COWS, WE GOT COWS (AGAIN)

Back in 2005, I posted an amusing (to me, anyway) Internet e-mail that purported to explain the world of politics with Illustrative Examples featuring cows.

Courtesy of Houston Steve (who really oughta have his own blog), we have this fine update: Economics, Cow Style.

EXPLAINING ECONOMICS WITH COWS

SOCIALISM
You have 2 cows. You give one to your neighbor.

COMMUNISM
You have 2 cows. The State takes both and gives you some milk.

FASCISM
You have 2 cows. The State takes both and sells you some milk.

NAZISM
You have 2 cows. The State takes both and shoots you.

BUREAUCRATISM
You have 2 cows. The State takes both, shoots one, milks the other, and then throws the milk away.

TRADITIONAL CAPITALISM
You have two cows. You sell one and buy a bull. Your herd multiplies, and the economy grows. You sell them and retire on the income.

SURREALISM
You have two giraffes. The government requires you to take harmonica lessons.

AN AMERICAN CORPORATION
You have two cows. You sell one and force the other to produce the milk of four cows. Later, you hire a consultant to analyze why the cow has dropped dead.

ENRON VENTURE CAPITALISM
You have two cows. You sell three of them to your publicly listed company, using letters of credit opened by your brother-in-law at the bank, then execute a debt/equity swap with an associated general offer so that you get all four cows back, with a tax exemption for five cows. The milk rights of the six cows are transferred via an intermediary to a Cayman Island Company secretly owned by the majority shareholder who sells the rights to all seven cows back to your listed company. The annual report says the company owns eight cows, with an option on one more. You sell one cow to buy a new president of the United States, leaving you with nine cows. No balance sheet provided with the release. The public then buys your bull.

A FRENCH CORPORATION
You have two cows. You go on strike, organize a riot, and block the roads, because you want three cows.

A JAPANESE CORPORATION
You have two cows. You redesign them so they are one-tenth the size of an ordinary cow and produce twenty times the milk. You then create a clever cow cartoon image called “Cowkimon” and market it worldwide.

A GERMAN CORPORATION
You have two cows. You re-engineer them so they live for 100 years, eat once a month, and milk themselves.

AN ITALIAN CORPORATION
You have two cows, but you don't know where they are. You decide to have lunch.

A RUSSIAN CORPORATION
You have two cows. You count them and learn you have five cows. You count them again and learn you have 42 cows. You count them again and learn you have 2 cows. You stop counting cows and open another bottle of vodka.

A SWISS CORPORATION
You have 5000 cows. None of them belong to you. You charge the owners for storing them.

A CHINESE CORPORATION
You have two cows. You have 300 people milking them. You claim that you have full employment and high bovine productivity. You arrest the newsman who reported the real situation.

AN INDIAN CORPORATION
You have two cows. You worship them.

A BRITISH CORPORATION
You have two cows. Both are mad.

AN IRAQI CORPORATION
Everyone thinks you have lots of cows. You tell them that you have none. Nobody believes you, so they bomb the shit out of you and invade your country. You still have no cows, but at least now you are part of Democracy.

AN AUSTRALIAN CORPORATION
You have two cows. Business seems pretty good. You close the office and go for a few beers to celebrate.

A NEW ZEALAND CORPORATION
You have two cows. The one on the left looks very attractive.

DOING THE NAMASTE, orASSUME THE POSITION

I am probably the last person on Earth that you’d expect to be taking a class in yoga...but, then again, I am full of surprises.

I blame the Missus, who takes yoga classes after school...and I blame my friend Barry, who has been taking morning classes once or twice a week. The combined Moral Suasion of both of them was too strong to resist.

Yoga is, simply, a school of discipline for the mind and body. Ask me for a better definition, and I can’t help you. All that Sanskrit makes me want to pound nails into my skull, and you’re not allowed to do that until you have mastered the eight chakras of Kundalini Kackabini.

Basically, the class is an hour-long period in which I listen to brain-numbing Relaxation Music (thank Gawd it doesn’t relax my sphincters!) and, following the dictates of the instructor, contort my body into a series of increasingly painful postures while looking at the tight buns and toned musculature of my female classmates.

I’m really not sure what the ultimate objective is. I think that when you get fairly good at this stuff, you can lick your own nutsack (Q: Why do dogs lick their own balls? A: Because they can.)...and if you get really good, you can climb into your own asshole.

I don’t plan to get that good. But at least it gets me out of the house.

Besides, my idea of nirvana is Taking a Good, Long, Crap (an idea I share with at least one other Online Journalist). If one were to use Yogic Discipline in the process, could you call that process “Groga”? And would the resulting Steaming Output be a “Yogan”?

HER EBON SPLENDOR

Why, it’s Neighbor!

That’s one snazzy-looking pussycat, there. Let’s take a closer look...



And closer.



(In case you’re wondering, Neighbor is visiting until the Mistress of Sarcasm and Gilad come for Thanksgiving.)

(LACK OF) RESPECT

Ya gotta love “Dancing with the Stars.”

On what other television show can you be treated to the sight of Urethra Aretha Franklin – now large enough to have her own zip code – in a muumuu, singing “Respect” just slightly out of tune?

I admire her enthusiasm, her energy, and her remarkable self confidence. All characteristics that are especially handy when you possess your own measurable gravitational field.

ROAD TRIP

You know, I’d like a dime for every time
I’ve heard it mentioned
That the Boulevard to Satan’s Lair is
Paved with Good Intentions.

It is. And as it winds toward Hades’ shores,
Remember that the Eco-Conscious Fellows
Will get out their supplies and make S’mores,
And use the fires of Hell to melt marshmallows!

[I left this, in slightly different form, as a comment at sisu, and then decided it might just stand alone as a post.]

TRANSCENDENTAL DEFECATION

If this guy keeps writing in this vein, we’ll have to start calling him “El Crapitan.”

Seriously, dude (that word may be pronounced “dood” or “doody” at your discretion) - you seem to be making a bid for the Golden Plunger, that fine award once bestowed by Yours Truly on the late, great Rob Smith. Who’s your competition these days? Og? Velociman?

Now, if you will kindly excuse me, I think I will go meditate.

Ommmmmmmmmmmmm (ungggghh) mmmmmmmmmmmmmmm...

CHRISTMAS CREEP

It was the week before Hallowe’en, and the Missus and I were cruising down Peachtree Street on the way home from some performance event or another, when I noticed that at least one building was already bedecked with Christmas decorations.

Good Gawd, thought I to myself. The Christmas season gets earlier every year. It’s a phenomenon I call “Christmas Creep.”

It used to be that the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade served as the semi-official Starting Gun for seasonal festivities - here in the States, anyway. As soon as that float with Santa Claus cruised down Broadway, the Christmas music began playing and everything took on the green and red shades of Yuletide.

Over time, owing to the increasing greed and desperation of the Merchandising Industry, this perfectly sensible schedule has been done away with. Now, the season’s opening shot is sometime on - or even before - Hallowe’en.

Hey, it’s none of my business; I don’t really have a dog in this hunt. But I have a question to which I sincerely would like an answer: Does Christmas Creep add to the seasonal experience, or does it detract?

We Jews really don’t have anything to use as a basis for comparison. We have our holidays, our own Seasonal Events...but we tend to observe them (or ignore them, as the case may be) when it is time to do so, neither being overly anticipatory as the Big Day (or Week) approaches nor too reluctant to let go once it is over with.

F’r instance, we don’t put up Passover decorations...and if we did, it wouldn’t be a month or two in advance. There’d be some sort of Talmudic prohibition against it, as it would take away from the specialness of the holiday. But that’s us, and I know we’re wacky in our own way.

So: I ask you, my Christian Esteemed Readers. What are your thoughts on Christmas Creep? Good? Bad? Indifferent?

MMMMM...CHEESY

Tortellini Elissonolini.

As the weather turns cold – well, cool, anyway – I start thinking more and more about stick-to-your-ribs comfort foods. Hot cereal in the morning, rich legumaceous soups in the evening...and childhood classics like macaroni and cheese.

We had a few friends over for dinner yesterday evening, and I was casting about for something to serve. Flank steak, brisket, beef ribs – all of these sounded good, but the Missus and I were looking for something less beefy. (I never thought I’d ever catch myself saying that...but there you are.) And that’s when the inspiration hit: How about a grown-up version of good ol’ Mac and Cheese?

I had made a superb five-cheese lasagna about a year ago, a perfectly good jumping-off point for what I had in mind. For what I had in mind was not lasagna at all, but something even more serious.

Tortellini.

I love tortellini. Like ravioli (or, for that matter, the closer-to-ethnic-home kreplach), tortellini consist of a filling encased in a pasta wrapper. But tortellini look a lot more interesting, like little belly buttons. And a Mac and Cheese with a tortellini base would be some Serious Eatin’. Thus it was that I created...

Tortellini Elissonolini

I started with two 13-ounce bags of Barilla tortellini – one three cheese, one spinach and cheese. The package directions say to cook these babies 10-11 minutes, but I planned to boil them only 8 minutes, since they’d have additional cooking time in the oven. Speaking of which, preheat it to 350˚F.

For the cheese sauce, take three tbsp butter and melt it down in a saucepan until foaming. To this, add one finely minced shallot and one finely minced garlic clove. Cook over medium heat about two minutes, then throw in 1/3 cup all-purpose flour. Cook this, stirring constantly with a wooden spoon, for another two minutes. You now have a fine, aromatic roux.

Now, whisk in 2 cups chicken broth and 2 cups milk. Bring up to the boil and then back the heat off until the mixture is at a simmer. Add in a healthy pinch of cayenne, one bay leaf, and ½ tsp salt. Cook, stirring frequently and scraping the sides and bottom of the pan, for ten minutes. During this time the sauce should thicken enough to coat the back of a spoon.

Now, stir in, a handful at a time, 5 ounces shredded Gruyère cheese (use the real imported kind, not the plastic-tasting crap from Wisconsin) and one ounce shredded Parmigiano Reggiano. The cheese should melt, forming a smooth mixture. Set this aside while you drain the pasta. If you timed everything right, the cheese sauce should be done right about when the pasta is finished cooking. Remember – boil the pasta only 8 minutes.

Dump the drained pasta, along with the hot cheese sauce, into a large bowl. Or use the big-ass pan that you used to boil the pasta. Sprinkle in about 6 ounces of shredded Fontina cheese and a handful of chopped fresh parsley, then stir gently to mix.

Dump this whole mess into a deep 9 x 13" casserole dish and level it off. Put it in the oven on a rack set to the upper-middle position and bake for 30 minutes, after which time the pasta should be bubbling like a volcano.

While the pasta is baking, melt 3 tbsp butter and add in about a cup of panko (Japanese breadcrumbs). Mix well.

Now take the panko mixture and scatter it over the top of the pasta. Sprinkle on one ounce of shredded Parmigiano Reggiano. Run it under the broiler until the breadcrumbs have turned a nice golden brown, then scatter a handful of chopped fresh parsley atop the dish.

Serve it forth to a crowd of 12-16 people, along with a side of Lipitor. Mmmmm...cheesy!

AN OPEN LETTER...

...to the Gaping Assholes who left a half-crushed case of empty beer cans on the side of the road in our neighborhood.

I really don’t give a shit if you amuse yourselves by drinking beer of a Saturday evening. Even if it’s crappy mass-market beer. After all, you are not after a Gourmet Beer Experience. You are trying to get loaded, and you’re not quite desperate enough to drink Listerine.

I really don’t give a shit if you stumble home and puke in the bushes.

As long as you don’t even think about driving, I really don’t give a shit about your drinking. That’s between you and your Mommies and Daddies.

But if I catch you trashing up our neighborhood with your Beery Detritus, I will take a three-iron to you. Bank on it.

Have the simple decency to chuck your trash in a garbage can, fuckbubbles. Were you raised by wolves?

HELP!

Nefoo William hangs on for dear life at the top of the slide.

Can’t say I blame him.

MENTAL FOR LENTILS

Some people are Coo-Coo for Cocoa Puffs. Me, I’m Mental for Lentils.

It was the Mistress of Sarcasm - now safely arrived in Ann Arbor, by the way - who put the thought of Lentil Soup in my head.

She had been given a split pea soup recipe by Hagar (boyfriend Gilad’s sister) a few weeks ago, one that included such diverse elements as diced sweet potato (!), and had had great success with it.

I didn’t have Hagar’s recipe - yet - and so I decided to hold off on the split peas and make lentil soup (a favorite since my Snot-Nose Years) instead.

Making good lentil soup is not brain surgery. Which is fortunate, because my license to perform brain surgery in the state of Georgia seems to have lapsed. But what I did have is a soup pot, plus all the requisite ingredients.

I started with regular brown lentils. There are about a thousand different kinds of lentils, including the excellent Lentilles Vertes du Puy from France...but I wasn’t in a Fancy-Pants mood. First task was to pick through the lentils, making sure no little stones or clods of dirt were lurking in the bag. Biting down on a stone will, most assuredly, ruin your day. Then the little guys got a good rinsing in three changes of water.

Next step was to chop up a yellow onion and throw it into the soup pot with a little olive oil, there to sweat. I added a couple of chopped carrots and a diced celery stalk, plus a peeled and minced garlic clove, then let all of this sweat down for awhile over medium heat.

Once the onions were translucent and everything was nice and aromatic, I added the lentils (about a pound), a quart of beef broth, two quarts of water, a few twists of freshly ground black pepper, and a small handful of chopped parsley. For additional flavor, I made a bouquet garni by tying up about ten parsley stems, a couple of sprigs of fresh thyme, and a bay leaf with kitchen twine, dropping it into the soup, and tying the other end of the twine to the pot handle for easy retrieval. Then I brought the whole mess up to a simmer, slapped a lid on the pot, and let it cook.

While the soup was simmering, I cooked up a pound of smoked beef sausage and cut it into small chunks. [Yes, I was lazy and used the microwave, but feel free to grill the sausage, pan-fry it, whatever floats your boat. Or use a different kind of sausage. Or use hot dogs.] These went onto the pot, too.

After about 90 minutes, it’s soup o’clock. Yank out the bouquet garni, and (this is important) stir in 1/4 cup of dry (fino) sherry. Do not use sweet varieties like Harvey’s Bristol Cream or the so-called Dry Sack sherry: they are nasty and nekulturny - in this recipe, anyway. Now serve it forth.

The finished product.

Some people prefer a smooth-textured soup. If this is you, take the sausage-chunks out of the pot and use an immersion blender to convert this nice, chunky, rustic soup into a smooth, homogenized, boring purée. Then add the meat back in. [I did not do this.]

Enjoy! Perfect on a chilly fall evening.

Update: But watch out for Dutch Oven Potential later...

FRIDAY RANDOM TEN

It’s Friday - the Sixth Day - which means it’s when
I go to post my Friday Random Ten.
A dozen tunes (less two) from my iPod
All chosen by the Mystic Hand o’ God.
(A question that won’t be, today, resolved,
Is just how much the Big Guy gets involved.)

Yes, it is Friday, and for once the Missus and I are looking forward to a relatively quiet weekend at home.

Elder Daughter is back home in Washington, D.C., while the Mistress of Sarcasm and Gilad are off to visit his mother and stepdad in Ann Arbor, Michigan.

The Missus and I have been to Ann Arbor. It was, in fact, thirty years ago this month, when Elder Daughter was newly evident as a just-noticeable rounding of SWMBO’s belly. My souvenir of that visit was a hardbound first edition of John Irving’s landmark novel The World According To Garp, of which I had previously read two chapters that had been published in Playboy magazine. Based on those two dimly-remembered chapters, I fully expected the novel to be brilliant... and I was not disappointed.

But now it’s time to see what the ol’ iPod d’Elisson has on its little electronic brain. What’s on?

1. A Day In The Life - The Beatles
   
   Possibly the finest pop song of all time... a mini-symphony. I still remember hearing it for the first time on June 1, 1967 and thinking, “WTF is this? Whatever it is, it’s amazing!”
   
   
2. It’s Hard To Be A Saint In The City - Bruce Springsteen
   
   
3. Kyyhylly - Alamaailman Vasarat
   
   
4. Words Of Love - The Beatles
   
   
5. Un Grand Sommeil Noir - Edgard Varèse
   
   
6. (Down With) The Sickness - Richard Cheese
   
   
7. Turn On Me - The Shins
   
   
8. The Blimp (mousetrapreplica) - Captain Beefheart
   
   
9. One Way Out - The Allman Brothers
   
   
10. It’s Ice - Phish
    
    I press on the elastic sheet, I’m breathing through a slice
    “Are they worms or are they serpents?” bubbles through the ice
    The source was quite invisible, the ever-present voice
    While skating, both legs tracing different shapes, I made my choice
    
    Mimicking the image in whose radiance I bask
    I’m tied to him, or him to me, depending who you ask
    None the less reluctantly reflections tumble in
    I slide with all the other on the wrong side of the skin
    
    He’s fallen on the ice, it cracks
    Will he plunge in and join me here?
    He meets my eyes, to my surprise
    He laughs in full light of my frown
    My double wants to pull me down
    
    Slipping on the friction slide, my skin peels to the bone
    The flesh I leave behind, is something that is not my own
    I beg my mirror image for a moment with my soul
    He’s leaning back, time to attack, IT’S ME who’s in control
    
    And every move I make he’s got a hand up just in time
    He’s throwing several punches, and he’s blocking most of mine
    Defeated now, I sulk and squirm in mud with frozen mice
    Waiting, calculating till NEXT he ventures on the ice.
    
    

It’s Friday. What are you listening to?

SUCH A DEAL

After spiking in the $4.40/gallon range in the days following Hurricane Ike - when gasoline was extremely thin on the ground in these parts - prices have now fallen below the two dollar mark. Lowest one we saw tonight was $1.949.

I realized that the last time we had seen prices below two bucks was before Hurricane Katrina, more than three years ago. They didn’t seem like such a great bargain then.

My Great Corporate Salt Mine stock is hurting - as is pretty much every other stock as well - but I don’t mind. I’m just pleased to see the functioning of Adam Smith’s “invisible hand”...and anything that reduces the flow of dollars to the mullahs, imams, and Hugo Chavezes of the world can’t be all that bad, eh?

COUPLA HOUSE CATS SITTING AROUND, NOT TALKING

There’s Neighbor, who is sitting on SWMBO’s computer...



And there’s Hakuna, who is content to sit under the kitchen table...with a weather eye on the Dark Intruder.



And they ain’t talking. Not a word.

Update: Well, they talk sometimes. And (as just happened when Neighbor jumped up on our bed when Hakuna was already sitting there) it ain’t pretty.

MrowwwROWWWWRRRRRHISSSSSSssssssss!!!

Translation: “Get the fuck offa my momma’s bed, bee-YOTCH!”

Update 2: The Friday Ark’s 217th voyage is afloat over at the Modulator.

And if that doesn’t satisfy your Kitty Jones, Carnival of the Cats #244 will be hosted by Kashim and Othello at The Catboys Realm Sunday evening.

Update 3: CotC #244 is up.

BIZARRE COINCIDENCE

Anyone who has heard the story of Houston Steve and how our paths intersected many years ago - well before we became friends here in Atlanta - knows that I am no stranger to the Bizarre Coincidence.

Big Stupid Tommy’s comment on my last post reminded me of yet another Bizarre Coincidence. And, appropriately enough, it took place in Houston.

It was in early 1991, shortly after we had moved back to Sweat City after a long absence that included living in places as diverse as New Jersey, Atlanta, and Connecticut. One evening, I received an unexpected phone call...from a college classmate I had not seen or heard from in all the years since graduation.

Not just a college classmate: I had hundreds of those. No: This guy was one of the Dirty Dozen - the select group of twelve chemical engineering graduates of the Class of 1974 of which I was privileged to be a member.

Why was he calling me, out of the blue? Was it to solicit funds for the University? No - nothing so prosaic.

He had, it seems, been working his way through his mail. When he opened the envelope containing his bank statement, two statements fell out. One was his; the other, mine. When he saw my name on the statement, he had a genuine Head-Scratching Moment. Say, I went to school with a guy who had that (extremely unusual) name... could it be the same person? Has to be!

Directory assistance did the rest.

And thus it was that we actually got together, we classmates, we fellow members of that Band of Brothers, the Dirty Dozen of the Class of 1974, for a pleasant visit.

As strange as this was, it never could have happened outside of a narrow time window. We had only recently moved to town, and my classmate (along with his business) was within mere days of moving away.

Two people out of twelve in the entire U.S. of A. - and a one-month time window - and somehow, my bank statement gets stuck in the same envelope as his. How crazy is that?

LOST AND FOUND

This morning I got a call from SWMBO. Surprisingly, she was calling from the school’s landline, not her cell phone. And the reason for that was rapidly revealed: She had inadvertently left it on the table at the restaurant last night. Could I run over there after breakfast and retrieve it?

I confess to feeling a momentary spike of irritation. “How the hell could you forget your cell phone...to which you seem to be permanently attached?” I thought. But I said nothing... and that is as it should be, for I, too, have inadvertently left valuables behind. I, too, know that feeling of panic, the panic you feel when you realized that something that should be in your possession has gone missing.

When Elder Daughter and I were in Japan earlier this year - we arrived there seven months ago today - we spent our first couple of days in Tokyo. After our second night in the Ginza, we vacated our room and checked our bags with the bell desk, with the intention of wandering around by the Imperial Palace and Hibiya Park before heading out for Kyoto.

We grabbed a late lunch at a little restaurant in Hibiya Park, taking in the scenery and enjoying the hazy sun of a warm afternoon. And that’s when I noticed, to my horror, that my college ring was missing.

I wear my wedding ring on my left hand and my college ring on my right. The wedding ring (thank Gawd!) was there...but the other ring was, inexplicably, not.

Suddenly, a pleasant lunch with Elder Daughter threatened to turn into a Panic-Fest. Where the fuck was that ring?

It was not loose enough to fall off. It was highly unlikely that someone had yanked it off on the subway. This wasn’t Rome or Madrid, it was relatively crime-free Tokyo. All I could figure was that I had left the damn thing in my hotel room, a snafu that could only be explained away as a jet lag-induced Brain Fart... because I always keep my rings together and put them both on at the same time.

Well, we had to go back to the hotel to retrieve our baggage before leaving town, so I decided to relax and place my trust in the legendary honesty of the Japanese.

In the States, I would have been worried, and rightfully so.

It wasn’t all that long ago that the Missus and I had been staying in Savannah, and she inadvertently left her Moon-Boot leg splint in the room. We did not realize it was missing until we got back home, whereupon SWMBO called the hotel to locate it. No soap. But something didn’t smell right... and a few more phone calls established that the housekeeper had, upon finding the splint, simply chucked it out instead of turning it in. [In case you’re curious, that lapse in judgment cost the hotel $200.]

But this was Japan. When we got to the hotel, I explained my situation. Within minutes, the manager brought me my ring, all carefully cleaned and sealed in a little plastic bag. Was I relieved? You betcha.

As if that were not bad enough, when we returned to the States, we stayed in Crystal City, hard by Reagan National Airport. The next morning, we took the jitney from the hotel to the airport, from where Elder Daughter would take the Metro home while I would grab my flight back to Atlanta. But as I was ready to get off the jitney, I realized that my camera bag was missing.

Great Balls of Burning Excrement!

I had put the bag in a chair next to the check-out desk...and had walked away without it. This, after having schlepped my bags all over Japan for ten days. Another jet lag-induced Brain Fart, this time of Massive Proportions. My heart was in my mouth and my anus was all a-pucker as I rode the jitney back to the hotel, where (Hallelujah!) the bag was still sitting right where I’d left it. I had had visions of someone simply walking away with over $1,200 worth of camera equipment...and 850 irreplaceable photographs. Now, just a huge sense of sweaty relief (and a brief frisson of national pride. Hey, Americans are honest, too!)

So, this morning, I couldn’t really be pissed off at She Who Must Be Obeyed... not without being a complete and utter hypocrite. For all of us leave things behind every so often...and in this case, once again, there was a happy conclusion to the story. I picked up the phone (I had to go around to the back of the restaurant by the delivery entrance to collar the manager), and now all is right with the world.

KABOOM!

The infamous Kaboom! Tree.

I think that I shall never see
A hazard like the Kaboom! Tree.

A tree that lurks beside a farm,
The sloppy motorist to harm;

A tree that sits astride the street,
To threaten those with leaden feet;

A tree that may in summer wear
A smashed Volkswagen in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Today? A drunken driver’s brain.

Blogposts are made by fools like me,
Watch out for yonder Kaboom! Tree.

[Apologies to Joyce Kilmer.]

What the hell is the Kaboom! Tree? You may well ask. It’s simply a humongous old tree that sits on the side of Zion Hill Spring Road - one of the little country roads near Eric the Blade’s place. The tree is strategically placed at a sharp curve in the road so that any car that misses said curve will find itself coming into violent conflict with it.

Kaboom!

The name, by the way, was bestowed by Eric, even though he gives me credit for it. At least, I’m pretty sure he named it. Once the single malt starts flowing, it’s kinda hard to tell who said what after a while...

SUNDAY DINNER

What with both Elisson-Daughters having been in town this weekend, we decided to have a few friends over for a home-cooked feast Sunday evening. And a feast it was.

I had picked up a passel of nice, big yellow onions a few days ago, having had French Onion Soup on my mind. It’s hearty enough for those brisk fall evenings, but it doesn’t lay on your kishkes like a lead weight, as sometimes does a split pea or lentil pottage.


French onion soup.

For protein, we had simple stuff: grilled flank steak for the Beef-Eaters, Bourbon Salmon for those with Piscine Preferences. Just to be weird, I cooked up a pot of black rice (it’s really more of a blackish purple, but bizarre looking nonetheless) by way of a starch...and JoAnn brought in some green beans and broccoli so there would be a few vegetables.

Did I mention salad? Yes, there was salad - a Fart-Ball Salad I made using thinly sliced Brussels sprouts. You simply slice up a bunch of those bad boys using a mandoline (remove the cores), mix in a couple cups of toasted walnuts, 1/3 cup grated Pecorino Romano, 1/4 cup olive oil, and the juice of one lemon... a couple twists of the ol’ Pepper Mill... a dash of salt if needed... toss well, then top with a few curls of Romano shaved from the block using a potato peeler. It sounds horrendous, but if you can get over your (inexplicable) loathing of Brussels sprouts, it is actually pretty damn tasty.

[I should point out that the recipe is from the current issue of Saveur magazine...and the term “Fart Balls” comes from Karen Wise (my blogmomma!) who writes at verbatim.]


Fart-Ball Salad.

For dessert, Laura Belle contributed an obnoxious, yummy chocolate chip pound cake; John and Chris brought those Harry and David’s Moose Tracks (“Cracker Jack on Crack™”); and I baked up some of these Proud Beauties.


Mexican Chocolate Icebox Cookies!

Remember: What it comes to dinner at Chez Elisson, nothing exceeds like excess!

COMMANDER: A 100-WORD STORY

You may be wondering, in the aftermath of the recent national elections, how the armed services are reacting to the prospect of a new Commander-in-Chief... especially one that represents such a change in direction for matters military.

Wonder no more.

Reports are piling in that our fighting forces are ecstatic over the Obama victory, despite concerns that, under his administration, defense spending may be slashed significantly.

The people who serve our country are not worried. They welcome and honor their new Commander.

Henceforth, residential facilities at military bases will be named for the new President.

They will be called “Baracks.”

THUS OBSERVETH THE MISTRESS

We were standing in front of a shop window at the Galleria, the Mistress and I, when we spotted a particularly repulsive outfit. Fluorescent pink mohair...and was that a clump of feathers? Gaaah.

Me: That looks like something Betty Rubble would wear.

The Mistress: Yeah...but only if Betty Rubble had a stroke and forgot how to dress herself.

[And that, Esteemed Readers, is why I call her the Mistress of Sarcasm.]

ONE OF THOSE DADDY MOMENTS

The Westminster School campus.

There are some moments in life that have an elusive sweetness that is hard to describe...but I’m going to take a crack at it anyway, for there have been several such moments this weekend. Daddy moments.

I am blessed with a wonderful wife and two fine daughters (keyn ayin hora). Over time, I have been privileged to see both She Who Must Be Obeyed and the Mistress of Sarcasm functioning in their professional capacities – the former as a classroom teacher, the latter as both a jewelry designer and as a concierge – and in both cases, I have been Mighty Impressed.


SWMBO, flanked by the Mistress of Sarcasm and Elder Daughter.

This weekend, I finally got to see Elder Daughter in her professional element, and likewise, I was Mighty Impressed.

For the past three weeks, Elder Daughter has represented her employer at a series of day-long events targeted at educators. The program – Teach Africa Phase II – was held in Houston two weeks ago, Los Angeles last week, and now in Atlanta at the Westminster School.

The Westminster School is one of those High-End Private Schools, the graduates of which are sure to feel right at home at most Ivy League universities...except fot the fact that the campuses of the Ivy League universities will feel somewhat cramped and undersized.

As one of the featured speakers, Elder Daughter (I am pleased to report) more than held her own amongst a roster that included the Congolese Ambassador to the U.S., a senior vice president of the World Bank (and former Ambassador from Uganda), the director of the Southern Center for International Studies, and the CEO of the Africa Society.

It’s a sweet feeling, to see your little girl, now All Grown Up, speaking – nay, mesmerizing – a big audience of Serious People.


Elder Daughter dominates the lectern.

But the real Daddy Moment was yesterday afternoon, as I was dropping Elder Daughter off at her hotel.

She was booked at the Renaissance Waverly, a lodging establishment over by the Galleria in northwest Atlanta, a mere stone’s throw from the old offices of the Great Corporate Salt Mine. Back in the 1980’s, we used to spend a fair amount of time there – Sunday brunches, et cetera – and later, after we moved away, I would occasionally stay there in the course of visiting Atlanta-area customers...or going to see the Masters Tournament. It was, as they say, a Fancy-Pants Crib.

As I stood at Reception and watched my daughter take out her own Corporate Card and hand it to the desk clerk, I thought back to all the times I had done the same thing. Checking in at the Waverly. The building looked pretty much the same, but in that moment I realized just how much water had flowed under the bridge. How many years it had been.

Enough years to transform Elder Daughter from a little girl into a fully-formed Grown Up Professional Woman. Intelligent. Confident. And beautiful.

And I smiled.

FRIDAY RANDOM TEN

Friday! The Opening Shot of the weekend: Glorious Friday!

Elder Daughter arrives this afternoon, in town to deliver a talk at the Southern Center for International Studies. And sometime this evening, the Mistress of Sarcasm should show up. It will be a Full House.

Tonight, we’ll catch Lily Tomlin at the Ferst Center for the Arts over at Georgia Tech. Maybe I will get a chance to ask her if she regrets nailing John Travolta back when he was a snivelly kid.

Enough of that. It’s time to check out the randomly-selected musical offerings of the Little White Choon-Box. What’s playing today?

1. It’s Ice - Phish
   
   
2. Champagne Supernova - Ben Folds Five
   
   
3. She Lives (In A Time Of Her Own) - The Judybats
   
   
4. Alice Childress - Ben Folds
   
   Some summers in the evening
   After six or so
   I walk on down the hill
   And maybe buy a beer
   I think about my friends
   Sometimes I wish
   They lived out here
   But they wouldn’t
   Dig this town
   No they wouldn’t
   Dig this town
   
   [Chorus]
   Try not to think about it
   Alice Childress
   Try not to think about it any more
   Try not to think about it
   Alice Childress
   Any more
   No not any more
   No
   
   Alice the world
   Is full of ugly things
   That you can’t change
   Pretend it’s not that way
   That’s my idea of faith
   You can blow it off
   And say there’s good
   In nearly everyone
   Just give them all a chance
   Give them all a chance
   
   Chorus
   
   No it didn’t work out
   No it didn’t work out
   The way we thought it would
   No it didn’t work out
   An arranged marriage
   Is not so good
   
   Thank God it’s you
   You know your timing is
   Impeccable
   I’m not fooling you
   I don’t know what to do
   Some dude just knocked me cold
   And left me on the sidewalk
   Took everything I had
   Everything I had
   
   Try not to think about it
   Alice Childress
   Try not to think about it any more
   It’s getting light where you are
   Alice Childress
   Any more, no not any more
   Any more, no not any more
   
   
5. Act II - Finale - D’Oyly Carte Opera Company, The Mikado
   
   
6. The Royal Scam - Steely Dan
   
   
7. J. S. Bach: Prelude #7 in E-Flat Major (from The Well-Tempered Clavier) - Wendy Carlos
   
   
8. Jackson Cannery - Ben Folds
   
   
9. Taxim - The Klezmer Conservatory Band
   
   
10. My Kind Of Town - Skanatra
    
    

It’s Friday. What are you listening to?

A FEW POST-MORTEMS

Now that the U.S. presidential elections are over, as the winners rejoice and the losers retire to the wilderness to lick their wounds, it’s worth looking at some of the more insightful post-election posts. Here are a few:

• Skippy ponders the issue of how to get there from here. If I wrote about politics, I’d want to write as well as Skippy does. (Plus, he often posts photos of attractive ladies with big kalamatunis.)
  
  
• Oddybobo writes a thoughtful observation on A Brand New Day.
  
  
• The inimitable Velociman weighs in. (While you’re over there, read all his recent posts. Whether or not you agree with his politics, the man is a twisted genius - a southern-fried Hunter S. Thompson, only better - the kind of writer that makes the English language holler out, “Hoits so good!”)

And some completely unrelated Random Crap: Try to say “Spinach Knish” five times, real fast.

THESE ARE A FEW OF MY FAVORITE CATS

Tiny and Baby Cakes, from sisu.



Tig 3.0 and Gracie, from Yourish.com.

Aside from Hakuna and Neighbor, that is.

You can see these Fine Felines at the Friday Ark, where they are regular boarders. Catch Edition #216 at the Modulator.

And, lest we forget... the Carnival of the Cats #243 will be hosted this Sunday evening by House Panthers. I know you just can’t wait...but keep your panths on!

Update: CotC #243 is up.

COFFEE AND CREAM

Hakuna sits between coffee table and sofa.

The coffee table is the perfect place for Hakuna, resembling as she does an imperfectly stirred cup of Mocha Java. But those blue eyes give her away every time.

A WEEKEND AT ERIC’S

[Click on any of the thumbnails above to see a full-size image.]

I’ve been remiss about posting my impressions and commentary on this year’s Hysterics at Eric’s. Chalk it up to a case of the Pre-Election Heebie-Jeebies, or simply accuse me (justly, I might add) of being supernally lazy.

Normally, I would write a piece of Epic Poetry to commemorate the occasion. Think of it: a Horde of Chipmunks Happy Bloggers descending upon the Straight White House in bucolic McMinn County, Tennessee in order to drink a Mississippian flood of alcohol; make loud noises; eat themselves silly; amuse themselves with pool, idle conversation, and the playing of guitars, bongos, and the estimable kazoo; and (not incidentally) to celebrate the birthday of Tennessee Jed hizzownself. But my Poetry Muse is on holiday, so you will needs be content with a Prose Debrief.

Where to begin? So many things happen during the course of a Weekend at Eric’s that it becomes hard to keep track of it all.

The Missus and I arrived sometime around eight o’clock Friday evening, accompanied the whole way by a light (but annoying) rain. We missed the Adventure of the Black Widow Spider (recounted elsewhere), alas...but were greeted warmly by most of the Usual Suspects. Almost immediately, plates of hot baked ziti (courtesy of Bou, Morrigan, and Sissy) were thrust into our hands. This is an Annual Tradition, but one that we missed last time owing to our having arrived Saturday afternoon.

Morrigan, I should point out, is seriously With Child - yet somehow, she manages to look petite. How does that work?

I should also mention that Oddybobo is a dab hand at baking. That apple pie was Off Da Hook, as the youngins like to say.

Zonker, who, alas, no longer keeps his own Online Web-Log, was there, an early arrival. He and John Cox (the Cox half of Cox and Forkum) had driven up from Atlanta together.

Jimbo and Kenny the Bodyguard were there, which meant that there would be Musical Entertainment. It would not be a blogmeet without Denny and Jimbo (the Elderly Brothers) pickin’ some tunes...ably assisted by Dax and - a first! - John Cox on the bongos. (Suggested band name: Cox, Dax, and the Nutsacks.) Another first: Eric managed to stick the correct end of the kazoo into Denny’s mouth during the ceremonial playing of “Rocky Raccoon.”

When Jimbo stuck that duck-beak gadget in his face, though, I almost lost it completely.

Thelma and Joo-Ese (AKA Teresa and Erica) arrived shortly after we did. Their drive was a little longer and wetter than ours, as they had to come up from the Atlanta Airport With The Insufferably Long Name.

There were a few new (to us, anyway) faces, too. Jerry and Richmond both had long drives down from the Upper Midwest. A real pleasure to finally see both of them in Meatworld (as opposed to Blogworld) - and it turns out Jerry’s Corporate Salt Mine is in the same business as mine!

Saturday morning, we all dragged ourselves out of bed and headed off to the Tellico Cafe for a traditional Tennessee-style breakfast. Tommy met up with us there and rejoined us later that afternoon.

After a brief interval of Breakfastly Digestion, we all went out to perforate various objects with high-velocity chunks of metal. Shootin’! Now, I am not especially experienced in the world of firearms - the only gun I ever shot was a CO₂ pellet gun back in day camp 45 years ago - but by the end of the afternoon I had tried my skill with a Taurus 9mm pistol (not so good); a Beretta .45 pistol (deadly accurate); a Bushmaster AR-15 rifle, and a shotgun. They don’t call them things “boomsticks” for nothing...

Redneck (no link - his site has a virus) was extremely helpful, draining cans of Bud every few minutes in order to provide us with plenty of targets. With the .45, I ventilated one of them cans pretty good.

When we arrived back at the house, we saw that Johnnie Oh and Jennifer had shown up, along with the legendary Recondo32 and Georgia, without whom no blogger gathering is complete. The birthday gifts they brought for Eric and Denny were truly a wonder to see. I’ll leave the description to someone with better writing skills, for I cannot do it justice. I will, however, say that titties were involved.

The evening saw us gathered in the house or in Eric’s garage, while beans simmered on the stove and ribs cooked slowly on the grill. Richmond handed out a killer appetizer, just in case one needed to be appetized...and we all sat down to gnaw on those fine, fine ribs.

SWMBO and I missed the real excitement. The folks staying out at the Sleep Inn were treated to an early wake-up call Sunday morning, thanks to a Fahr in the Drahr. Good grief. Happily, things were brought under control without Denny having to jump out of his second-story window. [Memo to Sleep Inn: Guests who are paralyzed from the waist down should be given first-floor rooms, you dipshits.]

Everyone congregated back at the Casa de Straight White for breakfast, an ecumenical affair that included eggs and whomp biscuits (by Yours Truly), apricot kugel (by SWMBO), bacon (by Eric), and Taylor Pork Roll (by Kenny and Jimbo). And then, faces stuffed, everyone took their reluctant leave...while looking forward to the next gathering.

Oh, you wanted a poem anyway? OK, here it is:

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Sissy and Morrigan,
Oddybobo and Bou

Richmond and Jerry
From up by the farm
Came to the Soufland
So at least they’d be warm

Jimbo and Kenny
Piled into the car
Equipped with Three Olives,
A real Rolling Bar

Teresa and Erica
The latter from Brooklyn
Stepped into the kitchen
To see what was cooklin’

Recondo and Georgia
They came bearing gifts
An elegant photo
Of a Poan-Stah with “tifts”

Johnnie and Jennie
Came to shoot pool
Give the cue to John Cox -
He will take you to school

Plums, they are purple
Yellow means a banana
Asleep by the fire
Is our own Dax Montana

Denny came rolling up
In his Movable Chair
Oh, thanks, Mister Desk Clerk -
My hotel room is where?

Chitlins are kishkes,
And grits are from hominy
Let’s all give a shout-out
To Big Stupid Tominy

Eyeballs are “peepers”
A nose is a “honker”
No meet is complete
Without Ex-Blogger Zonker

How does Eric put up with
This yearly invasion?
All the booze people bring
Factors in the equation

And Fiona? Watch out:
Lions can’t match her roar
When she sees Mr. Smart-Brains
Has tracked mud on the floor

NO GOOD DEED...

...shall go unpunished.

The Evil Mermaid - that’s Starbucks, Esteemed Readers - had planned to hand out free coffee to people who came into their shops after having voted. Likewise did Krispy Kreme, doughnut purveyor to the South, plan to offer up free doughnuts to those who exercised their franchise. As did Ben & Jerry, fatboys extraordinaire, with scoops of ice cream.

Sounds good, no? An encouragement, a minor enticement, if you will, for people to worship at the altar of Democracy, without regard to party...for the doughnuts, ice cream, and coffee were offered up to all voters, be they for Donkey, Elephant, or Duck-Billed Platypus.

Alas, the Powers that Be here in Georgia raised an objection.

Apparently, there are federal laws on the books that prohibit offering any sort of enticements or remuneration for voting, and the penalties for transgressing are quite severe.

It’s pretty clear what the point of such a law would be. You don’t want people handing out hot dogs - or sawbucks - to people in an attempt to buy votes. Vote for Joe Blow and get a free hamburger! Not cricket, for obvious reasons.

But the Starbucks and Krispy Kreme programs set no test, demanded no loyalty to a specific candidate - only that one voted. Nevertheless, the State authorities made it plain: They would prosecute.

I have no idea how things eventually worked out, as I do not eat the fine products of Krispy Kreme, I do my level best to avoid those of Ben & Jerry, and I see no point in using expensive gasoline to get free coffee from the Evil Mermaid. I believe any legal issues were circumvented simply by offering the freebies to all comers. But here’s a memo to our Wise Solons. Why don’t you think about rewriting these well-intentioned laws? Encouraging people to vote is a good thing...as long as it is done without a partisan agenda.

I VOTE

Eric is a fine writer on the worst of days, but there are times when he just absolutely dead-stick nails it.

This is such a time.

Go forth and read this post, which better captures the essence of Democracy (with a capital D) than almost any other piece of writing I have ever seen.

CHANGE IN PLANS

The Missus and I were all set for yet another out-of-town weekend, having arranged a trip to Washington, D.C. to visit Elder Daughter.

She’s been busy, Elder Daughter has. The past couple of weekends, she has traveled to Houston and Los Angeles to deliver talks at various panel discussions at the behest of her employer. And while her Morocco trip later this month appears to have been postponed, she still plans to go to South Africa at year-end.

Business exigencies being what they are, our trip has had to be postponed owing to Elder Daughter having gotten sucked away on another weekend panel discussion. But it’s actually good news...because this time, said panel discussion will be here in Atlanta.

For icing on the cake, the Mistress of Sarcasm and Gilad will come down from Tennessee, so we will be One Big Happy Fambly this weekend. Party Time! Excellent! And we’ll get back up to Washington sometime in the next couple of months.

Cancelling our hotel reservations was a snap. Reissuing our air tickets will end up costing us a couple of Benjamins, but that’s no big deal. You have to be able to roll with the punches, as the cliché goes. Bob and weave. Duck and cover. Mutt and Jeff.

Change. Not always convenient, but sometimes beneficial. And given that we are about to be faced with a change in national leadership (the dimensions of which are not yet known as I write this), it’s good to keep in mind the possibility - however remote - of a pleasant surprise, regardless of who gets elected.

EXERCISE YOUR FRENCHFRIES...

...and vote today.

The candidates:



The Bug-Hat Party.

Sober and conservative...except for the part of the party platform that calls for the wearing of Stupid Headgear.



The Metal-Hat Party.

Perforated helmets are just perfect for keeping out the Brain-Control Rays from Outer Space.

Cast your vote in the Comments!

A POX ON BOTH YOUR HOUSES

One of the best things about the arrival of Election Day tomorrow is that it means the end of the relentless campaign advertising by Georgia senatorial candidates Saxby Chambliss (the incumbent) and Jim Martin.

Virtually every commercial break on the Glass Teat features an ad for Mr. Chambliss, followed immediately by an ad for Mr. Martin. Or vice versa. And the ads on both sides are uniformly negative, packed with half-truths, misrepresentations, and outright lies.

Martin’s ads accuse Chambliss of giving tax breaks to businesses that ship jobs offshore, of supporting a new 23% tax. They don’t bother to mention that the 23% tax would replace the existing income tax.

Meanwhile, Chambliss accuses Martin of voting against sex offender legislation and for partial-birth abortion. They don’t bother to explain why the sex offender legislation was draconian and unworkable, with provisions guaranteed to drive criminals underground and off the public radar.

Why not just take it to the next level?

“Saxby Chambliss is a drooling, gaping asshole. I’m Jim Martin, and I approved this message.”

“Jim Martin is a cunt. A weeping sore on the fundament of the great State of Georgia. Plus, he has a tiny dick. I’m Saxby Chambliss, and I approved this message.”

As if the TV ads were not bad enough, the barrage of phone calls makes me want to yank my hair out by the roots...after having set fire to it. Smart, these politicos, exempting themselves from having to comply with the federal “Do Not Call” list legislation.

Well, fuck the both of you...and the horses you rode in on.

Shame on all y’all. You make me wonder why I should bother voting...and that’s the real shame.

NOSH-VILLE

Noshville Katz - he runs a kosher deli!
Noshville Katz - the only place in town!
Noshville Katz - it’s not like you’re in Brooklyn.
Noshville Katz - the only one around!

Well, there’s thirteen-hundred fifty-two different restaurants in
Nashville.
And you can eat anything from a hominy grit to a Contac time pill.
But there’s only one place to get a half-sour pickle or a corn beef
sandwich in Nashville,
Just ask anybody how to get to Katz’s if you're looking to eat well!

About a year ago it was impossible to find a kosher delicatessen.
And the people said, “Mr. Katz, won’t you open up a place where the
people can fress in?”
Well, it was a good idea for a Brooklyn boy to bring a kosher deli
to Nashville.
And his bubbeh asked him who would eat his food -
He said, “The Tennessee folks will!”

So, they call him
Noshville Katz - he runs a kosher deli!
Noshville Katz - the only place in town!
Noshville Katz - it’s not like you’re in Brooklyn.
Noshville Katz - the only one around!

Have a Yiddishe dish:
A potato knish
Or a bagel and cream cheese.
A little chicken soup or gefilte fish
With some carrots and green peas.
If you can get through that,
Have a little chopped liver
Or a piece of herring in wine sauce.
And you can wash it down with a Dr. Brown -
It shouldn’t be a total loss.
(Eat, darling, eat!)

Noshville Katz - he runs a kosher deli!
Noshville Katz - the only place in town!
Noshville Katz - it’s not like you’re in Brooklyn.
Noshville Katz - the only one around!

We also cater bar mitzvahs.

- Noshville Katz, by The Lovin’ Cohens (1967)

Yesterday’s novelty song became today’s reality as we sat down to enjoy a deli luncheon Sunday afternoon in the heart of Nashville...in a restaurant named, appropriately enough, Noshville.

The Missus, the Mistress, Gilad, and our friends Gary and JoAnn all pronounced the matzoh ball soup excellent. Meanwhile, I was thoroughly pleased with my sandwich: tongue, pastrami, and chopped liver on marble rye. The Cholesterol Special.

And, of course, I washed it down with a Dr. Brown. (It shouldn’t be a total loss.)

It’s not like we didn’t eat well the entire weekend. We did.

Lunch Saturday was at Sol, a new Mexican place in Franklin. I had seared tuna nachos that were smack-yer-momma good. After some time spent wandering around town, making fascinating discoveries - did you know that there’s a company that makes paper out of elephant shit? Who wants to lick those envelopes? - I developed a Chocolate Jones, one that was eminently satisfied at a shop with the semi-unpronounceable name of “Xoconochco.”


Exotic chocolates at Xoconochco.

Saturday night, we all sat down to a fine dinner at the Boxwood Bistro in Franklin. We had dined there last time we were in Franklin, and this evening was just as good if not better. My filet was ridiculously tender, with a flavorsome pan-seared crust.

Breakfast Sunday was a homemade Tennessee-style affair at Magnolia House, our bed-and-breakfast, a cozy little place just a few hundred feet from the Mistress’s place. An egg, cheese, and jalapeño dish was set off nicely with biscuits and a hashbrown potato casserole. How we summoned the strength to waddle away from the table is beyond me.


Magnolia House.

And that brings us back to Noshville.

This week: Starvation. It’s the only way to knock off the ass-cheek’s worth of weight I gained.

THE PATRIOT

We’ve all seen those e-mails...the ones that trot out every tired old ultrapatriotic cliché (many of which we all agree with to some degree) in a crude attempt to whip up a certain Fervent Chauvinism.

I don’t pay attention to this sort of stuff...internet e-mails are the bane of our existence, in my not-so-humble opinion...but last week Houston Steve got one from a mutual friend and, being relatively articulate, decided to do a little fisking.

As you read the e-mail below (with Houston Steve’s interpolated responsum highlighted in italics), keep in mind that Steve leans toward the blue side of the aisle. His comments, however, make a whole lot of sense regardless of what your political leanings may be.

********************

YES, I’M A BAD AMERICAN

I Am the Liberal-Progressives’ Worst Nightmare. I am an American.

Why would that make you my nightmare?

I am a Master Mason and believe in God.

Good for you. We need hard working people in this country who have ethical precepts to live by. And no one can outsource what you do to Michigan, let alone to another country.

I ride Harley Davidson Motorcycles and believe in American products.

Buy American is obviously quite the thing to do. Remember when Wal-Mart used to pride itself on saying its products were “Made In The USA”? Guess that one went by the wayside, huh?

I believe the money I make belongs to me and my family, not some Liberal governmental functionary be it Democratic or Republican!

While I tend to agree with you, you are a citizen of this country, and there are certain functions of the government that have to be paid for. Or would you rather subscribe to a fire service and police department, and if you fail to pay your bill on time they just won’t come?

I’m in touch with my feelings and I like it that way!

Good for you.

I think owning a gun doesn’t make you a killer, it makes you a smart American.

I can’t think of a single reason to take away your guns. But I do think it’s a good idea to use them in a careful, thoughtful manner. I was so sad to hear about the 8-year-old who blew his own head off at a gun show this past weekend when his father (a physician, no less) allowed him to shoot an Uzi in full automatic. Apparently the little kid was not strong enough to control a 9mm weapon in full automatic. Who would have thought that could happen?

I think being a minority does not make you noble or victimized, and does not entitle you to anything. Get over it!

True that. But at the same time, if I have to get over it, perhaps you might get over it, too. Do you get nervous when a black man is standing on a street corner when you are stopped at a light? Do you lock your doors, when you would never do the same thing if it were a white guy? We all have our fears, and we all have to do better about living with them.

I believe that if you are selling me a Big Mac, do it in English.

Amen to that! By the way, have you ever not been able to buy a Big Mac because the counter person couldn’t talk to you?

I believe everyone has a right to pray to his or her God when and where they want to.

So you are O.K. if the Muslim laying bricks next to you stops work 5 times a day to pray?

My heroes are John Wayne, Babe Ruth, Roy Rogers, and Willie G Davidson that makes the Awesome Harley Davidson Motorcycles.

I’m glad to know you have heroes, some of whom were good Christians and others who were womanizing, wife cheating drunks. Diversity is a great thing.

I don’t hate the rich. I don’t pity the poor.

So the gospels don’t teach you a thing about reaching out and supporting the poor?

I know wrestling is fake and I don’t waste my time watching or arguing about it.

It’s fake? Say it ain’t so!!

I’ve never owned a slave, or was a slave, I haven’t burned any witches or been persecuted by the Turks and neither have you! So, shut up already.

O.K., but will you quit griping about taking away the Confederate flag? You never were a citizen of the CSA.

I believe if you don’t like the way things are here, go back to where you came from and change your own country! This is AMERICA...We like it the way it is!

Actually, America is an experiment that’s constantly changing. If you don’t like change, why don’t you go to Saudi Arabia? They’re still living in the Middle Ages.

If you were born here and don’t like it you are free to move to any Socialist country that will have you.

I want to know which church is it exactly where the Reverend Jesse Jackson preaches, where he gets his money, and why he is always part of the problem and not the solution.

And that’s why, if Obama is elected President, you probably won’t hear about Jesse very much any more. The politics of victimhood and militancy will have been finally put in their rightful place - the garbage heap.

Can I get an AMEN on that one?

Amen.

I also think the cops have the right to pull you over if you’re breaking the law, regardless of what color you are.

No argument here. What if there’s a broken tail light and the same cop wouldn’t pull over a white guy, though? Does that bother you at all?

And, no, I don’t mind having my face shown on my driver’s license.

Couldn’t agree more.

I think it’s good...And I’m proud that ‘God’ is written on my money.

Does it bother you to know that I don’t care one way or the other if His name is on my money? [President Theodore Roosevelt, for one, felt that it was disrespectful to put God’s name on money, so I guess there’s a diversity of opinion on that one. – Elisson]

I think if you are too stupid to know how a ballot works, I don’t want you deciding who should be running the most powerful nation in the world for the next four years.

I believe the president of the United States should put his hand over his heart and say the pledge of alegance (sic) and should have no reservations about wearing American flag pins on his lapel.

Well, I think if you can’t identify where all 50 states are on a map, or if you can’t tell me where Iraq and Iran and Pakistan are, you shouldn’t be voting, but guess what? Our Constitution doesn’t set that kind of a test, so we’re both out of luck. And while I don’t much care about flag lapel pins, you’re certainly entitled to your opinion. By the way, I served in the US Navy and my son was in the Peace Corps representing what was best about America in two ex-Soviet countries - what branch of service were you in, or in the alternative, what have you given back to this country you love so much?

I dislike those people standing in the intersections trying to sell me stuff or trying to guilt me into making ‘donations’ to their cause. Get a Job and do your part!

I believe that it doesn’t take a village to raise a child, it takes two parents.

I believe ‘illegal’ is illegal no matter what the lawyers think.

I believe the American flag should be the only one allowed in AMERICA!

So let me get this straight - the firemen who collect donations for the Muscular Dystrophy Association around Labor Day should give it up. And the Marines should quit with the Toys for Tots drives, right? And when you were a kid, your neighbors never kept you on the straight and narrow when your parents weren’t looking, right? And if you ever get picked up by the cops for something you didn’t do, you wouldn’t get a lawyer to protect your interests, right? Because the cops are never wrong. And if you think the American flag is the only one that counts, what the hell is the next picture [one of several in the original e-mail] supposed to be?



If this makes me a BAD American, then yes, I’m a BAD American.

If you are a BAD American too, please forward this to everyone you know.

We want our country back!

No, you’re not a Bad American. You’re just an American. Just like every other American who loves this country, but doesn’t see things exactly the way you do. If you’d quit bellyaching yourself for five minutes and listen to what is really being said, you’d find out that the people you fear the most agree with you on more issues than they disagree.

WE NEED GOD BACK IN OUR COUNTRY!

WE LIVE IN THE LAND OF THE FREE, ONLY BECAUSE OF THE BRAVE!

Sleep well my friend; my nephew, who is an Apache gunship pilot, is currently on active duty in the US Army. He won’t be voting for your candidate, but he will look out for you. It’s his job, his responsibility, and his honor. Just as it was his father’s honor to do so in Viet Nam, and it was my honor to do so in a peacetime Navy.

********************

Now, next time you get one of those e-mails, you just might be able to bring a few new perspectives to what are intended to be rhetorical questions.

FRIDAY RANDOM TEN - HALLOWE’EN EDITION

The Mistress of Sarcasm Deviltry, Hallowe’en 1987.

Yes! It is Friday once again. Not just any Friday, either: It is Hallowe’en, or as we Red Sea Pedestrians refer to it, Yom shel Noyische Garrischkeit.

The Missus is all decked out in full-bore Harlequin Mode, the better to entertain her students.



This evening, in a departure from our usual custom of handing out sweet-meats to the neighborhood youth, we’ll head off to the Ferst Center for a radio show production of War of the Worlds. I’ve always had an abiding affection for Orson Welles’s Mercury Theatre production of the story, possibly because the action was set in Grover’s Mill, New Jersey...just up the road from my Alma Mater. But the best part is avoiding having to answer the door eighty-five thousand times in order to fill the extortion-sacks of the local Urchin-Hordes. I mean, the little ones are cute enough (if clueless), but once they get old enough to shave, they probably ought to be finding something else to do. Like drinking and throwing up in the neighbor’s bushes.

Tomorrow, we’re off to Franklin, Tennessee along with our friends Gary and JoAnn, there to spend the weekend with the Mistress of Sarcasm and Gilad. It’s our annual Fall Getaway: last year Asheville, this year Nashville.

With all that exposition behind us, it’s time to take a look and see what random musical goodies are being horked out by the iPod d’Elisson. Lookee:

1. Straight Up And Down - Chick Corea
   
   From the mid-1960’s vintage “Inner Space” album - my first exposure to the Chickster.
   
   
2. Journey to the Center of the Earth - Prelude - Bernard Herrmann
   
   
3. Kolmannen lin jan Mona Lisa - Tuomari Nurmio & Alamaailman Vasarat
   
   From the “Kinaporin kalifaati” album, which for all I know means “Picking Boogers” - anyone know any Finnish?
   
   
4. Gone - Ben Folds
   
   
5. For Lydia - Michael Leviton
   
   
6. Rule Brittania - The Royal Marines
   
   I used this as part of the musical backdrop for our Jack Aubrey/Stephen Maturin dinner last year.
   
   
7. Tiger Rag - Django Reinhardt
   
   
8. Carey - Joni Mitchell
   
   
9. The Council of Elrond - Howard Shore, The Fellowship of the Ring
   
   
10. In Limbo - Radiohead
    
    

It’s Friday. What are you listening to?

SPECTRUM

This morning, as the Missus and I were performing our respective Morning Ablutions, I released a small fart...as I am, alas, wont to do from time to time.

“Was it a stinky one?” asked She Who Must Be Obeyed.

Compared to what? But I understood her point. All farts are stinky, yet some are stinkier than others. There is a Spectrum of Fart-Stench Intensity, ranging from what SWMBO refers to as Sugar Farts on one end...and Zombie Crawled Up Your Ass and Died A Second Time Farts on the other. Everything from “mostly harmless” to “strips paint at fifty paces.”

She must have been reading my mind, because she picked up on the spectrum concept at the exact same time I did. (That’s one of the benefits of having been married over 31 years.)

“It’s like autism,” quoth the Missus, who knows about these things. “There’s a spectrum of intensity...”

“Right!” I responded. “So there are some farts that are like the kid who sits in the corner and rocks back and forth all day...

“...in which case I’d say that this one is more like the kid who lacks social skills and talks about vacuum cleaners a whole lot. An Asperger’s Fart.”

FUZZY FRIDAY

Ghosts and goblins roam the streets
Collecting Dog- and Kitty-Treats.
Are they cuddly? Or are they scary?
I cannot say. For sure, they’re hairy.

Friday Ark #215 - the Trick or Treat edition - is afloat over at the Modulator.

Sunday evening, Carnival of the Cats #242 returns to Chey’s Place. Be sure to stop by and visit while you’re working your way through the humongous pile of goodies that you (or your kids) will have collected tonight.

Update: CotC #242 is up.

DEATH - AND REGULARITY - BY CHOCOLATE

My friend Donnie Joe loathes what he calls “Dead Fruit” - raisins, prunes, and any other sort of desiccated fruity substances.

Raisinets - those chocolate-covered raisins beloved of moviegoers - do not get by him. That chocolate coating doesn’t fool Donnie Joe. Underneath it is the dreaded Dead Fruit.

I can only imagine how appalled he would be had he come upon Sunsweet’s latest attempt to sexify the Ambrosia of the Superannuated.

I speak, of course, of the lowly Prune.

Even people who happily consume raisins and dried currants by the barrelful will treat the Prune with utter disdain. Prunes are Old Man Food. Prunes keep you “regular.” They’re wrinkly, like little portable nutsacks.

Prunes are a joke.

When I speak of the Pomegranate Pile Driver, people wrinkle (ahh, there’s that word again!) their noses in contempt. Never mind that it tastes good. It’s made with prune juice, so it must be loathesome.

Sunsweet knows this...which is why they have gone the Rebranding Route. They have taken to calling prunes “Dried Plums” - as if that somehow will fool us.

“What’s that you’re eating? Is that a prune? Yecch!”

“What prune? This is a dried plum! See - it says so right here!”

“Ohhh...OK. Say, wanna get yer ashes hauled, you big, sexy dried plum-eating lug?”

But that’s not all. Checkit:

Chocolate Covered Prune Dried Plum Chunks!

Donnie Joe would be horrified. Say, we’re eating dinner with him and Laura Belle this evening...perhaps I oughta bring a bagful!

Update: As much as I love the ol’ Wrinkle-Fruit, this crap’ll never replace Raisinets. But still...Chocolate! Prunes!

LAP-KITTY

Fred cuddles up with the Missus.

Eric’s cat Fred has a remarkably sanguine, easygoing temperament. Here, he cuddles up to the Missus and manages to look relaxed despite the presence of some twenty-five-odd drunken bloggers pleasantly buzzed Online Journalists in the immediate vicinity.

Of course, he’s seen it all before. Fred is a veteran Blogmeet-Kitty.

The Missus thoroughly enjoyed Fred’s attentions, for Hakuna, as sweet as she is, is by no means a Lap-Kitty. She will sometimes deign to cuddle up next to one of us, but never will she climb aboard as her late sister Matata was wont to do. We miss that.


Some serious Lap Time. (Check out that Hallowe’en thumbnail!)

OCTOBER GUILD EVENT

Tonight, after a weekend of debauchery at the Straight White Compound, my liver will be subjected to a renewed assault at the October Sommelier Guild event.

It will be at Le Giverny Bistro, over at the Emory Inn. I’ve never dined there before, so I’m looking forward to adding yet another restaurant to my “Been There, Done That” list. The wines were all gold medal winners in last month’s Vino Challenge, which means (in theory, anyway) that they should all be Tasty Good. Over seven hundred wines competed for a relative handful of top slots at the Vino Challenge...which, coincidentally, was held at Le Giverny.

Denny will be there – so he tells me – and I expect Houston Steve will be joining us as well. Here’s what we’ll have to suffer though:

Speaker’s wine
Dante Robino Extra Brut NV

First Flight
Henri Bourgeois Sancerre “Etienne Henri” 2003***
Vins Auvigue Pouilly Fuissé “Les Craye” 2005***
Jarvis Chardonnay Reserve 2006 2004

Sautéed rainbow trout Grenobloise

Second Flight
Maryhill Sangiovese Rosé 2007***
Viu Manent Malbec “Secreto” 2007
Consul Chileno Carmenere Reserve 2005

Suprême de poulet aux capres

Third Flight
Maryhill Zinfandel 2005
Maryhill Cabernet Sauvignon 2005***
Jarvis Cabernet Franc 2003

Bistro steak with three-cheese sauce

Dessert
Quady Black Muscat “Elysium” 2007 2006***
Campagnola Recioto della Valpolicella 2005*** (Best of Show)

Choice of desserts

Lagniappe
Valduero Reserva Premium 2001***

Gee...maybe they’ll have candy corn by way of observing Hallowe’en. Gaah.

Update: My wine preferences indicated by asterisks. And the food was excellent - worth the trip to Le Giverny for a personal outing with the Missus and friends.

SELF-ESTEEM

A teacher acquaintance of mine recently had a run-in with a parent whose child had failed to turn in an assignment.

When the teacher contacted the parent to express disappointment that the assignment had not been completed - despite detailed advance written communication and instructions - that parent’s response was to get upset. How dare Mrs. Teachy-Pants humiliate little Johnny by telephoning his mother...right in front of him? Why, think of the damage to his precious self-esteem! Intolerable!

I listened to the tale with a sort of bemused wonderment. Ah, self-esteem. Parents these days seem to think children have a right to feel good about themselves.

Bull. Shit.

That warm fuzzy feeling of elevated self-worth is a privilege, not a right. Like respect, it is something that must be earned every day.

Sometimes a little humiliation can be a good thing, especially when it’s unpleasant enough to keep someone from repeatedly doing Stupid Shit. And, applied in occasional doses as needed to the young, humiliation can help a person learn proper behavior in a society of Human Beings. It tends to keep that big, puffy ol’ Wad of Self-Esteem tamped down where it won’t get out of control.

It worked with me.

Rewind the Videocassete o’ Life to sometime in the fall of 1958, when I was a newly-minted first grader. Every day, our teacher would give us a homework assignment, which we would then write down in our little composition book. We were then to take the book home, do the homework, and bring the book back to school.

This wasn’t integral calculus, mind you. It was work appropriate to six- or seven-year-old children. Adding numbers together. Spelling. Basic stuff...and nothing that took hours.

Well, it didn’t take long for Mr. Smart-Brains (Yours Truly) to figure out that the teacher didn’t actually look at that composition book to see whether we had done our assignments. She took it (I supposed at the time) on faith that we would do as we were told. And I, being completely and totally without Personal Honor at the time, reasoned that if the teacher did not check the books, there was no point in my pissing away precious Play-Time by actually doing the assignments. And so for about a month, I coasted.

Life was sweet.

And then one day, my mother collared me where I had been playing with the neighbor kids. “Show me your composition book!” she thundered.

Well, it didn’t take me long to figure out that I had, in fact, not managed to commit the Perfect Crime after all. For the teacher, relaxed and laissez-faire though she may have seemed, was no dummy. She could see that when the other kids wrote in their books, they were three-quarters through to the end...whereas I, Mr. Smart-Brains, was only a few pages in. The phone call to my mother was not long in coming after that.

Was I punished? I honestly do not recollect.

Was I humiliated? Absolutely...and I remember that feeling to this very day, a half-century later.

Self-esteem? Well, I didn’t know what that was, but if it was the feeling that I was a Good Person who had Done the Right Things, it was mighty thin on the ground.

But it was the last time I tried to pull a stunt like that in school.

Self esteem? We all want it...and as someone who spends a lot of time in search of Bloggy Self-Aggrandizement (don’t we all, Esteemed Ones?), I know how desirable it is. But, like many desirable things in life - thick steaks, expensive wines and spirits, the company of beautiful women, palatial dwellings, and the like - people are not queued up to hand it over to you. Ya gotta earn it...every single day.