Still 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, and Volume 6.
syphilupagus [sif-il-up-a-gus] (n) - Venereal disease transmitted by talking mastodons.
cartoonfatwa [car-toon-fat-wa] (adj) - Having the quality of irrational, extreme overreaction, especially in the face of minimal provocation.
Let’s use it in a sentence, shall we?
“I stopped off at Murphy’s for a few shots last night and ended up coming home at 2 a.m. I’ll be damned if the Missus didn’t go all cartoonfatwa on my ass.”
Tuesday, February 07, 2006
Monday, February 06, 2006
LIFE-CHANGING EVENTS
We all have ’em, and they come in all sizes and shapes.
Yesterday was the twenty-ninth anniversary of one of my Life-Changing Events: the day I lobbed a Proposal of Marriage at She Who Would Become The Missus.
It was at Courtlandt’s, a white-tablecloth joint restaurant in Houston that, sadly, no longer exists. But at the time, it - along with other High-End Eateries like Charley’s 517, Brennan’s, and Tony’s - defined the upper end of my personal dining experiences.
[Heh. Charley’s 517 - another restaurant that has since bitten the dust. Somewhere in the bowels of the Basement d’Elisson, I have a menu from Charley’s, vintage 1976 or so. The prices seem laughably modest, but by the standards of the day, a $3.50 appetizer was Heady Shit. Alas, panem et circenses are ever more costly as time passes...]
I can still hear the wise words of my mother, of blessèd memory, as she gently dispensed a bit of motherly advice, motherly advice that, for once, I heeded: “What in hell are you waiting for?” What, indeed? We had been seeing each other for over a year, I was making a decent living, and the only thing holding me back was Fear of the Unknown. I knew, deep in my heart, that it was time to Shit or Get Off the Pot.
Little did the future Missus know what I would be putting her through. Within two years, we would be living in the wilds of New Jersey - truly alien territory for her - in what would be the second of seven residences over the years. But she was - and is - a spunky lass.
She has put up with my Demented Shit for lo, these many years. And I love her more every day.
Happy Engage-a-Versary to We!
Yesterday was the twenty-ninth anniversary of one of my Life-Changing Events: the day I lobbed a Proposal of Marriage at She Who Would Become The Missus.
It was at Courtlandt’s, a white-tablecloth joint restaurant in Houston that, sadly, no longer exists. But at the time, it - along with other High-End Eateries like Charley’s 517, Brennan’s, and Tony’s - defined the upper end of my personal dining experiences.
[Heh. Charley’s 517 - another restaurant that has since bitten the dust. Somewhere in the bowels of the Basement d’Elisson, I have a menu from Charley’s, vintage 1976 or so. The prices seem laughably modest, but by the standards of the day, a $3.50 appetizer was Heady Shit. Alas, panem et circenses are ever more costly as time passes...]
I can still hear the wise words of my mother, of blessèd memory, as she gently dispensed a bit of motherly advice, motherly advice that, for once, I heeded: “What in hell are you waiting for?” What, indeed? We had been seeing each other for over a year, I was making a decent living, and the only thing holding me back was Fear of the Unknown. I knew, deep in my heart, that it was time to Shit or Get Off the Pot.
Little did the future Missus know what I would be putting her through. Within two years, we would be living in the wilds of New Jersey - truly alien territory for her - in what would be the second of seven residences over the years. But she was - and is - a spunky lass.
She has put up with my Demented Shit for lo, these many years. And I love her more every day.
Happy Engage-a-Versary to We!
BACK IN THE CITY O’ SWEAT
Snow, rain, and sun. Today, I had it all.
This morning in the northern reaches of Atlanta, we had a few minutes of honest-to-Gawd snow, which gave way to cold, drenching rain. Lovely.
But I got on the Silver Aerial Bus mid-afternoon and made my way to Sweat City for a two-day sojourn. It’s warmer here – mid-60’s during the day, 40’s at night – and it was sunny when I arrived.
Just for shits ’n’ grins, I flew into Hobby Airport instead of the usual Inter-Caca-nental. As it happens, since I’m staying near the West Loop, it made for a much shorter drive to the hotel. Even better, I was going countercurrent to the rush hour traffic. No worries...and no tolls, even.
Hobby is located in a generally scuzzy part of town, not a good place to get misdirected in the dead of night. But the drive took me past Astroworld, which is in the process of being dismantled and sold off, piece by piece. Anyone wanna buy a slightly used roller coaster?
And I saw Reliant Center for the first time. Holy crap, it dwarfs the Astrodome, which used to sit just north of the South Loop like a gigantic boil on Nether Houston’s ass. It still sits there, but now Reliant Center looms behind it like some sort of science-fictional Borg Shoppe. Damn, the things you miss when you spend all your time on the north and west sides of town...
So: here I sit, with my laptop and handy wireless connection, banging out spreadsheets for my meetings tomorrow morning and reading the occasional Bloggy Nugget. And I should write a post. What to write about? Ear wax? Proper Bunwad Technique? My strange and vile musical library? Food? Those nutty Muhammad cartoons? Satirical Photoshops? Cats? The mind boggles...
But the brain-keyboard link refuses to cooperate. Perhaps I shall settle down with a fast-paced Crime Novel, having blown through a collection of alternative history novellas on the flight in. Charlie Huston’s latest opus awaits, and I am sure it will not disappoint.
Perhaps a fillum. I hear Brokeback Bloggers is playing over at Dax’s...
JustDamn! Crap!
This morning in the northern reaches of Atlanta, we had a few minutes of honest-to-Gawd snow, which gave way to cold, drenching rain. Lovely.
But I got on the Silver Aerial Bus mid-afternoon and made my way to Sweat City for a two-day sojourn. It’s warmer here – mid-60’s during the day, 40’s at night – and it was sunny when I arrived.
Just for shits ’n’ grins, I flew into Hobby Airport instead of the usual Inter-Caca-nental. As it happens, since I’m staying near the West Loop, it made for a much shorter drive to the hotel. Even better, I was going countercurrent to the rush hour traffic. No worries...and no tolls, even.
Hobby is located in a generally scuzzy part of town, not a good place to get misdirected in the dead of night. But the drive took me past Astroworld, which is in the process of being dismantled and sold off, piece by piece. Anyone wanna buy a slightly used roller coaster?
And I saw Reliant Center for the first time. Holy crap, it dwarfs the Astrodome, which used to sit just north of the South Loop like a gigantic boil on Nether Houston’s ass. It still sits there, but now Reliant Center looms behind it like some sort of science-fictional Borg Shoppe. Damn, the things you miss when you spend all your time on the north and west sides of town...
So: here I sit, with my laptop and handy wireless connection, banging out spreadsheets for my meetings tomorrow morning and reading the occasional Bloggy Nugget. And I should write a post. What to write about? Ear wax? Proper Bunwad Technique? My strange and vile musical library? Food? Those nutty Muhammad cartoons? Satirical Photoshops? Cats? The mind boggles...
But the brain-keyboard link refuses to cooperate. Perhaps I shall settle down with a fast-paced Crime Novel, having blown through a collection of alternative history novellas on the flight in. Charlie Huston’s latest opus awaits, and I am sure it will not disappoint.
Perhaps a fillum. I hear Brokeback Bloggers is playing over at Dax’s...
Just
Sunday, February 05, 2006
THE LIVING DEAD
Truly amazing, this Mick Jagger.
Thin as a rail, he prances and dances like a twenty-two year old.
And yet...and yet, he’s old enough so that he does not have wrinkles; he has grooves. Hasn’t slowed him down one bit.
Limber as he is, though, during the Super Bowl XL halftime show, we noticed a certain subtle degree of gelatinous quivering around the ol’ triceps. Yes: Mick Jagger is beginning to develop “Hadassah Arms”!
This prompted one of the ladies present - it was the demure Debbie M-, who had hosted a most extraordinary wedding last summer - to observe, “I’ll bet that’s what his nut-sack looks like, too.”
Great. Mick Jagger’s nut-sack. Lovely thought, that. Excuse me whilst I go and drive a ten-penny nail into my left eye.
Thin as a rail, he prances and dances like a twenty-two year old.
And yet...and yet, he’s old enough so that he does not have wrinkles; he has grooves. Hasn’t slowed him down one bit.
Limber as he is, though, during the Super Bowl XL halftime show, we noticed a certain subtle degree of gelatinous quivering around the ol’ triceps. Yes: Mick Jagger is beginning to develop “Hadassah Arms”!
This prompted one of the ladies present - it was the demure Debbie M-, who had hosted a most extraordinary wedding last summer - to observe, “I’ll bet that’s what his nut-sack looks like, too.”
Great. Mick Jagger’s nut-sack. Lovely thought, that. Excuse me whilst I go and drive a ten-penny nail into my left eye.
MEATLEMANIA
Please join me in welcoming a new entry to the blogroll: The BBQ General.
Some time ago, I posted a brief profile of our friends Janet and Wylie. Wylie, the self-styled BBQ General, is, along with Janet, a master barbecue chef, and their new blog is a great place to pick up on some excellent recipes, techniques, and all-around BBQ advice.
I won’t get into the Raging Argument about what type of BBQ is best: Texas, Memphis, Kansas City, Southeastern...’cause to me, they’re all good. It’s like my buddy Gary always says about ice cream: All flavors are good; some are just better than others. And since that is a matter of taste, we’ll leave it to the individual.
Be sure to visit the General and tell him Elisson sent you. I don’t get any baksheesh for this, but I do like to know that my Esteemed Readers are well fed.
Some time ago, I posted a brief profile of our friends Janet and Wylie. Wylie, the self-styled BBQ General, is, along with Janet, a master barbecue chef, and their new blog is a great place to pick up on some excellent recipes, techniques, and all-around BBQ advice.
I won’t get into the Raging Argument about what type of BBQ is best: Texas, Memphis, Kansas City, Southeastern...’cause to me, they’re all good. It’s like my buddy Gary always says about ice cream: All flavors are good; some are just better than others. And since that is a matter of taste, we’ll leave it to the individual.
Be sure to visit the General and tell him Elisson sent you. I don’t get any baksheesh for this, but I do like to know that my Esteemed Readers are well fed.
COUNTRY BOY
Gotta watch out for them Country Boys.
Most Americans - especially the ones of the Northeastern variety - hold Country Boys in thinly veiled contempt. Rubes, they think. Redneck geeks.
It’s a dangerous and stupid attitude.
Lenny Bruce used to do a bit in which he would say, “If Einstein had been a Southerner, we wouldn’t have had an atomic bomb.”
He’d step into the persona of a fictional Southrin Einstein to drive the point home: “Folks, Ah wanna tell y’all ’bout new-cleer fishin’...”
“Shaddup, ya schmuck! Ya don’t know nuthin’!”
Bruce’s routine was his way of explaining why (then) President Lyndon Johnson got so little respect from the Eastern intellectual establishment. But Johnson wasn’t any kind of a dummy, and he would work that Country Boy routine.
In like wise, a friend of ours - an attorney who frequently defended clients in the Medical Profession who were on the receiving end of malpractice lawsuits - described a Country Boy plaintiff’s lawyer.
Seems there was a botched plastic surgery case, and our friend was working the defense. The plaintiff’s attorney was one of those Country Boy fellers. Every movement, every stitch of clothing (I picture him in a straw boater and a seersucker suit) told you that he was a real salt-of-the-earth Man of th’ Peepul.
And this fine Country Boy, he hitched his thumbs under his galluses just so, and, puffing out his chest, strode forth before the Jury Box to address the Defendant. Quoth he:
“Now, Doctah So-and-So, suppose you tell the ladies and gentlemen of the jury just exactly what it was that you did to mah client that made her titties all catty-wampus?”
Country Boy, my ass. This old boy could’ve eaten half of Harvard Yard for lunch.
You underestimate the Country Boy at your peril, O Northern Ones.
Most Americans - especially the ones of the Northeastern variety - hold Country Boys in thinly veiled contempt. Rubes, they think. Redneck geeks.
It’s a dangerous and stupid attitude.
Lenny Bruce used to do a bit in which he would say, “If Einstein had been a Southerner, we wouldn’t have had an atomic bomb.”
He’d step into the persona of a fictional Southrin Einstein to drive the point home: “Folks, Ah wanna tell y’all ’bout new-cleer fishin’...”
“Shaddup, ya schmuck! Ya don’t know nuthin’!”
Bruce’s routine was his way of explaining why (then) President Lyndon Johnson got so little respect from the Eastern intellectual establishment. But Johnson wasn’t any kind of a dummy, and he would work that Country Boy routine.
In like wise, a friend of ours - an attorney who frequently defended clients in the Medical Profession who were on the receiving end of malpractice lawsuits - described a Country Boy plaintiff’s lawyer.
Seems there was a botched plastic surgery case, and our friend was working the defense. The plaintiff’s attorney was one of those Country Boy fellers. Every movement, every stitch of clothing (I picture him in a straw boater and a seersucker suit) told you that he was a real salt-of-the-earth Man of th’ Peepul.
And this fine Country Boy, he hitched his thumbs under his galluses just so, and, puffing out his chest, strode forth before the Jury Box to address the Defendant. Quoth he:
“Now, Doctah So-and-So, suppose you tell the ladies and gentlemen of the jury just exactly what it was that you did to mah client that made her titties all catty-wampus?”
Country Boy, my ass. This old boy could’ve eaten half of Harvard Yard for lunch.
You underestimate the Country Boy at your peril, O Northern Ones.
LOCAL ROYALTY
Yes, we have Royalty amongst us.
There’s Queen Matata, here displaying her Regal Imperiousness:
Peasant! Bring me kibble. And be quick about it!
Dare ye to skritch the Royal Personage?
And, waiting patiently in the wings, is Princess Hakuna. No less royal, but a tad less aggressive.
Are you quite through sucking up to Her Nibs over there? ’Cause my bowl’s empty.
Carnival of the Cats will be posted later today at enrevanche. If you can tear your ass away from watchingStoopid-Bowl Super Bowl XL, getcha some of that Kitty Goodness...and be sure to say “Hello!” to Mister Gato.
And be sure to visit Laurence Simon’s latest catblogging enterprise, an Unholy Alliance with the MSM: Catcall, the HoustonCarbuncle Chronicle’s honest-to-Gawd Cat Blog. It’s Cat-Riffic!
Update: The Carnival is up...early!
There’s Queen Matata, here displaying her Regal Imperiousness:
Peasant! Bring me kibble. And be quick about it!
Dare ye to skritch the Royal Personage?
And, waiting patiently in the wings, is Princess Hakuna. No less royal, but a tad less aggressive.
Are you quite through sucking up to Her Nibs over there? ’Cause my bowl’s empty.
Carnival of the Cats will be posted later today at enrevanche. If you can tear your ass away from watching
And be sure to visit Laurence Simon’s latest catblogging enterprise, an Unholy Alliance with the MSM: Catcall, the Houston
Update: The Carnival is up...early!
Saturday, February 04, 2006
LIFE IMITATES ART, YET AGAIN (?)
Must’ve been a year ago, when I composed this completely rotten limerick:
A filthy young woman named Mabel
Liked to crap on the dining room table.
She would finish dessert
And then hike up her skirt,
Jump right up, and commence laying cable.
Thanks to Jim at Parkway Rest Stop, we now know that Mabel is a mere amateur. Michelle Hines - who probably should change her name to Hiney - has figured out how to lay enough cable in a single unbroken length to require a bowling alley to accommodate it.
Times like this, I purely love the Internet.
[Of course, some of us are unimpressed by mere length. I wonder what the world record is for girth?]
Want the whole story, with all the sordid details? And pictures, yet? Go ahead and click this link...but don’t say I didn’t warn you. I will not be responsible for any long- or short-term psychic damage that may result.
Update: Snopes may not have anything on Ms. Hines yet, but the Village Voice does. When I clicked on this link in the intermaweb.net post [it’s just above the (gag) picture], these words caught my attention right away: “The work of Michelle Hines often employs strategies of willful fakery to accentuate particular human dynamics and responses.” [Emphasis mine.] And one of Acidman’s commenters, rightisright, came up with the Real Dirt.
Looks like Mabel still has a job. Wonder what a 26' fake turd would fetch on eBay?
A filthy young woman named Mabel
Liked to crap on the dining room table.
She would finish dessert
And then hike up her skirt,
Jump right up, and commence laying cable.
Thanks to Jim at Parkway Rest Stop, we now know that Mabel is a mere amateur. Michelle Hines - who probably should change her name to Hiney - has figured out how to lay enough cable in a single unbroken length to require a bowling alley to accommodate it.
Times like this, I purely love the Internet.
[Of course, some of us are unimpressed by mere length. I wonder what the world record is for girth?]
Want the whole story, with all the sordid details? And pictures, yet? Go ahead and click this link...but don’t say I didn’t warn you. I will not be responsible for any long- or short-term psychic damage that may result.
Update: Snopes may not have anything on Ms. Hines yet, but the Village Voice does. When I clicked on this link in the intermaweb.net post [it’s just above the (gag) picture], these words caught my attention right away: “The work of Michelle Hines often employs strategies of willful fakery to accentuate particular human dynamics and responses.” [Emphasis mine.] And one of Acidman’s commenters, rightisright, came up with the Real Dirt.
Looks like Mabel still has a job. Wonder what a 26' fake turd would fetch on eBay?
BACK ATCHA
It is said that no good deed goes unpunished.
As a corollary, when you pay homage, sometime there is payback. Witnesseth:
Hmmm. This groove between my ass-cheeks: is it supposed to be there? And why does it bear, suspiciously, the subtle imprint pattern of a bicycle tire tread?
As a corollary, when you pay homage, sometime there is payback. Witnesseth:
I took the familial units, GLTB, Mystikal One, and Satiric Lass, up to Gilmer County this Friday, a mere stone’s throw from Atlantabama, for what we at the ’gogue call flavavel, or the Day of Kosher Pork. The locals were having a barbecue contest, you see, and we were eager to participate as it coincided with our day of flavavel. Pig. Yum!Read it all.
Hmmm. This groove between my ass-cheeks: is it supposed to be there? And why does it bear, suspiciously, the subtle imprint pattern of a bicycle tire tread?
Friday, February 03, 2006
CARNIVAL OF THE COCKROACHES #5
Welcome to Carnival of the Cockroaches, Number Five!Yes, I’ve received enough submissions - a very few submissions - over the past couple of months, so it’s time to resurrect this fine Carnival.
Back in November, I announced that I would open this Carnival up to the Whole Insect World. That might help make things a little more interesting (and maybe help get a few more submissions as well.) Cockroaches rule, but Blog d’Elisson is an ecumenical site, so we will allow the Buggy Brethren of our Roachy Buddies to stick their antennae under the tent flap.
We’ll kick off the Carnival with Brad Rubinstein of Odd Quanta, who gives us a post that includes a link to some remarkable Beetle Pictures. Picking scarabs is now just as easy as picking scabs!
Blueberry runs the Texas Oasis site. Oases have water, and they don’t call these bad boys Water Bugs for nothing. Check out her post about Cyborg-Cockroaches. Resistance is futile!
Radaractive gives us a post with a political bent. Political cockroaches? I dunno...comparing your ideological opposition to cockroaches is way too facile, but there is some good dirt on actual roaches. You just have to look for it amidst the rest of the screed. And Radar appears to be way too familiar with the little beasties.
Well, that’s about it for this edition of the Carnival. I thought I had more submissions than that, but it turns out a few of ’em were unrelated to roaches or other Buggy Vermin and had apparently found my mailbox when someone clicked the wrong line in the Carnival Submission Form.
Cuco Eddie just reminded me to ask my Esteemed Readers to be sure and send your submissions in for the next Carnival of the Cockroaches. Just use the handy-dandy Carnival Submission Form, helpfully provided by Ferdy, the Conservative Cat, or e-mail me at elisson1 (at) aol (dot) com. Also, don’t forget to tell all your nutty Bug-Loving Friends about us...and remember our sister Carnival, the Circus of the Spineless, the most recent edition of which is up at Pharyngula. [Like Dracula...but with a pharynx, I guess.]Linked to the TTLB Übercarnival.
[Cuco Eddie ©2006 by Lalo Alcaraz. Used without permission...but with extreme respect and admiration!]
Technorati tags: Carnival, Cockroaches
FRIDAY RANDOM TEN
It’s once again time for the Friday Random Ten, a randomly-selected list of Musical Adventures from the iPod d’Elisson. Here we go:
Woke up that morning
With the cold water
With the cold water
With the cold water
Woke up that morning
With the cold water
With the cold water
With the cold
Took me a shower
In the cold water
In the cold water
In the cold water
Took me a shower
In the cold water
In the cold water
In the cold
Went to the office
In the frickin’ snowstorm
In the frickin’ snowstorm
In the frickin’ snowstorm
Went to the office
In the frickin’ snowstorm
In the frickin’ snowstorm
In the snow
Got up to give
A presentation
A presentation
A presentation
Got up to give
A presentation
A presentation
(PowerPoint)
Couldn’t continue, ’cause I
Had a kidney stone
Had a kidney stone
Had a kidney stone
Couldn’t continue, ’cause I
Had a kidney stone
Had a kidney stone
Had a stone
And so they had to schlep me to the farookin’ hospital and pump me full of drugs so I could finish making the presentation, get to the airport, and go home without screaming blue murder. Holy Crap!
So, fie upon your Cold Water. Fie, I say!
It’s Friday. What are you listening to?
- My Name is Death - The Incredible String Band
- Sunset Road (live version) - Béla Fleck & The Flecktones
- Treebeard - Howard Shore, The Two Towers soundtrack
- Nokh Eyn Tantz - The Klezmer Conservatory Band
- Don’t Look Away - Brian Auger’s Oblivion Express
- Diva’s Lament (Whatever Happened To My Part?) - Monty Python’s Spamalot
- Theme From New York, New York - Skanatra
- Minimum Wage - They Might Be Giants
- A Taste Of Honey - The Beatles
- Cold Water - Tom Waits
Well I woke up this morning
With the cold water
With the cold water
With the cold water
Woke up this morning
With the cold water
With the cold water
With the cold
Police at the station
And they don’t look friendly
Well they don’t look friendly
Well they don’t look friendly
Police at the station
And they don’t look friendly
They don’t look friendly well
They don’t
Blind or crippled
Sharp or dull
I’m reading the Bible
By a 40 watt bulb
What price freedom
Dirt is my rug
Well I sleep like a baby
With the snakes and the bugs
Well the stores are open
But I ain’t got no money
I ain’t got no money
Stores are open but I
Ain’t got no money
Ain’t got no money
Well I ain’t
Found an old dog
And he seems to like me
Seems to like me
Well he seems to like me
Found an old dog and he
Seems to like me
Seems to like me
Well he seems
Seen them fellows
with the card board signs
Scrapin up a little $
To buy a bottle of wine
Pregnant women and
The Vietnam vets I say
Beggin on the freeway
Bout as hard as it gets
Well I slept in the graveyard
It was cool and still
Cool and still
It was cool and still
Slept in the graveyard
It was cool and still
Cool and still and it
Was cool
Slept all night in the Cedar grove
I was born to ramble
Born to rove
Some men are searchin for the
Holy Grail
But there ain’t nothin sweeter
Than ridin the rails
I love 47 but I’m 24
Well they shooed me away
From here the time before
Turned there their backs
And they locked their doors
I’m watching T.V. in
The window of a furniture store
Well I woke up this morning
With the cold water
With the cold water
With the cold water
Woke up this morning
With the cold water
With the cold water
With the cold
Woke up that morning
With the cold water
With the cold water
With the cold water
Woke up that morning
With the cold water
With the cold water
With the cold
Took me a shower
In the cold water
In the cold water
In the cold water
Took me a shower
In the cold water
In the cold water
In the cold
Went to the office
In the frickin’ snowstorm
In the frickin’ snowstorm
In the frickin’ snowstorm
Went to the office
In the frickin’ snowstorm
In the frickin’ snowstorm
In the snow
Got up to give
A presentation
A presentation
A presentation
Got up to give
A presentation
A presentation
(PowerPoint)
Couldn’t continue, ’cause I
Had a kidney stone
Had a kidney stone
Had a kidney stone
Couldn’t continue, ’cause I
Had a kidney stone
Had a kidney stone
Had a stone
And so they had to schlep me to the farookin’ hospital and pump me full of drugs so I could finish making the presentation, get to the airport, and go home without screaming blue murder. Holy Crap!
So, fie upon your Cold Water. Fie, I say!
It’s Friday. What are you listening to?
FATWA’S IN THE FIRE
Here’s a question:
We all know that the fanatic Islamists hate Westerners who dare to depict the image of the Prophet. (Never mind that images of Mohammed, both historical and contemporary, are plentiful and easily obtainable throughout the Muslim world.) The recent flap over the cartoons appearing in the Danish Jyllands-Posten gives you an idea of how easily riled the Star ’n’ Crescent Boyz can be, although that’s been no secret since Salman Rushdie got the bulls-eye painted on his back for daring to write The Satanic Verses in 1989.
If Laurence Simon gets nailed with a fatwa for posting all of his “Ask The Prophet” cartoons, might I draw a “Funny Fatwa” for posting a parody of an “Ask The Prophet” cartoon as I did yesterday?
I wonder what they do to you if they hit you with a Funny Fatwa. Behead you by having crazed hamsters nibble on your neck? Make you sit in the Comfy Chair? Poke you with the Soft Cushion?
We all know that the fanatic Islamists hate Westerners who dare to depict the image of the Prophet. (Never mind that images of Mohammed, both historical and contemporary, are plentiful and easily obtainable throughout the Muslim world.) The recent flap over the cartoons appearing in the Danish Jyllands-Posten gives you an idea of how easily riled the Star ’n’ Crescent Boyz can be, although that’s been no secret since Salman Rushdie got the bulls-eye painted on his back for daring to write The Satanic Verses in 1989.
If Laurence Simon gets nailed with a fatwa for posting all of his “Ask The Prophet” cartoons, might I draw a “Funny Fatwa” for posting a parody of an “Ask The Prophet” cartoon as I did yesterday?
I wonder what they do to you if they hit you with a Funny Fatwa. Behead you by having crazed hamsters nibble on your neck? Make you sit in the Comfy Chair? Poke you with the Soft Cushion?
FRIDAY ARK #72
Steve - the esteemed Modulator - has posted the Friday Ark, with BdE in pole position. Go and check out this week’s assortment of Happy Animalia.
Thursday, February 02, 2006
BROKEBACK TO THE FUTURE
Ever wonder what all the Kreative Kidz are doing?
Chocolate Cake City - the comedy troupe of Emerson College in Boston, not to be confused with the cakeless Chocolate City down on the bayou - has made the Mental Connection between Cowboy Love and the ol’ Flux Capacitor. Check out this video:
Just click on the arrow to play the video.
Tip o’ th’ Elisson fedora to Karen (my blogmother!) for the link.
Chocolate Cake City - the comedy troupe of Emerson College in Boston, not to be confused with the cakeless Chocolate City down on the bayou - has made the Mental Connection between Cowboy Love and the ol’ Flux Capacitor. Check out this video:
Just click on the arrow to play the video.
Tip o’ th’ Elisson fedora to Karen (my blogmother!) for the link.
DINNER WITH DAX
“I’ll have the elephant scrotum on a bun.”Dax reminds us to be patient with the Service Staff. After all, that hapless waiter who just dropped a pot of hot coffee on your crotch might still be in training, having been given a Stay of Execution by us softies...
“Sorry, Sir, you can't have that tonight.”
“Why the hell not?”
“We’re fresh out of buns.”
WHEN IN DOUBT - WAFFLE!
I was casting about for something quick for lunch, and I came up with this:
Wild Blueberry Belgian Waffles with Meyer Lemon Curd.
Quick, you say? Why, what is Elisson smoking? Whatchoo mean, quick?
It took all of three minutes to throw it all together...but only because the two key ingredients - the waffles and the Meyer lemon curd - had been prepared in advance. Otherwise, it would have been a lengthier undertaking.
There’s something about Meyer lemons that can brighten the dreariest February day. They have a more subtle flavor than the bright yellow everyday lemons we get in the Stupid-Market, and their thin, orange-yellow skin makes a potent, aromatic zest. I saw a pile of those bad boys at Fresh Market the other day and couldn’t resist.
Making the lemon curd requires some patience because you have to cook it slowly in a double boiler over simmering water - otherwise, you end up with a heap of lemon-flavored scrambled eggs. The recipe is one that I grabbed from the Bakerina last year, and it is the finest lemon curd I have ever put in my mouth. I had run up a batch last night, figuring on finding any number of uses for it. Besides simply eating it right out of the bowl with a honkin’ big spoon, that is.
As for the waffles, I had made those a couple of weeks ago when Eric, the Princess Fiona, and Zonker came a-calling. I had used the basic recipe that came with our Belgian waffle iron, substituting melted butter for the vegetable oil and throwing in a pile of wild blueberries to give ’em some extra flavor and color. But I had doubled the recipe - you do not want to be short of waffles when dealing with partially hung over, ravenous bloggers - and as a result there was a small mountain of leftover waffles and plenty of unused batter. The extra batter ended up in the sink, but the surplus waffles ended up in the freezer in a Ziploc bag, whence they could be extracted one or two at a time whenever the Waffle-Mood struck. Not as good as fresh-made, but a lot quicker...and way better than those frozen Mini-Manhole Covers they sell at the local Foode Shoppe.
Two frozen waffles, thawed out in the Nuke-Machine for one minute, followed by a quick run through the toaster to crisp ’em up, and they were the perfect base for a couple of healthy dollops of lemon curd and a few spoons of Dickinson’s Wild Maine Blueberry Syrup. Yowza!
About two hours in the gym oughta be enough to work it off...
Wild Blueberry Belgian Waffles with Meyer Lemon Curd.
Quick, you say? Why, what is Elisson smoking? Whatchoo mean, quick?
It took all of three minutes to throw it all together...but only because the two key ingredients - the waffles and the Meyer lemon curd - had been prepared in advance. Otherwise, it would have been a lengthier undertaking.
There’s something about Meyer lemons that can brighten the dreariest February day. They have a more subtle flavor than the bright yellow everyday lemons we get in the Stupid-Market, and their thin, orange-yellow skin makes a potent, aromatic zest. I saw a pile of those bad boys at Fresh Market the other day and couldn’t resist.
Making the lemon curd requires some patience because you have to cook it slowly in a double boiler over simmering water - otherwise, you end up with a heap of lemon-flavored scrambled eggs. The recipe is one that I grabbed from the Bakerina last year, and it is the finest lemon curd I have ever put in my mouth. I had run up a batch last night, figuring on finding any number of uses for it. Besides simply eating it right out of the bowl with a honkin’ big spoon, that is.
As for the waffles, I had made those a couple of weeks ago when Eric, the Princess Fiona, and Zonker came a-calling. I had used the basic recipe that came with our Belgian waffle iron, substituting melted butter for the vegetable oil and throwing in a pile of wild blueberries to give ’em some extra flavor and color. But I had doubled the recipe - you do not want to be short of waffles when dealing with partially hung over, ravenous bloggers - and as a result there was a small mountain of leftover waffles and plenty of unused batter. The extra batter ended up in the sink, but the surplus waffles ended up in the freezer in a Ziploc bag, whence they could be extracted one or two at a time whenever the Waffle-Mood struck. Not as good as fresh-made, but a lot quicker...and way better than those frozen Mini-Manhole Covers they sell at the local Foode Shoppe.
Two frozen waffles, thawed out in the Nuke-Machine for one minute, followed by a quick run through the toaster to crisp ’em up, and they were the perfect base for a couple of healthy dollops of lemon curd and a few spoons of Dickinson’s Wild Maine Blueberry Syrup. Yowza!
About two hours in the gym oughta be enough to work it off...
RASHOMON GOES TO THE BLOGS
Many of my Esteemed Readers are familiar with Akiro Kurosawa’s classic film in which the same event is shown from different characters’ perspectives. With that in mind, here’s how I imagine a familiar story might be told from the varying viewpoints of several denizens of Bloggy-World.
Velociworld
Growing up in the South, we had no shortage of peculiar individuals. Only we didn’t call ’em that. They were always tetched. Or one rib short of a barbecue combo plate. If not loved, these Faulkneresque peeps were at least tolerated.
Which brings me to Mary.
Mary was one of those kids that even we third-graders knew was a little different. Skeery, even. Rumor had it, she kept a monkey at home in her room. A dead one. Under her bed.
One day, she showed up at school with an honest-to-God lamb. Wooly Bully, she called it, and said it was her pet.
The teacher went apeshit. Screamed for ten minutes about how all this was unacceptable, spittle flying ever which way. Meanwhile, the kids thought it was some sort of southern fried Mardi Gras. Pandemonium in the Velociclass, it was.
And that’s when the principal showed up with a rope. Hauled that lamb out of the classroom and disappeared down the hallway. A few moments later, we heard a wet “thunk.”
The hamburgers at lunch that day were especially good, tho a mite gamey. Nobody asked why.
Straight White Guy
... this morning I polished off a half-kettle of go-juice... went outside on the deck… the deck I had built with my own hands... and the fleece seat cover on which I parked myself reminded me of a story...
... seems we had a kid in class back in third grade that was a little different... every class has one, rubberneckers... yours did, too... anyway, she shows up one day for show-and-tell with her pet...
...it was a lamb, of all things... the teacher had a conniption fit... meanwhile, the wooly beast was in the eye of the hurricane... rampaging through the classroom, eating the textbooks...
...of course, we kids were enjoying the scene immensely... but when it grabbed hold of my collection of Robert W. Service poems, I had to act decisively...
...people, it was not pretty... not for nothing do they call that six-inch serrated blade a sheep-sticker...
... there’s a song in there somewhere... “The First Time I Saw Haggis”...
This Blog Is Full Of Crap
In Houston, a third-grade student is suspended for bringing an unauthorized meat animal to school.
Let’s ask Chairman Arafat what he thinks of children bringing domestic animals to madrassa...
Thank you, Chairman Arafat. Roast lamb is indeed tasty. Of course, where you are, pretty much everything is roasted.
Gut Rumbles
There was a story in the paper the other day about a third-grade kid who brought a lamb to school. Bejus!
When I was growing up in Kentucky, that kind of shit happened all the time. The teacher would scream and the kids would raise hell. But the principal had a sure fire method of handling the situation.
First time, the kid would get a warning.
Second time, the animal would be dragged off and shot.
Third time, the KID would be dragged off and shot. End of problem.
Now, they send thefucktard poor misguided soul to counseling to find out why her self-esteem is so low that she needs to bring her pet lamb to school. My aching ass.
At least it wasn’t a fucking CAT.
The Dax Files
What Should Dax Do?
Yesterday, just as things were starting to get crazy during the lunch shift, a little girl came in with a sheep on a leash. The customers went nuts, and workflow came to a standstill with everyone gawking at the damn sheep. I told the kid to take her “friend” outside - health regulations - and then she started to give me static about it being a seeing-eye sheep. Also, it wouldn’t be a health hazard because its fleece was white as snow.
I don’t know what it is about me that I attract people with vision problems.
So here’s my dilemma. Let the sheep stay, and I might get shut down by the Health Department. Not to mention the general disruption the wooly bastard is causing. Kick the little girl out, and my customers might think I’m hard-hearted. I lose the kid and her family as customers, and I just might be facing a lawsuit if there’s any truth to the seeing-eye thing.
Yesterday, I let the kid stay, but it was a real pain in the ass. She’s coming back today. What should Dax do?
Just Damn!
Velociworld
Growing up in the South, we had no shortage of peculiar individuals. Only we didn’t call ’em that. They were always tetched. Or one rib short of a barbecue combo plate. If not loved, these Faulkneresque peeps were at least tolerated.
Which brings me to Mary.
Mary was one of those kids that even we third-graders knew was a little different. Skeery, even. Rumor had it, she kept a monkey at home in her room. A dead one. Under her bed.
One day, she showed up at school with an honest-to-God lamb. Wooly Bully, she called it, and said it was her pet.
The teacher went apeshit. Screamed for ten minutes about how all this was unacceptable, spittle flying ever which way. Meanwhile, the kids thought it was some sort of southern fried Mardi Gras. Pandemonium in the Velociclass, it was.
And that’s when the principal showed up with a rope. Hauled that lamb out of the classroom and disappeared down the hallway. A few moments later, we heard a wet “thunk.”
The hamburgers at lunch that day were especially good, tho a mite gamey. Nobody asked why.
Straight White Guy
... this morning I polished off a half-kettle of go-juice... went outside on the deck… the deck I had built with my own hands... and the fleece seat cover on which I parked myself reminded me of a story...
... seems we had a kid in class back in third grade that was a little different... every class has one, rubberneckers... yours did, too... anyway, she shows up one day for show-and-tell with her pet...
...it was a lamb, of all things... the teacher had a conniption fit... meanwhile, the wooly beast was in the eye of the hurricane... rampaging through the classroom, eating the textbooks...
...of course, we kids were enjoying the scene immensely... but when it grabbed hold of my collection of Robert W. Service poems, I had to act decisively...
...people, it was not pretty... not for nothing do they call that six-inch serrated blade a sheep-sticker...
... there’s a song in there somewhere... “The First Time I Saw Haggis”...
This Blog Is Full Of Crap
In Houston, a third-grade student is suspended for bringing an unauthorized meat animal to school.
Let’s ask Chairman Arafat what he thinks of children bringing domestic animals to madrassa...
Thank you, Chairman Arafat. Roast lamb is indeed tasty. Of course, where you are, pretty much everything is roasted.
Gut Rumbles
There was a story in the paper the other day about a third-grade kid who brought a lamb to school. Bejus!
When I was growing up in Kentucky, that kind of shit happened all the time. The teacher would scream and the kids would raise hell. But the principal had a sure fire method of handling the situation.
First time, the kid would get a warning.
Second time, the animal would be dragged off and shot.
Third time, the KID would be dragged off and shot. End of problem.
Now, they send the
At least it wasn’t a fucking CAT.
The Dax Files
What Should Dax Do?
Yesterday, just as things were starting to get crazy during the lunch shift, a little girl came in with a sheep on a leash. The customers went nuts, and workflow came to a standstill with everyone gawking at the damn sheep. I told the kid to take her “friend” outside - health regulations - and then she started to give me static about it being a seeing-eye sheep. Also, it wouldn’t be a health hazard because its fleece was white as snow.
I don’t know what it is about me that I attract people with vision problems.
So here’s my dilemma. Let the sheep stay, and I might get shut down by the Health Department. Not to mention the general disruption the wooly bastard is causing. Kick the little girl out, and my customers might think I’m hard-hearted. I lose the kid and her family as customers, and I just might be facing a lawsuit if there’s any truth to the seeing-eye thing.
Yesterday, I let the kid stay, but it was a real pain in the ass. She’s coming back today. What should Dax do?
Just Damn!
GROUNDHOG DAY
©2006 King Features Syndicate.
Yes, Groundhog Day. The day on which we ask the famous question, “How much ground could a groundhog hog if a groundhog could hog ground?” [And the day lazy-ass Elisson pulls an old post from last year
You would think that Groundhog Day is a singularly American holiday, steeped as it is in Local Color, Historical Tradition, and More Than A Little Utter Silliness. Think about it: a day on which a large rodent is expected to predict the weather based on its paranoid reaction to Conditions of Illumination. And as if Punxsutawney Phil weren’t enough, down here in Georgia we have our own General Beauregard Lee to do the predictin’ honors. Gaaah.
But, ridiculous as Groundhog Day may be, we Americans don’t hold the patent on silly-ass animal-based holidays. Herewith, for your delectation, Blog d’Elisson presents an overview of...
Groundhog Day Observances Around the World
Canada
The Canadian equivalent of Groundhog Day is Muskrat Day, March 1. If “Inuvituk Izzie” sees his shadow, no maple syrup may be consumed until the Queen’s Birthday.
Germany
Domestik-Schweinestag is observed on March 15. A randomly-selected domesticated pig is taken outside. If it sees its shadow and squeals, it is promptly slaughtered, smoked, and eaten in the form of Rauch-Schinken (smoked bacon) to prevent malevolent Teutonic spirits from lodging in people’s hair.
Tanzania
Tanzanians celebrate Banana Slug Day on July 10. If Blinky the Banana Slug does not return to his habitation promptly after being coaxed from it, people refrain from eating bananas for six weeks. At the same time, they are encouraged to slug one another repeatedly and without obvious provocation.
India
The closest Indian equivalent of Groundhog Day is Cow Day, observed every freakin’ day of every year. If you see a cow, you are expected to get the hell out of its way. You are never expected to eat the cow. By observing Cow Day properly, Indians are assured of having twelve months of suffocating humidity, heat, and monsoons. As usual.
Know of any other interesting international holiday traditions? Leave a comment and tell us all about ’em!
Wednesday, February 01, 2006
WHOLE LOTTA ZEROES
Denny logged his millionth hit this morning.
One. Million. Freakin’. Hits.
Good Gawd. Not bad for a Grouchy Old Cripple in Atlanta.
Go pay Denny a visit and congratulate him. Then come back here and congratulate me for the same thing...sometime around October 2015.
One. Million. Freakin’. Hits.
Good Gawd. Not bad for a Grouchy Old Cripple in Atlanta.
Go pay Denny a visit and congratulate him. Then come back here and congratulate me for the same thing...sometime around October 2015.
PARRISH THE THOUGHT
Eric’s post about his Tobacco Barn Dream reminded me of something from a couple of decades ago.
Back when we were living in Atlanta the first time around - this was in the early 1980’s - I chanced upon a movie, an old sudser from 1961 with Dean Jagger, Karl Malden, Claudette Colbert, Connie Stevens, and Troy Donahue.
It was Parrish, and apart from Troy Donahue’s amazingly wooden performance, the most interesting scene-chewing was done by Karl Malden, who played the ruthless patriarch-owner of a Tobacco-Farming Bidnis. What fascinated me about the movie was not so much its soap-opera plot, but its setting amidst the tobacco farms of the Connecticut Valley.
Up until then, I had had no idea that tobacco growing was a Big Deal in Connecticut. Or had been, anyway. In the early 1980’s, well before the Cigar Boom of the late 1990’s, the tobacco industry in Connecticut was a shell of its former self. But twenty and thirty years before, there was a lot of acreage in the Connecticut River Valley that was home to tobacco farms. That was where some of the finest tobacco on this planet was cultivated: the famous Connecticut Shade Tobacco.
To get perfect tobacco leaves, the kind that are used for high quality cigar wrappers, you have to grow the Noble Weed under muslin tents, so that the tender plants are exposed only to diffuse sunlight. And watching Parrish, I learned the ins and outs of a whole industry. It was worth putting up with the Sudsy Bullshit Plot to learn of a whole world about which I was completely ignorant.
What I didn’t know then, watching that movie, was that within a year, the Elisson Family would be living right in the midst of that selfsame Tobacco Country. The Great Corporate Salt Mine transferred me to the Northeast, and I prevailed upon them to place me in central Connecticut rather than western New Jersey. And thus it was that we would, almost daily, find ourselves driving past those old tobacco barns surrounded by muslin-draped fields. While house-hunting, we looked at many houses that featured rough-hewn paneling made from tobacco barn timber. You could practically smell the aroma or the cured leaf...or was it just imagination?
In Houston, years later, I spotted a copy of the novel on which the movie had been based. It was one of those “prop books” that furniture stores use to fill bookcases and cabinets; as soon as I saw it, I asked if I could buy it. The salesman ended up giving it to me, not having any idea what to charge and believing it to be worthless. I read it and was once again drawn into that no-longer-mysterious world of Connecticut tobacco. Sure, it was still Soap Opera, but how many of us can say they lived on the set?
Back when we were living in Atlanta the first time around - this was in the early 1980’s - I chanced upon a movie, an old sudser from 1961 with Dean Jagger, Karl Malden, Claudette Colbert, Connie Stevens, and Troy Donahue.
It was Parrish, and apart from Troy Donahue’s amazingly wooden performance, the most interesting scene-chewing was done by Karl Malden, who played the ruthless patriarch-owner of a Tobacco-Farming Bidnis. What fascinated me about the movie was not so much its soap-opera plot, but its setting amidst the tobacco farms of the Connecticut Valley.
Up until then, I had had no idea that tobacco growing was a Big Deal in Connecticut. Or had been, anyway. In the early 1980’s, well before the Cigar Boom of the late 1990’s, the tobacco industry in Connecticut was a shell of its former self. But twenty and thirty years before, there was a lot of acreage in the Connecticut River Valley that was home to tobacco farms. That was where some of the finest tobacco on this planet was cultivated: the famous Connecticut Shade Tobacco.
To get perfect tobacco leaves, the kind that are used for high quality cigar wrappers, you have to grow the Noble Weed under muslin tents, so that the tender plants are exposed only to diffuse sunlight. And watching Parrish, I learned the ins and outs of a whole industry. It was worth putting up with the Sudsy Bullshit Plot to learn of a whole world about which I was completely ignorant.
What I didn’t know then, watching that movie, was that within a year, the Elisson Family would be living right in the midst of that selfsame Tobacco Country. The Great Corporate Salt Mine transferred me to the Northeast, and I prevailed upon them to place me in central Connecticut rather than western New Jersey. And thus it was that we would, almost daily, find ourselves driving past those old tobacco barns surrounded by muslin-draped fields. While house-hunting, we looked at many houses that featured rough-hewn paneling made from tobacco barn timber. You could practically smell the aroma or the cured leaf...or was it just imagination?
In Houston, years later, I spotted a copy of the novel on which the movie had been based. It was one of those “prop books” that furniture stores use to fill bookcases and cabinets; as soon as I saw it, I asked if I could buy it. The salesman ended up giving it to me, not having any idea what to charge and believing it to be worthless. I read it and was once again drawn into that no-longer-mysterious world of Connecticut tobacco. Sure, it was still Soap Opera, but how many of us can say they lived on the set?
VANITIES
Step right up and getcher Vanities.
You can get ’em toasted, at the 135th Bonfire of the Vanities, this week hosted by AAFFLLAACCKK.
You can get ’em served straight up, with a Corny-Dog and a side of greasepaint, at Carnival of the Vanities #176, currently posted at Incite.
Enjoy.
You can get ’em toasted, at the 135th Bonfire of the Vanities, this week hosted by AAFFLLAACCKK.
You can get ’em served straight up, with a Corny-Dog and a side of greasepaint, at Carnival of the Vanities #176, currently posted at Incite.
Enjoy.
THE GOOD, THE BAD, AND THE UGLY
Holy Crap!
Good: Your wife is pregnant.
Bad: It’s triplets.
Ugly: You had a vasectomy five years ago.
Good: Your wife’s not talking to you.
Bad: She wants a divorce.
Ugly: She’s a lawyer.
Good: Your son is finally maturing.
Bad: He’s involved with the woman next door.
Ugly: So are you.
Good: Your son studies a lot in his room.
Bad: You find several porn movies hidden there.
Ugly: You’re in them.
Good: You and your hubby agree: no more kids.
Bad: You can’t find your birth control pills.
Ugly: Your daughter borrowed them.
Good: Your husband understands fashion.
Bad: He’s a cross-dresser.
Ugly: He looks better than you.
Good: You give the “birds and bees” talk to your daughter.
Bad: She keeps interrupting.
Ugly: With corrections.
Good: Your son is dating someone new.
Bad: It’s another man.
Ugly: He’s your best friend.
Good: Your daughter got a new job.
Bad: As a hooker.
Ugly: Your co-workers are her best clients.
Way ugly: She makes more money than you do.
[From Catfish. Tip o’ th’ Elisson fedora to V-Man for the iconic image of Tuco.]
LOOKING FOR LOOFAH
(in all the wrong places)
Ohhh...
He lives in a pineapple under the sea -
SpongeBob Squarepants!
Absorbent and yellow and porous is he -
SpongeBob Squarepants!
When bothering Squidward begins to feel flat -
SpongeBob Squarepants!
He goes to the surface and pesters the cat -
SpongeBob Squarepants!
SpongeBob...Squarepants!
Matata deals with an Undersea Visitor while resting her Meaty Butt in the lid of a packing box. “Get back in the bathtub where you belong...or wherever the hell it is you come from, Devil-Sponge!”
Technorati tags: Sponge Bob, SpongeBob, SpongeBob Squarepants
He lives in a pineapple under the sea -
SpongeBob Squarepants!
Absorbent and yellow and porous is he -
SpongeBob Squarepants!
When bothering Squidward begins to feel flat -
SpongeBob Squarepants!
He goes to the surface and pesters the cat -
SpongeBob Squarepants!
SpongeBob...Squarepants!
Matata deals with an Undersea Visitor while resting her Meaty Butt in the lid of a packing box. “Get back in the bathtub where you belong...or wherever the hell it is you come from, Devil-Sponge!”
Technorati tags: Sponge Bob, SpongeBob, SpongeBob Squarepants
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
WHEEL OF FORTUNE
If you read yesterday’s post, you already know that She Who Must Be Obeyed and I went to see the Sofia Symphony Orchestra and Chorus Ballet Arabesk perform at the Fabulous Fox Theatre.
Yes, they performed Ravel’s Bolero, that quintessential Fuck-Tune (thank you, Blake Edwards!) - but the main reason I had gone in search of ducats for the event was because the Bill-Topper was a performance of Carmina Burana.
© Estate of Carmen Miranda c/o CMG Worldwide.
No, Carmina Burana is not the Brazilian Bombshell who took Hollywood by storm in the 1940’s and early ’50’s. That would be Carmen Miranda.
© Chiquita Brands International.
No, it’s not the trademark of Chiquita Brands International. That would be Chiquita Banana...and I’ll bet you still remember that dopey Chiquita Banana jingle.
And, no, it’s not Carmen, the opera by Bizet. You will see no hot-blooded Gypsy cigarette-factory worker, no Don José, no Escamillo. No Toreador song, either:
The basis for the work is a 13th-century collection of poems - the “Songs of Beuren” - discovered in the early 1800’s in a Benedictine monastery. Orff snarfed 25 of the 250 some-odd poems to create the libretto, which is in Latin with a sprinkling of Middle High German. Carmina Burana is a celebration of the ups and downs of Fortune; of drinking to excess; of lampooning the Church; of enjoying the Pleasures of the Flesh. It’s downright earthy. Not for nothing did Orff subtitle the piece “Cantiones Profanaes” - Profane Songs. No surprise that it’s a perfect companion piece for Bolero, Shtup-Music Extraordinaire.
Carmina Burana made its premiere in 1937. The Nazis were in power in Germany, and Orff’s magnum opus became, over time, the most successful piece of music produced under the Third Reich. At first, critics were unimpressed, but then word got around that the Powers that Be actually liked the piece. It presented - so they said - a picture of Primeval Aryan Life. Before there were even Jews to torment, it seems.
All has been forgiven by now, with Carmina Burana having been performed in Israel many times, first in 1966.
You’re familiar with Carmina Burana - parts of it, anyway - owing to the numerous times the opening movement, “O Fortuna,” has been used in the movies and in commercials. It has a sort of febrile, demonic feel to it, which may explain why you think (mistakenly) that it’s the music you hear in The Omen.
We enjoyed the show, although at least one movement was just outside the Envelope o’ Capability of the baritone soloist. Too much Bulgarian food, I suppose.
Strangely, however, I left the theatre thinking of - of all people! - Raffi, the beloved children’s entertainer. There’s a song, you see...
Ring ring ring ring ring ring ring
Burana phone
Ring ring ring ring ring ring ring
Burana phone
I’ve got this feeling
so appealing
for us to get together and sing - SING!
Ring ring ring ring ring ring ring
Burana phone
Ding dong ding dong ding dong ding
Durana phone
O Fortuna
velut luna
statu variabilis
semper crescis
aut decrescis;
vita detestabilis
nunc obdurat
et tunc curat
Ring ring ring ring ring ring ring
Burana phone
Ping pong ping pong ping pong ping
Purana phone
It’s no baloney
It ain’t a phony
My cellular
Buranular phone
Yes, they performed Ravel’s Bolero, that quintessential Fuck-Tune (thank you, Blake Edwards!) - but the main reason I had gone in search of ducats for the event was because the Bill-Topper was a performance of Carmina Burana.
© Estate of Carmen Miranda c/o CMG Worldwide.
No, Carmina Burana is not the Brazilian Bombshell who took Hollywood by storm in the 1940’s and early ’50’s. That would be Carmen Miranda.
© Chiquita Brands International.
No, it’s not the trademark of Chiquita Brands International. That would be Chiquita Banana...and I’ll bet you still remember that dopey Chiquita Banana jingle.
And, no, it’s not Carmen, the opera by Bizet. You will see no hot-blooded Gypsy cigarette-factory worker, no Don José, no Escamillo. No Toreador song, either:
Toreador,What we had gone to see was Carl Orff’s scenic cantata. Not quite ballet, not quite opera, Carmina Burana has characteristics of both. Orff composed the 25 movements of the piece for soprano, baritone, and tenor soloists, boy’s choir, choir, and orchestra. Damn, that’s a huge crowd, and we haven’t even got to the Dancing and Running Around Business yet!
Don’t spit on the floor.
Use-a da cuspidor.
That’s what it’s for.
The basis for the work is a 13th-century collection of poems - the “Songs of Beuren” - discovered in the early 1800’s in a Benedictine monastery. Orff snarfed 25 of the 250 some-odd poems to create the libretto, which is in Latin with a sprinkling of Middle High German. Carmina Burana is a celebration of the ups and downs of Fortune; of drinking to excess; of lampooning the Church; of enjoying the Pleasures of the Flesh. It’s downright earthy. Not for nothing did Orff subtitle the piece “Cantiones Profanaes” - Profane Songs. No surprise that it’s a perfect companion piece for Bolero, Shtup-Music Extraordinaire.Carmina Burana made its premiere in 1937. The Nazis were in power in Germany, and Orff’s magnum opus became, over time, the most successful piece of music produced under the Third Reich. At first, critics were unimpressed, but then word got around that the Powers that Be actually liked the piece. It presented - so they said - a picture of Primeval Aryan Life. Before there were even Jews to torment, it seems.
All has been forgiven by now, with Carmina Burana having been performed in Israel many times, first in 1966.
You’re familiar with Carmina Burana - parts of it, anyway - owing to the numerous times the opening movement, “O Fortuna,” has been used in the movies and in commercials. It has a sort of febrile, demonic feel to it, which may explain why you think (mistakenly) that it’s the music you hear in The Omen.
We enjoyed the show, although at least one movement was just outside the Envelope o’ Capability of the baritone soloist. Too much Bulgarian food, I suppose.
Strangely, however, I left the theatre thinking of - of all people! - Raffi, the beloved children’s entertainer. There’s a song, you see...
Ring ring ring ring ring ring ring
Burana phone
Ring ring ring ring ring ring ring
Burana phone
I’ve got this feeling
so appealing
for us to get together and sing - SING!
Ring ring ring ring ring ring ring
Burana phone
Ding dong ding dong ding dong ding
Durana phone
O Fortuna
velut luna
statu variabilis
semper crescis
aut decrescis;
vita detestabilis
nunc obdurat
et tunc curat
Ring ring ring ring ring ring ring
Burana phone
Ping pong ping pong ping pong ping
Purana phone
It’s no baloney
It ain’t a phony
My cellular
Buranular phone
Monday, January 30, 2006
WHY I LOVE HER
It’s Monday evening, and we’re at the Fox Theatre in midtown Atlanta, enjoying a performance of Ravel’s Bolero by the The Sofia Symphony Orchestra and Chorus Ballet Arabesk.Yes, Elisson and the Missus do put on the Culture Hat every so often.
And most of us are familiar with Ravel’s Bolero, which was used to masterful effect in the soundtrack to the movie 10 back in 1979...with the semi-unfortunate result that Bolero has been regarded as The Ultimate Shtup-Music for the last quarter-century. I’m sure we can’t blame Blake Edwards for this, if for no other reason than the fact that any piece of music that starts off quietly and builds to a resounding climax in fifteen minutes is going to be Metaphorically Fuckly.
Me, I prefer the shorter, punchier - but amazingly faithful - Frank Zappa cover, from The Best Band You’ve Never Heard In Your Life. It clocks in at 5 minutes, 18 seconds - right on the money, if you get my meaning, if you catch my drift.
But my point in this post (and yes, I have one) was not to blather on and on about Musical Analogies for Ficky-Fick.
It was to say that, in the midst of all of this carefully choreographed Dancy-Business, the Missus leans over to me and says, sotto voce, “Doesn’t this remind you of The Ministry of Silly Walks”?
How we managed to watch the rest of the performance without (1) Laughing Out Loud, or (2) Pissing Ourselves, is beyond human understanding. Is it any wonder why I love her?
Sunday, January 29, 2006
TARGETED ADVERTISING
Now that Rob Smith has whored his blog out decided to host some discreet advertising on his sidebar, I guess it’s time to face facts: there is no place that will not host an advertisement.
These days, cities routinely whore out naming rights for Athletic Venues. And what are naming rights, after all, but advertising writ large? Not only does it bring in revenue, but it occasionally results in unintended humor, as when Enron suddenly began to stink in the nostrils of the Body Politic. Enron Field in Houston became Minute Maid Stadium before you could say “Fuck! What happened to my 401k?!!?”
But if you want to see some Targeted Advertising, take a lesson from the geniuses at LMTT.com.
LMTT.com is a website - Last Minute Tee Times - that offers free online booking and discounts on greens fees at various golf clubs in the Atlanta metropolitan area. I’ve used their services on occasion. This morning at the gym, I stopped by the Locker Room to drain the lizard and could not help but notice their 16 x 20 inch advertisement positioned prominently above the urinal, right at eye level. Since Micturition Protocol requires that you stand at the urinal facing forward, not allowing your gaze to drift to either side lest you be adjudged to be a Fluffy Personage, the Eye-Bones are going to be nailed to that ad for a good thirty seconds. In terms of keeping a pair of eyes on a given message long enough for it to sink in, a Urinal Ad has got to be a far better deal than a 30-second TV spot.
The ad itself was clever enough. The tagline was, “Let us put a different club in your hand tomorrow,” which simultaneously played off the triple-entendre of “club” as in “piece of sports equipment with which the golf ball is struck,” “place at which golf is played,” and “dick.” For while one is reading the ad, one indeed has a Club-Like Implement of Destruction in hand. [I do, anyway.]
But the photograph in the ad was the most arresting - and location-appropriate - feature. For it showed a golfer standing fifty yards from the green, standing behind a tree, holding two clubs in one hand while quite obviously in Urination Posture.
Now, that’s targeted advertising.
These days, cities routinely whore out naming rights for Athletic Venues. And what are naming rights, after all, but advertising writ large? Not only does it bring in revenue, but it occasionally results in unintended humor, as when Enron suddenly began to stink in the nostrils of the Body Politic. Enron Field in Houston became Minute Maid Stadium before you could say “Fuck! What happened to my 401k?!!?”
But if you want to see some Targeted Advertising, take a lesson from the geniuses at LMTT.com.
LMTT.com is a website - Last Minute Tee Times - that offers free online booking and discounts on greens fees at various golf clubs in the Atlanta metropolitan area. I’ve used their services on occasion. This morning at the gym, I stopped by the Locker Room to drain the lizard and could not help but notice their 16 x 20 inch advertisement positioned prominently above the urinal, right at eye level. Since Micturition Protocol requires that you stand at the urinal facing forward, not allowing your gaze to drift to either side lest you be adjudged to be a Fluffy Personage, the Eye-Bones are going to be nailed to that ad for a good thirty seconds. In terms of keeping a pair of eyes on a given message long enough for it to sink in, a Urinal Ad has got to be a far better deal than a 30-second TV spot.
The ad itself was clever enough. The tagline was, “Let us put a different club in your hand tomorrow,” which simultaneously played off the triple-entendre of “club” as in “piece of sports equipment with which the golf ball is struck,” “place at which golf is played,” and “dick.” For while one is reading the ad, one indeed has a Club-Like Implement of Destruction in hand. [I do, anyway.]
But the photograph in the ad was the most arresting - and location-appropriate - feature. For it showed a golfer standing fifty yards from the green, standing behind a tree, holding two clubs in one hand while quite obviously in Urination Posture.
Now, that’s targeted advertising.
CARNIVAL OF THE CATS:
LAST-MINUTE EMERGENCY EDITION
You’ve gotta hand it to Laurence Simon, who not only takes Catblogging seriously, he takes his position as Ringmaster and Grand Panjandrum of the Carnival of the Cats seriously as well.
Political Fred was on the rota to host the 97th Carnival, but he was MIA. And with no good contact info, there was no way to track him down to find out Wha’ Hoppen?
I’m thinking he’d better have a better excuse than the tried-and-true Dead Grandma™.
Meanwhile, Laurence, not one to let a Kitty Carnival languish simply because the scheduled host defaulted, jumped right into the fray and put together a 51-entry Carnival in record time. This, despite (or maybe because of) the fact that his normal Daily Bloggy Output is enough to crush most people.
So go visit the Carnival. Enjoy all the kitties, and pay homage to a blogger who Takes This Shit Seriously.
Political Fred was on the rota to host the 97th Carnival, but he was MIA. And with no good contact info, there was no way to track him down to find out Wha’ Hoppen?
I’m thinking he’d better have a better excuse than the tried-and-true Dead Grandma™.
Meanwhile, Laurence, not one to let a Kitty Carnival languish simply because the scheduled host defaulted, jumped right into the fray and put together a 51-entry Carnival in record time. This, despite (or maybe because of) the fact that his normal Daily Bloggy Output is enough to crush most people.
So go visit the Carnival. Enjoy all the kitties, and pay homage to a blogger who Takes This Shit Seriously.
CHAIN REACTION
Or, how an aching back resulted in a redecorated bedroom...and a reminder of Time’s Passage.
She Who Must Be Obeyed has more than a little in common with the well-known Princess of the Princess and the Pea story. Her back is capable of detecting imperfections the size of Subatomic Particles in the bed. Unlike the aforementioned Princess, however, SWMBO does not gripe about those imperfections until things are completely intolerable.
Several months ago, SWMBO noticed that her back would bother her upon arising in the morning. At first, she said nothing of it, but eventually, the aches and twinges were too much to ignore. And of course, the Usual Suspect in a case like this is the mattress. Ours was over a dozen years old, and that’s about the upper limit of useful life for an innerspring mattress.
Of course, that’s about the last thing I wanted to hear.
First of all, just over one month prior, I had been involved in a massive Mattress Schlep-A-Thon in preparation for the Invasion of the Family in late December. To wit:
Thus it was that, on a dreary winter day in mid-January, the Missus and I found ourselves in Ye Olde Mattress Manufactory and Retail Outlet, hard by Interstate 75 in the wilds of May-Retta, Georgia. We bought our mattress...and then headed off to Harry’s Farmers Market to score some Subcontinental Goodies for a certain Heterosexual Caucasian Guy who was, even at that moment, absorbing mass quantities of Macallan at the Palm Bar in Buckhead.
Fast forward a couple of days, to the following Tuesday. The New Mattress arrived at Chez Elisson at 7:45 am sharp, whereupon we played yet another round of Musical Beds:
I don’t know about you, but there are only two words that inspire more bowel-clenching Fear and Loathing than “Let’s Paint!” And those would be “Let’s wallpaper!”
But SWMBO had a point. There were only two bedrooms that had so far escaped the brush and roller in our 7-plus year tenure at the current Chez Elisson, and Elder Daughter’s room was one of them. It needed to be freshened up…badly.
And, to be honest, there is something truly wonderful about She Who Must Be Obeyed when she wields a brush. Housepainting is in her very DNA, her PawPaw having been a professional and her Daddy having been a dab hand with a paintbrush as well (heh...he said “dab hand”...) It’s almost as though she is channeling the spirits of her ancestors when the paint starts flowing.
It’s Sunday evening now, and the room is done. Two coats. All the furniture put back. And yet...
It’s really not the same room anymore. By way of getting ready to paint, SWMBO packed up all of Elder Daughter’s remaining detritus and got it ready for Suspended Animation in the basement. Elder Daughter has been on her own now for – what? - almost five years, and, barring some catastrophe (kayn ayin hora), she’s not likely to move back in. It’s time, in other words, for her to Decide What To Do With Her Stuff.
It is bittersweet, to be sure, when you realize that one of your babies has flown the nest. Notwithstanding the fact that it’s the natural order of things, and it’s something all sane parents devoutly hope for and wait for...it is still evidence of the Great Turning of the Wheel, the Wheel that will, one day, crush you underneath its treads. And nothing brings that realization home quite so much as redecorating a room that your child will always be welcome in, but will no longer be resident in.
I smell the fresh paint and I admire the nice, new room, the room that is the (indirect) result of SWMBO’s aching back. And I have to wipe away a tear.
She Who Must Be Obeyed has more than a little in common with the well-known Princess of the Princess and the Pea story. Her back is capable of detecting imperfections the size of Subatomic Particles in the bed. Unlike the aforementioned Princess, however, SWMBO does not gripe about those imperfections until things are completely intolerable.
Several months ago, SWMBO noticed that her back would bother her upon arising in the morning. At first, she said nothing of it, but eventually, the aches and twinges were too much to ignore. And of course, the Usual Suspect in a case like this is the mattress. Ours was over a dozen years old, and that’s about the upper limit of useful life for an innerspring mattress.
Of course, that’s about the last thing I wanted to hear.
First of all, just over one month prior, I had been involved in a massive Mattress Schlep-A-Thon in preparation for the Invasion of the Family in late December. To wit:
- Futon and frame from Elder Daughter’s bedroom to the basement.
- Full mattress, box spring, frame, and headboard from the basement to Elder Daughter’s room.
- Twin mattress, box spring, and incredibly heavy bedframe from the Mistress of Sarcasm’s room to the basement.
- King mattress, box spring, and frame from Gary and JoAnn’s house (upstairs, no less) to the Mistress of Sarcasm’s room. (All of this was transported the ½-mile distance between houses in a single trip using my Honda Element. Holy Crap!)
Thus it was that, on a dreary winter day in mid-January, the Missus and I found ourselves in Ye Olde Mattress Manufactory and Retail Outlet, hard by Interstate 75 in the wilds of May-Retta, Georgia. We bought our mattress...and then headed off to Harry’s Farmers Market to score some Subcontinental Goodies for a certain Heterosexual Caucasian Guy who was, even at that moment, absorbing mass quantities of Macallan at the Palm Bar in Buckhead.
Fast forward a couple of days, to the following Tuesday. The New Mattress arrived at Chez Elisson at 7:45 am sharp, whereupon we played yet another round of Musical Beds:
- New mattress and box spring to the master bedroom.
- Old Queen mattress and box spring from master bedroom to Elder Daughter’s room.
- Full mattress and box spring from Elder Daughter’s room to the Mattress Graveyard.
I don’t know about you, but there are only two words that inspire more bowel-clenching Fear and Loathing than “Let’s Paint!” And those would be “Let’s wallpaper!”
But SWMBO had a point. There were only two bedrooms that had so far escaped the brush and roller in our 7-plus year tenure at the current Chez Elisson, and Elder Daughter’s room was one of them. It needed to be freshened up…badly.
And, to be honest, there is something truly wonderful about She Who Must Be Obeyed when she wields a brush. Housepainting is in her very DNA, her PawPaw having been a professional and her Daddy having been a dab hand with a paintbrush as well (heh...he said “dab hand”...) It’s almost as though she is channeling the spirits of her ancestors when the paint starts flowing.
It’s Sunday evening now, and the room is done. Two coats. All the furniture put back. And yet...
It’s really not the same room anymore. By way of getting ready to paint, SWMBO packed up all of Elder Daughter’s remaining detritus and got it ready for Suspended Animation in the basement. Elder Daughter has been on her own now for – what? - almost five years, and, barring some catastrophe (kayn ayin hora), she’s not likely to move back in. It’s time, in other words, for her to Decide What To Do With Her Stuff.
It is bittersweet, to be sure, when you realize that one of your babies has flown the nest. Notwithstanding the fact that it’s the natural order of things, and it’s something all sane parents devoutly hope for and wait for...it is still evidence of the Great Turning of the Wheel, the Wheel that will, one day, crush you underneath its treads. And nothing brings that realization home quite so much as redecorating a room that your child will always be welcome in, but will no longer be resident in.
I smell the fresh paint and I admire the nice, new room, the room that is the (indirect) result of SWMBO’s aching back. And I have to wipe away a tear.
Friday, January 27, 2006
MAKING A LIVING
Kal’s forehead glistened with sweat as he strained with momentary effort.
Clink.
That would take care of the house payment.
Strain. Clink.
That would take care of the car payment. Not that he needed a car, but it was important for appearance’s sake. It was nothing special, but, well, he had reached the age at which men of his station in life were expected to have a car. Pain in the ass, he thought.
Strain. Clink. That was for next summer vacation.
Strain. Clink. Liability insurance…with a $100 million umbrella.
Strain. Clink.
Strain. Clink.
Strain. Clink.
Those were for the lawyers. The stinking, miserable lawyers.
Damn, he thought. How did it ever come to this?
I have skills. I used to contribute to society. People liked me, dammit! They loved me!
And then, inevitably, came the lawsuits. You couldn’t fart in an elevator in America without someone sending a process server to nail you with a Summons to Appear. What the hell happened to this country? What the hell happened to Truth and Justice?
The American Way, he chuckled bitterly to himself, is paved with good intentions, and it leads directly to the courthouse. And from there, the poorhouse. Except for the damned lawyers. They never seemed to be hurting.
Strain. Clink.
And then there were the doctors. All of those medical geniuses. Back in the 1940’s and ’50’s when they had those fluoroscopes in the shoe stores, nobody worried about X-rays…and then they found out that they caused cancer. Cancer!
No good deed goes unpunished, he muttered ruefully under his breath.
All the lawsuits. All the payoffs. After it got to be too much, he decided to hang it up and go fishing…but fishing didn’t pay the bills.
Eating charcoal briquets and shitting out diamonds – now, that paid the bills.
Kal-El strained again. Clink. He stood up, turned around, and looked in the pan. Nice, a 2-carat water-white with minimal carbon inclusions. That would pay for Friday night’s dinner with Lois (she liked sushi, of all things!)…and a fancy hotel room.
Maybe he’d get lucky.
Clink.
That would take care of the house payment.
Strain. Clink.
That would take care of the car payment. Not that he needed a car, but it was important for appearance’s sake. It was nothing special, but, well, he had reached the age at which men of his station in life were expected to have a car. Pain in the ass, he thought.
Strain. Clink. That was for next summer vacation.
Strain. Clink. Liability insurance…with a $100 million umbrella.
Strain. Clink.
Strain. Clink.
Strain. Clink.
Those were for the lawyers. The stinking, miserable lawyers.
Damn, he thought. How did it ever come to this?
I have skills. I used to contribute to society. People liked me, dammit! They loved me!
And then, inevitably, came the lawsuits. You couldn’t fart in an elevator in America without someone sending a process server to nail you with a Summons to Appear. What the hell happened to this country? What the hell happened to Truth and Justice?
The American Way, he chuckled bitterly to himself, is paved with good intentions, and it leads directly to the courthouse. And from there, the poorhouse. Except for the damned lawyers. They never seemed to be hurting.
Strain. Clink.
And then there were the doctors. All of those medical geniuses. Back in the 1940’s and ’50’s when they had those fluoroscopes in the shoe stores, nobody worried about X-rays…and then they found out that they caused cancer. Cancer!
No good deed goes unpunished, he muttered ruefully under his breath.
All the lawsuits. All the payoffs. After it got to be too much, he decided to hang it up and go fishing…but fishing didn’t pay the bills.
Eating charcoal briquets and shitting out diamonds – now, that paid the bills.
Kal-El strained again. Clink. He stood up, turned around, and looked in the pan. Nice, a 2-carat water-white with minimal carbon inclusions. That would pay for Friday night’s dinner with Lois (she liked sushi, of all things!)…and a fancy hotel room.
Maybe he’d get lucky.
STRANGE
I was at the gym yesterday afternoon, sweating though the front end of my workout, when I got a Perverse Feeling.
Surrounded as I was by perspiring females (wimmen don’t sweat, as we all know: they perspire), I managed to stay focused on the Task at Hand...pumping that stationary bicycle.
I had my handy-dandy iPod with me, cranking out the usual twisted assortment of music. Beatles, Zappa, Chemical Brothers. Earbuds in, volume cranked up. Sweet.
And then...and then!...on comes Dean Martin, crooning “Memories Are Made Of This.”
And for some strange reason, I started thinking of terrible, evil acts...acts that could only be perpetrated with Dean-O’s mellow voice in the background...acts that would leave a taste in the mouth that could only be removed by copious dosages of Indian Food and Scotch Whisky.
Yes, I do believe I’ll have a couple of fingers of that 10-year old. Prepubescent Macallan...that’s Scotch, Esteemed Ones...
Surrounded as I was by perspiring females (wimmen don’t sweat, as we all know: they perspire), I managed to stay focused on the Task at Hand...pumping that stationary bicycle.
I had my handy-dandy iPod with me, cranking out the usual twisted assortment of music. Beatles, Zappa, Chemical Brothers. Earbuds in, volume cranked up. Sweet.
And then...and then!...on comes Dean Martin, crooning “Memories Are Made Of This.”
And for some strange reason, I started thinking of terrible, evil acts...acts that could only be perpetrated with Dean-O’s mellow voice in the background...acts that would leave a taste in the mouth that could only be removed by copious dosages of Indian Food and Scotch Whisky.
Yes, I do believe I’ll have a couple of fingers of that 10-year old. Prepubescent Macallan...that’s Scotch, Esteemed Ones...
FRIDAY RANDOM TEN
Hey, kids!
What time is it?
No, it’s not Howdy Doody Time. It’s time for the Friday Random Ten, a selection of Choons from the Little White Choon-Box d’Elisson:
The idiot bastard son:
(THE FATHER’S A NAZI IN CONGRESS TODAY...
THE MOTHER’S A HOOKER SOMEWHERE IN L.A.)
The idiot bastard son:
(ABANDONED TO PERISH IN BACK OF A CAR...
KENNY WILL STASH HIM AWAY IN A JAR)
THE IDIOT BOY!
Motorhead: I never won it because I was too small to start with.
?: How, look out!
Motorhead: I used to drink some bad stuff...Wine, all kinds of wine! I would mix seven different varieties...
Bunk: Had the hots for [...]
JCB: Wah, wah, wah.
Bunk?: over by the [...]
Motorhead: Thunderbird wine...I don’t know but I chugged a fifth of White Port once and passed out one day (heh heh)...and I drank a quart of beer just before that...and we were out riding around in the desert.
Bunk: Anyway...Thomas’s wine mix is...very strange...
Try and imagine
The window all covered in green
All the time he would spend
At the church he’d attend...
Warming his pew
Kenny will feed him & Ronnie will watch
THE CHILD WILL THRIVE & GROW
And enter the world
Of liars & cheaters & people like you
Who smile & think you know
What this is about
(YOU THINK YOU KNOW EVERYTHING...maybe so)
The song we sing: DO YOU KNOW?
We’re listening...
THE IDIOT BOY!
Try and imagine
The window all covered in green
All the time he would spend
All the colors he’d blend...
Where are they now?
Gary Kellgren: Right now I have two hit records on the charts, but it has not made me any money. It has only brought me fame and glory, and a lot of work. Which I do, really not care to tell...
It’s Friday. What are you listening to?
What time is it?
No, it’s not Howdy Doody Time. It’s time for the Friday Random Ten, a selection of Choons from the Little White Choon-Box d’Elisson:
- Fade Into You - Pedro the Lion
- The Road To Hickburg - Laurence Simon
- Epilogue (Part 2 - NASA) - Jeff Wayne’s The War Of The Worlds
- The Idiot Bastard Son - Frank Zappa
- Ebony - Ahmad Jamal
- King Without A Crown - Matisyahu
- Windows - Chick Corea
- I’m Waiting For The Man - The Velvet Underground
- When You’re Smiling - Louis Prima
- Cour D’Amours - Amor Volat Undique - Christian Thielemann - Orff: Carmina Burana
The idiot bastard son:
(THE FATHER’S A NAZI IN CONGRESS TODAY...
THE MOTHER’S A HOOKER SOMEWHERE IN L.A.)
The idiot bastard son:
(ABANDONED TO PERISH IN BACK OF A CAR...
KENNY WILL STASH HIM AWAY IN A JAR)
THE IDIOT BOY!
Motorhead: I never won it because I was too small to start with.
?: How, look out!
Motorhead: I used to drink some bad stuff...Wine, all kinds of wine! I would mix seven different varieties...
Bunk: Had the hots for [...]
JCB: Wah, wah, wah.
Bunk?: over by the [...]
Motorhead: Thunderbird wine...I don’t know but I chugged a fifth of White Port once and passed out one day (heh heh)...and I drank a quart of beer just before that...and we were out riding around in the desert.
Bunk: Anyway...Thomas’s wine mix is...very strange...
Try and imagine
The window all covered in green
All the time he would spend
At the church he’d attend...
Warming his pew
Kenny will feed him & Ronnie will watch
THE CHILD WILL THRIVE & GROW
And enter the world
Of liars & cheaters & people like you
Who smile & think you know
What this is about
(YOU THINK YOU KNOW EVERYTHING...maybe so)
The song we sing: DO YOU KNOW?
We’re listening...
THE IDIOT BOY!
Try and imagine
The window all covered in green
All the time he would spend
All the colors he’d blend...
Where are they now?
Gary Kellgren: Right now I have two hit records on the charts, but it has not made me any money. It has only brought me fame and glory, and a lot of work. Which I do, really not care to tell...
It’s Friday. What are you listening to?
KOSHER COOKING CARNIVAL: PREMIERE EDITION
The First-Ever Kosher Cooking Carnival is up at me-ander. I’m pleased to say that two - count ’em, two - of my recipes adorn this Premiere Edition. I guess that makes me a Charter Member of the KKKK - the Kosher Kookin’ Karnival Klub.
What, no chopped liver? Well, I guess muse needs to save something for next month.
What, no chopped liver? Well, I guess muse needs to save something for next month.
FRIDAY ARK #71
Thursday, January 26, 2006
FEEDING THE BEHEIMAH
Beheimah, in case you were wondering – sure you were! – is the Hebrew word for Domestic Animals. Horses, cows, oxen, et alia.
Once upon a time, the Family d’Elisson owned a horse. No, really!
The Mistress of Sarcasm, back in her Snot-Nose Days, somehow developed an interest in riding. She worked with a trainer for several years, and after a while we took the inexorable next step of leasing one horse, then another. And then Morris William, brother of She Who Must Be Obeyed, came forward with a proposition.
Morris William and his wife Rebecca, you see, are in the business of raising Arabian horses. And they had one – a yearling – that they were prepared to sell us for an attractive price. So we took the plunge and bought us a Real, Live Horsie.
Buying a horse is a little like buying one of those fancy-ass Gillette M3 Turbo razors. It ain’t the initial cost that gets you, it’s the upkeep. Batteries. Razor blades - at two bucks a pop, yet. And the upkeep on a horse can be steep...not to mention the additional expenses of tack, boarding fees, training, show fees, und so weiter. But it was worth it all to see the Mistress in her first Class A Horse Show.
We showed Mi Anam – for that was the big fella’s name - in plenty of places. The Texas State Fair. The Houston Livestock Show and Rodeo (pictured). It was Big Fun.
When we moved to Atlanta, Mi Anam came with us.
We managed to secure a boarding stable just a mile from the house and negotiated a good deal on the boarding fees. Part of our arrangement was that we would see to the feeding and stall-mucking ourselves. The Mistress held up her end of the deal – she’s the one who did the stall-mucking – but oftentimes, it was me and She Who Must Be Obeyed who handled the feeding end.
Once in the morning and once in the evening, one of us would go over to the stable and lob a pad of hay into the feed bin, followed by a scoop of feed. When the feed supply ran out, we would go to Ye Olde Feed and Grain Shoppe and pick up a 50-lb sack each of oats and sweet grain. Oof.
It was our practice to feed the horse first and to have our meal afterward. Why? You may well ask.
Just to set the record straight, I am a speciesist. I believe that homo sapiens is the preeminent beast on the planet by virtue of his intelligence and tool-making ability. Except for the occasional attack by wild beasts, we’re at the top of the food chain - which means we get to eat or exploit the animals below us. But there’s a huge difference between exploitation and unnecessary cruelty, and that’s where our Big Fat Honkin’ Brains, which are capable of understanding moral distinctions and ethical behavior, come to the rescue.
I read an interesting post by Amanda at customerservant.com that speaks of the commandment (mitzvah) to emulate Divine compassion. Boiled down to its essentials, the key principle is that of walking “in the ways of The Compassionate One, for the Divine benevolence and compassion extends to all creatures...” Closely related to this is the prohibition against cruelty to animals – tzaar baalei chayyim. And whether you’re a religious person or not, the way you treat animals is going to be closely related to the way you treat your fellow humans.
We fed the horse first – just as we feed the cats first – because the horse cannot feed himself, and the thought of us enjoying a hearty breakfast while our horse milled about, famished, in his stall, was unacceptable. In like wise, it’s hard to justify slurping hot coffee and chowing down on the morning Colon Blow when the cats are meowing piteously for their skeevy dry kibble.
And so, when we arose in the morning, the first question was, “Whose turn is it to feed the beheimah?”
We sold Mi Anam several years ago, the Mistress having gone off to college and having moved on to other pursuits. But we still have our cats, and the first question we ask each other in the morning is still, “Whose turn is it to feed the beheimah?”
Once upon a time, the Family d’Elisson owned a horse. No, really!
The Mistress of Sarcasm, back in her Snot-Nose Days, somehow developed an interest in riding. She worked with a trainer for several years, and after a while we took the inexorable next step of leasing one horse, then another. And then Morris William, brother of She Who Must Be Obeyed, came forward with a proposition.
Morris William and his wife Rebecca, you see, are in the business of raising Arabian horses. And they had one – a yearling – that they were prepared to sell us for an attractive price. So we took the plunge and bought us a Real, Live Horsie.
Buying a horse is a little like buying one of those fancy-ass Gillette M3 Turbo razors. It ain’t the initial cost that gets you, it’s the upkeep. Batteries. Razor blades - at two bucks a pop, yet. And the upkeep on a horse can be steep...not to mention the additional expenses of tack, boarding fees, training, show fees, und so weiter. But it was worth it all to see the Mistress in her first Class A Horse Show.
We showed Mi Anam – for that was the big fella’s name - in plenty of places. The Texas State Fair. The Houston Livestock Show and Rodeo (pictured). It was Big Fun.
When we moved to Atlanta, Mi Anam came with us.
We managed to secure a boarding stable just a mile from the house and negotiated a good deal on the boarding fees. Part of our arrangement was that we would see to the feeding and stall-mucking ourselves. The Mistress held up her end of the deal – she’s the one who did the stall-mucking – but oftentimes, it was me and She Who Must Be Obeyed who handled the feeding end.
Once in the morning and once in the evening, one of us would go over to the stable and lob a pad of hay into the feed bin, followed by a scoop of feed. When the feed supply ran out, we would go to Ye Olde Feed and Grain Shoppe and pick up a 50-lb sack each of oats and sweet grain. Oof.
It was our practice to feed the horse first and to have our meal afterward. Why? You may well ask.
Just to set the record straight, I am a speciesist. I believe that homo sapiens is the preeminent beast on the planet by virtue of his intelligence and tool-making ability. Except for the occasional attack by wild beasts, we’re at the top of the food chain - which means we get to eat or exploit the animals below us. But there’s a huge difference between exploitation and unnecessary cruelty, and that’s where our Big Fat Honkin’ Brains, which are capable of understanding moral distinctions and ethical behavior, come to the rescue.
I read an interesting post by Amanda at customerservant.com that speaks of the commandment (mitzvah) to emulate Divine compassion. Boiled down to its essentials, the key principle is that of walking “in the ways of The Compassionate One, for the Divine benevolence and compassion extends to all creatures...” Closely related to this is the prohibition against cruelty to animals – tzaar baalei chayyim. And whether you’re a religious person or not, the way you treat animals is going to be closely related to the way you treat your fellow humans.
We fed the horse first – just as we feed the cats first – because the horse cannot feed himself, and the thought of us enjoying a hearty breakfast while our horse milled about, famished, in his stall, was unacceptable. In like wise, it’s hard to justify slurping hot coffee and chowing down on the morning Colon Blow when the cats are meowing piteously for their skeevy dry kibble.
And so, when we arose in the morning, the first question was, “Whose turn is it to feed the beheimah?”
We sold Mi Anam several years ago, the Mistress having gone off to college and having moved on to other pursuits. But we still have our cats, and the first question we ask each other in the morning is still, “Whose turn is it to feed the beheimah?”
THE ROAD (MAP) TO HELL...
...is paved with good intentions.
Democracy, we Westerners like to think, is an unalloyed Good Thing, and spreading it to the benighted corners of the Mideast where it does not exist – pretty much every place except Israel – is a positive development.
Be careful, sez I, what you wish for.
Hamas, the terrorist organization that is committed to a Palestine completely free of Israel, won a majority of seats in the Palestinian elections held yesterday. At least that’s clear: we now know (in case there was any doubt before) that the majority of Palestinians have no interest in a peaceful two-state solution. Their idea of peace is all Jews floating in the Mediterranean.
David Bogner of treppenwitz says it far better that I can:
The good news is, it’s very different when you’re charged with the responsibility of running a nascent nation-state, compared with simply planning and executing random terrorist acts. By all means, let’s have a Palestinian state, with Hamas in charge. Then, when these sons-a-bitches lob a couple of Qassam rockets over the border, Israel will be perfectly within their rights to go to war with ’em and snuff ’em out.
And then, of course, the Euro-weenies will gripe and bitch yet more about the Jooooooos. “Cet animal est trés méchant; quand on l’attaque, il se defend!”
I am profoundly depressed...
Democracy, we Westerners like to think, is an unalloyed Good Thing, and spreading it to the benighted corners of the Mideast where it does not exist – pretty much every place except Israel – is a positive development.
Be careful, sez I, what you wish for.
Hamas, the terrorist organization that is committed to a Palestine completely free of Israel, won a majority of seats in the Palestinian elections held yesterday. At least that’s clear: we now know (in case there was any doubt before) that the majority of Palestinians have no interest in a peaceful two-state solution. Their idea of peace is all Jews floating in the Mediterranean.
David Bogner of treppenwitz says it far better that I can:
In a legally executed, internationally supervised democratic process, the majority of Palestinian adults calmly and thoughtfully committed themselves to pursuing a one-state solution built on the ashes of a defeated Israel.Go read the whole thing.
The good news is, it’s very different when you’re charged with the responsibility of running a nascent nation-state, compared with simply planning and executing random terrorist acts. By all means, let’s have a Palestinian state, with Hamas in charge. Then, when these sons-a-bitches lob a couple of Qassam rockets over the border, Israel will be perfectly within their rights to go to war with ’em and snuff ’em out.
And then, of course, the Euro-weenies will gripe and bitch yet more about the Jooooooos. “Cet animal est trés méchant; quand on l’attaque, il se defend!”
I am profoundly depressed...
TODAY’S DOSE OF FUNNY
Check out Carnival of Comedy #39 over at Radioactive Liberty. Then, run your Bloggy Little Buns over to Carnival of Satire #18 at the skwib. You might want to bring a Puke-Bucket and a few Handi-Wipes...or perhaps a Cocktail Napkin.
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
JONESIN’ FOR MEAT
For the past couple of days, a Meat Jones has been building up within me.
I don’t eat nearly as much Red Meat as I used to. It tends to afflict me with sluggish digestion, a logy disposition, and a case of the Lard-Ass. Fish, therefore, makes up a significant proportion of the protein content at Chez Elisson.
Take today, for example. My friend Irwin was observing the Yahrzeit of his father-in-law, and, by local custom, he invited the attendees of the Morning Minyan to breakfast. It’s a way to thank the people who ensure that a quorum of adult worshipers is present so that one may say Kaddish for one’s relatives on the anniversary of their passing.
And so, therefore, we descended en masse to the Local Bagel and Smoked Fish Emporium, where we enjoyed huge platters of Fishy Delicacies. Nova Scotia smoked salmon. Kippered salmon. Smoked whitefish. Kippered salmon salad. Tuna salad. Pickled herring. Sable.
It was a Fishy Orgy to make the angels weep.
But as the afternoon rolled around, that Meat Jones could not be denied, and so, I began preparations for a Beefy Dinner.
Pan-grilled skirt steak with sautéed shallots.
Brown rice and lentil pilaf.
Haricots verts – them skinny-ass green beans.
As a before-dinner treat, I whipped up a couple of Blueberry Pomegranate Martinis. You get your full day’s ration of antioxidants and Vitamin E (ethanol) with these Bad Boys. To make one, take a cocktail shaker full of ice and add two shots of vodka and two shots of Pom blueberry pomegranate juice. You can play around with the flavor of the juice – plain pomegranate, cherry pomegranate, or mango pomegranate – and with the vodka. I’ve used Stoly Rasberi with good results.
Add a squeeze of lemon juice, shake well, and strain into a chilled Martini glass. Serve with a lemon twist. Looks like a Girly-Man drink, sez you? Don’t be fooled. This can lay you low in a hurry.
Now to pan-grill those steaks. I coat ’em with a sprinkling of kosher salt and freshly-ground black pepper, then some ground thyme. (SWMBO gets no thyme on hers…she is notoriously averse to herby flavors.) Toss ’em in a hot pan with a little olive oil, and let ’em sizzle.
Once the meat is sufficiently done, I remove it to a waiting plate. Into the pan goes about a quarter-cup of chopped shallots, which I cook down until they’re soft and have absorbed all of the yummy meat juices from the pan. This then gets dumped on top of the steaks.
The green beans and pilaf finish up right on time. To the table they go, alongside the Meat Platter.
The Missus adds the perfect lagniappe: a half Haas avocado, nice and creamy-ripe, with a little fresh pepper to set off the mellow flavor. And thus we sit down to dine, just the two of us.
Yeah, baby!
I don’t eat nearly as much Red Meat as I used to. It tends to afflict me with sluggish digestion, a logy disposition, and a case of the Lard-Ass. Fish, therefore, makes up a significant proportion of the protein content at Chez Elisson.
Take today, for example. My friend Irwin was observing the Yahrzeit of his father-in-law, and, by local custom, he invited the attendees of the Morning Minyan to breakfast. It’s a way to thank the people who ensure that a quorum of adult worshipers is present so that one may say Kaddish for one’s relatives on the anniversary of their passing.
And so, therefore, we descended en masse to the Local Bagel and Smoked Fish Emporium, where we enjoyed huge platters of Fishy Delicacies. Nova Scotia smoked salmon. Kippered salmon. Smoked whitefish. Kippered salmon salad. Tuna salad. Pickled herring. Sable.
It was a Fishy Orgy to make the angels weep.
But as the afternoon rolled around, that Meat Jones could not be denied, and so, I began preparations for a Beefy Dinner.
Pan-grilled skirt steak with sautéed shallots.
Brown rice and lentil pilaf.
Haricots verts – them skinny-ass green beans.
As a before-dinner treat, I whipped up a couple of Blueberry Pomegranate Martinis. You get your full day’s ration of antioxidants and Vitamin E (ethanol) with these Bad Boys. To make one, take a cocktail shaker full of ice and add two shots of vodka and two shots of Pom blueberry pomegranate juice. You can play around with the flavor of the juice – plain pomegranate, cherry pomegranate, or mango pomegranate – and with the vodka. I’ve used Stoly Rasberi with good results.
Add a squeeze of lemon juice, shake well, and strain into a chilled Martini glass. Serve with a lemon twist. Looks like a Girly-Man drink, sez you? Don’t be fooled. This can lay you low in a hurry.
Now to pan-grill those steaks. I coat ’em with a sprinkling of kosher salt and freshly-ground black pepper, then some ground thyme. (SWMBO gets no thyme on hers…she is notoriously averse to herby flavors.) Toss ’em in a hot pan with a little olive oil, and let ’em sizzle.
Once the meat is sufficiently done, I remove it to a waiting plate. Into the pan goes about a quarter-cup of chopped shallots, which I cook down until they’re soft and have absorbed all of the yummy meat juices from the pan. This then gets dumped on top of the steaks.
The green beans and pilaf finish up right on time. To the table they go, alongside the Meat Platter.
The Missus adds the perfect lagniappe: a half Haas avocado, nice and creamy-ripe, with a little fresh pepper to set off the mellow flavor. And thus we sit down to dine, just the two of us.
Yeah, baby!
FEEDING TIME
The morning ritual of feeding Hakuna and Matata is pretty much the same every day.
5:30 am: Matata begins traipsing about the bed, purring, growling, and acting like an ass, in general.
5:40 am: Matata knocks Elisson’s glasses off nightstand.
5:45 am: Alarm goes off. SWMBO whacks the snooze button.
5: 54 am: Alarm goes off again. SWMBO and Elisson get up. Elisson shambles downstairs to feed the cats.
6:00 am: After a cursory examination of their Dishes o’ Kibble, Hakuna and Matata head back upstairs to inform SWMBO that they will not eat their breakfast until she blesses the food with her August Presence.
At 5:00 in the afternoon, the story pretty much repeats itself, with the exception that the Missus is not there, and so her blessing is unavailable. The cats proceed to eat without it.
But there’s more to the story. The girls have evolved a little ritual with respect to their eating. Sure, they’ll eat side-by-side, but after a short while, Hakuna backs off. And then…
Matata eats…
Matata tastes Hakuna’s food to make sure it’s not poisoned…
Hakuna finally decides that it’s safe to eat.
5:30 am: Matata begins traipsing about the bed, purring, growling, and acting like an ass, in general.
5:40 am: Matata knocks Elisson’s glasses off nightstand.
5:45 am: Alarm goes off. SWMBO whacks the snooze button.
5: 54 am: Alarm goes off again. SWMBO and Elisson get up. Elisson shambles downstairs to feed the cats.
6:00 am: After a cursory examination of their Dishes o’ Kibble, Hakuna and Matata head back upstairs to inform SWMBO that they will not eat their breakfast until she blesses the food with her August Presence.
At 5:00 in the afternoon, the story pretty much repeats itself, with the exception that the Missus is not there, and so her blessing is unavailable. The cats proceed to eat without it.
But there’s more to the story. The girls have evolved a little ritual with respect to their eating. Sure, they’ll eat side-by-side, but after a short while, Hakuna backs off. And then…
Matata eats…
Matata tastes Hakuna’s food to make sure it’s not poisoned…
Hakuna finally decides that it’s safe to eat.
CARNIVAL OF THE VANITIES #175
This week’s edition of the Carnival of the Vanities is up at Blueprint for Financial Prosperity.
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
TRIVIAL PURSUIT
I have the reputation - justified or no - for being a Fount o’ Useless Knowledge. Trivia. Niggling Bullshit.
But there are some Random Facts about myself that even I didn’t know:
And then there’s Number 11: Elisson knows how to handle himself should he have to drop a deuce in Dacca.
This amusing little gizmo is the Mechanical Contrivium, and the Elisson Fedora-Tip goes out to Sharon (Adventures of a Domestic Engineer) for finding it.
But there are some Random Facts about myself that even I didn’t know:
Ten Top Trivia Tips about Elisson!
- Most bottles and jars contain at least twenty-five percent recycled Elisson!
- It takes 8 minutes for light to travel from the Sun's surface to Elisson!
- The condom - originally made from Elisson - was invented in the early 1500s!
- Only twelve people have ever set foot on Elisson.
- If the annual Australian Elisson crop was laid end to end, it would stretch around the world seven times.
- The average duration of sexual intercourse for Elisson is two minutes.
- Elisson can't drink - he absorbs water from his surroundings by osmosis.
- American Airlines saved forty thousand dollars a year by eliminating Elisson from each salad served in first class.
- It's bad luck for a flag to touch Elisson!
- A chimpanzee can learn to recognize itself in a mirror, but Elisson can not.
And then there’s Number 11: Elisson knows how to handle himself should he have to drop a deuce in Dacca.
This amusing little gizmo is the Mechanical Contrivium, and the Elisson Fedora-Tip goes out to Sharon (Adventures of a Domestic Engineer) for finding it.
...’CAUSE JAM DON’T SHAKE LIKE DAT
This...
is Damn Scary. The Jellyfish as Big as the Ritz!
At first I thought, “This has gotta be Photoshopped. No frickin’ way this is real!”
But if it’s fake, then it’s fooled the biggies of the MSM.
Seems that there has been a veritabobble plague of these giant jellyfish - Echizen kurage, or Nomura’s Jellyfish - visited upon the shores of Japan this year. CNN.com reports that
If SpongeBob Squarepants were a real personage, he would be shitting himself in fear upon hearing of the existence of these Big Fellas. Almost as scary as that other jelly...you know, the one from Kentucky.
[Tip o’ th’ Elisson fedora to Philip at The Blue Sloth for the link.]
Technorati tags: Sponge Bob, SpongeBob, SpongeBob Squarepants
is Damn Scary. The Jellyfish as Big as the Ritz!
At first I thought, “This has gotta be Photoshopped. No frickin’ way this is real!”
But if it’s fake, then it’s fooled the biggies of the MSM.
Seems that there has been a veritabobble plague of these giant jellyfish - Echizen kurage, or Nomura’s Jellyfish - visited upon the shores of Japan this year. CNN.com reports that
...representatives of fishing communities around the country gathered in Tokyo on Thursday, hoping to thrash out solutions to a pest that has spread from the Japan Sea to the Pacific coast.Yeah, aliens. Honkin’ big aliens. Jeebus.
“It’s a terrible problem. They’re like aliens,” Noriyuki Kani of the fisheries federation in Toyama, northwest of Tokyo, told Reuters ahead of the conference.
If SpongeBob Squarepants were a real personage, he would be shitting himself in fear upon hearing of the existence of these Big Fellas. Almost as scary as that other jelly...you know, the one from Kentucky.
[Tip o’ th’ Elisson fedora to Philip at The Blue Sloth for the link.]
Technorati tags: Sponge Bob, SpongeBob, SpongeBob Squarepants
ASK MR. DEBONAIR
Dear Mr. Debonair,
Sometimes, when I find myself traveling to exotic locales, in particular those where Western-style facilities are unavailable, I am unsure how to comport myself in the restrooms. What do you recommend I do?
Sincerely,
A Heterosexual Caucasian Gentleman
Dear Heterosexual Caucasian Gentleman,
Mr. Debonair knows that not all places offer the comforts - and the Comfort Stations - of home. But if you follow my advice, you’ll never have a problem.
Say you find yourself in a Tropical Paradise...Bangladesh, for example...where the facilities consist of a hole in the floor and a bucket of water with a ladle.
If you have been following Mr. Debonair’s Travel Tips (available for $5.00, payable in cheque or Money Order in US funds, and accompanied by a stamped, self-addressed envelope), you already have on your person the Indispensable Traveler’s Friend: a Cocktail Napkin.
Carefully lower your trousers, taking care that you do not trample them unnecessarily into the evil detritus that is generally to be found on the floor of what our Indonesian friends refer to as the “Kamar Kecil.” Position youself carefully over the hole and let fly.
Once you have performed your Personal Business – and by this we mean Personal Business of the Defecative Variety – take your Cocktail Napkin in hand, and carefully remove a ¼-inch piece of paper from the center of the napkin. Reserve this; you will need it later.
Now, take your left middle finger and poke it through the hole you have made in the napkin. (See illustration.)
Using this finger, cleanse your Nether Orifice thoroughly. Once you have completed the task, carefully withdraw your finger from the hole in the napkin, whilst simultaneously using the napkin to remove the Offensive Personal Business from your finger. You are almost finished.
Take the reserved ¼-inch piece of napkin and roll it into a tight cylinder. Use this to clean underneath the fingernail of the left middle finger.
Discard the napkin, and you are good to go!
Oh, that bucket of water? Needless to say, all of this activity - especially in Tropical Climes - is likely to work up quite a thirst! Feel free to utilize the thoughtfully-provided water as a Refreshing Beverage.
Sometimes, when I find myself traveling to exotic locales, in particular those where Western-style facilities are unavailable, I am unsure how to comport myself in the restrooms. What do you recommend I do?
Sincerely,
A Heterosexual Caucasian Gentleman
Dear Heterosexual Caucasian Gentleman,
Mr. Debonair knows that not all places offer the comforts - and the Comfort Stations - of home. But if you follow my advice, you’ll never have a problem.
Say you find yourself in a Tropical Paradise...Bangladesh, for example...where the facilities consist of a hole in the floor and a bucket of water with a ladle.
If you have been following Mr. Debonair’s Travel Tips (available for $5.00, payable in cheque or Money Order in US funds, and accompanied by a stamped, self-addressed envelope), you already have on your person the Indispensable Traveler’s Friend: a Cocktail Napkin.
Carefully lower your trousers, taking care that you do not trample them unnecessarily into the evil detritus that is generally to be found on the floor of what our Indonesian friends refer to as the “Kamar Kecil.” Position youself carefully over the hole and let fly.
Once you have performed your Personal Business – and by this we mean Personal Business of the Defecative Variety – take your Cocktail Napkin in hand, and carefully remove a ¼-inch piece of paper from the center of the napkin. Reserve this; you will need it later.
Now, take your left middle finger and poke it through the hole you have made in the napkin. (See illustration.)
Using this finger, cleanse your Nether Orifice thoroughly. Once you have completed the task, carefully withdraw your finger from the hole in the napkin, whilst simultaneously using the napkin to remove the Offensive Personal Business from your finger. You are almost finished.
Take the reserved ¼-inch piece of napkin and roll it into a tight cylinder. Use this to clean underneath the fingernail of the left middle finger.
Discard the napkin, and you are good to go!
Oh, that bucket of water? Needless to say, all of this activity - especially in Tropical Climes - is likely to work up quite a thirst! Feel free to utilize the thoughtfully-provided water as a Refreshing Beverage.
Monday, January 23, 2006
THIS - OR THAT
There are certain questions that help us see where we stand in the Cultural Landscape.
I was thinking about this as I was going out to score some Take-Out Pizza. Today is National Pie Day, and She Who Must Be Obeyed and I were determined to observe the occasion appropriately. Pizza is probably not the kind of pie the American Pie Council had in mind when they signed the august documents that created National Pie Day - they being more of a Flour-and-Shortening kind of outfit versus a Yeast-Risen Dough operation - but Pie, at the end of the day, is Pie.
And Greenwood’s on Green Street was closed, which meant that there would be no Serious Chocolate by Gawd Cream Pie at the end of this day.
So Pizza it was.
Now, I’m an inveterate Neapolitano when it comes to my Abeetz. I like that nice, thin, floppy crust, with the cheese and tomato in a perfect marriage of oragey, oily goodness. Plenty of oregano undertones. Aaaahhh. It’s the New York upbringing, you see. Where I come from, the only real Pizza Decision was whether you wanted the round, thin-crusted Neapolitan pie or the rectangular, thick-crusted Sicilian. Toppings were a secondary consideration; the key issue was the Basic Pie Configuration, and for me, Napoli beat Sicilia hands down, every time.
But, many years later, along comes this Chicago Deep-Dish Pizza, and suddenly the gulf between Choice One and Choice Two is a lot wider. Napoli and Sicilia are in the same country, but this Chicago business, it’s on a whole ’nother fucking planet.
Chicago-style pizza is fine, I suppose. I’ve had it right at the source, at Pizzeria Uno in Chicago - but as good as it might be, to me it’s not pizza. More like some Alien Pizza-Like Device, packed with enough cheese and meat to feed an entire city block. I’m on the other side of the Pizza Divide, along, I suspect, with most of my New Yorky compadres.
There are other Fundamental Dichotomies in life, as well.
Just as the ophthalmologist gives you choices while fitting you for your glasses, there are some issues that demand a decision: no fence-sitting permitted. A, or B. This one, or that one. One, or two. The eye-doc fits you with glasses or contact lenses, but your stance with respect to the Fundamentals tells you where you stand in the world.
Dunkin’ Donuts, or Krispy Kreme? Dax and I were discussing this last week in the context of his Jelly Donut Post. Both he and I are dyed-in-the-wool Dunkin’ Donuts men - surprisingly so in his case, given that he is a Southron Boy.
[Krispy Kreme rules the South, of course. I wonder if, back in the bad old days of cross-burnings, whether hooded and robed Klansmen would stoke their internal furnaces with a few dozen Krispy Kremes before an evening’s Race-Baiting. Putting the KK in the KKK, as it were...]
Cakey, leaden Dunkin’ Donuts sinkers, or hot, fluffy Krispy Kremes? Gimme the sinker, every time.
More Fundamental Dichotomies follow. Which side are you on?
I was thinking about this as I was going out to score some Take-Out Pizza. Today is National Pie Day, and She Who Must Be Obeyed and I were determined to observe the occasion appropriately. Pizza is probably not the kind of pie the American Pie Council had in mind when they signed the august documents that created National Pie Day - they being more of a Flour-and-Shortening kind of outfit versus a Yeast-Risen Dough operation - but Pie, at the end of the day, is Pie.
And Greenwood’s on Green Street was closed, which meant that there would be no Serious Chocolate by Gawd Cream Pie at the end of this day.
So Pizza it was.
Now, I’m an inveterate Neapolitano when it comes to my Abeetz. I like that nice, thin, floppy crust, with the cheese and tomato in a perfect marriage of oragey, oily goodness. Plenty of oregano undertones. Aaaahhh. It’s the New York upbringing, you see. Where I come from, the only real Pizza Decision was whether you wanted the round, thin-crusted Neapolitan pie or the rectangular, thick-crusted Sicilian. Toppings were a secondary consideration; the key issue was the Basic Pie Configuration, and for me, Napoli beat Sicilia hands down, every time.
But, many years later, along comes this Chicago Deep-Dish Pizza, and suddenly the gulf between Choice One and Choice Two is a lot wider. Napoli and Sicilia are in the same country, but this Chicago business, it’s on a whole ’nother fucking planet.
Chicago-style pizza is fine, I suppose. I’ve had it right at the source, at Pizzeria Uno in Chicago - but as good as it might be, to me it’s not pizza. More like some Alien Pizza-Like Device, packed with enough cheese and meat to feed an entire city block. I’m on the other side of the Pizza Divide, along, I suspect, with most of my New Yorky compadres.
There are other Fundamental Dichotomies in life, as well.
Just as the ophthalmologist gives you choices while fitting you for your glasses, there are some issues that demand a decision: no fence-sitting permitted. A, or B. This one, or that one. One, or two. The eye-doc fits you with glasses or contact lenses, but your stance with respect to the Fundamentals tells you where you stand in the world.
Dunkin’ Donuts, or Krispy Kreme? Dax and I were discussing this last week in the context of his Jelly Donut Post. Both he and I are dyed-in-the-wool Dunkin’ Donuts men - surprisingly so in his case, given that he is a Southron Boy.
[Krispy Kreme rules the South, of course. I wonder if, back in the bad old days of cross-burnings, whether hooded and robed Klansmen would stoke their internal furnaces with a few dozen Krispy Kremes before an evening’s Race-Baiting. Putting the KK in the KKK, as it were...]
Cakey, leaden Dunkin’ Donuts sinkers, or hot, fluffy Krispy Kremes? Gimme the sinker, every time.
More Fundamental Dichotomies follow. Which side are you on?
- Betty, or Veronica? (For the ladies: Archie, or Reggie? Minus ten points if you picked Jughead.)
- Elvis, or the Beatles?
- Playboy, or Penthouse?
- Pancakes, or waffles?
- Chocolate, or vanilla?
- Dick York or Dick Sargent?
- Nicklaus, or Palmer?
- Mets, or Yankees?
MOON OVER ATLANTA
The Grand Staircase at the Westin Hotel in Buckhead.
Here’s a chance to test your Bloggy Knowledge: From left to right - Who are these people?
This photograph is as good as any for a Caption Contest. Let’s hear your best shot in the Comments.
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