FRIDAY RANDOM TEN

Welcome once again to Blog d’Elisson’s Friday Random Ten, the weekly feature in which I post a list of ten Musical Moments disgorged at random from the iPod d’Elisson.

Last night, ol’ Uncle Elisson had a Fun Time getting back home after this week’s brief outing to Sweat City. I left the offices of the Great Corporate Salt Mine at five o’clock, which was cutting it a bit close for a nominal 7:12 pm departure. Sure enough, the roads were choked with the usual press of commuters attempting to flee northwards. But after arriving at the airport, I discovered that my flight had been delayed to 8:24 pm. [It turned out that the plane we were to have taken was diverted to Memphis due to a medical emergency, so another aircraft had been drafted to take its place.] Now, with plenty of time, I grabbed a chicken leg at Popeye’s for a quick dinner, then strolled off to my gate: C-17, the extreme northernmost gate of the C terminal.

Once at the gate, I could not help but notice that it was completely deserted. And, sure enough, that is because yet another aircraft had been substituted, this one located at E-22...all the way on the opposite end of the airport...and with an 8:15 departure posted. It was a long, long walk, with not a lot of time to spare...until I got to E-22 and found that they had not even begun deplaning the passengers from the previous flight. Shit!

I got home at 12:45 am. Yawn.

This morning, She Who Must Be Obeyed and I will pile into the car with our friends Gary and JoAnn and head north, up into the hills of western North Carolina, there to soak up the sun-dappled fall scenery. It promises to be a beautiful weekend.

But meanwhile, why don’t we see what’s on the box?

1. E Luxo So - Stan Getz & Charlie Byrd
   
   From the legendary Jazz Samba album, dating from the Bossa Nova invasion of 1962.
   
   
2. Rat Tomago - Frank Zappa
   
   
3. All Things Reconsidered - Phish
   
   
4. Power Failure - Leo Kottke
   
   
5. Your Racist Friend - They Might Be Giants
   
   
6. Act 3: I Am No One - John Adams, Nixon in China
   
   
7. Barnyard - Brian Wilson
   
   
8. The Black Page (New Age Version) - Frank Zappa
   
   
9. For A Thousand Mothers - Jethro Tull
   
   
10. I Scare Myself - Dan Hicks & His Hot Licks
    
    

It’s Friday. What are you listening to?

THE OFFICIAL BLOG D’ELISSON DICTIONARY,Volume 13.

Yet more stuff that should be in the dictionary but isn’t.

Previous installments of the Blog d’Elisson Dictionary may be found in the Archives: Volume 1, Volume 2, Volume 3, Volume 4, Volume 5, Volume 6, Volume 7, Volume 8, Volume 9, Volume 10, Volume 11, and Volume 12.

Library of Cacangress [lai-bre-ri uv ka-kan-gres] (n) - A restroom, specifically one in which the user reads before, after, or during the acts of micturition and/or defecation.

“Where the hell does Charlie think he is, the Library of Cacangress? He just disappeared into the third floor men’s room with the whole Sunday New York Times. Is he gonna read it or wipe himself with it?”

GETTING WASTE-D

“Jenkem? Damn near killed ’em.” - Mr. Debonair

I was taking a ride on Leslie’s Omnibus, when I came across this intriguing sentence: “That is quite possibly the grossest thing I’ve ever read.”

Well, how can you resist clicking a link with that sort of introductory warning?

Turns out the link leads to a story at The Smoking Gun about a practice that, if it does nothing else, separates the people who can take or leave their altered states of consciousness from the ones who will do anything - anything - to get loaded, no matter how depraved.

I speak of the “drug” called “Jenkem.”

Jenkem is one of those things that may or may not be an urban legend. Its status on snopes.com is “undetermined,” but that doesn’t really matter, does it? Because whether it’s true or not, it’s thoroughly disgusting, which in turn makes it perfect blogfodder.

If you believe what you read in snopes.com and The Smoking Gun, Jenkem use may have originated amongst the desperately poor children of Zambia, where, apparently, the necessary raw materials come easily to hand (you should excuse the expression). Whether you believe its use has spread to North America depends on how credulous you are. In a world in which pretty much nothing surprises me, even I have trouble believing this one. It may be, to use a thoroughly appropriate expression, “a load of crap.”

The rest of this post is below the fold. It is not for the squeamish.

To make Jenkem - AKA “butthash” - is simplicity itself. Assemble some human excrement in a large bottle. Wet it down well with human urine. Cap the container with a rubber balloon to allow for the eventual pressure-induced expansion, then set aside for several days at room temperature to ferment.

After your evil brew of Wee-Wee and Bowel Chowder has had a chance to ripen, pop that balloon off and start huffing. This, according to the published reports, will Get You Off. Assuming you don’t first puke your guts up. Hey, that sounds just like psilocybin mushrooms! Except for the shit-funk.

I can see how Jenkem might actually work.

Let’s hop in the Wayback Machine and go back to little Elisson’s snot-nose days. For it was back in about 1960, as a tender lad of seven or eight, that I learned about hydrogen sulfide.

We lived in a neighborhood in which sanitation was via the tried-and-true septic tank or cesspool, it being well before the era of sewer connections and centralized water treatment in our area. And one fine day, our next-door neighbor started developing Cesspool Issues. They had to have the thing pumped out - a necessary (and thankfully very occasional) Routine Maintenance Activity.

Thus my first exposure to the old Honey Wagon. The Little Yellow Stool Bus. The guy whose Preferred Method of Making a Living was to open the hatch above your cesspool, stick a huge-ass hose in there, and pump all of the contents into a tank sitting astride his filth-encrusted truck. And you thought your job sucked.

Anyway, the Honey Wagon guy shows up and opens the hatch to the cesspool. Now, that was a horrifying revelation: that there was a place in the yard under which lurked The Most Evil Smell In The World. For that, indeed, is what was released when that hatch was opened.

Take the smell of a rotten egg. Blend in some shit ’n’ piss. Multiply it by, say, a billion. That’s the pong that floated out of that nasty little opening in our neighbor’s lawn. It was...unforgettable. In a bad way.

Chemists will tell you that the aroma wafting out of that hole derived from a blend of various sulfur-bearing compounds: mercaptans, sulfides, et alia, with the overwhelming component of the bouquet being hydrogen sulfide. Some light floral notes (turdblossoms, no doubt) would also come from nitrogenous compounds like pyridines. Feh.

And I’ll be willing to bet that the “high” one gets from Jenkem comes from that hydrogen sulfide.

Hydrogen sulfide is extremely toxic...comparable to hydrogen cyanide, that mainstay of prison gas chambers and, not incidentally, of the Holocaust. Its effect on the human body is similar: it stops respiration at the cellular level by bonding with the organic iron compounds in the mitochondria. It is, in short, a chemical asphyxiant.

Asphyxiation is, as it turns out, a great way to get high. That is, if you don’t mind losing a few brain cells...or, quite possibly, your life. Just ask the fun lovin’ guys and gals who get off on sexual asphyxia, jacking up the intensity of their orgasms by choking themselves or their partners at the Critical Moment. For some of them, it’s the last bit of Jolly Fun they have in this world.

So my theory is that Jenkem huffers are simply practicing an extremely vile form of self-asphyxia through hydrogen sulfide inhalation. I’d think that most fun-loving Asphyxia Enthusiasts would go for the silken garotte instead. Not nearly as stinky, unless you take it too far and you lose bowel and bladder control. V-Man, are you paying attention?

But maybe there’s an extra thrill in Jenkem Huffing that comes from its extreme nastiness. After all, there are plenty of people who enjoy eating Époisses de Bourgogne (a cheese so stinky, it’s banned from public transport in France, where the people are pretty fragrant to begin with), or even durian fruit, both of which have a pronounced Bowelly Funk. Go right ahead, sez I.

As for me, I’ll take single-malt Scotch whisky, an excellent delivery system for my Consciousness-Altering Medicament of Choice: good old ethanol.

HALLELU? YEAH, ME TOO

Last Sunday, the Missus and I attended Hallelu Atlanta, a performance of Jewish music featuring a small army of celebrated artists. The show was at the fabulous Fox Theatre, an ornate Moorish Revival palace in midtown Atlanta, and it played to a packed house.


Cantor Alberto Mizrahi.

Among the performers was Cantor Alberto Mizrahi, the “Jewish Pavarotti.” Cantor Mizrahi actually studied under Pavarotti, and he has the operatic voice to prove it. This past summer I shared the bimah with Mizrahi at the International FJMC Convention: I had the singularly useless function of leading Friday evening services with Mizrahi as my chazzan. Needless to say, there wasn’t a whole lot I needed to do...


Theodore Bikel.

Theodore Bikel was there as well. When you look at Bikel’s curriculum vitae, you have to ask yourself, “What hasn’t this guy done?” Stage, screen, television, you name it, Theo’s done it. A few highlights:

• He appeared in the original Broadway run of The Sound of Music as Captain von Trapp.
  
  
• He was in the film version of My Fair Lady, playing Zoltan Karpathy, the Hungarian dialectician.
  
  
• He took over the role of Tevye in Fiddler on the Roof, appearing in over 2000 performances on Broadway since 1967 - more than any other actor in that role.
  
  
• He was the first singer after Bob Dylan to perform the song “Blowin’ In The Wind.”

And here’s a really strange piece of trivia: Bikel had a prominent role in Frank Zappa’s film 200 Motels back in the early 1970’s. Not exactly a highlight of his career - or Zappa’s, for that matter - yet nevertheless, we are treated to the sight of him together with Ringo Starr (in turn, dressed up to look like Zappa) in this tasty little (NSFW) clip:



Also present was Mare Winningham, who has appeared in all kinds of television and film roles. She was a member of the original Brat Pack by virtue of her appearance in the movie St. Elmo’s Fire in 1985. Most recently, you’ve seen her in “Grey’s Anatomy” (where she was killed off not too long ago) and in “Boston Legal.” She’s been in any number of other popular shows, including “Law and Order: Special Victims Unit,” “Six Feet Under,” and “Touched By An Angel.” Ms. Winningham is a country singer as well (!) and - a surprise to me - a convert to Judaism.


Mare Winningham...winning as always.

Mr. Bikel and Ms. Winningham, aside from sharing the Great Good Fortune of meeting Mr. Debonair himself after the show, also share a certain Acting Credit. It’s a good trivia question, so you are invited to guess what it might be in the Comments.

Most definitely, an evening to remember. Can’t wait to try Joshua Nelson’s “Jewish Gospel” version of Adon Olam at our Shabbat services...

Update: The answer to the Trivia Question above is below the fold.

Both Theodore Bikel and Mare Winningham starred in episodes of the Twilight Zone...24 years apart.

Bikel appeared on the episode “Four O’Clock,” originally broadcast in 1962 as part of the original Twilight Zone’s third season. Winningham was in the episode “Button, Button,” from the first season of the New Twilight Zone, a show that had a brief run in the mid-1980’s.

MY TROPICAL VACATION

I want to go to Nicaragua.
I want to drive there in my Jagua.
But I don’t want to drink the agua,
Lest I get dysentery.

I knew a girl there: a real hagua,
Perpetually on the ragua.
She had a pair of huge Fun-Bagua.
I think her name was Terry.

Through jungle swamps we’d have to slogua,
Through tropic rain and pea-soup fogua,
Avoiding quicksand in the bogua.
Was it exciting? Very.

[Tip o’ th’ Elisson fedora to Houston Steve for the inspiration. For best results, read this with the British pronunciation: nic-a-rag-you-ah.]

YOU DON’T HAVE TO BE YOGURT TO BE CULTURED

“If you do not expose yourself to culture, eventually culture will expose itself to you.” - Mr. Debonair

While She Who Must Be Obeyed and I are not exactly Patrons of the Fine Arts, we do like to enjoy the occasional Cultural Activity.

I’ve flown to Boston on two separate occasions in order to take Elder Daughter to the opera. Really. Modern opera, in both cases, the first time being a performance of the Philip Glass masterpiece Akhnaten in early 2001, the second being John Adams’s Nixon in China three years later. I’ve seen a few classical opera performances, and they’re OK, but I’ll take Philip Glass any old day.

Here in Atlanta, the Missus and I take advantage of the excellent offerings presented at Georgia Tech’s Ferst Center for the Arts. There are other venues for concerts, but we find ourselves at the Ferst more often than not.

You could say it’s our Ferst Choice...but that would be stupid.

So far this year at the Ferst we’ve seen the comedic stylings of Josh Blue, heard the jazz improvisations of Chck Corea and Béla Fleck, and stomped to the big-band swing sound of Big Bad Voodoo Daddy. And last night we saw the Pat Metheny Trio.

Pat Metheny has been a name to reckon with on the jazz scene since the mid-1970’s, when his unique guitar sound became a breakout sensation. Last night he was joined on stage by Christian McBride on bass and Antonio Sanchez on percussion.

Metheny started off the evening using the baritone guitar. The low-register notes that came out of that instrument were astonishing, perfectly complementing the upper-register melody.

Then, out came a jaw-droppingly bizarre instrument: the 42-string Pikasso I guitar. It looked like a prop from a science fiction movie (“The Most Popular Guitar on Rigel 5!”), but Metheny knew how to make it sing.


This Pikasso I guitar makes John McLaughlin’s double-neck guitar look like Tiny Tim’s ukulele. You are not looking at a PhotoShop. This is real.

Most of the evening he stuck to his standard, a hollow-body six-string electric guitar. There is a characteristic “Pat Metheny Sound” that I associate with that guitar. I can’t describe it, but I know it when I hear it...kinda like Justice Potter Stewart’s definition of obscenity. But when he whipped out his Roland GR300 Guitar Synthesizer and started wailing away on it, I knew I was hearing something very different. A guitar that sounds like a horn? Who knew?

One thing struck me, though. Metheny almost always had a smile on his face, the smile of someone who enjoys what he is doing. But that face, framed by a boyish mop of shaggy hair, looked strangely familiar. Where had I seen it before?

And then I figured it out. Pat Metheny is really a member of a set of triplets, siblings separated at birth under Mysterious Circumstances.

Here’s the proof:


Separated at Birth?

What do you think? And can you name his two Mystery Siblings?

POLLOS SURTIDOS

Seems like I’ve been eating a lot of chicken lately.

Last Tuesday, we had stopped at Costco to buy the six hundred pounds of Hallowe’en candy we’d be handing out the next day. Afterwards, we drove past the Cheesecake Factory, and I remembered that they had an excellent lemon-herb roasted chicken on the menu. One of the few chicken dishes I’ll order in a restaurant, it comes with watercress, carrots, and mashed potatoes. Real stick-to-your-ribs food.

Then on Thursday, the Minyan Gang dined at Ted’s Montana Grill. Instead of buffalo, I opted for the Beer Can Chicken. That’s the chicken that’s roasted with a can of Anchor Steam Beer up its ass. Moist.

Yesterday, I realized that not only had I defrosted some chicken breasts, but I also had a large inventory of boiled chicken legs. I had used them to make the stock for the barley soup that nourished us on Hallowe’en as we handed out that six hundred pounds of candy, and now they sat in the refrigerator like a zombie amputee kick-line.

The Missus does not eat the Dark Meat of the Chicken, and so I decided to prepare it in a manner that I alone would enjoy. I pulled the meat off the bones, removing the skin and gristle, and then added a liberal dose of Walkerwood’s Jerk Seasoning. A quick spin through a 350°F oven and I had a steaming plate of shredded Jerk Chicken, one that had enough spice to leave a lingering feeling of heat all up and down the alimentary canal.

[Upon reflection, I probably should have saved the gristle for the Missus. She likes gristle. For her, gristle is “the other other White Meat.”]

As for the chicken breasts, I chopped those into cubes and proceeded to make Chicken Korma. A can of Patak’s Korma sauce, a little water, and a medium flame: easy as rolling off a Bandar-Log.

To go with the chicken, I fixed up a quick Biryani Rice by sautéing a chopped yellow onion in some butter and oil, adding a liberal spoonful of Patak’s biryani rice seasoning, and then throwing in some convenient Trader Joe’s frozen jasmine rice. A handful of golden raisins added extra flavor and a contrasting texture. Ten minutes later, it was ready. While the rice was cooking, I warmed up some Trader Joe’s garlic naan and applied a dab of butter to the steaming, garlicky flatbread.

A side of mango chutney completed the picture.

The nice thing about Indian food is that it’s the Meal That You Can Enjoy All Day...because you will, for sure, be tasting it all day. And all night, too, most likely. Furthermore, with me having preceded my Chicken Korma with a pile of extremely piquant Jerk Chicken, the Jamaicans and the Dravidians - Indians, West and East - were having a minor war somewhere deep in my kishkes.

It was a Fragrant Evening, indeed...but, happily, the Flatulence Gods smiled upon me and did not cause me any undue embarrassment. Could I be developing resistance?

Update: Resistance, pfaugh.

One thing about Food Indian
That causeth men to scream and shout:
As fiery ’tis when going in,
More fiery still when coming out.

A WELL-EARNED MOZZIL TOVE...

...goes out to Meryl Yourish, who celebrated her Bat Mitzvah yesterday.

Bat Mitzvah - a term that describes a girl who has reached the age of religious majority - is a relatively recent innovation in Jewish culture, having its origins in the nineteenth century C.E. By comparison, Bar Mitzvah, the corresponding male equivalent, dates back at least to the Middle Ages. The terms are commonly used today to refer to the occasion of a boy or girl becoming a Bar or Bat Mitzvah, an occasion that is marked with certain ritual observances and subsequently celebrated in various degrees.

Bar Mitzvah is celebrated at thirteen years; Bat Mitzvah as early as twelve - the age of physical puberty. For some reason known only to the Rabbinic Sages, the age at which a flood of hormones begins coursing through a child’s veins, causing monstrous physical alterations (including a cracking voice among the boys) and violent mood swings - why, that’s the age at which a child is now deemed responsible enough to observe all of the nominal 613 Torah commandments. Suuuuure.

The simplest observance consists of the young man (or woman) being called to the Torah in order to recite the appropriate blessings during the morning or Shabbat afternoon service. But, as with everything in life, nothing stays simple very long. In many cases, the young person will actually read the Torah portion - usually the final reading of the day, the Maftir, if on Shabbat - and will then read the haftarah, a selection from the Hebrew Bible that complements the day’s Torah reading. In some congregations, even that’s not enough: the child will also lead portions of - or all of - the service.

Bar or Bat Mitzvah celebrations can range from a simple table with wine and cake after the service to elaborate affairs that would make a wedding blush. It’s not unknown for people (those with more money than sense) to spend amounts well into six figures to throw a huge party. It’s a combination of conspicuous consumption, keeping up with the Joneses Rosenbergs, child-spoilage, and overweening self-indulgence. Fortunately, most people find a reasonable middle ground. They’ll sponsor the Oneg Shabbat (the luncheon after services), then throw a nice party that evening with music and maybe even a seated dinner. It’s a great time to get the family together.

And then you have the phenomenon of the Adult Bat Mitzvah.

Because the Bat Mitzvah (as opposed to the Bar Mitzvah) is of more recent coin, many women in our generation did not celebrate the occasion as twelve- or thirteen-year-olds. Oftentimes, such women “...[choose] to celebrate the ceremony even though they [are] much older, as a way of formalizing and celebrating their place in the adult Jewish community.” (Wikipedia). And that brings us to Meryl, who yesterday celebrated her Adult Bat Mitzvah.

Quite some time ago, Meryl decided that she wanted a Bat Mitzvah. In her case, it’s most appropriate. She’s a committed Jew, one who teaches Hebrew school, helping to ensure that Jewish knowledge and values are transmitted unto the next generation. And in her writings, she is a passionate defender of Israel, the unique Jewish state, a state that has been surrounded by hostility and opprobrium - virtually all of it completely unjustified - since before its inception.

And so it was that she selected 22 Cheshvan 5768 (November 3, 2007) - the closest date to her birthday on the Hebrew calendar - to be the date of her Bat Mitzvah. This year, it’s the week we read about the death of our matriarch Sarah, Abraham’s purchase of her gravesite from the local Hittites for 400 pieces of silver, and Abraham’s subsequent remarriage and death. It’s a meat-and-potatoes topic for Meryl, who is constantly debunking Arab attempts to rewrite Middle Eastern history and create a fictional world in which Jews have no historical presence in Israel...a fake history that is directly contradicted by the written record. The corresponding haftarah portion is from I Kings, and it describes the power struggle that shaped itself in King David’s old age, a struggle that later resulted in Solomon’s accession to the throne after David’s death.

It’s a long haftarah. Thirty-one verses, all of which are chanted according to a prescribed melody.

And Meryl started studying it three weeks ago, cramming a task that - for first-timers, anyway - usually takes months into a mere twenty-one days.

I had the Unique Privilege of being Meryl’s primary tutor. She had asked for help on her site; I (and several others) responded. But we worked well together, and so I became her primary resource. Mainly because I could put up with her Extreme Crankiness. I do so love crankiness in a woman. It made our twice-a-day phone sessions extra-special.

I had originally wanted to be present at Meryl’s Big Occasion, but as things worked out, I had too many irons in the fire here. Nevertheless, in my own way, I was there...as the annoying little voice inside her head, screaming, “No, dammit! Mahpach is three notes the same, then one note down! Mahpach pashtah, munakh katon, merchah tip’khah, munckh etnakhtah!”

Probably a good thing I wasn’t there. She might have gouged my eyes out…or fetched me a sharp frask im pisk.

I know she did just fine. We are all our own worst critics, and Meryl is no exception. She did a gargantuan amount of work in just three weeks, and I’m proud of her. And, as she said yesterday evening while giving me the Quick Recap, we’ve gone from being blog-buddies to friends.

Go visit and give her some Mazal Tov Love.

A MOMENT OF REVERENCE

It’s seven a.m.: morning Minyan time.

The Minyan Boyz take turns leading services during the week, sometimes splitting the davening responsibilities, more often with one person leading the entire service. Yesterday was my turn. Today, Irwin leads the front end of the service through P’sukei d’Zimrah, and Barry takes over at Yishtabach.

We move through the Sh’ma, and then it’s time for the Amidah: the standing prayer, AKA the Shemoneh Esrei, the series of nineteen blessings that constitutes the core of the morning service. After that, we do Tachanun - individual supplications - and move to the closing prayers. Ashrei, Psalm 20, Kedushah d’Sidra.

Before moving into Aleinu, we pause to ask whether anyone is observing a yahrzeit - the anniversary of the death of a loved one.

Today, one person is. He steps to the bimah and opens the Aron Kodesh, revealing the Torah scroll within.

This is where I come in. When neither of our two Rabbis are present, I’m the “designated hitter” who chants Eil Malei Rachamim, the traditional Prayer for the Dead.

It’s a beautiful, solemn prayer, one that inspires a special degree of concentration and reverence...

...except, of course, for the fact that I’m wearing this shirt:



Well, it does look like that wolf in the back is wearing a tallit, doesn’t it?

At least I left the “Greetings” shirt home today. Heh.

FRIDAY RANDOM TEN

Welcome once again to Blog d’Elisson’s Friday Random Ten, the weekly feature in which I post a random assortment of Choons straight outta the Little White Choon-Box d’Elisson.

Let’s see what Old Uncle Elisson is listening to today...

1. A Different City - Modest Mouse
   
   
2. Anthem - Part 2 (Powaqqatsi) - Philip Glass
   
   Most people remember this as the theme music from the movie The Truman Show.
   
   
3. Romance - Bobby Slayton
   
   
4. Matchbox - The Beatles
   
   
5. Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band - The Beatles
   
   
6. Back To The Family - Jethro Tull
   
   My telephone wakes me in the morning -
   Have to get up to answer the call.
   So I think I’ll go back to the family
   Where no one can ring me at all.
   Living this life has its problems
   So I think that I’ll give it a break.
   Oh, I’m going back to the family
   ’Cos I’ve had about all I can take.
   
   Master’s in the counting house
   Counting all his money.
   Sister’s sitting by the mirror -
   She thinks her hair looks funny.
   And here am I thinking to myself
   Just wond’ring what things to do.
   
   I think I enjoyed all my problems
   Where I did not get nothing for free.
   Oh, I’m going back to the family -
   Doing nothing is bothering me.
   I’ll get a train back to the city
   That soft life is getting me down.
   There’s more fun away from the family
   Get some action when I pull into town.
   
   Everything I do is wrong,
   What the hell was I thinking?
   Phone keeps ringing all day long
   I got no time for thinking.
   And every day has the same old way
   Of giving me too much to do.
   
   
7. Skotshne - The Klezmer Conservatory Band
   
   
8. Beljigiye - Maritu Legesse
   
   From the album Yebati Nigist, which, for all I know, is how you say “Buttloads of Hummus” in Amharic.
   
   
9. Kid Charlemagne - Steely Dan
   
   Gotta love a band that’s named after a Famous Dildo.
   
   
10. Wild Night - Van Morrison
    

It’s Friday. What are you listening to?

FUZZY FRIDAY

The Friday Ark’s afloat again,
So I’ll take my Electronic Pen
To give the Ark a Bloggy Link.
(With all them critters, does it stink?)

The 163rd voyage of the Friday Ark sails forth from the Modulator’s port, following its traditional schedule.

This Sunday, remember to stop by CatSynth.com to check out the 189th Carnival of the Cats.

Update: CotC #189 is up, and a fine job of it, too.

HOTEL DE LOS MUERTOS

The brand-new ultra-luxe hotel was the talk of the town.

The finest architects had taken a doddering old funeral home adjoining the city’s largest greenspace and used it as the nucleus around which they built a magnificent, modern structure. It resembled nothing so much as a turreted castle surfaced in red brick. It was stunning.

What the architects did not know was that, beneath the old funeral home, there had previously been an Indian Burial Ground. It appeared on none of the old plats, yet the hundred-odd inhabitants of Gupta Hill nevertheless were there, sleeping their forever sleep under the sod.

The hotel opened in June and was immediately filled to capacity by the wealthy, the curious, and the well-connected. Butlers tucked the guests into their beds at night and attended to their every need during the waking day. At the restaurant, costly vintages flowed in rivers and hand-massaged beeves fell by the trainload.

The months passed.

Everything was fine until the wee hours of Hallowe’en night, as All-Saint’s Eve gave way to All Saint’s Day, November 1. El Día de los Muertos, The Day of the Dead.

That night, mysterious howls echoed up and down the corridors.

In Room 375, a toilet backed up and overflowed.

A movie producer from West Hollywood, in town attending the local Art School’s annual Film Festival, found a chunk of gristle in his late-night room service filet mignon.

An elderly matron, upon retiring for the night, picked up one of the chocolates that had been left on her pillow by the housekeeping staff and popped it in her mouth. Almost immediately, she spat it out, eyes wide in horror. “Mint,” she grumbled. “I hate mint.”

And a young couple from Mexico City returned to their fourth-floor suite to see a barely-visible phantasm sitting on their sofa, watching “Saturday Night Live” on the TV. They knew what night this was. With quavering voices, they asked their Eldritch Visitor whether he was doomed to walk the earth in limbo, forever trapped in that zone of nothingness between Heaven and Hell. Was the hotel cursed?

“Naw,” replied the ghost. “I was just curious. I always wondered what kind of asshole would spend eight bucks on a fucking bottle of water.”

GOING POSTAL

Tuesday afternoon, the Missus and I went to get our periodic haircuts. We’re both on a once-every-four-week schedule, and since we both use the same Hair Cutting Artiste, we try to schedule our appointments for consecutive time slots.

This time, I had an errand to run at the post office, and since there was one conveniently near our Hair Cutting Place, I dropped She Who Must Be Obeyed off there and went to take care of my Maily Business.

I was cutting it close. I had an Express mail package to send, and it was right at the cusp of five o’clock. Closing time.

The Postal Service employee who assisted me at the counter was a gem. Not only did he let me get my package in “under the wire” so it could be delivered the next day, he had one of those Infectious Good Moods that lifts your spirits. There are plenty of people who put on a Happy Happy Joy Joy attitude, but it does not serve to conceal their blasted, shriveled souls. This guy was not one of them. He was the Real Thing.

So much so that, rather than wanting to punch him right in his happy face, I felt good.

A measure of his attitude? A guy came in - it was now five after five - looking to buy a money order. Postal Service Man could have simply blown him off: “Sorry, we’re closed.” But that’s not what he did.

“How much do you need?” he asked.

“$800,” responded Last-Minute Charlie.

“Agh! We can’t do that much - the box is locked up.” Meaning that a special ex officio effort could have been made if a smaller amount - one that would not stick out like a sore thumb in the day’s records - had been requested. “I’m not just trying to mess with you. But you can go to the post office at Piedmont and Pharr Roads - it’s open until eight, and they can take care of you.” He proceeded to give directions, and Last-Minute Charlie took off.

Hmmm. Positive attitude. Customer service. Was I really in the post office, or had I fallen into the Twilight Zone?

When I finished my business at the counter, it wasn’t a surprise to hear him say “Have a blessèd day.” And I said, “Thanks - I already have.”

Maybe I oughta Go Postal more often.

AYE, THERE’S THE RUB

Freddie the Frotteur, he sure liked his frottage.
He lived in the country, in an old thatch-roofed cottage,
Surrounded by acres and acres of lottage.
He liked his lights dim, preferring low wattage.

Nothing would satisfy Fred save Dry Humpin’.
He’d walk up to ladies and carefully bump ’em.
He’d seek out tight spaces where he’d fit his rump in,
And, one Hallowe’en, even nailed a pumpkin.

Freddie liked mysteries and science fiction,
But when he was jonesing for Frottagy Friction,
He’d ride into town, and with pluperfect diction,
Announce, “Say, you ladies wanna feel my eriction?”

He once rubbed a lady cop: she was not pleased.
She called for backup, and Freddie was seized,
Tossed into prison, in a room without keys,
Where he fills up his mattress with his Frottage Cheese.

And thus endeth Freddie, undone by his Frottage.
No more will he rub on the walls of his cottage,
Surrounded by acres and acres of lottage.
“I’ve been rubbed the wrong way!” is sad Freddie’s mottage.

[Tip o’ th’ Elisson fedora to the inimitable Velociman, whose post on this strange and perverse topic inspired my fetid little poem.]

HALLOWE’EN POSTMORTEM

The Missus and I spent a relatively uneventful Hallowe’en, taking turns answering the door for what turned out to be a normal turnout of about 200 trick-or-treaters.

Earlier in the day, I had prepared a cauldron of barley soup, enriched with chunks of beef shank. Perfect end-of-October food. And, acting on the Iron Whim of She Who Must Be Obeyed, I made up a gallon of hot mulled apple cider. The original plan was for us to sit out on the front stoop with our friends Gary and JoAnn, eating soup, handing out candy, and sipping hot cider. We’d also hand out cups of hot cider to any passing adults who needed a warming drink.

Gary and JoAnn bailed, so that left the two of us. Instead of sitting outside, we set up the cider by the door, adjacent to the candy bowl.

We didn’t have a lot of takers for the cider, but the few who tried it liked it. And I liked mine even more, for I was doctoring every other cup with a healthy dollop of Calvados.

This year, the kids were generally polite and well-behaved. Few of them needed prompting to remember to invoke the Ritual Incantation, and there were no boys who appeared to be of Shaving Age or above. While I did have to retrieve a few paper cups and candy wrappers from the bushes, at least there was none of the usual Hallowe’en debris, which typically consists of wads of Silly String randomly spewed.

The Costume of the Day was worn by a little guy - couldn’t have been more than seven - that, later, upon reflection, I realized was an occasional attendee (with his mother) at morning minyan. He was decked out in a leopard-skin tuxedo with velour lapels and was wearing a huge, frizzy, black wig. After handing him his Candy Offering, I asked him, “What are you supposed to be?”

His response? “I’m a Mack Daddy. Everybody asks the same question.”

Mack Daddy indeed.

As the evening wore on, I was rescued from Door Duty by Meryl Yourish, who called for her evening Haftarah lesson. With her Bat Mitzvah looming - it’s this Saturday - it is officially Crunch Time. But she has most of her Haftarah down pat, and she’ll be able to bull her way through a few of the more tricky verses if push comes to shove. Alas, the Missus and I will not be there to hear it live and in person.

And meanwhile, what were our kiddies doing?

Well, the Mistress of Sarcasm was at work, but being in Savannah this time of year is like attending a week-long Hallowe’en party anyway. Meanwhile, Elder Daughter dressed herself up as the legendary Josephine Baker. Yes, we have no danses bananes.


Elder Daughter dresses up as Josephine Baker.

How was your Hallowe’en?

IMAGES OF SAVANNAH

Random photos from our weekend in Savannah.


The Mistress takes a colorful stroll along Drayton Street.

More beneath the fold...

An old door at the Sentient Bean.





This bicycle is a prime example of What’s Popular with the Arty Kids in Savannah.

Never mind the colors. What’s interesting to me is that this is an ultra-lightweight fixed-gear racing bicycle, the sort that aspiring Velocimen ride in a velodrome. Fixed-gear, yes - the drive train is a chain that links the pedals and the rear wheel. There is no coaster mechanism: while the bike moves, the pedals must turn. And there are no brakes.

It’s hairy enough to ride a machine like this in the controlled environment of a velodrome. To ride one on city streets is sheer madness...but plenty of SCAD students do it.

BUGHOUSE

More Found Art at the home of the Mistress of Sarcasm.

It looks like an innocent little house...



...but what’s that lurking in the bushes?



Gaaaahhh! It’s the Giant Beetle that ate Detroit!

[Click to embiggen...but only if you dare!]

SCARY IN THE SOUTH

The current issue of The South magazine features an article on Acme Costumes, a Savannah shop that sells (duh) costumes, props, and stage make-up. What better way to introduce Hallowe’en than with this vaguely disturbing image from Page 60...featuring someone who may be familiar to my Esteemed Readers?


­©2007 The South magazine.

Yes, indeedy - it’s the Mistress of Sarcasm herownself, looking like she’s ready to jab that evil-looking syringe into someone’s nethers. Yow!

And if that were not sinister enough, here’s Neighbor, her cat:


Booooooo!
Photo by The Other Elisson.


Quit looking at me like that!

Admit it: doesn’t that give you the Shit-Willies? You know it does.

Booga-booga!

SAVANNAH PANORAMA

Here are a couple of panoramas I shot while in Savannah this weekend. Click to embiggen.


The Mansion on Forsyth Park, Savannah’s newest ultra-luxe hotel, is prominently featured in this 360° panorama.


The art installation in the center of the park.

These pans were assembled from sequences of photos with Autostitch.

OCTOBER GUILD FUNCTION, orROLL OUT THE BAROLO

This month’s Sommelier Guild dinner and wine tasting was held at Veni Vidi Vici in midtown Atlanta.

I had Wagyu beef sirloin, grilled medium rare with a nice savory crust, sliced and served with sautéed shallots and frisée lettuce; a salad of striped beets and haricots verts (dem’s Green Beans) with truffles and aged Camembert; for dessert, crème brulée. All of this was washed down by lashings of Klinker Brick 2004 Lodi Old Vines Zinfandel...

No, wait. That was the dinner I had Saturday night at Bistro Savannah with the Mistress of Sarcasm, SWMBO, and the Other Elisson.

The tasting tonight was Italian-themed, with a total of eleven different wines. Denny has the wine list and menu posted here. Sound good? It was every bit as good as it sounds...and maybe even better.

In addition to Denny, we were joined by Houston Steve and Son of Houston Steve, both of whom have spent plenty of time in the very places where this evening’s wines came from. Son of Houston Steve, having recently returned from a lengthy tour of duty in Uzbekistan and Moldova with the Peace Corps, had many entertaining stories of Life in Borat-Land.

[Lest you think Mr. Debonair walks around with his pinky out and his nose in the air, be advised that I consumed, with considerable gusto, a cheeseburger at Wendy’s last night during our trip back from Savannah. I was, in fact, ready to order the Baconator, but I thought better of it: The idea of scarfing down 830 calories worth of cheeseburger (incorporating 51 grams of fat, yet) was capable of horrifying even me. Plus, I was with the Missus, who is a Past Master at helping me avoid my worst impulses...and my brother, the Other Elisson, who lives a revoltingly ascetic lifestyle when he is not under our Baleful Influence. Watching me eat a Baconator might make his head explode.]

Oh, the pain and indignity of Gracious Living...