THE BUS TO FOREVER

Helen walked down the aisle, headed toward the rear of the bus. She wasn’t sure how she got there - all she knew was that she felt better than she had in years. And she knew she had better find a seat.

There. There, on the left side of the aisle, next to that striking white-haired lady.

She sat down and arranged her robe. Where had that robe come from? It felt like silk on the outside, but the lining was like the softest terry.

The woman sitting next to her - damn, but she looked familiar! - turned to her and said, “I’m Bernice. And you are...”

“Helen.”

“Nice to meet you, Helen. Welcome to the bus.”

“Thanks. Nice to meet you too. Now, where the hell are we going?”

Bernice grinned. “Ooooh, salty! A real firecracker - I should’ve known, with that strawberry-blonde hair. I think I like you already. How old were you?”

Comprehension slowly dawned in Helen’s eyes. “I am... was... eighty-eight.”

“You got me beat. I would’ve been eighty-seven next month. Ahhh, well.”

“So, let me ask you again. Where the hell are we going? Oy. Maybe I should rephrase that.”

“This is the express to Olam ha-Ba. The Next World, the World to Come. Whetever the hell that means. Err, maybe I should rephrase that.”

“Bernice, you look familiar.” Helen regarded her seatmate with a cocked eyebrow. “Have I seen you somewhere?”

“I suppose it’s possible. I used to be an actress. Bea Arthur was my stage name. Ever watch ‘The Golden Girls’?”

“Ah HAH! I knew it! I loved that show. Except I had four sisters, and I could never understand how all you women could live together in one house like that without killing one another.”

Bernice smiled. “It was television.”

*********

SWMBO’s great-aunt Helen and actress Bea Arthur (née Bernice Frankel) both passed away Saturday, April 25, 2009. Barukh Dayan Emet: blessèd be the True Judge.

Exalted, compassionate God, grant perfect peace in Your sheltering Presence, among the holy and the pure, to the souls of Helen and Bernice. May their memory endure, inspiring truth and loyalty in our lives. May their souls thus be bound up in the bond of life. May they rest in peace. And let us say: Amen.

TODAY’S PITH AND VINEGAR

Memo to self: Following the incident in the fancy Dress-Shop, try to remember that “couture” is not pronounced “cooter.”

THE INTERRUPTED PIRATES:A 100-WORD SEA STORY

“Knock, knock.”

“Who’s there?”

“The Interrupting Pirate.”

“The Interrup…”

“Arrrrrrhhh!”

This joke used to crack us up when we were kids. Timing was everything.

I wasn’t laughing right now, though. Somali pirates were attacking our ship. The crackle of small-arms fire filled the air as the Somalis prepared to board.

The usual game. Hold us hostage, collect the ransom, move on. Insurance would pay the owners.

Not this time. As the pirates strode confidently on deck, laughing, Charlie interrupted them with the M134 Minigun, which promptly converted them into piles of gristle amidst pools of blood.

Yep: Timing is everything.

[The topic of Weekly Challenge #158 at the 100 Word Stories Podcast is Knock Knock.]

CROWNING ACHIEVEMENT

I can always rely on my friend Pat to seek out the Truly Bizarre in the world of food. And he does not disappoint with this link to something that looks like it came straight out of James Lileks’s Gallery of Regrettable Food.

Behold: the Crown Roast of Frankfurters!


Crown Roast of Frankfurters. Really.

[Scary looking, innit? All kinds of horrible images come to mind. This pic presents a good opportunity for a caption contest, but I suspect most of the entries will end up incorporating the phrase “circle jerk.” Ewwww.]

As pictured on Vermont Ferret’s Flickr site, this impressive meal is easily assembled from a pound of frankfurters (cook ’em first), 2 tablespoons cider vinegar, one teaspoon poppy seeds, 2 cups shredded cabbage, ½ cup boiling water, and an unspecified amount of pimento, along with some parsley for garnish (natch) and several toothpicks to hold the whole mess together.

The recipe comes from a 1974-vintage collection of Weight Watchers recipe cards. Ahh, the early 1970’s. It makes all too much sense. Remember, this is the decade that gave us Watergate, platform shoes, Qiana shirts open to the navel, and double-knit polyester leisure suits... so this Fine Dish fits right in.

So: Who among my brave cadre of Esteemed Readers is brave enough to assault this Matterhorn - nay, this Everest - of Quality Dining? We’ll want photos... and a full debriefing, with all details of the attendant horrors.

Update: As if the above were not bad enough, there’s also this... no doubt what’s for dinner chez Octomom. [Another tip o’ th’ fedora to Pat.]

MEH

Betcha didn’t know just how much you needed this:



Why, it’s the Goat Button!

Tip o’ th’ Elisson fedora to LeeAnn for this little gem.

FUZZY FRIDAY RANDOM TEN

Just for shits ’n’ grins, this week I am combining my Friday Random Ten with Fuzzy Friday, the linkpost that connects you with the Friday Ark and Carnival of the Cats.

First off, there is the matter of the Friday Ark, the 240th edition of which may be found at the Modulator. Not like that is a big surprise or anything: All editions of the Friday Ark may be found at the Modulator.

Next, there is the Carnival of the Cats, to be hosted by Mind of Mog this coming Sunday evening... the 267th one, in case you’re keeping count.

And now, on to the Random Ten - the weekly listing of Choons pooped out by my Little White Choon-Box. We’ll take a look at what’s playing, and maybe throw in a few Puddy-Pix to lighten things up. [You can click on any of the thumbnails for a full-size version.]

What’s playing? Lessee:

1. Waltse for Abby - Chick Corea and Béla Fleck
   
   
   
   
2. Beggars’s Dance - The Klezmatics
   
   
   
   
3. The Generation Gap - Les McCann & Eddie Harris
   
   
   
   
4. A Day in the Life - The Beatles
   
   
   
   
5. Souvenirs (Live) - John Prine
   
   
   
   
6. Brightly Dawns Our Wedding Day - D’Oyly Carte Opera Company, The Mikado
   
   
   
   
7. Miracle Man - Elvis Costello
   
   
   
   
8. Act II, Scene 3: Tagore - Philip Glass, Satyagraha
   
   
   
   
9. Father and Son - Cat Stevens
   
   
   
   
10. Central Park - James Newton Howard, King Kong (2005)
    
    
    
    

It’s Friday. What are you listening to?

Update: CotC #267 is up.

RAGE! BLOW!

Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! rage! blow!
You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout
Till you have drenched our steeples, drowned the cocks!
You sulphurous and thought-executing fires,
Vaunt-couriers to oak-cleaving thunderbolts,
Singe my white head! And thou, all-shaking thunder,
Strike flat the thick rotundity o’ the world!
Crack nature's molds, all germens spill at once
That make ingrateful man!

- King Lear, Act III, Scene 2

Tonight we were treated to a tempest right out of Shakespeare as our little Thursday evening minyan group hunkered down over dinner at the Marietta (“Home of Honkin’ Big Desserts!”) Diner.

As we left the synagogue, we could hear the wailing of the tornado warning sirens. It was easy enough to establish that the warning was for the severe thunderstorms that were rumbling by to the south and west - no tornadoes, at least not yet - and so we proceeded westward toward the diner, a six-mile drive. The sky was an ominous-looking dark grey to the south, but the setting sun still poked through numerous cloud-gaps.

Forty-five minutes into our dinner, though, things got decidedly less clement.

The skies darkened, and lightning flashed. Not that dinky heat lightning, either - these were huge, branchy displays, thick with energy, the kind that paint a tracery of jagged light across the entire firmament. One bolt scored a direct hit on our building (or very close to it), knocking out the power momentarily and startling the bejesus out of everyone. Not a good moment in which to have had a mouthful of hot soup.

The NWS warnings, meanwhile, had gradually ratcheted up their stridency... and their hail size projections, which had started at quarter-size, moved up to golf ball-size, and peaked at tennis ball-size. Which was enough for me to start worrying about our car, which was sitting outside in the diner’s parking lot. Tennis ball-size chunks of ice falling from a few thousand feet will do all kinds of things to cars, none of them pleasant.

When the rain finally came, it was a deluge of Noahide proportions, with the wind coming from a different quarter every few seconds, strong enough to whip flags straight out from their staffs in a frenzy of flappage. There’s an old Texas expression that likens heavy rain to a cow pissing on a flat rock... but any cow that tried to piss in this wind would find her bovine urine landing miles away from the target rock, owing to the fierce wind.

No hail, though. I was grateful for that, although there’s that Curious Little Kid part of me that would love to see tennis balls of ice fall from the sky.

When things quieted down, we hurried to pay up and get out of Dodge... and we were treated to a major light show all the way home.

Postscript: What we didn’t know was that at the height of the storm, our friend Stefan was at his office a mile or so northeast of us. As he looked out at the weather through his westward-facing window, he saw a funnel cloud begin to form... right above where the Marietta Diner was. Right above where we were. Lucky for us, the funnel never touched down - instead, it vanished back up into the boiling mass of storm clouds above. Close call, that...

THE ENEMY LURKS

Off in the distance, the enemy lurks...

I see her there, off in the distance:
The object of my heart’s resistance.
Her presence in my territory
Makes life a daily purgatory.
If she comes near, I’ll hiss and spit -
I hate her guts, the little shit.

Here, Hakuna and Neighbor face off in the upstairs corridor.

VENUS DAY

False-color radar image of the surface of Venus. [Courtesy NASA]

Today, April 22, is Earth Day... but unless you are a Planetary Chauvinist, you also know that it is Venus Day.

It’ll be Venus Day for a good while, too, since our Venerian solar days are over 116 times longer than an Earth day. And that will give us plenty of time to think of ways to save our planet.

Greenhouse gases are an issue, of course. We Venerians can’t get enough of ’em. All that carbon dioxide and sulfur dioxide are absolutely necessary to maintain the balmy 860°F surface temperature that makes Venus the perfect place among planets.

“Save the Whales”? Pfaugh. On Venus, “whales” are the subject of science fiction... mainly because there are no oceans. Carbon-based lifeforms of any kind are thin on the ground, for that matter. All y’all wimps can’t take the heat. The local silicon-based biochemistry is much more adaptable.

On Venus, “Rock and Roll” isn’t music. It’s a dude and his food.

Not that there aren’t environmental concerns. While there are no icecaps, polar or otherwise, to shrink, the depth of the tellurium-gallium snow in the mountains occasionally is insufficient to support a decent skiing season. Opinion is strongly divided as to whether this diminution of snow cover is veneriogenic in origin.

Hey, ya gotta love our pearlescent little planet. Where else in the Solar System can you breathe seltzer instead of drinking it?

TODAY’S PITH AND VINEGAR

I’d rather get Sharon Stoned than Sarah Boyled.

A TIP...

...o’ th’ Elisson Fedora goes to El Capitan of Baboon Pirates for his latest tour de force: a retrospective of Art History with especial emphasis on a certain individual with Great Farookin’ Hair™.

Here’s a taste:


“American Jimbo” By El Capitan, with apologies to Grant Wood.

The image that inspired Cap’s PhotoShoppy Masterpieces may be familiar to those who read this account of last year’s Hysterics at Eric’s - the weekend that was notable for the Infamous Drahr Fahr, among other things - and who took the time to make clicky-clicky on all the links.

There’s more to the good Captain than meets the eye. We already know he can write a mean Blog-Post... but this is the best evidence to date of his Mad PhotoShoppin’ Skillz. And a connoisseur of Caravaggio, to boot! A feckin’ Renaissance Man, I tells ya.

APRIL GUILD EVENT

The April Sommelier Guild event will be held this evening at Grace 17.20 in Norcross. Alas, the Grouchy One will be unable to attend, thanks to the difficulty of getting to their second-floor dining room. There’s no elevator - just a winding staircase with hard marble treads that is decidedly not Cripple-Friendly. But Houston Steve will be there with me to enjoy the evening’s wine assortment, all of which will be from Portugal.

Say, anyone remember Lancer’s? Or Mateus Rosé?

Speaker’s Wine
Famega Vinho Verde 2007***

First Flight
Monteiro de Matos “Terras de Paul” Tinto de Ribatejo 2005
Quinta DeRoriz "Prazo de Roriz" Tinto de Douro 2004**
Roboredo Madeira “Carm” Tinto de Douro 2006**

Pan Seared Halibut Fillet, Warm Mussel & Tomato Salad Bruschetta, Smoked Gouda Stuffed Okra

Second Flight
Quinta De Portal Grande Reserva Tinto de Douro 2000
J.R. Moreira “Poeira” Tinto de Douro 2001***
Roboredo Madeira “Carm” Grande Reserva Tinto de Douro 2005**

Chile Dusted Lamb Loin, Braised Kale, Caramelized Onion & Chorizo Sausage Gnocchi

Dessert
Blandy’s Malmsey Madeira “10 year old” (NV)*****
Kopke Colheita Porto 1983****
Warres Vintage Porto 1994****

Butter Toffee Bread Pudding, Vanilla Bean Pastry Crême, and Spiced Caramel Sauce

Sounds calorific! I guess I’ll have to spend an evening pounding all of this down... and taking notes, so you’ll know what was good... and what was really good.

ASK MR. DEBONAIR

Dear Mr. Debonair,

This thoughtful post by a gentleman who calls himself “Velociman” got me to thinking about the matter of Manly Fragrances. Is it appropriate for a man to use Cologne Water and the like... or is it a Metrosexual Affectation? Inquiring minds want to know.

Sincerely,
Inquiring Mind

Dear Inquiring,

I applaud you for your fearlessness and candor in putting forth your inquiry. But I must hasten to assure you that there is nothing unmanly in the use of materials that impart a pleasant scent. Gentlemen have been connoisseurs of Bodily Aroma Enhancement since before the primitive Neanderthal crouched in his cave and distilled the first precious drops of Bay Rum.

This is not an unreasonable thing, for the Gentlemanly Corpus, left to its own devices, is capable of developing some remarkably offensive pongs. As Velociman states so eloquently, there is a definite value to a gentleman’s use of some sort of Olfactory Palliative, “because otherwise we would be subjected, ad hoc, to the smell of [his] unwashed armpits and unsanitary, shit-begrimed ass cheeks.”

At the very least, one must take it upon oneself to use an effective deodorant and/or antiperspirant after showering - an act that should be performed, generally, somewhat more often than every other fortnight. But beyond deodorant, there are many possibilities for Osmic Enhancement.

Your aromatic should be carefully selected with an eye toward one’s unique body chemistry. Every one of us reacts differently to scent; it is therefore critical to ensure that the scent one chooses does not react with one’s individual pheromonic pallette to create a less-than-optimum effect. If your friend Charlie smells great with a few drops of Old Spice on his freshly-shaven cheek, well and good; but Old Spice may make you smell like an oven-baked turd. The moral: Be sure to test fragrances privately before wearing them in public.

What fragrances does Mr. Debonair recommend? Ahhh, that is a tricky question indeed, involving as it does the delicate matter of Personal Taste. Over the years, as Mr. Debonair grew out of Noob-Fare like Old Spice (Grandpa’s choice!) and West Indian Lime - past Canoe, Aramis, Drakkar Noir, Kouros, and suchlike - he has gravitated towards products such as Antæus and Egoïste - the latter especially apt for someone who is so invested in the art of Self-Aggrandizement. Your tastes may differ (de gustibus non est disputandum), so feel free to douse yourself with Hai Karate! or Old Spice, you shit-smelling old goat. [Or goat-smelling old shit.]

How to apply one’s favorite Stinkum? Mr. Debonair recommends a drop or two - no more! - on the neck below each earlobe. And if you’re feeling especially frisky, a drop at the base of the Penile Shaft, right where it meets the Old Nut-Sack, can spice up almost any putative Romantic Encounter. Enjoy.

AVE MAMMA MIA

About a week ago, the Missus and I were driving along Roswell Road, headed toward Marietta to pick up a few things at Harry’s Farmers Market.

[I’ll interject a comment here about local road nomenclature... because it can be a source of confusion. Roads hereabouts are named for where they take you: thus, if you are in Roswell, you take the Marietta Highway to travel towards Marietta. The same east-west road is called Roswell Road in Marietta, because - you guessed it - it takes you in the direction of Roswell.

Here, I make reference to Roswell Road, but for additional clarity I should say “Roswell Road 120” to differentiate between the east-west Roswell Road and the north-south Roswell Road (Roswell Road 9). Or I could say “Upper Roswell Road” by way of distinguishing between Upper Roswell Road, i.e., Roswell Road 120, and Lower Roswell Road. Confused? Good. You’re normal.]

Anyway, as the Missus and I were traveling along Roswell Road, AKA Upper Roswell Road, AKA Roswell Road 120, her eagle-eyes caught a sign on a brick office building that advertised the presence of a church.

It’s unusual enough for a church to set itself up in an office building - generally, such institutions prefer stand-alone facilities - but what struck her as even more unusual was the name of the church:


World headquarters of the Church of ABBA.

By George! Here was a House of Worship dedicated to the Supreme Swedish Disco-Band... ABBA!

It makes sense, I suppose. There are plenty of people who are members of the Church of the Resurrected, Reconstituted, Revitalized, and Rehabilitated Elvis... so why not a church for ABBA?

I don’t dare guess what the liturgy is like, but I suspect the hymns are eminently listenable, hooky affairs that stick to your brains... earworms all. And you can dance to ’em under the flashing, sparkling lights of the Eternal Disco Ball.

AN OBSERVATION, MOST LIKELY UNWELCOME

If there’s one thing I really dread
It’s pinching back a Turtle-Head.
And even worse is when my poop
Devolveth unto Turtle-Soup.

ONE YEAR AGO TODAY...

...I was in Hiroshima, Japan with Elder Daughter.


The hypocenter... 580 meters directly below where the Bomb went off.

It isn’t every day that you can stand on the spot directly below where an atomic bomb went off. A most sobering experience... more about which may be found here.

A QUESTION OF ORTHOGRAPHY

Overheard in a restaurant:

Is it “even Steven,” or “effin’ Stephen”?

FRIDAY RANDOM TEN - POST-PASSOVER POST

Welcome to yet another Friday Random Ten at Blog d’Elisson, that insufferable weekly feature in which I post ten tunes, horked out randomly by the iPod d’Elisson. [If they were not horked out randomly, I suppose we could not call it the Friday Random Ten, eh?]

Today, instead of the iPod, I’m pulling music off of the iPhone d’Elisson. And now SWMBO has her own iPhone, too! We’re now a pair of iPhonies!

Passover is kaput for another year, which means we are now happily stuffing our faces with Breadly Goodies. Like many things in life, doing without a certain food or activity for a while teaches you to appreciate it all the more.

With all that preamble out of the way, let’s see what’s on the box:

1. Annie Waits - Ben Folds
   
   Not to be confused with Tom Waits, I suppose.
   
   
2. Brown Shoes Don’t Make It - The Mothers of Invention
   
   This may have been the first Zappa tune I ever heard. It was 1967, and this stuff was from a different planet than Herman’s Hermits and all the other crap we’d hear on Top 40 AM radio. It changed my life.
   
   Brown shoes don’t make it
   Brown shoes don’t make it
   Quit school, why fake it
   Brown shoes don’t make it
   TV dinner by the pool
   Watch your brother grow a beard
   Got another year of school
   You’re okay, he’s too weird
   Be a plumber
   He’s a bummer
   He’s a bummer every summer
   Be a loyal plastic robot
   For a world that doesn’t care
   That’s right
   Smile at every ugly
   Shine on your shoes and cut your hair
   
   Be a jerk - go to work
   Be a jerk - go to work
   Be a jerk - go to work
   Be a jerk - go to work
   Do your job, and do it right
   Life’s a ball
   TV tonight
   Do you love it
   Do you hate it
   There it is
   The way you made it
   
   A world of secret hungers
   Perverting the men who make your laws
   Every desire is hidden away
   In a drawer in a desk by a naugahyde chair
   On a rug where they walk and drool
   Past the girls in the office
   
   (Hratche-plche, hratche-plche
   Hratche-plche...)
   
   We see in the back
   Of the City Hall mind
   The dream of a girl about thirteen
   Off with her clothes and into a bed
   Where she tickles his fancy
   All night long...
   
   His wife’s attending an orchid show
   She squealed for a week to get him to go
   But back in the bed his teen-age queen
   Is rocking and rolling and acting obscene
   Baby baby...
   Baby baby...
   
   Gimme them cakes now, uh!
   If I do, I’m gonna lose my...
   
   And he loves it, he loves it
   It curls up his toes
   She wipes his fat neck
   And it lights up his nose
   But he cannot be fooled
   Old City Hall Fred
   She’s nasty, she’s nasty
   She digs it in bed
   That’s right
   
   Do it again, ha
   And do it some more
   Hey, that does it, by golly
   And she’s nasty for sure
   Nasty nasty nasty
   Nasty nasty nasty
   Only thirteen, and she knows how to nasty
   She’s a dirty young mind, corrupted
   Corroded
   Well she’s thirteen today
   And I hear she gets loaded
   If she were my daughter, I’d...
   What would you do, Frankie?
   Well, if she were my daughter, I’d...
   What would you do, Frankie?
   If she were my daughter, I’d...
   What would you do, Frankie?
   Check this out
   Smother my daughter in chocolate syrup
   And strap her on again, oh baby
   Smother that girl in chocolate syrup
   And strap her on again
   She’s my teen-age baby
   She turns me on
   I’d like to make her do a nasty
   On the White House lawn
   Smother my daughter in chocolate syrup
   And boogie ’til the cows come home!
   
   Time to go home
   Madge is on the phone
   Gotta meet the gurneys and a dozen grey attorneys
   TV dinner by the pool
   I’m so glad I finished school
   Life is such a ball
   I run the world from City Hall
   
   
3. The Royal Scam - Steely Dan
   
   
4. Birdhouse In Your Soul - They Might Be Giants
   
   I’m your only friend
   I’m not your only friend
   But I’m a little glowing friend
   But really I’m not actually your friend
   But I am
   
   Blue canary in the outlet by the light switch
   Who watches over you
   Make a little birdhouse in your soul
   Not to put too fine a point on it
   Say I’m the only bee in your bonnet
   Make a little birdhouse in your soul
   
   I have a secret to tell
   From my electrical well
   It’s a simple message and I’m leaving out the whistles and bells
   So the room must listen to me
   Filibuster vigilantly
   My name is blue canary one note spelled L-I-T-E
   My story’s infinite
   Like the Longines Symphonette, it doesn’t rest
   
   Blue canary in the outlet by the light switch
   Who watches over you
   Make a little birdhouse in your soul
   Not to put too fine a point on it
   Say I’m the only bee in your bonnet
   Make a little birdhouse in your soul
   
   I’m your only friend
   I’m not your only friend
   But I’m a little glowing friend
   But really I’m not actually your friend
   But I am
   
   There’s a picture opposite me
   Of my primitive ancestry
   Which stood on rocky shores and kept the beaches shipwreck free
   Though I respect that a lot
   I’d be fired if that were my job
   After killing Jason off and countless screaming Argonauts
   Bluebird of friendliness
   Like guardian angels it’s always near
   
   Blue canary in the outlet by the light switch
   Who watches over you
   Make a little birdhouse in your soul
   Not to put too fine a point on it
   Say I’m the only bee in your bonnet
   Make a little birdhouse in your soul
   
   (And while you’re at it
   Keep the nightlight on inside the
   Birdhouse in your soul)
   
   Not to put too fine a point on it
   Say I’m the only bee in your bonnet
   Make a little birdhouse in your soul
   
   Blue canary in the outlet by the light switch (and while you’re at it)
   Who watches over you (keep the nightlight on inside the)
   Make a little birdhouse in your soul (birdhouse in your soul)
   
   Not to put too fine a point on it
   Say I’m the only bee in your bonnet
   Make a little birdhouse in your soul
   
   Blue canary in the outlet by the light switch (and while you’re at it)
   Who watches over you (keep the nightlight on inside the)
   Make a little birdhouse in your soul (birdhouse in your soul)
   
   Not to put too fine a point on it
   Say I’m the only bee in your bonnet
   Make a little birdhouse in your soul
   
   
5. Roast Beef of Old England - USAF Heritage of American Band
   
   Part of the musical background for our infamous Aubrey/Maturin dinners.
   
   
6. Army - Ben Folds Five
   
   
7. Roll Right Stones - Traffic
   
   
8. Glad - Traffic
   
   A Traffic double-play! “Glad” leads off Traffic’s John Barleycorn Must Die album, an album that marked a move toward a new, jazzy sound - a major change in style for the former psychedelic band. It was the soundtrack for my first semester in college; you could hear it, seemingly, 24 hours a day. To this day, when I hear the opening bars of “Glad,” I am instantly transported back to the fall of 1970... and I am glad.
   
   
9. Long Neck Bottles - Captain Beefheart and the Magic Band
   
   
10. Montana - Frank Zappa
    
    

It’s Friday. What are you listening to?

FUZZY FRIDAY

Spring is here: the grass has riz.
I wonder where the birdies is?
The birds are on the wing.
Oh, my word -
That’s absurd!
The wing is on the bird.

No need to wonder where the birdies is. They’re on the Friday Ark - the 239th edition of which is up at the Modulator’s place - along with all the other denizens of Animal World. Go pay a visit, why don’tcha?

This Sunday evening, Carnival of the Cats will be hosted by When Cats Attack! I understand Hakuna is acting as an unpaid consultant... because she attacks Neighbor whenever the two of them find themselves within five feet of one another. Yeef.

Update: Not that this has anything to do with cats, but Haveil Havalim #213 is up at The Real Shliach. Maybe you’ll find a Katz there, anyway.

Update 2: CotC #266 is up.

Update 3: The 41st Kosher Cooking Carnival is up at A Mother in Israel. Eat, bubeleh!

SPLOTCH

Neighbor, splayed out on the carpet like an ink splotch.

On first glance, Neighbor looks an awful lot like an ink splotch against the light beige tone of the carpet.

But the Mistress of Sarcasm knows better.


“Why, this is no ink splotch... it’s my kitty!”

Update: With Og’s comment to inspire me, I’ve created a Rorschach-Kitty. Look below the fold...

Look out - it’s Rorschach-Kitty! (Now, where da Nite Owl at?)

POPEYE PIE

It being the last evening of eating pesahdik foods - that’s stuff that conforms with the extra-strict dietary restrictions of Passover, for all y’all Gentiles out there - I decided to try something new and different for dinner last night: a Spinach Pie.

Spinach pie? No: a Popeye Pie. A Pesahdik Popeye Pie!


Pesahdik Popeye Pie.

Spinach, eggs, onions, and matzoh meal have been a favorite combination of ingredients for me ever since my grandmother - the Momma d’Eli of blessèd memory - used to fry up spinach latkes at every opportunity. This recipe uses the same basic ingredients, but results in a pie. Just as the name suggests.

It’s easy enough. Preheat the oven to 350°F. Grease a 2-qt capacity pie pan with olive oil, then line the bottom with two sheets of matzoh, broken into small pieces. Now get two pounds of spinach, remove the stems, and chop it up. (I used frozen chopped spinach, which I thawed out and then drained thoroughly.)

Chop up a handful of scallions and throw ’em in a large skillet with about 5 tbsp olive oil over medium-high heat; cook until the scallions soften. Add the spinach, mix well and cook for a few minutes - if using fresh spinach, cook it down until thoroughly wilted. Add one cup matzoh meal and mix well. Throw in a handful of chopped fresh dill weed, then add salt and pepper to taste. Remove from the heat and set aside.

Beat eight large eggs in an electric mixer with four tbsp lemon juice for about five minutes, until frothy. Add the spinach mixture, blend well, and turn out into the prepared pie pan. Bake for 35-45 minutes, or until slightly browned on top. Slice it up and serve it forth. It’s delicious... and it meets the exacting requirements of the Popeyer Rebbe. Enjoy!

ON RED SEA PEDESTRIANS

Q: Why did Moses cross the Reed Sea?

A: He wanted to get to the other side.

It’s the seventh day of Passover - the penultimate day, here in the Diaspora - and, surprisingly, my Matzoh Honeymoon continues. I haven’t gotten sick of it yet. Surprise!

Today at synagogue, the Torah reading consisted of a big chunk of Parshat Beshallach, the dramatic story of the Israelites’ flight from Egypt, pursued by the armies of Pharaoh (who, after agreeing to free the Israelites, developed a case of Morning-Afteritis). The reading is capped by the Song at the Sea, which is chanted to a special melody while the congregation stands... and that’s the piece I read, all 32 verses worth.

Interestingly, the Torah never explains how Moses gets from one side of the Reed Sea (often improperly called the Red Sea) to the other. He is commanded to raise his arm and staff to split the sea; later, he is told to raise his arm and cause the sea to wash over Pharaoh’s charioteers - but nowhere is it said that Moses actually crossed over along with the other Israelites... the above-noted Red Sea Pedestrians.

Since, like Nature, Jews abhor a vacuum, plenty of stories have been cooked up over the years to explain how Moses got across. Stories like this, intended to fill in the gaps in Scripture, are known as midrash. Midrash, given its religious context, is a much nicer term than “crock of shit” or even “bunch of made-up baloney.” [Of course, to the skeptics among us, it’s all a bunch of made-up baloney, including Scripture... but that’s a discussion for another time.]

One possibility: He surfed across. It’s not clear what Moses would have used for a surfboard, but, being a creative sort, I’m sure he could have come up with something. Supporters of this theory cite the fact that Moses was from the tribe of Levi, the tribe that would eventually serve in the Temple...and so was the first Big Kahuna. [“Kahuna,” in Hebrew, refers to Priestly Activities; it comes from the same root as “kohen,” priest.] According to the text, “...and the water was a wall for them, on the right and on the left.” Anyone who has ever seen the break at Waimea Bay on the north shore of Oahu knows that a huge wave resembles a wall - and so it is very possible that Moses would have been able to “hang aseret” while catching some gnarly wave action.

Another possibility: He was picked up by a whirlwind and deposited on the other side of the Sea. This is an actual midrash, although by whom concocted I have no idea. But I theorize that, if this were true, then when Moses landed on the other side of the Sea, everything would suddenly be in color instead of black-and-white like in Egypt.

What ideas can you come up with? How did Moses get across the Reed Sea?

SHORT: A 100-WORD STORY

The man in the familiar stovepipe hat smiled as he approached the box office at Ford’s. He had been looking forward to this evening’s performance of “Our American Cousin.” He needed a laugh badly... and besides, it might lift Mary out of the melancholia that had recently settled upon her.

“Two, please,” he said, in a surprisingly high and nasal voice.

“Of course, Mr. President,” stammered the ticket-seller. “That will be seven dollars.”

But all he had was six-fifty. Damn! He’d have to ask Major Rathbone for four bits.

They’d remember April 14, he thought. The day Lincoln was short.

[Check out The Wacky Adventures of Abraham Lincoln at the 100 Word Stories Podcast.]

DOOM KABOOM

The infamous Kaboom! Tree, as it appeared three years ago.

Regular readers of this site may recall this post about the Kaboom! tree, a well-known and well-feared landmark near the home of Eric the Blade. Well-feared, indeed: Many a careless motorist has dashed his or her brains out against the Kaboom! tree over the years, owing to its strategic placement adjacent to a sharp bend in the road by which it sits. It’s a tree that has earned its onomatopoetic nickname.

It was a beautiful tree, the Kaboom! tree, despite its fearsome reputation. In the photograph above, taken in October 2006, you can get an idea of its proportions, the massive bole supporting a huge, leafy canopy.

Alas, while trees are, on the whole, long-lived life forms, even they are not immune to the ravages of Time and Nature. Eric informed me yesterday that the violent storms that swept through his area this Friday past wiped out the Kaboom! tree - or at least wailed upon it with sufficient intensity that it will never be the same again. Only about a quarter of the tree remains.


The infamous Kaboom! Tree on Easter Sunday 2009, badly in need of resurrection (it’s the one on the left). Photo courtesy Eric the Blade.

The Great Karmic Wheel spins ever ’round, Esteemed Readers... one day, the Mighty Oak is on top, the bane of careless drivers throughout McMinn County, Tennessee, and then, whammo! - it is humbled, a mere shadow of its former glory. As our High Holiday liturgy would put it, in the solemn, timeless words of the U-netaneh Tokef prayer, every year the Eternal One decides “who shall live and who shall die... who shall be exalted and who shall be brought low...” - and everyone gets a turn in the barrel.

Even if you’re a tree.

Kaboom! tree, we hardly knew ye. Ave atque vale...

CROSSING THE STREAMS

Madison Avenue continues to come up with ways to surprise me.

Here, the geniuses behind Burger King’s advertising have done what Dr. Egon Spengler warned us not to do in Ghostbusters: They have crossed the streams. Specifically, they have crossed two divergent, no-fucking-thing-in-common Pop Culture streams and created an ad campaign that out-Herbs Herb.

Picture it: SpongeBob SquarePants together with Sir Mix-a-Lot, all jammed up with that bizarro plastic-faced Burger King. Makes you want to go out and buy a Whopper right now, eh?

I’m pondering the relationship between SpongeBob and Fast-Food Hamburgers, and somehow, the rationale eludes me. Wendy’s, with their square burgers, would seem a more likely candidate for a SpongeBob SquarePants tie-in, but no. Are blocky, looking-like-you-shoved-a-phone-book-in-your-pants asses supposed to be sexy? A desirable outcome from years of Whopper consumption? Does eating burgers simultaneously raise the pitch of your voice and lower your intelligence? What is the deal, anyway?

The 30-second ad is here... but for real fun, watch the extended Music Video version below. A real jaw-dropper, this.

COUNT ME OUT: A 100-WORD HORROR STORY

The Count stood, his full height looming over Van Helsing. No escape... and yet the fabled vampire-hunter stood his ground.

“Doctor Van Helsing,” intoned the Count in a quiet voice that carried the accent of Transylvania. “I almost regret that I must kill you. You have always been a worthy opponent. A gentleman with a boutonnière!

“What kind of flower is that, anyway?” He leaned in for a closer look...

...and was rewarded with a squirt in the eye. Dracula screamed in agony, his body dissolving into a thick mist.

“It’s a rose,” replied Van Helsing. “A stinking rose.”

[The topic of Weekly Challenge #156 at the 100 Word Story Podcast is “The Stinking Rose.”]

GONE PHISHIN’

This morning, yet another stupid-ass phishing e-mail laded in my in-box.

Yawn.

I guess these assholes have a non-zero success rate, because they keep sending e-mails like this...meaning that someone out there is stupid enough to read ’em and still click on the links and divulge their personal data. Economic Darwinism, let’s call it.

Here’s the latest one, which purports to be from the AOL Member Services Team:

Dear Valued Member,

We were unable to process your most recent payment. Did you recently change your bank, phone number or credit card?

To ensure that your service is not interrupted, please update your billing information today by clicking here https://bill.aol.com, After a few clicks, just verify the information you entered is correct. !

Sincerely,

AOL Member Services Team

P.S. The link in this massage will be expire within 24 Hours . You have to update your payment information

OK, assholes: First of all, real communications from AOL are not addressed to “Dear Valued Member” - they’re addressed to me by name. Secondly, they never have to do with billing, because my AOL service is free. Third, they are not rife with punctuation and spelling errors. You almost could have fooled me - except for Items 1 and 2 above, that is - but that P.S. really doomed you. “The link in this massage will be expire within 24 hours”? Puh-leese.

Three strikes and you’re out, douchebags.

Oh, yes - if I float my mouse over your link, and the link target is something like www.colorexpressllc.com/images/items/icons/xxxxxxxxxx/makerup.php instead of https://bill.aol.com, that tells me you are being dishonest. So go fuck yourselves, OK? And then die. Painfully.

CRUMBS

“By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes.” - Shakespeare

“Merely touch it with your thumbs: Matzoh makes a lot of crumbs.” - Elisson

When Eli (hizzownself) wishes to compliment someone, he will, like as not, state that that person “looks sharp as a matzoh and twice as crumby.”

Nonsense, sure, but as with all good nonsense, there is more than a grain of truth in it... or in this case, a crumb of truth. For there is nothing as crumby as matzoh.

We don’t call it the Bread of Affliction for nothing, yo.

Not only is it famously constipation-inducing, but matzoh - the unleavened bread consumed by us Red Sea Pedestrians during our Passover festival - is incredibly crumby stuff. Simply look at it sideways, and little shards will break off, working their way into the tablecloth, your clothing, and any nearby floor. This time of year, our house is filled with Matzoh Detritus. Crumbs.

You cannot avoid them. They are everywhere. Matzoh-crumbs get onto every horizontal surface. They stick to many vertical ones, too, owing to their light weight and grabby little edges. Try to pick one up: Hydra-like, it multiplies, breaking into smaller, harder-to-pick-up chunks.

Funny thing about matzoh. It’s really not bad, this Unleavened Bread. Every year, I enjoy a Matzoh Honeymoon for the first few days of Pesach. We eat it happily, with charoset (the traditional relish of apples, nuts, and wine that is reminiscent of the mortar with which the ancient Israelites built Pharaoh’s cities), with horseradish, with cheese, or slathered with butter. But after five or six days, the honeymoon is over, and crumbs - those fucking crumbs! - are everywhere.

It’s traditional to clean the house thoroughly before Passover, in order to ensure the complete absence of leaven. But it’s at least as necessary to have another thorough cleaning after the holiday is over, in order to remove the quadrillion or so little matzoh-smithereens that manage to adhere to every surface.

“Bread of affliction,” indeed. Oy.

FRIDAY RANDOM TEN - PASSOVER EDITION

It’s Friday once again - time for this week’s Random Ten, the assortment of Choons horked out by the Little White Choon-Box.

It’s Passover, which means that music is about the only leavening agent around. If I were truly observant, I would not be listening to music today... but then again, I would also not be posting. Ah, well. At least I’m staying well away from the Usual Suspects: swine, seafood, bread, beer, whisky...

But you don’t want to hear about my Dietary Restrictions, do you? Of course not. You want to know what’s playing on the ol’ Choon-Box. So let’s take a listen:

1. Di Great Insohreckshan - Linton Kwesi Johnson
   
   
2. Outside Now Again - Frank Zappa
   
   
3. Boxing - Ben Folds
   
   
4. Moy Motocikl - Leningrad
   
   
5. Geek USA - Smashing Pumpkins
   
   
6. Interlude - The Klezmatics
   
   
7. The Rye or the Kaiser - Weird Al Yankovic
   
   
8. The Beehive State - Randy Newman
   
   “Since you’re the delegate from Kansas
   Will you kindly take the floor
   And tell us what Kansas is thinking
   And what is Kansas for?”
   
   “Well, Kansas is for the farmer
   We stand behind the little man
   And we need a firehouse in Topeka
   So help us if you can”
   
   “I see the delegate from Utah
   Our friendly Beehive State
   How can we help you, Utah?
   How can we make you great?”
   
   “Well, we got to irrigate our deserts
   So we can get some things to grow
   And we got to tell this country about Utah
   ’Cause nobody seems to know”
   
   
9. So Like Candy - Elvis Costello
   
   
10. Way Back In The 1960s - The Incredible String Band
    
    

It’s Friday. What are you listening to?

BLACK ON GREEN

Neighbor parks herself atop our sofa, creating a contrasting image of black on green.

Update: Friday Ark #238 is afloat over at the Modulator. Sunday evening, tune in to Artsy Catsy for Carnival of the Cats #265.

Update 2: CotC #265 is up.

IT’S AMAZING...

...just how much of a Pain in the Ass an exploding can of soda can be.

It was in mid-morning, as She Who Must Be Obeyed and I were in the midst of preparations for this evening’s Seder meal, that we heard a loud “thunk” come from the refrigerator. It sounded like something falling... but what could possibly fall, in a fridge with solid glass shelves? It’s not like we had a bunch of stuff precariously balanced in there.

It didn’t take long to figure out what had happened. A can of Coke Zero had been stuck all the way in the back of the top shelf - the coldest spot in the box. Cold enough to freeze anything that sits there long enough, apparently... because the can had frozen solid and then split along the side. Bang! Chunks of frozen Coke were scattered everywhere.

The Sages tell us that if we do not clean our refrigerator thoroughly before Pesach to remove all traces of leaven, the Ribono shel Olam - Master of the World - will find a way to impel us to do it. And this was a perfectly effective method, for we had to empty everything out and wipe the entire fridge interior down. At least it wasn’t sugar-sweetened Coke, which would have left a horrible gooky residue everywhere it touched... and at least the damn can didn’t blow just as we were sitting down for our Ritual Dinner.

As for that Ritual Dinner, it promises to be exceptional. SWMBO has made a cauldron of her famous chicken soup with matzohballs: even now, it sits, simmering on the stove, tempting me to dip the ladle in and steal a bowlful. She has prepared the gefilte fish, decorating it with carrot slices and parsley sprigs. She has also made charoset, the apple and nut relish that recalls the mortar with which the Israelites built Pharaoh’s cities. The main event? A roasted veal breast, stuffed with carrot, sweet potato, and apricot tzimmes, with white grape sauce. Oooooh, I can’t wait.


SWMBO’s three varieties of gefilte fish. People either love this stuff or hate it; for me, it has the taste of Grandma’s cooking... and home.

Oh, yes: Dessert. SWMBO has whipped up a sponge cake, and we have the pistachio-ginger macaroons I made yesterday. Hoo-hah!

To my Jewish friends and Esteemed Readers, a chag Pesach kasher v’sameach - a happy and kosher Passover. And to my non-Jewish friends and Esteemed Readers, enjoy being able to consume all the bread, cake, Scotch and beer we can’t have for eight days!

NUTS OVER NUTS

I have written before of my love for the humble (and yet slightly exotic) Pistachio.

In my Snot-Nose Days, Carvel was the ubiquitous ice cream of the Northeast. Back then, there was none of this 33 flavor hard-pack bullshit: Carvel offered soft-serve, and soft-serve only, and the flavor choices were vanilla and chocolate. Occasionally, when the mood suited them, they’d add a Flavor of the Week, and I would look forward to the days when pistachio would be on the menu.

Later, I discovered the pleasures of the Real Thing, pistachio nuts in their red-dyed shells. Another, even later revelation: the best pistachios did not have their shells dyed. Their little jackets were a handsome beige, and inside was a delicately flavored nut-meat with that elusive green tinge.

Pistachios lend themselves well to recipes that more often use other, less exotic nuts. Today I substituted them for hazelnuts and made some Pistachio-Ginger Macaroons... a lot more interesting that the crappy coconut macaroons that the Stoopid-Markets flog every Passover.

Alas, pistachios can be a bit of a pin in the arse. You have to shell them - no big deal - and then peel them. (If you really hate shelling ’em, you can pay a premium to buy the pre-shelled kernels, but I don’t think these have the same flavor as the ones that come in their shells.) I rinse them under running water to wash off the salt, then throw them in a pot of boiling water for two minutes to blanch them. This makes it easy work to remove the skins, which slip right off. (Run some cold water over the blanched nuts so you don’t burn the crap out of your fingers while peeling them!) You’ll want three cups of blanched, peeled kernels.


Shelled pistachio kernels, after rinsing to remove salt. Note the purplish skins. Also note the colander, which is actually being used for its intended purpose.

Once the pistachios are all peeled, throw ’em on a baking sheet and toast them in a 350°F oven for 8-15 minutes - until they are dry and aromatic. Turn the oven down to 325°F when they’re done.


Pistachio kernels after blanching, peeling, and toasting. I love that subtle green color.

Put the toasted kernels in a food processor with 1¼ cups granulated sugar and 3 tbsp (1½ ounces) crystallized ginger; process until fine. Add three large egg whites, one at a time, and process after each addition until the mixture is well blended. Use a tablespoon to drop the mixture onto parchment-lined baking sheets; smooth the tops with a wet finger, then bake for about 15 minutes, or until the tops begin to pick up some color. When done, slide the parchment onto a rack. Allow the cookies to cool completely (they will harden up somewhat), then store in an airtight container.


Pistachio-Ginger Macaroons.

Damn, these things are good... and just right to provide the finishing touch to a Passover seder meal. A zissen Pesach!

ON DIETARY PECCADILLOES

Today, by way of a Mental Excursion,
I tried to imagine all sorts of Perversion:
The sins that result when men’s hearts - full of flaws -
Delib’rately flout ev’ry one of God’s laws:
Commandments, those Rules carved in tablets of stone
That tell us (for instance) whom we may not bone;
Or that we can’t murder; want our neighbor’s shit;
Or work on the Sabbath, when down we should sit.
And I thought: One thing, surely, your soul would bedamn,
And that would be serving a Passover Ham.
For at Seder there’s nothing as crashingly crass
As passing a plate with a chunk of Pig’s Ass.

NATURE, RED IN TOOTH BEAK AND CLAW

My friend Donnie Joe walked outside the other day and found himself a spectator at an Avian Airshow.

This was not some benign entertainment such as is occasionally hosted at the nearby Dobbins Air Reserve Base, however. This was a fight to the death.



First we see two hawks converge on an unlucky black bird. (What kind of black bird? I have no idea, but if you do, let me know in the Comments.)



Now one of the hawks isolates the Enemy... and moves in for the kill.



Ahhh, Nature! It’s not all Fluffy Bunnies and Ass-Wipin’ Bears...

[Tip o’ th’ Elisson fedora to Donnie Joe for the superb photographs.]

WATCHMEN

A couple of days ago, I caught the Watchmen movie. The fact that I saw it on a weekday afternoon (a privilege of the Retired Individual) about a month after its release meant that I saw it in a theatre that was completely empty, save for myself.

I am embarrassed to say that I had been unfamiliar with the source material, a twelve-issue series of comic books originally published in 1986-87 and later repackaged as a Graphic Novel. Somehow or other, it never managed to hit my radar screen, even over a two-decade-plus span. Maybe if I spent more time at comics conventions... but no.

When I saw the advance advertising for the movie, I was fascinated. Who were these costumed characters, anyway? (Especially the Silk Spectre - yow!) I had to find out more. And so I resolved to read the graphic novel before seeing the movie.

There’s always a danger in comparing any movie to its Booky Source. Almost inevitably, changes must be made in adapting a book to the Big Screen... and in almost every case, those changes are the source of disappointment and frustration. Sometimes it is the excision of plot elements or characters that make it more difficult to tell a story visually; sometimes it’s a wholesale reimagining that (generally) does little to enhance the story. And, at the very least, converting a book to a film changes it from a “hot” medium to a “cold” one, as Marshall McLuhan might say: from one that forces your own imagination to do the heavy lifting to another in which a director, cinematographer, and actors (among others) have done it for you.

With a graphic novel, it’s a little different. The book is really a form of extended storyboard, a movie in the process of becoming. How do you put it on the screen and manage to give it a life of its own without taking away the graphic impact and the storytelling techniques that work so well on the page? If you don’t know what you’re doing, you can end up with a disappointing clusterfuck like The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, not incidentally, another Alan Moore creation that, alas, did not fare well in the transition from Page to Screen.

But let’s deal with that later. What about the graphic novel, a novel that received the Hugo Award in 1988 and has been included in Time Magazine’s 2005 list of the best 100 English-language novels written since 1923? Does it live up to the hype? Is it all that?

Watchmen - the graphic novel - is all that.

The story is set in the year 1985, in a world that is similar to our own. But there are a few critical differences, for this is a world in which costumed heroes enjoyed a decades-long surge of popularity that began in the late 1930’s. Not in comic books, as in our own world, but in real life.

These dressed-up vigilantes - for that is, indeed, what they are - are no superheroes. They’re martial-arts experts, some assisted with gadgetry à la Batman, others only by their own brutal capabilities and internal moral compass - or lack thereof. The exception - the only one with real superpowers - is Jon Osterman, AKA Dr. Manhattan, who, owing to a bizarre nuclear accident, now has godlike powers over matter, space, and time.

It is through Dr. Manhattan’s efforts that the Vietnam War ends in a U.S. victory, a victory that propels Richard Nixon to electoral success in five consecutive terms. But meanwhile, under pressure from local police forces, Congress has outlawed the activities of costumed heroes, causing the ones still active to either retire (e.g., Nite Owl, Silk Spectre) or go underground (Rorschach). The exceptions are Adrian Veidt, AKA Ozymandias (“The Smartest Man in the World”), who retired early to build an empire on (among other things) costumed hero action figures; and the brutal, amoral Comedian, who, along with Dr. Manhattan, continues to work under the auspices of the U.S. Government. It is the Comedian who rescues the U.S. Embassy hostages in Iran in this world... presumably in a suitably take-no-prisoners manner.

It’s a world rife with many of the tensions with which we were familiar in the mid-1980’s. The superpowers are at each other’s throats and the threat of nuclear annihilation - kept at bay mainly through the presence of Dr. Manhattan - is in the air. And someone has murdered the Comedian...

I won’t say much more, except that the story is richly layered, incorporating the characters’ respective origins as well as “current” events and told, at times, in brilliant counterpoint, with multiple story elements weaving in and out. And there is one critical “hat tip” towards the end... an element sadly missing from derivative entertainments like the movie Idiocracy. Watchmen honors its sources.

The film? Given the brilliant writing and graphics of the source, the film makes an attempt to capture those elements as faithfully as possible... and mostly succeeds. The story is told in the same contrapunctal style, with a few necessary omissions and (understandable, albeit regrettable) alterations. Some critics have caviled, complaining that the film is too faithful to the source, to the point where it is constricting. I disagree. I think Watchmen, the movie, brilliantly brings Watchmen, the graphic novel, to life.

It’s a violent film, with some genuinely bloodcurdling moments. It’s got sex - that hard “R” rating is well-deserved. It’s dark... darker than any of the Christian Bale Batman movies. It’s a Costumed Superhero movie completely unlike any other, one that knowingly turns the conventions of the genre on their heads while simultaneously paying homage to them. And it is Just. Plain. Fucking. Amazing.

One of the subtexts of both the graphic novel and the film is that the costumed heroes are presented as thoroughly and completely human. Which means they all have a few loose screws... because what kind of person dresses up in a costume in order to beat up on criminals? A Borderline Nutcase, that’s what kind. Even Dr. Manhattan, who is more god than human (and who, during the course of the story, becomes ever more detached from humanity), is thoroughly human at his core. It’s a tribute to Alan Moore’s writing skills - and Jackie Earle Haley’s acting skills - that Rorschach, a character seething with righteous fury and alienation, is perhaps the most heartbreakingly human of them all.

I’m actually glad it took me this long to discover Watchmen. If I had read that graphic novel in the 1980’s and found out that they were going to make a movie out of it, I would have had to suffer years of frustration as the project wound its way through the seven circles of Development Hell. This way, no frustration... except the frustration of knowing that the Missus probably wouldn’t enjoy the film like I did.

If you want to see a Comic Book Movie that is unlike any other... one that makes all those Superman, Batman, Spiderman, and X-Men movies look trivial and childish... one that shows a deep understanding of the World of the Hero... go see Watchmen. You’ll never look at one of those yellow Smiley-Face buttons the same way again.

AN APPETIZER FIT FOR A KING

...A Swedish king, especially.


Svenska aptitretare.

Gravlax and knäckebröd (Swedish crispbread), with its traditional accompaniment: ice-cold akvavit.

I’ve become partial to making my own gravlax these days. By adding different kinds of alcohol to the brine, I can tinker with the flavor profile. This batch was made with akvavit, enhancing the dill and caraway notes; I’ve also used gin with excellent results.

And to what sort of Kingly Meal was this the prelude? you may ask.

Why, hot dogs and beans, of course!

(What, you thought we’d be having Swedish meatballs?)

KITCHEN SINK

Someone - I cannot remember who - once characterized this site as a “Kitchen Sink Blog,” meaning that I write posts that cover a broad range of topics. Everything but the kitchen sink, as the saying goes.

I guess that’s a fair enough description.

There’s no real unifying theme here. I’m certainly no political blogger. I put up a lot of posts about Food and Cats, but neither subject makes any claim to exclusivity. I write about religion, but often with tongue lodged firmly in cheek. Pop culture? Sure. Fashion? Naw. I leave that to Manolo’s Shoe Blog... except for items like Jackass Pants and my collection of chapeaux, some of which are made of perforated metal.

Everything but the kitchen sink.

And now, I’m gonna rectify that omission. Here’s the Kitchen Sink d’Elisson:



We had this bad boy installed as part of the Great Kitchen Granitification a couple of summers ago. It’s a Jacuzzi porcelain-on-cast iron undermount in jet black, a color chosen because it matches up with Darth Stover.

Snazzy... and heavy. We wanted the solidity of cast iron, but with that solidity comes a whole lotta avoirdupois. The damned thing weighs at least two hundred pounds, enough to make the installer exclaim, “Damn! That’s the time I will ever install a cast iron sink!” Fucking wimp.

I like our sink. It gives me that sinking feeling... but in a good way.

AN EPIGRAM

We, on this happy planet, sit -
Our job: converting food to shit.

“Hmmm,” quoth SWMBO. “That’s more of an epilog.”

FROM THE ELISSON ARCHIVE

Mrs. Bruni’s first grade class at Unqua School, April 1959. Click to embiggen; click here for the full-size, high-resolution image.

Here you have little Elisson in his first grade class in this photograph taken fifty years ago this month.

Fifty years! Damn, that’s a lot of water under the bridge... a whole half-century. Fully a decade before the first moon landing, the very idea of which would have rendered any one of us completely slack-jawed with astonishment. Sputnik, after all, had been launched by the Russians only at the beginning of the previous school year.

Looking at the picture, I wonder. Where are all those people now? In the accumulated pile of Circumsolar Travels, how many have been raised up, how many brought low? How many have lived, and how many have died? What are they like? Do they have families? Children? Grandchildren?

I am ashamed to say that I can only put names to a handful. There’s my friend Walter - he’s the one with the string tie in the center row. (Now, there’s a Fashion Statement for you!) And the dapper little guy in the front row with the pocket square is Josh P. But I can only name about seven others with any degree of certainty, the fact of which makes me want to mourn the passing of all that time... and all those brain cells.

The image itself - unlike my memories of it - is razor sharp. It was taken with a large-format film camera, most likely a 4 x 5" tripod-mounted Crown Graphic, and the black-and-white prints we received (for the then-princely sum of $5) were finished to a crisp gloss and shoved into a heavy cardboard display jacket. Check out the full-size version: You can read the childish block printing on the wall display, that’s how clear the photograph is.

I’m pretty sure my old buddy Steve V. - who is not in this picture, but who would be a part of my third grade class two years later - can still name almost everyone here. Got a mind like a steel trap, that one has.

Hey! Test your vision and mental acuity - see if you can spot Elisson. He’s the one who looks exactly like Elder Daughter did at the same age. Give us your best guesses in the Comments! Answer is below the fold.

Update: Thanks to some Internet sleuthing by SWMBO, we now know that our teacher, Mrs. Doris Bruni, lived to a ripe old age, passing away in late 2005 at the age of 85. Ave atque vale...

I’m the guy standing in the back row, second from the left. Erica, PeggyU, and Jimbo figured it out... not an easy task, given that the photo dates from my pre-Colanderic Headgear days.

FRIDAY RANDOM TEN

Welcome to yet another Friday Random Ten at Blog d’Elisson, that insufferable weekly feature in which I post ten tunes, pooped out at random by the iPod d’Elisson.

This evening, we’re headed into Decatur to catch a country music show at Eddie’s Attic. Not that we’re great big honkin’ country music fans (Q: What country? A: Poland), but one of the performers, one Bonnie Bishop, is an old friend of Elder Daughter from her high school days in Texas... and a fellow veteran of the Broadway Theatre Project. It’ll be fun catching up on what’s been happening in our respective lives over the past dozen years.

Meanwhile, let’s see what’s on the box today:

1. Thousand Island Park - Mahavishnu Orchestra
   
   
2. Si Tu N’étais Pas Là (Fréhel) - Yann Tiersen
   
   From the Amélie soundtrack.
   
   
3. MacArthur Park - Richard Harris
   
   A guilty pleasure, featuring overblown lyrics, lush mid-1960’s orchestration, and the quavery voice of Dumbledore the First, hizzownself.
   
   
4. Freedom Jazz Dance - Miles Davis
   
   Brian Auger’s Oblivion Express did a nice cover of this... but this is the unmatchable original.
   
   
5. Kolmannen linjan Mona Lisa - Tuomari Nurmio & Alamaailman Vasarat
   
   Alamaailman Vasarat’s third album was a collaborative effort that brought in Finnish vocalist Tuomari Nurmio. I personally don’t think Nurmio’s rough-edged vocals contributed a whole lot, except maybe on one or two songs... and this wasn’t one of them.
   
   
6. Act I, Scene 2: Like the Ming Tombs - John Adams, Nixon in China
   
   
7. For A Thousand Mothers - Jethro Tull
   
   From the incomparable Stand Up album, which is now (gasp!) 40 years old.
   
   
8. Sofa No. 2 - Frank Zappa
   
   
9. Look At Me - John Lennon
   
   
10. Inca Roads - Frank Zappa
    
    One of Zappa’s most complex compositions, this is a live version from the Edinboro 5-8-74 album, a bootleg recorded at Edinboro State College in Pennsylvania. Some of the music from this concert ended up on the Zappa/Mothers Roxy & Elsewhere album. Among the performers were Napoleon Murphy Brock and Don Preston, both of whom I’ve met at Project/Object concerts here in Atlanta.
    
    

It’s Friday. What are you listening to?

PASSOVER

Next week is Passover, and I’m already practically quivering with anticipation. Quivering, I tells ya!

This is the holiday when Eliyahu ha-Navi - known in English-speaking Western countries as “Santa Claus” - takes his magical chariot with wheels of fire (cleverly disguised as a sleigh for the benefit of Northern Europeans) and flies all over the world to sample Manschewitz wine and deliver presents to all the good little boys and girls.


Eliyahu ha-Navi, AKA “Santa Claus.” Note the freshly-fallen cherry blossoms covering the town like snow.

In Hebrew, the holiday is called Pesach, taking its name from the special Pesach sacrifice that originated when the Children of Israel prepared to escape from Egyptian bondage. The blood of this sacrifice marked the homes of the Israelites, the homes that the Malakh ha-Movis - the Destroyer - was to avoid. In like wise, the glass of Manischewitz wine splashed on the doorposts and lintels of our homes today serves as a signal to Eliyahu (“Santa”) that he should pass over that house - and then stop in to have a glass wine and drop off a few tchotchkes.

Only six more days to go before Eliyahu - er, “Santa” - takes flight. We’ll have a plate of matzoh brei and the traditional glass of sweet Concord grape wine in its special place by the fireplace, and the kids will have their Grandpa’s truss hanging from the mantel just as when they were little. They still love to chant the old Passover song:

Eliyahu ha-Navi
Be gracious unto me
Be nice, don’t make a fuss
Put my presents in the truss
Be a sweetheart, not a grouch
And fill up that big ol’ pouch
Eliyahu ha-Navi
O, be gracious unto me.

Ahhh, tradition. It warms the cockles of my heart every year... and anyone’ll tell you that Passover is a time for matzoh, maror, wine, and warm cockles.

DINNER PLANS

A few weeks ago, we, along with a group of friends, decided to host a Regressive Dinner.

It was similar to those Progressive Dinners, wherein the group moves from location to successive location for each course... but this was a Regressive Dinner, so it had its own protocols.

We started in a mansion-like home in an expensive subdivision, the kind of home that carried more than just a whiff of Old Money. Our appetizers, an assortment of amuses-bouches crafted of the most expensive and exotic ingredients, were served to us on delicate platters of bone china as we sat at a table of sleek, polished rosewood under a magnificent crystal chandelier. Gorham sterling silver forks, their patina aglow from decades of polishing, lifted the delicate morsels to our eager lips. Chilled Dom Pérignon brut Champagne in Riedel flutes, its bubbles weaving a lace-like tracery as they ascended, was on hand for liquid refreshment. For the next course...

...we moved on to a house in a pleasant, yet considerably more modest, part of town. Here, we were offered a soup, a pasta e fagioli that provided a pleasantly rustic note. The bowls were straight out of Crate and Barrel - attractive and serviceable - while the stainless steel flatware had a reassuring heft in our hands. Before we knew it, it was time for the salad course...

...consisting of a wedge of iceberg lettuce with Wish-Bone Thousand Island dressing and a dusting of Bac-O’s. This was presented to us on melamine plates in a somewhat cramped but nevertheless attractively furnished apartment. By this time, I was eagerly anticipating the entrée...

...which consisted of a Swanson roast beef TV dinner, served on its individual aluminum tray. Fittingly, we ate on aluminum TV tables in front of a 21" black-and-white set with foil-shrouded rabbit ears. The beverages, an assortment of house-brand colas, were presented in Styrofoam cups; for utensils, we utilized sporks lifted from the local KFC. We stuffed ourselves so much, we could barely find our way out of the double-wide...

...to the parking lot of a local 7-11, where, for dessert, we grabbed a few half-melted Slurpees out of the dumpster. I got cherry!

Send me an e-mail, and I’ll make sure you get an invitation to the next one.

A FELINE FOOT-WARMER

Neighbor plays footsie with SWMBO the Mistress of Sarcasm.

Who needs slippers when you have a warm, compliant Neighbor to keep your tootsies toasty?

Update: Friday Ark #237 is asail in all its Faunic Glory at the Modulator. (Is “faunic” a word? It is now.) And this Sunday, Carnival of the Cats #264 is scheduled to arrive at No Cats Allowed!, a hosting gig that will render that blog’s title ironic, eh?

Update: Not that it has anything to do with cats, but Haveil Havalim #211 (the Carnival of the Jewish Blogosphere) is up at Ima on the Bima.

Update 2: CotC #264 is up. A wee bit late, but well worth waiting for, with an entire paragraph-long intro for each Carnival post. It’s a rare treat to see a host go the extra mile like this, especially when all too many go the route of simply cutting and pasting the Blog Carnival e-mails right into their posts. Folks, “Blog so-and-So presents Post Blah-Blah-Blah” is not an acceptable Carnival link. Not to me, anyway. Call me Mr. Picky Demandingpants if you must, but that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

PER ASPERA (GUS) AD ASTRA

Seneca the Younger’s most renowned phrase - per aspera ad astra - is one that all astronauts can appreciate, as well as all Kansans, whose state motto inverts the phrases but gets the point across: “Through difficulties to the stars.”

I don’t know about stars, but difficulties are another matter. We all deal with those to a greater or lesser degree. On a foody note, it used to be difficult to score asparagus, the quintessential spring vegetable, in the dead of winter. Not any more. Nowadays, we can get asparagus all year long... but there still is something that practically shouts “Springtime!” about those crisp green stalks that make your pee smell weird.

Dinner last night consisted of pan-broiled strip steaks, Yukon Gold mashed potatoes with roasted garlic, and asparagus in a blood orange-shallot dressing, the latter a recipe I adapted from one in the latest Saveur magazine.

First off, I took two blood oranges and zested one, reserving the zest. Then I trimmed off the peels and cut the segments away from the membranes, squeezing out the juice from the remaining pulp into a bowl. To this I added the juice of one lemon, four tbsp olive oil, and a chopped-up shallot. I whisked all this together with salt and pepper to make the dressing.

The asparagus was easy. I simply trimmed off the bottom inch of each stalk - some people like to peel the stalk bottoms, but this is only really necessary with very thick stalks or with white asparagus. The stalks went into a Pyrex dish with a squirt of water, a couple of tbsp olive oil, and the reserved orange zest. I covered the dish with plastic film and nuked it for four minutes, poured off the liquid, and added the citrus dressing and the blood orange segments.


Asparagus and Blood Orange-Shallot Dressing.

You can do this with navel oranges and scallions in lieu of blood oranges and the shallot, in which case you have Saveur’s recipe. But I like the flavor and the dramatic appearance of the blood oranges - available here in the early springtime only - and the shallot provides a garlicky kick.

Try it! So what if it gives you a galloping case of Stinky Wee-Wee?

HOT BOX

From Pete at A Perfectly Cromulent Blog comes this illustration of Encroaching Sexuality in Advertising.

Look, sex has been used to sell things since the days when an enterprising Neanderthal wheelwright would hew a lumpy toroid out of the local basalt, then pose a woman (wearing a fur loincloth two sizes too small) upon it in order to enhance its commercial appeal. And even today, attractive women are to beer and car ads as bears are to bunwad commercials: indispensable.

But this is the first time - as far as I know - that an advertising agency has decided to create a campaign that makes use of the dildo-like shape of a submarine sandwich to get its point across.

“Put it in me, Scott.” Now, there’s a Line to Remember... especially as spoken by a Hot Box with a sultry (and disturbingly male) voice.

But now I’m not so sure I ever want to eat a Quizno’s sandwich again. Who knows where it’s been?