterious agency. Crusts of bread appeared on the surface of the pond as they swam, insects and fish were plentiful. None of them appeared to be starving; in fact, I observed that, among them, none appeared to be elderly. I also saw no evidence of sickness or disease - no avian influenza - during the entire time I spent among them.

“As I spent more time exploring this world of the far future, I became aware of the presence of strange shafts - mineshafts? I wondered - that led to some sort of subterranean structure. These I resolved to explore.

“It was at the bottom of one of these shafts that I made a grim discovery. The Muscoveloi were not alone in this world; beneath them lived another race of waterfowl, a race that had become thoroughly adapted to life in a nearly sunless environment. Their feathers were a pallid white, their eyes huge and pink, no doubt extremely sensitive to the low levels of light in their underground home. I could not understand their language; however, later, one of the Muscoveloi explained that these creatures were known as Mallardlocks.

“The Muscoveloi, I saw, were alternately disgusted and horrified by the Mallardlocks. To attempt to talk of them was akin to telling a filthy joke to a refined lady. This attitude mystified me, especially as I had deduced that the Mallardlocks were the providers of the Muscoveloi’s bounty. Not only did they ensure that there was plenty of bread and insects to eat, they also maintained the ponds and swimming areas, keeping them swept clean of Duck Dookie. Why, then, were these Underground Brethren so reviled?

“It did not take me long to find out. On one of my subterranean expeditions, I could not help but notice the remains of a carnivorous meal. Upon closer examination, the nature of what I was seeing struck me with horror: These were duck bones!

“Cannibals! The Mallardlocks were cannibals!

“I tried to understand what had divided Duckdom in twain. Surely, the Muscoveloi were the descendants of the moneyed leisure classes, thousands of generations removed from their Ludwig von Drake-like ancestors. The Mallardlocks must have originally been their servants, the working-class ducks. As their habitats grew more and more apart from one another, they became socially estranged, eventually becoming two separate species. As I see it, the Upper-world duck had drifted towards his feeble prettiness, and the Under-world to mere mechanical industry. Then, at some point, the feeding of the Under-world became disjointed. The Mallardlocks being in contact with machinery, which, however perfect, still needs some brains to keep in operating condition, had probably retained rather more initiative, if less of every other ducklike character, than the Upper. And when other sustenance failed them, they turned to what old habit had hitherto forbidden. Poultry!

“And so I came back. For a long time I must have lain insensible upon the machine. The hands spun backward upon the dials; the landscape ebbed and flowed; the familiar buildings of Duckburg grew back. The laboratory sprang up around me. Presently I pressed the stopping lever and brought the Time Machine to a halt. I came in, and now I am telling you this story.

“I know that all this will be absolutely incredible to you. I cannot expect you to believe it. Take it as a dream - or a prophecy. A tall tale. And, taking it as a tall tale, what do you think of it?”

At first, nobody spoke. Then Filby cleared his throat.

“To tell ye the truth, George, I think it’s a wee bit Daffy.”

[Apologies to H. G. Wells. Some material used herein has been excerpted rather freely from The Time Machine, which novelette is now in the public domain in the United States.]

COMFY

Hakuna and Matata.

Nothing says “Comfy” like two Cat-Sisters all snuggled up together.

CRAP HITS PRIME TIME

And no, I’m not referring to the usual Fine Quality of the material on the Boob Choob.

I’m talking about this fine preview video for the January 18 episode of Scrubs, which I spotted over at The Zero Boss. Jay, the Zero Boss hizzownself, in turn snarfed it from Mamacita, who writes at the appropriately titled Scheiss Weekly.

The Missus and I both think Scrubs is one of the best comedies on television, one that has never received the attention it deserves. And ya gotta love a show that will stage an entire musical number around the Diagnostic Capabilities of Excrement Analysis...a topic that has surfaced here in recent weeks.

Somehow, you, my Esteemed Readers, knew that this video would find a home on this site, didn’t you?

Watch and enjoy “Everything Comes Down To Poo.” And see how many synonyms for “poo” you can count.

CHICKENING IN

Or, the Act of Eating Poultry at Home.

Last night we had our friend Debbie M. and her mother over for dinner, in observance of Debbie’s birthday. Of course, I’m too much of a gentleman to reveal which birthday, but it suffices to know that a couple of nickels were involved.

That’s vague enough, innit? After all, this country did, at one time, make a nickel three-cent piece.

The four of us had a very pleasant evening, complete with Ceremonial Birthday Cake. But how can you have any pudding cake if you don’t eat your meat? Answer: You cannot. And so we preceded the cake with a meal that included…chicken!

The Missus prepared a nice Insalata Caprese: sliced mini-tomatoes, each decorated with a slice of fresh mozzarella and a basil leaf, drizzled with extra-virgin olive oil and with a sprinkling of fleur de sel, that most eminent form of sea salt.

Meanwhile, I ginned out some Roasted Garlic Mashed Potatoes, having roasted a handful of whole garlic heads the previous day. I had greased the garlic heads up nicely with olive oil, then roasted them at 350°F for an hour, until the flesh within was nice and tender. Using my handy-dandy ricer (kinda like a giant garlic press) I squooshed the softened garlicky goodness out of the heads, reserving it for later use. And now was the time. A couple of teaspoons of this fragrant garlic goo, added to three Idaho Russets (peeled, cut into chunks, then boiled for 30 minutes and put through the ricer) jacked the flavor profile up nicely. Whisk in some butter and hot milk to get the texture right, dot with more butter, and you’re good to go.

For a green vegetable, I sautéed up some broccoli rabe - the leafy, slightly bitter cousin to plain ol’ broccoli - with olive oil and garlic.

For the entrée, I had decided on something chickeny. How about something involving Pounded Chicken Titz? Why not?

Chicken Bazoom Roll-ups Florentine à la mode d’Elisson

4 boneless chicken breasts
One pound fresh spinach
4 oz Pecorino Romano cheese
Olive oil
¼ cup dried currants
½ cup pine nuts
4 cloves garlic, minced
Freshly ground black pepper

First, toast the pine nuts in a hot skillet until golden brown. Be careful not to burn ’em. Set aside.

Soak the currants in a cupful of hot water for 10-15 minutes. Drain; set aside.

Place a chicken breast on a heavy cutting board and cover with a layer of plastic wrap. Using the flat side of a meat tenderizing mallet, pound that sucker flat. Repeat for the remaining chicken breasts.

In a sauté pan or skillet, heat a few tablespoons of olive oil. Add about half the minced garlic, then throw in the spinach. Cook it down until soft and dark green, then add the currants and pine nuts. (Save a few pine nuts to sprinkle on the completed roll-ups.) Grate in half of the Pecorino Romano. Stir well, take off the heat.

Now, take a flattened chicken breast. Put a couple of tablespoons of the spinach mixture in the center and flatten with the spoon. Roll up the chicken breast into a cylinder, trapping the spinach mixture within. Secure with a wooden toothpick and place into a baking dish. Repeat for the other breasts.

Drizzle the chicken breast roll-ups with olive oil, then sprinkle with the reserved garlic and pine nuts, plus a few twists of the pepper mill. Grate the remaining Pecorino Romano over the chicken.

Bake in a 350°F oven for 40 minutes. Don’t forget to remove the toothpicks before eating! Alternatively, the finished roll-ups may be sliced into attractive rounds before serving, if you’re sufficiently anal and Martha-Stewartish.

CUTTING EDGE

Eric the Blade recently posted on the topic of Pocket Knives, being of the opinion that everyone should carry one. They are, in his words, “useful things to have around.”

I can’t claim to have anything like Eric’s Cold Steel, the very blade that has convinced me that Off-Color Limericks are best shared in the most selective of circumstances, but I have a small assortment of pocket knives of varying degrees of utility. And my experience with knives goes back over fifty years, to my Snot-Nose Days.

In these electronic pages, I have previously related the tale of my first experience with a pocket knife, an ill-advised gift from my parents (!) when I had attained the tender age of four. What were they thinking?

These days, I’m like as not to carry a Schrade Old-Timer, a simple, uncomplicated folding knife. It’s razor-sharp, not too big, but it has come in handy on numerous occasions.


The Schrade Old-Timer.

Years ago, I never traveled anywhere without my Leatherman tool, that multiple-purpose Gew-Gaw of which a knife is just one of many components. It would nestle in my briefcase during my various business travels, at least until airport security procedures made it impossible to carry around.

Damn useful, that Leatherman. The first time I ever saw one, I was traveling with one of my direct reports, a tall, lanky fellow with a Julius Caesar haircut who was partial to lugging his papers around in a big black Jeppesen case. You know the kind: Airline captains use ’em to schlep their flight manuals around in. Big and boxy-looking.

There must’ve been forty pounds of crap in that case of his. One cold January day, while we were dining with one of his accounts in Grand Rapids, Michigan, the handle to his Jeppesen gave up the ghost. Sheer overwork is what did it.

Not to worry, though. My guy was resourceful, as befits someone who styled himself “The Old Yankee Resin Pedlar.” He simply grabbed a wire hanger from the restaurant’s coat closet and used his Leatherman to make an on-the-spot temporary repair, one that was good enough to last until he got home. Just Damn! I decided right then and there that I needed one of those Leatherman sumbitches for myself.

Pocket knives are only part of the picture. We’ve got other knives, too. No household is complete without a set of fine kitchen blades. For years, we have relied on our Henckels knives for all-around kitchen tasks, and, thanks to the generosity of SWMBO’s brother (a frequent commenter here under the moniker Bro in-Law d’Elisson), we’ve supplemented these with an impressive set of Cutco cutlery.

We bought the Henckels knives here in Atlanta in the early 1980’s. They were so razor-sharp that the saleslady who was wrapping them up for us gave herself a good slice without realizing it. If we hadn’t alerted her to the bloody mess she was trailing thoughout the Housewares department, who knows when she would have noticed it?

I’ve got to agree with ol’ Eric. Knives are extremely useful tools to have around. In that rare event when you have to dig a bullet out of your ass, you don’t want to be stuck with only a plastic Carvel spoon.

WHAT DO GIRLS DO...

...when they go to the Ladies’ Room en masse? (Aside from the obvious, ya disgusting bastidge.)


The Mistress of Sarcasm, SWMBO, and Elder Daughter.

Why, they take pictures!

This one is from the Ladies’ Room at Wildfire, a new restaurant at Perimeter Mall that is not actually in the mall, but is located at the edge of the mall grounds. Yep: It’s on the perimeter of Perimeter.

And it’s where we dined on New Year’s Eve, when this image was captured.

Mark my words: Cameraphones will spell the end of society as we know it. No more privacy. But then again, we will be able to take crapblogging to new heights...

FROM THE ELISSON ARCHIVE

Elder Daughter, circa 1996.

Beauty and grace are characteristics that I lack, but of which the ladies in my life have a-plenty.

As evidence, I submit this photograph of Elder Daughter, taken during one of her myriad dance recitals back in High School. Later, she would go on to choreograph and perform in shows at university.

The memory of some of those shows still brings a tear to my eye when I remember how proud I was of our daughter’s prodigious talents.

And she had talented friends, too. Look at the young lady on the far right. One of Elder Daughter’s best friends when this picture was taken, Erica Mansfield went directly to New York after being graduated from high school, there to pursue her dream of acting and dancing onstage. We last saw her a couple of years ago, when Mamma Mia! played at the Fox Theatre in Atlanta. Today, you can catch her at the Winter Garden Theatre in New York. Broadway!

WHAT’S IN A NAME?

Does this ever happen to you?

You’re happily minding your own business, when, suddenly, you are struck by the laugh-out-loud ridiculousness of a given word or name.

Suddenly, that word - whatever it may be - sounds completely silly. You can’t help thinking about it, and the more you try not to, the more it jams itself into your consciousness.

It has nothing to do with the word’s meaning. It has everything to do with how it sounds, and sometimes, how it’s spelled.

For She Who Must Be Obeyed, one word that pegs her Ridiculometer needle is “desk.”

Say it to yourself a few dozen times. You might begin to feel that “desk” is a ridiculous word, too.

In my case, I am frequently bedeviled by a Proper Noun. A name.

It’s a name that, through no fault of its owner, makes me want to laugh out loud.

Maeve Binchy.

Say it a few times. Let it roll around on your tongue. Maeve Binchy. Maeve Binchy.

God-damn! what a ridiculous assemblage of syllables. Maeve! Binchy!

Maeve Binchy is a real person. An author, no less, with at least fourteen novels, five short story collections, and a novella to her credit.

I have never read any of her books. I am not likely ever to read any of her books. I just can’t get past the name, which, for no apparent reason, simply strikes me as humorous. And these are the kind of Random Thoughts I have concerning Ms. B.:

• Maeve Binchy is where America goes for seafood.
  
  
• Hefty Hefty Binch-Sak
  
  
• Don’t get your panties in a Binch.
  
  
• How about a nice Hawaiian Binch?

Now: Does this ever happen to you? Or do I belong in an institution?

And if the answer to the second question is “Yes,” do you belong there with me?

GET ON THE BUS

Hakuna reminds us to Get on the Bus - Leslie’s Omnibus, that is - and visit Carnival of the Cats #146, posted this afternoon. It’s Kitty-Licious!

SHAMPOO

The Missus and I went in for our haircuts yesterday. Every four weeks, we go in together to the same young lady who has been cutting our hair for eight years now.

Ya gotta love a Hair Lady who gives you Zorch-Shaped Chocolates for your birthday. Plus, she looks enough like SWMBO to be mistaken for her daughter. Happens all the time.

The Shampoo-Girl who washed my hair yesterday in preparation for my cut did an outstanding job. Massaged all the convolutions right outta my brain, she did. Why pay for a $500-a-night hooker when you can get pretty much the same amount of pleasure out of a head-massage, for less than a hundredth of the price?

It cannot be an easy job, though. You pretty much have to deal with whatever clientele comes in the door: the sad lot of the Shampoo-Girl.

No matter whether he was a heavy tipper or not, how much of a pain in the ass must it have been to shampoo the Elephant Man?

DINING OUT

We frequently join our friends Gary, JoAnn, Laura Belle, and Don for dinner Friday evenings. What with our various vacation and travel schedules over the past few weeks, tonight was the first night in several weeks that we could do our traditional Friday thing.

We generally stick close to home for our Friday evening outings, preferring to range farther afield on Saturday nights. Only problem with this is, East Cobb - our part of the Atlanta metroplex - is not exactly awash with restaurants. Most likely this is because of a long-ago decision by the Learned Elders of Cobb County, in which the county refused to be a part of the nascent Metropolitan Atlanta Rapid Transit Authority. As a result, restaurants in Cobb County would need to rely on the local supply of janitors, busboys, and waiters, the pool of low-cost labor available inside the Perimeter being inaccessible.

This means that some of the local eateries tend to be crowded on weekend evenings.

OK, I can deal with that. But tonight, a night marked by intermittent bursts of heavy rain, it seemed as though every frickin’ Tom, Dick, and Harry in East Cobb decided to eat out.

Most places around here will not take reservations (why should they bother?), so you end up dealing with the infamous Waiting List. Laura Belle made a few phone calls. Longhorn had a 90 minute wait (!). There are very few restaurants at which I am willing to wait an hour and a half for a table; Longhorn is not one of them.

We ended up at Houlihan’s, where the wait was estimated at 45 minutes. We figured that by the time we went anywhere else (where we also would have to wait), we would have killed at least that much time...so we stayed and schmoozed. Within 30 minutes, we had our table.

Houlihan’s has a menu that appears to have been written by a 27-year-old with a semi-snarky sense of humor. It’s mildly amusing. I’m happy to put up with it because the food is generally pretty good. I had the Mercury-Encrusted Salmon, and it was so good, I glowed in the dark. SWMBO ordered the Polish Onion Soup (it has a head of cabbage in it instead of a cheese-encrusted crouton), which also was a big hit.

Once upon a time, Houlihan’s had a menu item that beggared description. Really. It was a BLT made with an entire pound of bacon, served on two slices of bread that were sliced lengthwise from an entire Pullman loaf. I am not making this up.

I ordered it once. Once. Ate half of it, then took the other half home until it grew green hair in the back of the fridge. Why they took that gi-normous fuckin’ sammitch off the menu, I have no idea. Heart-healthy, my ass.

THE MISSIONARY: A 100-WORD STORY

Mortimer knew he was dying.

He had traveled to the deepest, darkest jungles of Africa to spread the Lord’s Good News. He had started a school and, later, opened a hospital that offered rudimentary health care to the impoverished natives of his village.

Rudimentary, indeed. They could do nothing there to save him.

He had hit the trifecta, coming down with amoebic dysentery, a monster tapeworm, and, finally, a raging case of cholera that had sapped his last reserves.

To die in your sleep is God’s kiss, Mortimer thought, ruefully.

But to shit yourself to death is God’s Hershey’s kiss.

FRIDAY RANDOM TEN

It’s Friday yet again, the first Friday in 2007.

After a two-week break, She Who Must Be Obeyed has returned to work. Elder Daughter and the Mistress of Sarcasm are back in their respective homes in Washington D.C. and Savannah, and I am once again in the saddle, riding the range for the Great Corporate Salt Mine.

It is quiet in the house. Too quiet. I need music!

Let’s take a look and see what my Little White Choon-Box has on tap for us today. Herewith this week’s Random Selection:

1. Distraught - Philip Glass, Kundun
   
2. Frownland - Captain Beefheart
   
3. Letterbox - They Might Be Giants
   
   I’ll never know what you’ll find when you open up your letter box tomorrow
   ’Cause a little bird never tells me anything I want to know, she’s my best friend, she’s a sparrow
   And I’ll never never know what you never never never want to know when you know what you are, O.
   
   If I had a pair of eyes on the back of my head for each time
   You forgot to take out all the things you forgot to talk about when you took a bite out of my spine,
   I would have a lot of eyes on me by this time wouldn’t I? Wouldn’t that just be fine.
   
   Too late or soon to make noise about love and there’s no time for sorrow
   Run around in the rain with a hole in the brain till tomorrow
   
   I’ll never know what you’ll find when you open up your letter box tomorrow
   ’Cause a little bird never tells me anything I want to know, she’s my best friend, she’s a sparrow
   And I’ll never never know what you never never never want to know when you know what you are, O.
   
   
4. Zvezda Rok-n-Rolla - Leningrad
   
5. All The Time In The World - Russell Garcia, The Time Machine (1960)
   
6. Fistful Of Steel - Rage Against The Machine
   
7. Yism’Khu - The Klezmer Conservatory Band
   
8. Blow Out - Radiohead & Portishead
   
9. Living Waters (Anima Mundi) - Philip Glass
   
10. How Many Hearts - Travis
    

It’s Friday. What are you listening to?

FUZZY FRIDAY

This was what popped out of my Fortune Cookie after a Chinese dinner with our Thursday night gang.

Don’t you believe it. I’m calling “Bullshit!” on that Fortune Cookie...because Friday is my least creative day of the week, as least as far as this site is concerned.

My Friday “content,” such as it is, generally consists of a Fuzzy Friday linkpost and my ridiculous Friday Random Ten. Both are decidedly unoriginal, although I try to keep the Random Ten interesting by adding commentary and posting lyrics of selected tunes.

Ahh, well. Might as well get on with the Uncreative Content...

This week’s Friday Ark is up today (surprise!) at the Modulator (more surprise!) It’s Edition Number 120, chock full of Kitties, Puppies, and...Horsies?

Be sure, as well, to visit the upcoming 146th Edition of Carnival of the Cats, which is set to be posted Sunday evening at Leslie’s Omnibus. Leslie is not only a premier Catblogger; she is also a friend and a Fine Lady - so be sure to stop by and tell her Elisson sent ya!

FROM THE ELISSON ARCHIVE

Mr. and Mrs. Debonair, September 1998.

This photo, excavated from the Elisson Archive, shows Mr. and Mrs. Debonair attending a formal wedding at the River Oaks Country Club in Houston. Yes, we used to live in Texas (although this photograph was taken two months after we had relocated to Atlanta).

But do not get the idea that it was always champagne and caviar, tie and tails with Mr. Debonair. Living in Texas had its Earthy Aspects, too.


The Official State Uniform of Texas, circa 1992.

Take, for example, the Official State Uniform of Texas, modeled above by Yours Truly.

Yes, it’s the One-Piece Polyester Texas Old-Guy Jumpsuit!

I don’t know where else these outfits are popular, but I discovered, upon moving to Texas in 1974, that every male over the age of fifty not only owned a closet full of these Bad Boys; he would actually wear the fuckin’ things. Ye Gods!

I received the specimen above as a gag gift on my fortieth birthday, which means the photograph above likely dates from around 1992. Dapper, ain’t it?

I can’t understand the attraction these things hold for Texans...or whoever else might wear ’em. For one thing, they’re a lot trickier to remove in a hurry...say, for example, if you have a Bowel Emergency. When I’m dealing with Mr. Turtlehead, the last thing I want to have on my mind is how to get out of my clothes.

HOW DRY I AM

Matata’s love of confined spaces has been documented extensively on this site.

Matata’s love of warm places has also been documented extensively on this site.

Now: what spot combines both Beloved Attributes to make a perfect Kitty Nesting Place?



Why, the Clothes Dryer, of course!

Of course, it’s not exactly an original concept...

The Mistress of Sarcasm, age 19 months.

Yes, back when she was a little bitty thing, the Mistress discovered the joys of nesting in the clothes dryer. It may, in part, explain the extreme aversion she has today for amusement park rides.

POD PEOPLE

Are invited to subscribe to my 100 Word Stories Podcast. It’s free! And, best yet, since each ’sode is short (only 100 words, plus a short musical intro), you don’t need to waste your entire day listening to me...just a little slice of your day.

If you use iTunes, just click here.

If you prefer Podcast Ready, click here.

Or just paste this RSS feed address into your podcast subscription software:

http://podcasting.isfullofcrap.com/elisson.xml

And if you’re really lazy, just click on the Pupu Player button on the sidebar. You know, the one that looks like this:



It’ll open up a player in a new window. Minutes of Useless Amusement!

A tip o’ th’ Elisson fedora goes to Laurence Simon, who operates the main 100 Word Stories Podcast site and who has graciously created a separate feed for my crap. Thanks, Lair!

THE EYES HAVE IT

Eric, the Straight White Guy, shares with me a love of Epic Verse. Anyone who encounters Eric in the convivial setting of a blogmeet is, in fact, likely to be schooled in the finer points of the poetry of Robert W. Service, the Bard of the North Woods.

At the legendary Helen Blown-Eyed Blodgemeet of 2005, within minutes of my first meeting him, Eric (1) complained that his site was not on my blogroll (an omission that was rapidly corrected), (2) threatened me with that razor-sharp Pig-Sticker he carries around, (3) offered me Strong Drink, and (4) treated me to a Recitation at Length of a classic Robert W. Service poem, The Ballad of Blasphemous Bill, strictly from memory. This will give you an idea of his Many-Faceted Personality.

I recall a Poetic Work that I had first seen back in my Small-Kid Days, a tale by one Wallace Irwin. Irwin (1875-1959) liked to write Nautical Tales and was a master of humorous dialect. Upon later reflection, what struck me about the piece that follows is its use of a rhyming scheme that will sound familiar to any fan of Robert W. Service.

For you delectation, below the fold, I am happy to present The Powerful Eyes O’ Jeremy Tait, by the late Wallace Irwin.

The Powerful Eyes O’ Jeremy Tait

An old sea-dog on a sailor’s log
Thus spake to a passer-by:
“The most onnateral thing on earth
Is the power o’ the human eye -
Oh, bless me! yes, oh, blow me! yes -
It’s the power o’ the human eye!

“We’d left New York en route for Cork
A day and a half to sea,
When Jeremy Tait, our fourteenth mate,
He fastened his eyes on me.

“And wizzle me hook! ’twas a powerful look
That flashed from them eyes o’ his;
I was terrified from heart to hide
And chilled to me bones and friz.

“ ‘O Jeremy Tait, O fourteenth mate’
I hollers with looks askance,
‘Full well I wist ye’re a hypnotist,
So please to remove yer glance!’

“But Jeremy laughed as he turned abaft
His glance like a demon rat,
And he frightened the cook with his piercin’ look
And he startled the captain’s cat.

“Oh, me, oh, my! When he turned his eye
On our very efficient crew,
They fell like dead, or they stood like lead
And stiff as a poker grew.

“So early and late did Jeremy Tait
That talent o’ his employ,
Which caused the crew, and the captain, too,
Some moments of great annoy.

“For we loved J. Tait, our fourteenth mate
As an officer brave and true,
But we quite despised bein’ hypnotized
When we had so much work to do.

“So we grabbed J. Tait, our fourteenth mate
(His eyes bein’ turned away),
By collar and sleeve, and we gave a heave,
And chucked him into the spray.

“His eyes they flashed as in he splashed,
But this glance it was sent too late,
For close to our bark a man-eatin’ shark
Jumped after Jeremy Tait.

“And you can bet he would ha’ been et
If he hadn’t have did as he done -
Straight at the shark an optical spark
From his terrible eye he spun.

“Then the shark he shook at Jeremy’s look
And he quailed at Jeremy’s glance;
Then he gave a sort of a sharkery snort
And fell right into a trance!

“Quite mesmerized and hypnotized
That submarine monster lay;
Meek as a shrimp, with his fins all limp,
He silently floated away.

“So we all of us cried with a conscious pride,
‘Hurrah for Jeremy Tait!’
And we hove a line down into the brine
And reskied him from his fate.

“And the captain cries ‘We kin use them eyes
To mighty good purpose soon.
Men, spread the sails - we’re a-goin’ for whales,
And we don’t need nary harpoon.

“ ‘For when we hail a blubberous whale
A-spoutin’ the water high,
We’ll sail up bold and knock ’im cold
With the power o’ Jeremy’s eye!’ ”

And thus on his log the old sea-dog
Sat whittling nautical chips:
“Oh, powerf’ler far than the human eye
Is the truth o’ the human lips;
But rarest of all is the pearls that fall
From a truthful mariner’s lips.”

- Wallace Irwin

EAT AT JOE’S

Once upon a time, there was a dinky little Mexican restaurant on the gritty north side of Fort Worth, hard by the fabled Stockyards.

Joe T. Garcia’s restaurant started off small and unprepossessing, as such family-owned operations often do.


Joe T. Garcia’s: the original façade.

She Who Must Be Obeyed and her family used to patronize the place every so often. When we were married, we made a pilgrimage there at some point in the festivities. It was a veritabobble Foat Wuth Tradition to eat at Joe T’s; and who were we to buck tradition?

“What about the food?” you ask. My memory of the last meal I had had at Joe T’s dates from almost thirty years ago. Back then, the place served basic (but well-executed) Tex-Mex. Lotta refried beans, rice, and ground meat. Tacos, enchiladas, and chalupas were the order of the day. Good, but nothing deserving of a special outing - not when there was a whole new generation of really good Mexican restaurants sprouting in Texas and spreading like wildfire across the country as the cuisine of South of the Border gained popularity.

Last week, SWMBO and I joined Morris William and his brood for lunch at Joe T’s. In the intervening years, the little restaurant had grown, adding dining rooms, patios, and shaded outdoor dining areas. It now covered an entire city block.


An outdoor patio - one of many.


It’s a frickin’ hacienda!


A new dining room - one of several additions since the 1970’s.


A covered outdoor dining area.

Not only was the place much bigger than it had been thirty years ago, the food was much better. An appetizer-sized quesadilla bursting with chicken and cheese. Salsa that perfectly balanced the heat of jalapeño with the acidic bite of fresh tomatoes. Beef nachos made with humongous gouts of grilled steak. None of your crappy ground-beef-’n’-Velveeta nachos here, no siree.

Elder Daughter and I split an order of beef fajitas. It was immense. It was delicious.

There are plenty of people who will tell you that Joe T’s represents the pinnacle of Tex-Mex, that it is the pre-eminent exemplar of that cuisine in the entire state of Texas and possibly the nation. I’m not sure I would want to argue with ’em.


Nephew William gets ready to throw a penny in the fountain.


SWMBO, Rebecca, and baby niece Madison.


SWMBO sez, “Eat at Joe’s!”

MR. DEBONAIR’S PARTY TIPS

Offering advice on how to enjoy a successful New Year’s Eve party right now smacks of closing the barn door after the horse has run off…but Mr. Debonair knows that good parties take place all year long.

Tip One:

Invite convivial, intelligent, cultured people.


A typical crowd of convivial, cultured party-goers.
SWMBO, Elder Daughter, Laura Belle, Don, Mickey, the Mistress of Sarcasm, JoAnn, Gary, Elisson.

If your guests behave as though they were raised by wolves, your house will be trashed, your reputation damaged, and you may very possibly find a turd in your punchbowl. Avoid this tragic outcome by selecting your guests carefully. Good partygoers can get their drink on without getting overly bibulous and carry on conversations even with people they do not know well. They are fun to be around at all times. If you don’t have friends like this, find some immediately.

Tip Two:

Be sure you have adequate supplies of Food and Drink. Especially Drink, for if you have enough to drink, you won’t give a shit about the food.


Serve plenty of Mango-Tinis.
Cran-apple juice, squeeze of lemon, and a hearty dose of Finlandia Mango Vodka, shaken and strained into a Martini glass. Garnish with lemon slice.

It is especially helpful if your beverage of choice matches your clothing. Not only does it look suave, it minimizes the damage when you dump your Mango-Tini all over yourself.


Match your drink color to your clothes.
When you’re half in the bag, you’ll make less of a mess!

Tip Three:

Make sure everyone gets home safely. Call a cab, or be prepared to put people up if necessary.

Mr. Debonair and his family wish you the happiest of New Years...and the most enjoyable parties in 2007!

LAST GASP (ER): A 100-WORD NEWS BULLETIN

Gasper the Beluga Whale, in a photograph taken last New Year’s Eve.

Atlanta is in mourning upon hearing the tragic news that Gasper, one of the Georgia Aquarium’s celebrated beluga whales and a favorite among visitors, has been euthanized.

Gasper had been suffering from osteomyelitis, a bone infection, and his condition had deteriorated in the past several weeks.

“We rescued Gasper knowing that he was seriously ill, but were hopeful that we might have been able to save him,” said Bernie Marcus, Georgia Aquarium benefactor and chairman of the board.

In related news, the Georgia Aquarium today announced plans to build a 50,000-gallon capacity toilet bowl to facilitate disposal of the remains.

THE ADVENTUROUS KITTEN

This is the story of an Adventurous Kitten.

She was new to our household, this kitten, back in 1995. Our tomcat Stripes had gone the Way Of All Cat-Flesh a short time before, and his departure left a hole in our hearts. Accordingly, after an appropriate period of mourning, the Missus and the girls went to a local animal shelter and came home with a peanut-size grey ball of fluff that would be our New Cat. One of ’em, anyway.

The ball of fluff was not a model of health, something that was not evident until she had lived with us for several days. She was frail and developed an unfortunate habit of sneezing. That was bad enough, but the fact that each sneeze was filled with droplets of blood made things much more precarious. After several weeks of TLC and medication, the grey fluffball was right as rain...but at the time of this story, she was still desperately ill.



Early on, the minuscule grey kitten had developed an affection for enclosed places. I traveled for business frequently back in those days, and nothing fascinated that kitten so much as the inside of a suitcase that was in the process of being packed. Cute.

Then it was that my Kid Brother - the other Elisson - came to visit, thanks to a fortuitously timed business trip. A couple of days later, when it came time to leave, The Other Elisson packed his bags and headed off to Houston Intercontinental Airport in his rental car.

And it was shortly afterward that the girls noticed that something was missing. The little grey fluffball was gone! They called SWMBO at work, frantic. The concern we all shared was that the sick little kitten had found a secluded spot in the house in which to quietly expire.

We searched the house from top to bottom. No soap. And that’s when the Cold Equations hit us:

• Cat + Luggage = Cat in Luggage
  
• Cat in Luggage + Aircraft Baggage Compartment = Dead Cat

In a panic, we called the airport and had Elisson the Younger paged. After we explained the situation to him, he prevailed upon the airline to retrieve his satchel, that he might inspect its contents. [Keep in mind that this was well before post-9/11 luggage screening, which would likely have discovered any Fuzzy Intruders.] This they did. After all, nobody wanted a Kitty Tragedy on his hands.

Alas, no kitten in the suitcase. This was both Good News and Bad News, for if she were not in the Younger Elisson’s valise, where was she? The girls were all ready to start slapping posters up throughout the neighborhood when SWMBO made one last-ditch effort to find the kitten outside the house.

After several minutes of frantic calling, SWMBO heard a pitiful mewling from a ball of fluff cowering in the bushes near our back door. The kitten was very frightened, but she was alive and as well as could be expected under the circumstances. She had waltzed right out the door while my brother was loading the car.

Now it’s eleven - almost twelve - years later, and I still gotta check the suitcases for stowaways before leaving the house...for Miss Matata (the Little Grey Ball of Fluff her ownself) still has that Adventurous Spirit, even though she is a bit longer in the tooth.



Matata reminds me to tell you that Carnival of the Cats #145 has been posted at Watermark. Go and visit those other kitties - each has his or her own story to tell.

AIM LOW, BOYS...

...they’re riding Shetlands.

But when they ride one of these, we’re gonna have to aim real low.


Elizabeth, the dwarf miniature horse.

Meet Elizabeth, the tiniest damned horse I ever saw in my life.

Back in the day when the Mistress of Sarcasm rode horses - we even owned a horse at one point - her trainer was boarding a couple of Dinky-Ass Horses.

One of these was Danny. You can see his hind end on the right in the picture above. Danny was a miniature, which meant he was large enough to pull a (small) cart. He was very popular at school events, petting zoos, and the like.

And then there was Elizabeth. A tinier horse would be hard to imagine. Not just a miniature, Elizabeth was a dwarf mini. About the size of a standard poodle, Elizabeth was too small to pull a cart - too small, in fact, to do much of anything except run around the arena on her little tiny legs and fill up her stall with horseshit.

Trust me: There was nothing as funny as watching Elizabeth trotting around that arena. Looked like one of those old Buster Keaton movies with the sped-up action, those bitty legs moving a mile a minute. Somewhere or other, I have a video. When I find it, I’ll post it on YouTube so the world can laugh its collective ass off.

Elizabeth was small enough to be a Lap Horse. Only problem with letting her have the run of the house is...well, you really can’t housebreak a horse. Even if said horse is Doggy-Size.

For those of my Esteemed Readers who are having trouble imagining Elisson and the Mistress as part of the Horsey Set, check below the fold...

The Mistress atop her horse, Mi Anam.

[Photo taken at the Houston Livestock Show and Rodeo, March 1998, at the Astroarena.]