FRIDAY RANDOM TEN

Yes, Esteemed Readers: It’s Friday, time once again for Elisson’s Random Musical Mashup.

And not just any Friday. For us Jews, it’s Chol ha-Moed Pesach, one of the intermediate days of the eight-day Passover festival. And for our Christian friends, it’s Good Friday.

So: What’s playing on the iPod d’Elisson? Checkit:

1. Stagger Lee - Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds
   
2. 3rd Planet - Modest Mouse
   
3. Birthday - The Beatles
   
4. Magdalene (My Regal Zonophone) - Procol Harum
   
   I loves me some Procol Harum. Here’s a video of them performing “Shine On Brightly,” the title track of the album on which “Magdalene” appeared.
   
   
   
   
5. Judy In Disguise (With Glasses) - John Fred & His Playboy Band
   
   [A parody of “Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds”, this song made the Top 40 in 1968.]
   
   Judy in disguise, well that’s what you are
   Lemonade pie with a brand new car
   Cantaloupe eyes come to me tonight
   Judy in disguise with glasses
   
   Keep a-wearing your bracelets and your new rara
   Cross your heart - yeh - with your living bra
   Chimney sweep sparrow with guise
   Judy in disguise with glasses
   
   Come to me tonight, come to me tonight
   Taking everything in sight
   Except for the strings on my kite
   
   Judy in disguise, hey that’s what you are
   Lemonade pies hey got your brand new car
   Cantaloupe eyes come to me tonight
   Judy in disguise with glasses
   
   Come to me tonight, come to me tonight
   Taking everything in sight
   Except for the strings on my kite
   
   Judy in disguise, well what you aiming for
   A circus of horrors, yeah, well that’s what you are
   You made me a life of ashes
   I guess I’ll just take your glasses
   
   
6. Motion Picture Soundtrack - Radiohead
   
7. Malen’kiy Mal’chik - Leningrad
   
   Malen’kiy mal’chik nashel pulemet,
   Bol’she v derevne nikto ne zhivet,
   I kogda on lyudey ubival,
   Pesenku ztu on napival:
   
   “Nebo koptyat poezda
   I gudyat provoda
   I s benzinom voda”
   
   Malen’kiy mal’chik limonku nashel,
   I na zanyatiya v shkolu prishel,
   I kogda on cheku vyryval,
   Pesenku ztu on napival:
   
   “Nebo koptyat poezda
   I gudyat provoda
   I s benzinom voda”
   
   Chi-ko-ko
   
   “Nebo koptyat poezda
   I gudyat provoda
   I s benzinom voda”
   
   [Music from Leningrad’s album Mat bez Elektrichestva (which loosely translates as “Filth Unplugged”) is available here. Just pick a song and click the Mp3 or txt links to get the .mp3 file or lyrics (in Russian).]
   
   
8. Three Is A Green Crown - The Incredible String Band
   
9. Counting Sheep - The Judybats
   
10. California - Joni Mitchell
    

It’s Friday. What are you listening to?

FUZZY FRIDAY

As I write this post, outside it’s dark.
But that doesn’t stop the Friday Ark
From sailing upon the Bloggy Sea
With Snakeys and Kitties for you and me.

Friday Ark #133 is available for your delectation at the Modulator. (Where else?)

If that’s not enough for you, come Sunday evening you can visit the 159th edition of Carnival of the Cats, to be hosted at Bad Kitty Cats. Enjoy.

Update: Carnival of the Cats #159 is up...and Yours Truly scores an entire paragraph! Woo-Hoo!

GETTIN’ SNAKEY WIT’ IT

Herewith the long-awaited (by whom, I have no idea) Video Documentation of our Snakey Adventures in Claxton last month.



Listen to those sumbitches rattle. We - V-man and I - were just that close to them Reptilian Bastards, protected only by the chicken wire enclosures in which the snakes were kept. Enclosures with no lids, I must point out.

Fun! Fun for the feebleminded!

MISS TITTY-BABY

Here is Matata, acting like a great big Titty-Baby.

Can’t say I blame her.

Looks almost like a reprise of the picture in the previous post, no?

FROM THE ELISSON ARCHIVE

Billie Bob holds his new granddaughter.

This photo from 1982 shows Billie Bob - SWMBO’s daddy, z’’l, holding his new baby granddaughter, the Mistress of Sarcasm, on the very day of her birth. The Mistress, at this point in her young life, has yet to develop her prodigious sarcastic sense of humor. Or the ability to speak, for that matter. But check out alla that hair!

When Elder Daughter dug this out of the Pile o’ Albums a few days ago, I did a quick calculation: SWMBO today is as old as her father was when this picture was taken. Scary, innit?

THE MASTERS

Today marks the start of the Masters Tournament, quite possibly the most prestigious tournament in the world of golf.

Beginning Monday of this week, the competitors began playing practice rounds. Yesterday, the Par 3 tournament was held. Today, the real action begins: the first of four eighteen-hole rounds, the last and most dramatic of which will be played on Sunday.

The Masters Tournament is held at the Augusta National Golf Club, a private - and extremely exclusive - club. It is not a PGA Tour event; it is subject only to the iron whim of the club’s directors and membership. Except on the players’s bags and clothing, you won’t see commercial logos anywhere at the Masters Tournament. Soft drinks are sold in green cups bearing the Masters logo. Pro shop merchandise is reasonably priced; for that matter, the snacks sold at the course - including the famous Augusta National Pimiento Cheese Sammitch - are also reasonably priced. It’s refreshing to see a golf tournament that is not, seemingly, run by Corporate Whores.

Not that there isn’t Corporate Whoring taking place. It’s there, but it’s subtle. ANGC makes its money from hefty membership fees and gargantuan TV rights payments, enough so that several years ago, they elected to have the tournament televised commercial-free so that sponsors would not get caught up in the then-current controversy about female membership [i.e., there is none]. Ya gotta have deep pockets to give your sponsors a free ride.

I’ve been to the Masters Tournament twice: in 1992 and 1993, the latter year accompanied by She Who Must Be Obeyed. Not the practice rounds, mind you: the Real Thing, the tournament proper. We would typically show up mid-day Friday and catch the afternoon play that day, then see all the action Saturday and Sunday. One of the rare benefits of working for the Great Corporate Salt Mine, I suppose.

The Masters Tournament is held the first week in April, when the dogwoods, azaleas, and other Flowering Species are at their absolute peak in Augusta. The course itself is unbelieveable. Fairways are manicured, seemingly, by hordes of guys with nail clippers and tweezers, so perfect are they. The fairways would serve quite nicely for greens on any other golf course; the greens themselves are like pool table felt. Bunkers are impeccably maintained.

In those years, play on the front nine was not televised. The only way you ever got to see those holes was to actually be there in the flesh. And the back nine, with the legendary Amen Corner - Holes 11, 12, and 13 - was more beautiful than any television show could convey.

To walk that course was like being in the Great Cathedral of Golf.

There is no major sport that permits its spectators such close contact with the players. We positioned ourselves, that Sunday in 1993, alongside the seventh green, a location that also commanded a view of the approach to the second green. Every player had to walk within two feet of us on his way to the eighth tee. Try doing that at the Super Bowl.

There is no other sports event with the level of spectator civility seen at the Masters Tournament, either. You can place your folding chair in a favored spot, walk away for four hours, and come back to find your chair untouched - no matter how huge a crowd has gathered in that area. Cameras, cellphones, and the requesting of autographs are all verboten, although the rule against cameras is relaxed during the practice rounds. Rules are strictly enforced, the penalty being expulsion. What with Masters passes being jealously guarded family heirlooms, that’s not something anybody dares risk. Hence, you will never see a more well-behaved bunch of spectators (“patrons,” in Augusta Nationalspeak) in any other sports venue. Even the nobs who go to watch the tennis at Wimbledon are Neanderthals by comparison.

You wanna go? Practice round tickets are sold by lottery, so with luck, you may be able to score tickets for 2008 - provide you get your request in by July 15. But the Tournament itself is a lot tougher. For that you need a Tournament Badge that allows you entry for all rounds Thursday through Sunday. These are sold to those on ANGC’s patron list - a list which was closed due to demand in 1972. A waiting list began in 1972, and was closed in 1978. It reopened in 2000, and it too is now closed; no applications for Tournament Badges are currently being accepted. Many patrons scalp their tickets - last I heard, the going rate was $2000 per badge and headed north fast - but if they are found out, they get booted off the list. As a result, people are careful who they sell their tickets to...and this tends to keep patrons very well-behaved.

The field at the Masters Tournament consists of the cream of the crop, the best golfers in the world, all present By Invitation Only. Under the tenure of the new Chairman of ANGC, Billy Payne, it’s likely that Tournament invitations will be extended to all PGA Tour event winners, a welcome change. But don’t go there expecting to see Annika Sörenstam anytime soon.

HAVING A BALL. A MATZOH BALL, THAT IS.

The Seder table at Chez Elisson.

Here’s our table, (almost) all set and ready for our guests to arrive.

As we made our last-minute preparations Monday afternoon, I snipped the stems off a bunch of parsley, destined for the Seder plate. The bright green aroma of that fresh parsley practically shouted at me: “Springtime! Passover!”


The Seder plate.

The round plate in the center of the photograph holds several Symbolic Foods. The egg, at top, represents the Passover (Paschal) sacrifice, as does the roasted lamb shank next to it (moving clockwise). Slices of black radish are the bitter herb, representing the years of bitter enslavement. Next is parsley, a green vegetable, a harbinger of spring; it’s dipped in salt water - representing tears - before being eaten. Moving clockwise, there’s some more bitter herb (romaine lettuce, this time). Finally, there is charoset, a relish made of apples, nuts, wine, and cinnamon, symbolizing the mortar used to build Pharaoh’s cities.

That big-ass goblet of wine you see there is Elijah’s cup. Much as Christians leave out cookies and milk for Santa Claus, we Jews put a glass of wine out for Eliyahu ha-Navi - Elijah the Prophet - who is said to visit every Jewish home on Passover. When we open the door at one point in the service, the children look carefully at Elijah’s cup. “It went down. I saw it! Elijah was here!”


Handmade shmura matzoh.

“Behold, this is the bread of affliction our fathers ate in the land of Egypt. Let all who are hungry come in to eat, let all in want come to observe Pesach. This year here, next year in Israel; this year as subjects, next year as free people.”
- The Passover Haggadah

Bread of affliction? You betcha. Eat enough of it...and you will be afflicted with a case of Impacted Intestines that will cause you to howl in anguish. And yet...

There’s nothing like a couple of sheets of matzoh, slathered in salted butter. Or toasty matzoh farfel with sautéed onions, flavored with the juices from a roasted chicken. Or delicate matzoh balls surrounded by a pool of golden soup. Or matzoh meal pancakes, fresh from the pan and crisp around the edges, with a dusting of sugar and a dollop of sour cream.

But ask me again in about five days.

By the time Passover ends next Tuesday at sundown, we will all be ready for some Major Leavening Action. Pizza. Chinese food. Bread. Beer. Scotch!

MR. SMART-BRAINS STRIKES AGAIN

The Missus laid on a wonderful Seder meal Monday evening.

Passover Seders follow a prescribed ritual sequence: The word Seder literally means “order,” indicating the importance of doing everything the right way at the right time. And there’s plenty to do. There are foods, each with a specific symbolic role. There is the storytelling, all done in the form of a Socratic lesson. The Four Questions, each of which asks about something that sets this night apart from all other nights, followed by a Long-Winded Answer that constitutes the lion’s share of the Seder.

Long-winded, indeed. There are parts of the Passover Haggadah that invite comparison to Monty Python:

From the Passover Haggadah:

Rabbi Yose the Galilean says: How does one derive that, after the ten plagues in Egypt, the Egyptians suffered fifty plagues at the Sea? Concerning the plagues in Egypt the Torah states that “the magicians said to Pharaoh, it is the finger of God.” However, at the Sea, the Torah relates that “Israel saw the great hand which the Lord laid upon the Egyptians, and the people revered the Lord and they believed in the Lord and in His servant Moses.” It reasons that if they suffered ten plagues in Egypt, they must have been made to suffer fifty plagues at the Sea.

Rabbi Eliezer says: How does one derive that every plague that God inflicted upon the Egyptians in Egypt was equal in intensity to four plagues? It is written: “He sent upon them his fierce anger, wrath, fury and trouble, a band of evil messengers.” Since each plague was comprised of (1) wrath, (2) fury, (3) trouble and (4) a band of evil messengers, they must have suffered forty plagues in Egypt and two hundred at the Sea.

Rabbi Akiva says: How does one derive that every plague that God inflicted upon the Egyptians in Egypt was equal in intensity to five plagues? It is written: “He sent upon them his fierce anger, wrath, fury and trouble, a band of evil messengers.” Since each plague was comprised of (1) fierce anger, (2) wrath, (3) fury, (4) trouble, and (5) a band of evil messengers, they must have suffered fifty plagues in Egypt and two hundred and fifty at the Sea.

From Monty Python:

Chapman: I don't know - Mr. Wentworth just told me to come in here and say that there was trouble at the mill, that's all - I didn’t expect a kind of Spanish Inquisition.

[JARRING CHORD]

[The door flies open and Cardinal Ximinez of Spain [Palin] enters, flanked by two junior cardinals. Cardinal Biggles [Jones] has goggles pushed over his forehead. Cardinal Fang [Gilliam] is just Cardinal Fang]

Ximinez: NOBODY expects the Spanish Inquisition! Our chief weapon is surprise...surprise and fear...fear and surprise...Our two weapons are fear and surprise...and ruthless efficiency...Our three weapons are fear, surprise, and ruthless efficiency...and an almost fanatical devotion to the Pope...Our four...no...Amongst our weapons...Amongst our weaponry...are such elements as fear, surprise...I’ll come in again.

[The Inquisition exits]

Chapman: I didn’t expect a kind of Spanish Inquisition.

[JARRING CHORD]

[The cardinals burst in]

Ximinez: NOBODY expects the Spanish Inquisition! Amongst our weaponry are such diverse elements as: fear, surprise, ruthless efficiency, an almost fanatical devotion to the Pope, and nice red uniforms - Oh damn!
[To Cardinal Biggles] I can’t say it - you’ll have to say it.
Biggles: What?
Ximinez: You’ll have to say the bit about “Our chief weapons are...”
Biggles: [rather horrified]: I couldn’t do that...

[Ximinez bundles the cardinals outside again]

Chapman: I didn’t expect a kind of Spanish Inquisition.

[JARRING CHORD]

[The cardinals enter]

Biggles: Er.... Nobody...um....
Ximinez: Expects...
Biggles: Expects... Nobody expects the...um...the Spanish...um...
Ximinez: Inquisition.
Biggles: I know, I know! Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition. In fact, those who do expect -
Ximinez: Our chief weapons are...
Biggles: Our chief weapons are...um...er...
Ximinez: Surprise...
Biggles: Surprise and -
Ximinez: Okay, stop. Stop. Stop there - stop there. Stop. Phew! Ah!...our chief weapons are surprise...blah blah blah. Cardinal, read the charges...

Sounds familiar, no?

And, with rare exception, there comes a point in the proceedings where there is a temptation to quote Brother Maynard of Monty Python and the Holy Grail, who admonishes the cleric reading the Book of Armaments as follows: “Skip a bit, Brother...”

Once we got the Ritual Stuff out of the way, out came the food, a veritabobble Groaning Board.

Gefilte fish, in both salmon and whitefish varieties. SWMBO does not go for the scary-looking lumps of fish in the jars you see at the supermarket. She buys her fish in the form of frozen loaves and bakes them, then chills and slices them. Delicious, especially when buried in sinus-clearing chrain (horseradish).

SWMBO’s homemade chicken soup with matzoh balls. Glorious.

Forgoing the stuffed brisket, SWMBO made a chicken tagine, aromatic with Moroccan spices - an excellent complement to a hearty tzimmes, laden with enough meat to sink a battle cruiser. String beans completed the picture.

Dessert? Macaroons...and a tasty fruit compote, my sole contribution to the meal.

We had a pile of leftovers...normal for our holiday meals, for which the Missus will prepare twice as much food as is necessary. Gaboons of tzimmes, plenty of chicken and fish...and a huge vat of hot chicken soup.

Cooling and storing a big pot of soup is not a trivial matter. If you simply stick it in the fridge, you’re asking for a serious case of food poisoning. Refrigerators simply can’t cool the soup down fast enough, and as it traverses the Danger Zone between 140 and 41°F, it provides a ripe Bacterial Growth Medium. Four hours is the maximum amount of time food can sit in the Danger Zone and still be considered safe to eat...so what to do with the soup?

You stopper up your kitchen sink and fill it with ice water. Then you put the pot of soup in there, sloshing that ice water around occasionally...and stirring the soup once in a while. Add ice to the sink if necessary. Once your soup is reasonably cool, you take it out and stick it in the fridge. You can chill a huge cauldron of soup fairly quickly this way; it’s standard operating procedure at our house.

Only trouble is, this time, Mr. Smart-Brains forgot to take the soup out of the sink. It sat there all night and was there to greet us when we got up in the morning...at room temperature. Fuck!

There was nothing to do but throw it all out, all two gallons...with all that chicken and alla them matzoh balls. What a tragic waste.

I was pissed off at myself, and at the same time I was sad. I was sorely tempted to stand up and recite a Mourner’s Kaddish for that soup at morning services...

PESACH PREP

She Who Must Be Obeyed has begun preparing for our Seder tomorrow evening. The House of Elisson is redolent with the homey aroma of chicken soup on the simmer. The loaves of gefilte fish have been prepared; they’re in the fridge and will be sliced and unveiled as an appetizer, accompanied by chrain - grated horseradish - pungent enough to make strong men weep.

There will be tzimmes with beef flanken. There will be a stuffed breast of tender baby veal beef brisket. There will be SWMBO’s most excellent charoset, a relish composed of grated apples, nuts, wine, and spices. Charoset is intended to be reminiscent of the mortar with which the Children of Israel built the Egyptian cities of Pithom and Raamses, the latter of which would eventually become famous for its association with Prophylactic Devices. SWMBO adds a few golden raisins to the mixture, giving it an extra-special kick.

There will be chopped liver, a cholesterol-rich appetizer that only I seem to have an appetite for. I’ll wash it down (sorry, Eric!) with some slivovitz, one of the few distilled beverages that is kosher for Passover.

I will have relatively little to do in the kitchen. The major Jewish holidays are the province of the Missus; my participation is limited to the occasional side dish. I will prepare a dried fruit compote, an excellent dessert and one of the rare pesahdik foods that can bust up the annual matzoh-induced Intestinal Logjam. I may also make a (flourless!) chocolate cake.

Cooking aside, there’s a lot to do before we sit down to eat tomorrow. We’ll ritually divest the house of all leaven tonight, selling it off and/or burning it tomorrow morning. And tomorrow morning, the Minyan Boyz and I will start our morning service early to allow time for Talmud study. Completing a tractate of Talmud gives us an excuse to have a celebratory meal, in the absence of which first-born males are obligated to fast on the day before the holiday. It’s a formal expression of mourning for the first-born of the Egyptians, who were slain in the tenth Biblical plague - it’s also an expression of thanks that the firstborn of the Israelites were redeemed rather than killed.

Passover is a holiday near and dear to the hearts of even the most secular Jews. After all, it’s z’man cheiruteinu, the season of our freedom, of our deliverance from bondage. It, along with the Revelation at Mount Sinai, is one of the Defining Experiences of the Jewish people. References to the Exodus are not just as a part of this holiday’s liturgy; they abound in our daily worship.

It’s also a family time, and for that reason I treasure it. In past years, I’ve written about my memories of Seders long past with Uncle Phil and the rest of the Florida-based branch of the family. Phil’s Seders were never heavy on religious content, but they got the job done. Tell the story, drink the wine, eat the Ritually Prescribed foods, then enjoy dinner. That’s a combination that is hard to beat.

I’ll happily consume the appropriate Seasonal Foods for the eight-day duration of the holiday, after which I (and my colon) will be extremely relieved to resume a normal, leaven-filled diet. Matzoh is pleasant enough, for what it’s worth. To me it tastes like springtime, owing to its seasonal associations, despite its being extremely messy and constipation-inducing. There is, in fact, no messier Bread-Related product than matzoh, which generates crumbs in response to a mere wayward glance.

To any of my Esteemed Readers who are Jewish, please accept my wishes for moadim l’simcha (with a right good chag sameach thrown in).

And whether you’re Jewish or not, freedom is something to celebrate. So enjoy the week!

ME...AND THREE

Me...and my ever-lovin’ Three.

It is a rare treat to have both Elder Daughter and the Mistress of Sarcasm together with us at Chez Elisson these days. The Mistress arrived from Savannah Thursday afternoon, and Friday night we picked Elder Daughter up at Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport (just typing that ridiculous long name out makes my fingers tired).

The airport was bustling, what with spring break, the Final Four, and the Atlanta Braves season opener all coinciding, landing on our fair city all at once like a Perfect Storm o’ Travel Incentives. We arrived just in time to see Best Actor Academy Award winner Forest Whitaker, no doubt here to catch some of the Roundball Action.

Upon arriving home, we threw together some miscellaneous foodstuffs and enjoyed each other’s company. A sample exchange, paraphrased as necessary due to my faulty memory:

Elder Daughter (discussing a proposed YouTube video and reacting to my recommending an alternative to the ignition of flatus): That might work. It’s less dangerous [than lighting your farts]; you’d be less likely to set the hair in your ass on fire.

SWMBO: I don’t have any hair in my ass.

Elder Daughter: Yes, you do.

SWMBO: No, I don’t.

Elder Daughter: Yes, you do. Are you a mammal?

SWMBO: Yes. I’m a mammal.

Elder Daughter: Then you have hair in your ass. [Puts entire cracker in mouth at once.]

SWMBO: Did you just eat that entire cracker in one bite?

Elder Daughter: Yes. I’m channeling Dad.

Indeed. E.D. is most definitely a Chip off the Old Block. It’s downright scary at times.

Saturday afternoon, we knocked around Lenox Mall for a while, after which we enjoyed a fine dinner with friends...a sort of Advance Birthday Celebration for Elder Daughter...during which I was pleased to get a call from this guy, who, along with his patient and forbearing Missus, was dealing with a small army of Unruly Blodgers.

As I write this, the Mistress of Sarcasm is driving back to Savannah, that Beautiful Lady with the Dirty Face. (Savannah, not the Mistress.) Duty calls, and all that. But Elder Daughter is still here, and I needs must be content with having only one of my babies home for the first Seder.

Ah, yes. I’m a happy man when my babies are back in the nest, for however brief a time...

MOTHER’S DAY (IN A WAY)

The Momma d’Elisson, age 20.

Today is March 30. At sundown this evening, it will be the 12th of Nisan on the Hebrew calendar, three days before the start of the Passover holiday...and my mother’s Yahrzeit.

It was March 30, 1988 - nineteen years ago - that Mom had her meeting with the Unexpected Visitor.

Perhaps Unexpected is not the right term. Unwelcome, certainly - but not unexpected. The handwriting was, as they say, on the wall. It had been only a few months before, at Thanksgiving, that Mom noticed some alarming symptoms. She was tired. There was a yellow tinge in the whites of her eyes. Her feet were swollen. And when she walked, you could hear fluid sloshing around in her abdomen.

Lethargy, jaundice, edema, and ascites...all symptoms of end-stage cirrhosis of the liver. What had happened?

Unbeknownst to any of us, Mom had contracted a case of chronic active hepatitis - the same condition that was later to affect Naomi Judd. But in Mom’s case, the disease did its work quietly, asymptomatically, for years...until her liver had, effectively, been converted into a fist-size chunk of useless tissue.

Two months later, in January, Mom and Dad came to visit us at our home in central Connecticut. Mom looked different: shockingly gaunt. Part of this was due to the hepatitis; part of it was due to the low-protein diet she had been placed on in an effort to slow the progress of the disease. With care and luck, the doctors had told us, Mom could live another ten years or more.

Deep in my heart, I knew it was not to be. We took a walk together, my Mother and I, and as we talked and strolled among the bare trees, I had a vision of her as a white-haired little old lady. And I knew - knew - that this was a vision of a future that was not to be. It was a bitter realization, but it stung with the sharpness of truth.

It was in mid-March that things went downhill rapidly. The slow accumulation of toxins in Mom’s blood - toxins that could no longer be cleansed by her ailing liver - created a condition known as portal vein-systemic encephalopathy. She became confused, semi-delirious. Thus began her one-way journey into the hospital, the “Patient Motel.” (Patients go in, but they don’t come out.) She spent the next two weeks alternating between a sort of twilight consciousness and full lucidity.

Mom knew she wasn’t going home. One afternoon, she told me that she wished she could have spent more time with her granddaughters. After hearing this, I went out to the parking lot, got in my car, and broke down, sobbing, for half an hour...the only time I cried.

The end came in the early morning hours on March 30. Dad and my brother (the other Elisson) had gone home, exhausted. Mom’s big brother Phil and I were there, holding her hand as she slipped away. After making a few necessary phone calls, I walked out of the hospital into a warm spring morning. It was the first day of the rest of my life...and my first morning as a motherless child.

This evening, I will light a candle to my mother’s memory.

Tomorrow morning, I’ll recite the Mourner’s Kaddish in synagogue.

Tomorrow night, at dinner, I’ll order a perfect Rob Roy, straight up. Mom was not much of a drinker, but when she did have a cocktail, that was her Poison of Choice.

And, over the next year, as always, every time I play a round of golf, every time I read a science fiction book, every time I tell a ribald joke, every time I do the New York Times Sunday crossword, I’ll remember Momma.

FRIDAY RANDOM TEN

Is it Friday yet? Yes, it is, Skippy.

It’s the Friday before Passover. The Unleavened Provisions have been laid in, and She Who Must Be Obeyed Last will repair to the kitchen Sunday to begin a frenzy of Food Preparation in advance of the first Seder Monday evening.

We’ll have a medium-sized crowd here, eleven in all - and that will include Elder Daughter, who is winging her way to Atlanta this evening. The Mistress of Sarcasm is here now, but, alas, she will not be able to stay through the beginning of the holiday. At least the two sisters will have the weekend together with us.

What’s on the Little White Choon-Box today? What Random Musical Treasures ’n’ Pleasures await? Let’s just take a look, shall we?

1. I’m Not Angry - Elvis Costello
   
   From his first album, My Aim Is True, which burst upon the scene in 1977...by bizarre coincidence, the same month that other Elvis joined the Choir Eternal.
   
   
2. Freedom Jazz Dance - Miles Davis
   
   We heard Brian Auger’s cover version last week. Between the two, I prefer the original.
   
   
3. Theme from New York, New York - Skanatra
   
4. I’m Willin’ - Seatrain
   
   A Country Ode to the Long-Haul Trucker, covered here by a folk-rock group that was briefly poular in the early 1970’s.
   
   
5. Hey Jude - The Mutato Muzika Orchestra
   
   From The Royal Tenenbaums movie soundtrack. Wes Anderson’s musical choices are always a little eccentric...perfectly matched to his films.
   
   
6. Candle - Matisyahu
   
   Not to be confused with “Candle in the Rain” (Melanie) or “Candle In The Wind” (Elton John). No, no.
   
   
7. Mystery Dance - Elvis Costello
   
8. Changes Are No Good - The Stills
   
9. Choosing - Philip Glass
   
   From the Kundun soundtrack.
   
   
10. Barnyard Story - Procol Harum
    
    Chicken in the farmyard,
    There’s an oven in your bin.
    You’re growing old with sorrow,
    You’re growing fat with sin.
    I was living in the graveyard,
    I was hanging from the wall,
    I was living in the desert,
    I was trying not to fall.
    Once I stood upon Olympus,
    Then the heavens opened wide.
    I beheld that flaming chariot,
    And I saw the sacred bride.
    Now and then my life seems truer,
    Now and then my life seems pure.
    All in all, my thoughts are fewer -
    Maybe death will be my cure.
    

It’s Friday. What are you listening to?

FUZZY FRIDAY, SCALY SATURDAY

“Mmmm...this is rather a Tasty Morsel!”

A secret, unknown to Small and Great
Is “What do the Modulator modulate?”
So ask that question, if you wanna,
When you visit the Ark, with its Collected Fauna.

Friday Ark #132 has been posted at the Modulator. In other breaking news, Dog Bites Man and Sun Rises in East.

Be sure to swing by IMAO this Sunday evening for the 158th Carnival of the Cats. Hmmm...I wonder who’ll be writing that post? Laurence? Right Wing Duck? Bueller? Bueller?

Update: CotC #158 is up...and it’s a brilliant April Fool’s edition, complete with photoshops. Don’t miss it!

LANDING IN A HAIRY CHASM

When Kevin Kim, the BigHominid of the eponymous BigHominid’s Hairy Chasms, adds you to his blogroll, he does not screw around.

Not content with a little line of text on the sidebar (like 99.9% of us) or even a little bitty image file (like El Capitan), Kevin creates mini-masterpieces of GIF art for each one of his blogroll links. I am impressed.

I mention this bit of Linky Bidnis because there’s a bizarre sort of Karmic Connection ’twixt us.

First of all, Kevin has an exquisitely coprophilic sense of humor...and as evidenced by my last post, that means we speak the same language, more or less.

Second, Kevin is a Koreablogger. Now, I don’t have a whole lot of Cultural Commonality with most Korea bloggers, except for my enjoyment of kimchi, garlic, and bulgogi, my affection for the music of Skankin’ Pickle, and my having visited Seoul 17 years ago. But it was a blog written by an expat in Korea - Incestuous Amplification, long since defunct - that awakened my interest in blogging. Long before I put cursor to screen, I explored this guy’s blogroll. It was only a matter of time before I happened upon Kevin’s site...which, at the time, was of interest to me mainly because he had a link to another blog - What Not To Do in Korea - that featured a thoroughly hysterical soup recipe. That was my introduction to Rory, who is now back in Australia telling us what not to do there. So in a sense, landing on the BigHominid’s ’roll is a little like returning to my Bloggy Roots.

Go pay Kevin a visit. He’s a twisted bastard...and he’s got a new book out, to boot! It’s entitled Water from a Skull, and you can find it at Cafepress simply by making clicky on the piccie below.



[What the hell. Maybe he’ll plug my 100 100-Word Stories book when it comes out...]

TAPER

When Nature calleth to you,
“Drop the kids off at the pool,”
There is no finer “outcome”
Than a smooth and pointy stool.

A gentle, pointed taper
Keeps the Ring from slamming shut;
At least, that is the story
Told by Experts of the Butt.

To strain, producing gravel
Gets my nose all out of joint.
But all’s right on Earth and Heaven
When my Turd comes to a Point.

Just as Uncle Remus taught us,
The Tar-Baby is no friend.
But things are never sticky
When you crap with Pointy End.

It’s painless and it’s quiet
Needing very little paper.
These blessings all accrue to you
When your Doodie has a Taper.

Recall the words of Mr. T:
“I pity the poor fool...”
But you won’t need his pity:
You’ve a smooth and pointy stool!

SAMMY

Sammy - that’s short for Samantha - is a year older than when we last saw her down at Chez Eli. She’s looking more substantial, less waif-like every year.

She is still alternately shy and feral, but there is no question but that she has become more mellow, even unto the point of permitting me to give her head-skritches without trying to rip my arm off.

It helps that I have the Family Pheromones. Sammy is devoted to Eli, and my brother and I smell enough like him (I suppose) that she will deign to put up with us. But cuddly and Excessively Friendly, à la Matata, she is not.



She is a beauty, though...

MATATA, MEET “CUDDLES”

Beauty and the Beast: the Kitty and the Crocodile.

[OK, technically speaking, it’s an alligator, not a crocodile. But I liked the alliteration.]

• “What the hell is this thing?”
  
• “I don’t remember calling Dial-A-Croc.”
  
• “Tastes like chicken.”
  

[Insert your caption in the Comments.]

ANOTHER BOOKY MEME

Following hot on the heels of the SF Book Meme is this new Great Big List o’ Literature, picked up from Richard over at Shadowscope.

The drill - you know it by now - is to boldface the titles you’ve read. Some folks italicize the ones they want to read (but have not read yet) - but I will not bother with that.

I’m not sure what the selection criteria were for this list, either for inclusion or relative ranking. They’re not all classics, but I suspect that all were, at one point or another, best sellers.

1. The Da Vinci Code (Dan Brown)
   
2. Pride and Prejudice (Jane Austen)
   
3. To Kill A Mockingbird (Harper Lee)
   
4. Gone With The Wind (Margaret Mitchell)
   
5. The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King (J. R. R. Tolkien)
   
6. The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring (J. R. R. Tolkien)
   
7. The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers (J. R. R. Tolkien)
   
8. Anne of Green Gables (L. M. Montgomery)
   
9. Outlander (Diana Gabaldon)
   
10. A Fine Balance (Rohinton Mistry)
    
11. Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire (J. K. Rowling)
    
12. Angels and Demons (Dan Brown)
    
13. Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix (J. K. Rowling)
    
14. A Prayer for Owen Meany (John Irving)
    
15. Memoirs of a Geisha (Arthur Golden)
    
16. Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone (J. K. Rowling)
    
17. Fall on Your Knees (Ann-Marie MacDonald)
    
18. The Stand (Stephen King)
    
19. Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban (J. K. Rowling)
    
20. Jane Eyre (Charlotte Brontë)
    
21. The Hobbit (J. R. R. Tolkien)
    
22. The Catcher in the Rye (J. D. Salinger)
    
23. Little Women (Louisa May Alcott)
    
24. The Lovely Bones (Alice Sebold)
    
25. The Life of Pi (Yann Martel)
    
26. The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy (Douglas Adams)
    
27. Wuthering Heights (Emily Brontë)
    
28. The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe (C. S. Lewis)
    
29. East of Eden (John Steinbeck)
    
30. Tuesdays with Morrie (Mitch Albom)
    
31. Dune (Frank Herbert)
    
32. The Notebook (Nicholas Sparks)
    
33. Atlas Shrugged (Ayn Rand)
    
34. 1984 (George Orwell)
    
35. The Mists of Avalon (Marion Zimmer Bradley)
    
36. The Pillars of the Earth (Ken Follett)
    
37. The Power of One (Bryce Courtenay)
    
38. I Know This Much is True (Wally Lamb)
    
39. The Red Tent (Anita Diamant)
    
40. The Alchemist (Paulo Coelho)
    
41. The Clan of the Cave Bear (Jean M. Auel)
    
42. The Kite Runner (Khaled Hosseini)
    
43. Confessions of a Shopaholic (Sophie Kinsella)
    
44. The Five People You Meet In Heaven (Mitch Albom)
    
45. The Bible
    
46. Anna Karenina (Tolstoy)
    
47. The Count of Monte Cristo (Alexandre Dumas)
    
48. Angela’s Ashes (Frank McCourt)
    
49. The Grapes of Wrath (John Steinbeck)
    
50. She’s Come Undone (Wally Lamb)
    
51. The Poisonwood Bible (Barbara Kingsolver)
    
52. A Tale of Two Cities (Charles Dickens)
    
53. Ender’s Game (Orson Scott Card)
    
54. Great Expectations (Charles Dickens)
    
55. The Great Gatsby (F. Scott Fitzgerald)
    
56. The Stone Angel (Margaret Laurence)
    
57. Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets (J. K. Rowling)
    
58. The Thorn Birds (Colleen McCullough)
    
59. The Handmaid’s Tale (Margaret Atwood)
    
60. The Time Traveler’s Wife (Audrey Niffenegger)
    
61. Crime and Punishment (Fyodor Dostoyevsky)
    
62. The Fountainhead (Ayn Rand)
    
63. War and Peace (Leo Tolstoy)
    
64. Interview With The Vampire (Anne Rice)
    
65. Fifth Business (Robertson Davis)
    
66. One Hundred Years Of Solitude (Gabriel Garcia Marquez)
    
67. The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants (Ann Brashares)
    
68. Catch-22 (Joseph Heller)
    
69. Les Miserables (Victor Hugo)
    
70. The Little Prince (Antoine de Saint-Exupery)
    
71. Bridget Jones’s Diary (Helen Fielding)
    
72. Love in the Time of Cholera (Gabriel Garcia Márquez)
    
73. Shogun (James Clavell)
    
74. The English Patient (Michael Ondaatje)
    
75. The Secret Garden (Frances Hodgson Burnett)
    
76. The Summer Tree (Guy Gavriel Kay)
    
77. A Tree Grows in Brooklyn (Betty Smith)
    
78. The World According To Garp (John Irving)
    
79. The Diviners (Margaret Laurence)
    
80. Charlotte’s Web (E. B. White)
    
81. Not Wanted On The Voyage (Timothy Findley)
    
82. Of Mice And Men (John Steinbeck)
    
83. Rebecca (Daphne DuMaurier)
    
84. Wizard’s First Rule (Terry Goodkind)
    
85. Emma (Jane Austen)
    
86. Watership Down (Richard Adams)
    
87. Brave New World (Aldous Huxley)
    
88. The Stone Diaries (Carol Shields)
    
89. Blindness (Jose Saramago)
    
90. Kane and Abel (Jeffrey Archer)
    
91. In The Skin Of A Lion (Michael Ondaatje)
    
92. Lord of the Flies (William Golding)
    
93. The Good Earth (Pearl S. Buck)
    
94. The Secret Life of Bees (Sue Monk Kidd)
    
95. The Bourne Identity (Robert Ludlum)
    
96. The Outsiders (S. E. Hinton)
    
97. White Oleander (Janet Fitch)
    
98. A Woman of Substance (Barbara Taylor Bradford)
    
99. The Celestine Prophecy (James Redfield)
    
100. Ulysses (James Joyce)

Hrm. 47 out of 100; less than half. Is that a good thing? Or a bad thing? I dunno.

Richard and I agree: The Bible really does not belong on this list. But I have read both the Hebrew and Christian versions (preferring the JTS and King James translations, respectively), and substantial chunks of the former in the original Hebrew...so it gets the Boldface Treatment.

I read James Clavell’s Shogun when I was in Japan...King Rat when I was in Singapore...and Tai-Pan when I was in Hong Kong. Knowing the settings made those novels stand out much more than they otherwise would have.

The only frustrating thing about these damnèd lists is that they remind me that there is a world of Great Literature out there that I have yet to experience. Classics, as yet untouched. Steinbeck...Ayn Rand...Dickens...James Joyce...I have got to get on the stick and read me a few more Good Books.

Meanwhile, I have two of Steve H.’s tomes on their way to me at this very moment. Great Literature? Maybe...but fun, certainly.

Read any good books lately?

GIRL SCOUT COOKIES AND OTHER DELIGHTS

This post by David Bogner on The Unexpected Rewards of Blogging really has more to do with the occasional Surprise Visit from a fellow blogger or commenter than it has to do with any material rewards that may accrue from Bloggadocious Activity...but I can personally confirm that both are real and valid.

Over the last two-plus years, I have met a small mob of bloggers, as evidenced by the “Bloggers I’ve Met” section of my sidebar. Some have been at full-blown blogmeets (the annual Blown-Eyed Jawja Blodgers gathering in Helen, Georgia being a notorious example), while others have been on more of a one-to-one basis. But all, without exception, have been enjoyable.

Elder Daughter once asked me whether I thought blogging could build communities. It was a question that had come up in a panel discussion, and by coincidence, the Missus and I were in Helen attending our first debauch blogmeet. The evidence was right there in front of us: We were among a group of people that had, all things considered, precious little in the way of common experience, politics, and lifestyles...but who all shared a mutual attraction based on their online writings. Despite my being new to the group, I was treated like a long-lost brother. It was startling, and yet it felt so right.

I’ve met fellow bloggers in Boston, Fort Worth, Houston, and even in far-off Saint John, New Brunswick, where I’ve been treated as family by people who would normally be mere Electronic Acquaintances. I’ve visited other bloggers’ homes; other bloggers have visited ours. Ars Electronica as enabling technology for social interaction? Why not?

And sometimes, strange, exotic foodstuffs will appear in the mail, sent by Semi-Mysterious Blog-Buddies.

But, getting back to David’s post, I have never had a Bloggity Tribute of Girl Scout Cookies show up on my doorstep. And for that, I am grateful.

Ahh, Girl Scout Cookies. Every year, the package contains less; every year, the price is steeper. It’s the Hershey Bar school of inflation: If you can’t raise the price, shrink the quantity. And if you can do both, mazeltov!

We don’t keep a lot of Girl Scout Cookies around. With She Who Must Be Obeyed being diabetic, and me being allergic to cookies (I break out in Fat-Ass), we just do not need the temptation in the house.

But a couple of weeks ago, when we were doing our first round of pre-Passover shopping, my attention was caught - alas - by a pack of Girl Scouts outside the supermarket door. And there were a couple of boxes calling my name.

Counter-intuitive, no? Here we were, preparing to lay in a week’s worth of Unleavened Provisions, and I’m buying frickin’ Girl Scout Cookies. But Passover was still three weeks away, plenty of time to consume the (potentially) problematic goods.

Besides, we’re sympathetic consumers. Back when we lived in Sweat City, our girls were involved in Scouts - in particular, the Mistress of Sarcasm, for whom we actually served as Cookie Parents one year. Imagine one room of your house completely packed, from floor to rafters, with cookies. Mmmmm, yeah. And, in a strange twist of fate, the Mistress today works right next door to the birthplace of Juliette Gordon Low, founder of the Girl Scouts. Call it Cookie Karma: I had to get a box or two.

There were a few new (or semi-new) varieties there, and I needs must try at least one. Hell, I ended up with three different kinds. There were the brand-spankin’ new (to me, anyway) Café Cookies, with a whiff of coffee flavor. These turned out to have almost a spekulaas-like texture and flavor (think Biscoff™) and were a big hit. There were All Abouts, a shortbread cookie with a rust-proof undercoating of milk chocolate. And, of course, I hadda get a box of Thin Mints, to be tucked away in the freezer. Nothing beats a frozen Thin Mint cookie.

It seems that there are two bakeries currently licensed to produce official Girl Scout Cookies: Little Brownie Bakers and ABC/Interbake. Each baker can offer up to eight varieties of cookies; but three types are mandatory, sayeth the Girl Scouts: Thin Mints, Peanut Butter Sandwich/Do-si-dos™ and Shortbread/Trefoils.

Unfortunately, dammit, the baker that serves the Atlanta area does not offer Lemonades, those tasty little lemon creme-filled sandwich cookies. But it’s just as well. At 75 calories per cookie, that’s a whole lotta Fat-Ass in a box.

We eschewed the yummy - but dental filling-rippingly gooey - Samoas. Coconut, caramel, chocolate...and a visit to Mr. Tooth-Croaker. No, thank you.

What kind of Girl Scout Cookies do you like?

REPTILIAN REVISITATION

Several weeks ago, as Velociman and I were attempting to wangle our way into the Snake Pit at the Claxton Rattlesnake Roundup, we struck upon a mutual Shared Memory, that of having visited Ross Allen’s Reptile Institute and Serpentarium in the wilds of central Florida back in our Snot-Nose Days. Having that kind of history might help explain why the two of us felt compelled to make the closest possible approach to the Dangerous Critters that had been a-gathered for our amusement and delectation. It was a fascination born of simpler days.

These reminiscences must have been bubbling just below the surface of my normally placid mind during our weekend pilgrimage to Chez Eli. As we were casting about for something to do Sunday afternoon, a Collective Light Bulb of Ratiocination lit up above our gathered heads.

“Let’s go to Silver Springs!”



Silver Springs, indeed. How could we not go? Located a relative stone’s throw from Ocala, which in turn is the Wide Spot in the Road nearest to Eli’s Florida home-away-from-home, Silver Springs is a venerable Sunshine State Tourist Trap Attraction. It sits on the site of an enormous fresh water spring, one that gushes millions of gallons of fresh, clear water a day, water that has traveled hundreds of miles through the limestone aquifers of Georgia and northern Florida. It is a riparian nature preserve, home of the famed Silver Springs glass-bottomed boats.

The Seminole Indian village that used to sit here is, alas, now defunct. At the very least, I observed no Casino Tracks during our visit. But there was plenty of other stuff to see. Alligators! Crocodiles! Snakes!



Silver Springs houses a collection of monster reptiles that would make a certain Rest Stop Proprietor crap a blood clot in fear. One of these bad boys, an American crocodile fully thirteen feet in length, looked to be an inert block of granite, carven with reptilian Scale-Runes.


This little feller is 13 feet long, the biggest American croc in captivity.

But then, he moved. He opened his mouth in a Honkin’ Big Smile. Check out that gaping maw. It’s the last thing your poodle - or you, for that matter - would see before Mr. Antediluvian Jones goes into his spasmodic Death-Roll, dragging you under to put up in his little mud-cupboard, there to...soften up a wee bit before becoming the Main Course. I took these pictures standing less than three feet away, protected only by a plexiglas shield over which I reached with the camera.


Open wide!

Then he flipped around and scuttled away. Fast. Granitic as he may have appeared, that bastard could make tracks. You do not want one of those things chasing you through the swamp, unless your Mission in Life is to become Crocodile-Shite.


On the move. [Click to embiggen.]

So, yes, we took the Obligatory Glass-Bottomed Boat Ride. And we wandered around for a while, looking at the miscellaneous Flora and Fauna, of which there was a plenitude. But seeing this sign brought everything full circle:



Yes, Ross Allen, his ownself! Long since deceased, and his Reptile Institute along with him, Ross was that selfsame Legendary Snake Wrangler who figured so mightily in the memory banks of both me and Velociman. And he was not forgotten.

For it had been full forty-six years since my father and I had last trod the earth of Silver Springs. We - Eli, the Momma d’Elisson, my brother and I - had been road-tripping our way from North Miami Beach to New York in true Touristy Fashion, and Silver Springs was the first stop on the way. We rode the glass-bottomed boats; we visited the Seminole Indian village.

The next morning, bright and early, we headed over to Ross Allen’s Reptile Institute.

We had a long day of driving ahead of us, and so we wanted to see the snakes and then get the hell out of Dodge. Despite the early hour, Ross Allen opened the place up for us - just us! - and gave us what amounted to a private tour of the facilities. I never forgot it, being all of eight years old at the time.

And now you can see it, too: a one-minute peek at a true American Legend, Ross Allen. And both little Elissons...and their Momma. Glass-bottomed boats, alligators, hog-nosed snakes (with which my brother was not exactly thrilled), and the Old Rattlesnake ’n’ Balloon Trick.



Where else but Florida?

MARCH MALBEC MADNESS

“A loaf of bread, a jug of wine, and thou beside me...and pretty soon, I’ll be fat, drunk, and in trouble.” - Alfred E. Neuman

Tonight was the Sommelier Guild of Atlanta’s March tasting, featuring wines produced from the Malbec grape.

Normally, Denny, the Grouchy Old Wino Cripple, writes these little affairs up, but he was off somewhere doing whatever it is that SRF­’s® do. Perhaps he is still recovering from his trip out to Texas to help Dash and Christina celebrate their official housewarming. Regardless, he was not present for a fine evening of Tasty, Winy Goodness...so it is up to me to provide the proper documentation.

What was on the menu this evening? Inquiring minds want to know...

Speaker’s Wine:
Zolo Torrontes 2006 (Argentina)

Flight #1:
Château Famaey 2002 (Cahors, France)
Sawbuck 2004 (California)
Bleasdale 2002 (Australia)
Bellevue “Tumara” 2002 (South Africa)

Accompanied by: Large duck salad with mixed greens, citrus dressing topped with duck confit

Flight #2:
Valdivieso Single Vineyard Reserva 2005 (Argentina)
Terrazas de los Andes Reserva 2004 (Argentina)
Norton Reserva 2004 (Argentina)
Catena 2004 (Argentina)

Accompanied by: Pork tenderloin medallions with fig demiglaze, potato gratin

Flight #3:
Maryhill Reserve 2002 (Washington State)
Nieto Senetiner “Cadus” 2002 (Argentina)
Viu Manent “Viu 1” 2004 (Chile)
Tikal “Amorio” 2005 (Argentina)

Accompanied by: New Zealand lamb lollipops with sheep milk Pecorino Romano risotto

My favorites were the Bleasdale and the Tikal, the Viu Manent running closely behind. But from a value standpoint, the Bleasdale takes the prize: at a retail price of $15, it’s half the price of the Tikal, and less than a third of the price of the Viu Manent.

The food? Duck confit and delicate little lamb chops are right up my alley. Everything rocked.

THE FLORIDA FEEDBAG

Eli shows off some home-grown kumquats.

One nice thing about Florida: You can live off the fat of the land.

Sure, there are restaurants and supermarkets a-plenty...but when you want to be Mr. Eater of Local Produce, you need never go hungry.

There are lemons...



There are kumquats...



Tasty little fellers. You eat the whole fruit, rind and all, spitting out two or three small seeds. Eli and Toni had so many of these suckers growing in their back yard, they ended up canning a few dozen bottles full of ’em.

There are loquats...



Loquats have a mild apricot-like flavor. As with kumquats, you eat the fruit, rind and all. But unlike kumquats, these babies have gigantic, impressive-looking seeds, suitable for stringing necklaces.



Sunday night, we had Toni’s homemade strawberry shortcake. Fresh Plant City strawberries, marinated in a little syrup from some of her home-canned kumquats, served over lemon pound cake and topped with whipped cream. Reddi-Wip™? Not on your tintype, buddy. With Toni, it’s all homemade, all natural.

But the bestest treat of all didn’t even come from Florida...

The latest taste sensation from Canada.

It came in a mysterious box that showed up on our doorstep last week, a gift from Chickie Carmarthen. Curry flavored potato chips!

You can’t get ’em here in the States. No, they’re only made North of the Border...giving us, along with poutine, donairs, and Tim Horton’s coffee, yet another reason to love our friends who live in the Land of the Maple Leaf!

TWO ELIS AND AN ELISSON

She Who Must Be Obeyed and I spent this past weekend in Florida at the winter home of the Daddy d’Elisson - Eli, his ownself - and his bride Toni. Eli and Toni, in the last few years, have transformed themselves into full-fledged snowbirds, spending three months at their Citrus Hills pied-à-terre, the other nine in the New York ’burbs.

Saturday evening, after a pleasant dinner at a restaurant with a magnificent sunset view, we repaired to Chez Eli to watch a frothy romantic comedy on the DVD Machine. The movie was The Holiday, featuring Kate Winslet, Cameron (“Too big to fit in here...”) Diaz, Jude Law, and Jack Black, the latter in a desperate (and likely futile) attempt to build credibility as a Romantic Male Actor. A pleasant and amusing diversion, it was...

But what really made the movie for me was the presence of an elderly actor in a supporting role, an elderly actor who was the first celebrity I clapped eyes on in Real Life.

Let’s hop in the Wayback Machine and set the dial for the spring of 1961, when I was in the third grade. That was a momentous year, owing mainly to the fact that we had a teacher who, in addition to getting married early in the fall (thus necessitating our learning to spell a longer and trickier name), had a passion for the Field Trip. We went everywhere. With the wonders of New York City just a train ride away, we visited the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the Museum of Natural History, the Hayden Planetarium...and one memorable day, the NBC Studios at Rockefeller Center.

For a third-grader, the chance to see “behind the scenes” at a major television station was tremendously exciting. That day’s Field Trip culminated in our watching the videotaping of a couple of episodes of “Password,” then a popular quiz show hosted by the legendary game show host Allen Ludden. The show would pair a celebrity contestant with one chosen by audition from the ranks of the Great Unwashed, with each one in turn trying to help the other guess the Secret Word through the use of one-word clues.

The celebrity contestants? Anne Jackson...and her husband Eli Wallach.



I had no idea who the hell either of these ostensible “celebrities” was, but my Dad - Eli, his ownself - acted impressed when I told him whom I had seen. And seen not once, but twice, for after the taping we saw Mr. Wallach and Miss Jackson outside the studio. Right there, on the sidewalk! Walking! Alongside the Regular Folks!

I was impressed, at the time, to find out that Wallach was Jewish. Hey! We got something in common! Plus, ya hadda love a guy named Eli, am I right?

It was five years later that Eli Wallach would be seen in the iconic role of Tuco.



And another forty years later, here he was in The Holiday, playing lovable but irascible neighbor-cum-legendary Hollywood screenwriter Arthur.



Made me feel like a kid again, it did.

[Tip o’ th’ Elisson fedora to Velociman, source of all things Tuco, for the images from The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly.]

AIR POLLUTION

...can be yours for the taking.

If you want to listen to last week’s Radio Sandy Springs Health Hour (with Yours Truly as Guest Host), simply go here, scroll down the page to the March 16 show, and follow the instructions to listen to the streaming audio or to download a copy. The links will only be active for a couple of weeks.

Be sure you listen to Eric’s phone-in comments on the Claxton Rattlesnake Roundup - just go to the 46 minute mark. Foot-long Corn Dogs, indeed!

FRIDAY RANDOM TEN

Oh, boy! It’s Friday.

Last night, I returned from my ill-advised trip to Sweat City. Ill-advised, because it’s not a good idea to travel when you are suffering from Mogo on the Gogogo. Right now, I feel like hammered dogshit. Ball-peen hammered dogshit, if you will...but in a little while, I will toddle over to my physician’s office in the hope that he can prescribe a Helpful Medicament that will offer surcease from these, my sufferings.

They say that music hath charms to soothe the savage breast. Mayhap a Random Selection of Musical Arcana from the iPod d’Elisson will serve to soothe the Fevered Brow as well. Lessee:

1. Uncle Meat - Frank Zappa
   
2. The Hussein Skank - Skankin’ Pickle
   
3. Freedom Jazz Dance - Brian Auger’s Oblivion Express
   
4. Words Of Love - The Beatles
   
5. Scene 12: Unaware Of Its Taboos - Philip Glass, Les Enfants Terribles
   
6. Rock And Roll Music - The Beatles
   
   Just let me hear some of that rock and roll music
   Any old way you choose it
   It’s got a back beat, you can’t lose it,
   Any old time you use it
   Gotta be rock roll music
   If you wanna dance with me
   If you wanna dance with me
   
   I’ve got no kick against modern jazz
   Unless they try to play it too darn fast
   And lose the beauty of the melody
   Until they sound just like a symphony
   
   That’s why I go for that that rock and roll music
   Any old way you choose it
   It’s got a back beat, you can’t lose it,
   Any old time you use it
   It’s gotta be rock roll music
   If you wanna dance with me
   If you wanna dance with me
   
   I took my loved one over cross the tracks
   So she can hear my man a-wailin’ sax
   I must admit they have a rockin’ band
   Man, they were goin’ like a hurricane
   
   That’s why I go for that that rock and roll music
   Any old way you choose it
   It’s got a back beat, you can’t lose it,
   Any old time you use it
   Gotta be rock roll music
   If you wanna dance with me
   If you wanna dance with me
   
   Way down south they had a jubilee
   Them Georgia folks they had a jamboree
   They’re drinkin’ home brew from a wooden cup
   The folks are dancin’ - they got all shook up
   
   And started playin’ that rock and roll music
   Any old way you choose it
   It’s got a back beat, you can’t lose it,
   Any old time you use it
   Gotta be rock roll music
   If you wanna dance with me
   If you wanna dance with me
   
   Don’t care to hear them play a tango
   I’m in the mood to kick a mambo
   It’s way too early for a congo
   So keep a-rockin’ that pi-a-no
   That’s why I go for that
   
   Rock and roll music
   Any old way you choose it
   It’s got a back beat, you can’t lose it,
   Any old time you use it
   Gotta be rock roll music
   If you wanna dance with me
   If you wanna dance with me
   
   
7. How Long Has That Train Been Gone - Professor Longhair
   
8. Tol’ko s Toboy - Leningrad
   
9. No Reply - The Beatles
   
10. Ride The Cliche - Stone Temple Pilots
    

Jebus. Just how many “Randomly Selected Tracks” do we have here from the frickin’ “Beatles For Sale” album, anyway?

Ahh, well. It’s Friday. What are you listening to?

FUZZY FRIDAY

Early Friday morning, when the sky’s still dark
The animals set sail on the Friday Ark
Captained by Steve, the Modulator.
You can visit ’em now, or stop by later.

Friday Ark Number 131 is up at the Modulator - who, I am sure, will ring in with a corrected Voyage Number any time now.

Sunday evening, be sure to visit the Carnival of the Cats, the 157th edition of which will be hosted at Scribblings.

Update: CotC #157 is up.

A 100-WORD PAEAN TO THE VERNAL EQUINOX

The crocuses and daffodils send up their tender shoots;
The heavy snows are melting. No more need for rubber boots;
Our diets undergo a shift toward greens, away from roots.

The Sun hangs in the western sky until it’s very late;
The birds and bees go seeking for their Reproductive Mate;
The Jews all eat their Matzoth, guaranteed to constipate.

Our allergies are active as the pollen coats the land;
Expectant tourists venture on the beach to test the sand;
While eating Meaty Off’rings from the local Hot Dog Stand.

All hail the Vernal Equinox! O, Spring has come again!

NEVER FELT BETTER

Reasonable Facsimiles? The Mistress of Sarcasm’s collection of Felted Kitties.

The Mistress of Sarcasm is a lady of many talents. Among those talents is the ability to convert Miscellaneous Lint into miniature replicas of animals: the ancient and well-respected art of Felting.

Mostly, near as I can tell, it involves repeatedly sticking a needle into a pile of lint until it begins to assume the shape of a Familiar Beast.

I understand that she is working on a life-sized Felted Replica of Matata, to be constructed entirely out of Matata’s shed fur. Upon completion, I will be happy to post images for your delectation.

GAAAAHHH

“Sputum? Damn near killed ’im...”

I’m sitting here in my little Home Away From Home at the headquarters of the Great Corporate Salt Mine in Sweat City...and I feel like ass.

Monday morning, I awoke with an ominous tickle in the back of my throat, the opening Shot Across the Bow in the latest Battle of the Respiratory System. Crap.

Crap, indeed, for I had several critical meetings scheduled this week at various Texas outposts of the Great Corporate Salt Mine. To miss the meetings would delay my projects for several weeks, and so I decided to tough it out and make the trip.

Big mistake.

The trip on the Silver Aerial Bus was OK, all things considered. The flight was oversold - an omen I chose to ignore - and I ended up wedged into a center exit row seat thanks to several people who volunteered to take the next flight. Being in the exit row meant there was decent legroom despite my being crammed between two fellow passengers...but the lemon-ginger tea I gulped down did little to soothe my throat, which was growing more tender by the minute.

The penalty for flying with even a mild case of the Stuffies, of course, is the ol’ “Ten Pounds of Cotton Wool in a Five-Pound Sack Head” syndrome. It took until late in the evening for that obnoxious semi-deaf feeling to ease up. I elected to hit the sack early and dope myself up heavily with ComaQuil™, thus ensuring a moderately restless night followed by a woozy morning.

By now, my throat felt as though I had been gargling with hydrochloric acid. With a ground glass chaser. I had also developed what the sawbones likes to call a “productive cough.” That’s when you hock up great, green gouts of loogage at frequent intervals. And it was in that condition that I plowed through two presentations, the second of which required a ninety-mile round trip to the east side of town. Sweet.

Afterwards, it was straight to bed. I didn’t even bother to order up a room service dinner. Sleep was fitful.

Aggggh. Just a few more hours and a couple more meetings, and I can get on the Silver Aerial Bus and go home.

PRACTICALITY

I was looking through a few old pictures from the Elisson archive this past weekend, and I found a few of an old friend and colleague that brought a smile to my face.

Jan was a chemist, a native-born Netherlander with a lovely wife and a clutch of blond, blue-eyed kids. We first crossed paths back when I was in the midst of my first assignment at the Great Corporate Salt Mine in Baytown, Texas. He was in his thirties, thirteen years my senior - yet we became good friends.

Never before or since have I met anyone with a finer instinct for the Practical Joke.

Once, we had - by coincidence - stopped at the same filling station to gas up our cars. Jan found a humongous beetle wandering around on the ground. Not a cockroach, but comparable in size to a big-ass Texas roach. He popped that sumbitch right in his mouth, just to see the bug-eyed expression on my face.

Another time, he had a small army of his Dutch relatives come flying in from overseas for a visit. He picked them up at the airport, drove them out to Baytown, and dropped them at the house. He then drove off.

What he didn’t tell them was that he had dropped them at a random house in the neighborhood, not at his home. Imagine your standard-issue Texan, confronted with a gaggle of Dutch-speaking furriners at the doorstep, luggage in hand for a week-long stay: Hilarity ensued.

One prank Jan pulled - arranged in advance with the wife of one of his neighbors - could have gotten him shot. He got in said neighbor’s bed and buried himself (fully clothed, of course) under the covers. By and by, in comes Mr. Neighbor, who gets in bed, not realizing that the lump in the bed was not his Missus, but the nutty Dutch guy from next door.

Jan essayed a couple of tentative grunts. After a while, Mr. Neighbor decided that he was going to have to perform his Husbandly Duty - if only to get some rest. He reached over...

...only to be greeted by the sight of a bearded man. Yaaaaaaaaagggggghhhhhh!

Jan leaped out of the bed and sprinted for the door, barely giving Mr. Neighbor time to figure out what was going on, much less to find a Handy Weapon. I can only imagine the fun when Mr. Neighbor’s wife confessed to being in on the gag.

And then there was the time we almost got ourselves arrested at the Galleria.

The Galleria, an upscale shopping mall on the west side of Houston, decided to hold a Dutch Festival one day in the spring of 1978 1976 (I think). Jan and I decided to take a long lunch and drive the 35 miles into Houston so that we could pass out fake anti-Dutch hate literature (“Stop them before they drain our lakes and put windmills everywhere!” “They’re trying to poison us with their insidious cheese and chocolate!”). This we did...but the Galleria’s security people were not amused. They were this close to clapping us in irons when we managed to convince them that it was a practical joke...and most definitely not for profit. After all, Jan himself was Dutch...

A few years later, after I had been transferred to a different Corporate Salt Mine outpost, I had occasion to travel to Europe. Stopping in Amsterdam, I grabbed a postcard and mailed it off after jotting a quick note to my old friend. Something on the order of, “If only the Americans United to Beat the Dutch could see me now...in the belly of the beast!”

Sadly, Jan never got the postcard. Later I found that, that very week, he had been in Galveston, running - as was his custom - on the hard-packed sand of the beach. He keeled over with a massive coronary infarction and was dead before he hit the ground. He was forty years old.

I cursed the Unexpected Visitor then. Bad enough that Jan died young, leaving a widow and three now-fatherless kids...but why couldn’t he have gotten one last laugh from that postcard?

FOLD: A 100-WORD STORY

Beads of sweat began to trickle down Ibrahim’s brow. This bothered him. He did not want to appear nervous, but it was stifling in the small room.

His next card skidded across the table. Four of spades, not much help there. He was in too deep to back out now, having jumped into the betting with his pair of pocket aces. Maybe they would be enough...

No, they weren’t. Fuad raised, confident as always. Ibrahim folded: no choice.

He was down to a grimy pair of boxer shorts and an explosive belt. Gaza Strip Poker was not for the faint-hearted.

TUMMY TUESDAY

Hey, there, Big Boy. Howzabout a little skritch?

CARNIVAL O’RECIPES

The Irish Edition - celebrating Saint Patrick’s Day, o’course - of the Carnival of the Recipes is up and running at Sun Comprehending Glass.

[Next week, be sure to look for Carnival of the Recipes at Guy Understanding Doorway. And the week after that, the Pre-Passover Edition at The Missus Figuring Out My Bullshit.]

FACETS

Those of us who spend time exploring Matters Spiritual will, on occasion, speculate as to the nature of the Deity (assuming He/She/It exists).

We Old Testament types believe rather strongly in One God...but even One God may present different aspects of the Ineffable and Unknowable. Thus we have the various images of God the Father that contrast with the Shekhinah, the feminine aspect of God. The contrasting attributes of justice and mercy all may be found within this single Godhead.

Christians, with their notion of a triune Godhead, translate one facet of the Godly Personality into corporeal form. But even there, one may find several different interpretations of that bodily manifestation. To wit:


The spiritual.


The companionable.

Which one fills your spirituous spiritual need best?

THAT’S ONE TASTY DOUGHNUT

The easy ability to find specific images on the Internet, thanks to powerful search engines like Google, sometimes has comic results.

You may remember, from a few years back, the photograph of Bangladeshi Islamicists admiring an Osama bin Laden poster collage...evidently made with photographs lifted from the Internet. How did we know that they came from the Internet? Because one of them had Sesame Street’s Bert in it. The guy making the poster pulled a Photoshop from the “Bert Is Evil” parody site. Hilarity ensued. Except maybe for Poster Boy, who was probably beheaded for the screw-up...


See if you can find Bert.

We use Google Image Search at our own risk.

The latest casualty? A news show in Augusta, Georgia, doing a segment on the new, “healthier” Krispy Kreme whole wheat doughnuts. Memo to the intern who, no doubt, did a quick Google search to find a graphic: Be sure you actually look at the graphic before you use it...



Here’s a still photo, in case you didn’t see it clearly in the video:


Just how good are Krispy Kreme doughnuts?

When I first saw this in an e-mail from bro-in-law Morris William, I thought it might’ve been Photoshopped...but then I found the video [tip o’ th’ Elisson fedora to t.a.m.s.y. at The Answer May Surprise You]. Good Gawd.

ALONE: A 100-WORD STORY

Dougie shambled into the cafeteria and took a seat at the end of the table, far away from his fourth-grade classmates.

Oh, how he envied them. He watched as they opened their sack lunches, digging into their peanut butter-and-jelly sandwiches, their salami-on-ryes.

For him, it was an endless parade of sardines on cream cheese, of tuna salad. Weird, fishy sandwiches, the aroma of which clung to him all afternoon. Other kids avoided him, calling him “Fish-Boy.”

It wasn’t easy being the son of the Gorton’s Fisherman.

And the fins growing out of his head and back were no damn help.

A FACE FOR RADIO...

...and a voice for the Internet. Dat’s me.

If you care - and why should you? - you can listen to last week’s Radio Sandy Springs Health Hour (with Yours Truly as Guest Host). Of course, the show has relatively little to do with Health.

Just go here, scroll down the page to the March 9 show, and follow the instructions to listen to the streaming audio or to download a copy. The links will only be active for a couple of weeks.

Today’s show should be available sometime next week; I’ll post the link when it goes up.

FRIDAY RANDOM TEN

Friday yet again. (Huzzah!)

I’ve just returned from my hour-long Radio Hosting gig at Radio Sandy Springs, where I have filled in for my pharmacist buddy Richard these past two weeks. Even got a phone call from Eric during the show.

Eric, in his call, mentioned the lack of Rattlesnake-Based Foodstuffs at the Claxton Rattlesnake Roundup: a disappointment to most of us who made the journey. But I didn’t weep overmuch. I’ve eaten snake. It tastes remarkably like chicken...assuming your chicken spends its lifetime slithering on its belly.

He also brought up the fact that foot-long Corn Dogs were available, even if rattlesnake tacos were not. A foot-long hot dog is not especially noteworthy, but a foot-long Corn Dog is. You need Mad Sword-Swallowing Skillz to eat one of those, considering that a Corn Dog always comes impaled lengthwise on a stick.

I’m trying to imagine Miss Rattlesnake Roundup 2007 eating one of those...heh.

Anyway, it’s time for my weekly ritual of checking out the Random Musical Spewage of the Little White Choon Box. Whadda we got today, Johnny?

1. Freddy Freeloader - Miles Davis
   
2. 5 Years - Björk
   
3. Wishful Sinful - The Doors
   
4. Catholic Girls - Frank Zappa
   
5. Kouman Sa T’a Ye - Boukman Eksperyans
   
6. Alone Down There - Modest Mouse
   
7. All You Need Is Love - The Beatles
   
8. Disarm - Smashing Pumpkins
   
9. Space Control - Bernard Herrmann, The Day The Earth Stood Still
   
10. Another Generation - Fishbone
    

It’s Friday. What are you listening to?

FUZZY FRIDAY

On Friday, the Ark will set sail.
The Ark will set sail without fail.
The floor might be dirty
On Voyage One Hundred Thirty
But at least there is no need to bail.

Friday Ark #130 is floating across the Bloggy Sea, piloted by the expert hand of the Modulator.

Be sure to stop by Pet’s Garden Blog Sunday evening for the Third Anniversary Edition of Carnival of the Cats. 156 weeks pass by so quickly when you’re skritching the kitties!

Update: Carnival of the Cats #156 is up.

HAR-DEE-HAR-HARH

Matata reveals her Gaping Maw. Almost looks like she’s laughing...but at what?

FOULING THE AIR

Or, what Elisson will be doing tomorrow morning.

Once again, I will be filling in for my pharmacist friend Richard, who is currently enjoying a relaxing Italian Holiday. Little does he know that, in his absence, I am defiling his Radio Sandy Springs Health Hour slot.

Well, he knows I am filling in for him. What he does not know is the sheer level of depravity to which I am prepared to subject his listeners.

Once again, I will be offering bogus Medical Advice to callers. I will have the Merck Manual available, the better to goggle over the fifty-cent words therein. I will have my assortment of 100-word stories, culled from my files and cleansed of Foul Invective. I will have full details on several of Dr. Israel Patel’s fine products: Dr. Patel’s Lingam Lotion (for enhanced turgidity!), Dr Patel’s Snakebite Curative (never a dissatisfied customer!), and Dr. Patel’s Bulletproofing Ointment (never a dissatisfied customer!)

And I will give a full report on the Claxton Rattlesnake Roundup. The parts of interest to a general radio audience, that is. FCC regulations prohibit my getting too specific as to the behavior of certain, ahhh...Online Web-Journalists once outside the environs of Claxton. Something about Public Decency, or the lack thereof...

You can pretty much forget about picking up the show on the radio (1620 AM) unless you are actually in Sandy Springs. But you can catch the show streaming over the Inter-Webby-Net at www.radiosandysprings.com. Go to the Radio Sandy Springs site to get the call-in number, and you can light up those lines!