Pages Turned hosts this week’s Carnival of the Cats, with the generous assistance of Claudius, Nicholson, and Ellie. It’s a sizable Carnival, meant to be savored.
Much as Hakuna and Matata savor their daily ration of Food-Pellets. Harh.
Monday, January 09, 2006
Sunday, January 08, 2006
Saturday, January 07, 2006
WHAT - FIFTEEN ALREADY?
Dad and Toni. Photo taken last May on his 80th birthday.
Yesterday, my Dad - Eli, his ownself - and Toni celebrated their fifteenth wedding anniversary. Fifteen years, being a Year That Is Divisible By Five, qualifies as a Major Anniversary.
Their marriage is now old enough to get a Learner’s Permit in the State of Georgia.
Dad and Toni are celebrating their Big Day by piling in the car and driving to their new winter home in Florida. It will be two full days in a sedan packed with luggage - six months’ worth - and Sam, their Reclusive Cat. Then, it will be several days of Arranging Crap: telephone installation, appliance delivery, all of the Fun Stuff attendant on establishing a new household. They’re a little nervous and a lot excited.
Meanwhile, I wasn’t sure what the Traditional Fifteenth Anniversary Gift was. I mean, I know the third anniversary is leather, and the seventh is Molded Rubber Devices (Batteries Not Included), but I was drawing a blank on fifteen. Papier mâché? Prunes?
But thanks to the kind offices of Google, I was able to establish that the traditional gift on the fifteenth wedding anniversary is Crystal. Modern-thinking sorts may also consider Watches...although, when you think about it, a watch does have a crystal, doesn’t it?
[Not that they will see any crystal from me...except maybe for the vase their flowers come in. For we have arranged for flowers to arrive at their new pied-à-terre in MiddleofFuckingNowhere, Florida the day after they do. Flowers always look good...for a few days, anyway.]
Happy Anniversary, to the guy who provided me with a loving home, a fine education (in so many things!) and 50% of my DNA - and to the lady that is the apple of his eye and the light of his life. Health, happiness and love for many, many more.
HOMECOMING
Being on the road can be a Royal Pain in the Ass.
When I was working a sales territory for the Great Corporate Salt Mine - either as an Account Representative or as a Regional Sales Manager - I was gone for at least a few days almost every week of the year. And in my various international sales and marketing assignments, I’d be throwing in the occasional 2-3 week overseas jaunt.
Going away for a lousy one-nighter, therefore, is Not A Big Deal.
Except, of course, when it follows a week of vacation with a house full of friends and relatives to keep you happily occupied.
My Thursday-Friday jaunt this week was pretty routine. Fly out to Sweat City Thursday. Rent car. Drive to office. Work until late o’clock. Check into hotel. Sleep. Drive to office. Leave early enough to catch flight. Act amazed when flight actually leaves on time.
I love that 32-mile drive to the airport. It’s a two-tollbooth stretch on the Sam Houston Tollway. And no matter how many times I drive that road, it never ceases to amaze me what Tollroad Fucktards they grow in Texas.
Get in that Exact Change lane, and you can make book on there being at least one Gaping Asshole who will either have nothing but a Double Sawbuck, or who will rummage throughout the entire cabin of his or her vehicle, looking for the exact change that they almost certainly don’t have.
Morons.
Behavior like that would get you shot and skullfucked on a New York toll road.
They even have gone so far as to relabel the “Exact Change” lane to say “Coins Only.” Just in case you are one of those idiots who think Exact Change on a tollroad includes paper money.
But this is just carping, for I got to the airport in plenty of time, and the flight was neither overcrowded nor late. We arrived in Atlanta a few minutes ahead of schedule, and, thanks to some well-timed traffic signals, I was able to get to Chez Elisson within an hour of stepping off the aircraft.
She Who Must Be Obeyed greeted me upon my arrival with a glass of wine in her hand and a “come hither” look in her eye. There would be no Friday Evening Blog-Posting, no, no.
Time to make some waffles...
When I was working a sales territory for the Great Corporate Salt Mine - either as an Account Representative or as a Regional Sales Manager - I was gone for at least a few days almost every week of the year. And in my various international sales and marketing assignments, I’d be throwing in the occasional 2-3 week overseas jaunt.
Going away for a lousy one-nighter, therefore, is Not A Big Deal.
Except, of course, when it follows a week of vacation with a house full of friends and relatives to keep you happily occupied.
My Thursday-Friday jaunt this week was pretty routine. Fly out to Sweat City Thursday. Rent car. Drive to office. Work until late o’clock. Check into hotel. Sleep. Drive to office. Leave early enough to catch flight. Act amazed when flight actually leaves on time.
I love that 32-mile drive to the airport. It’s a two-tollbooth stretch on the Sam Houston Tollway. And no matter how many times I drive that road, it never ceases to amaze me what Tollroad Fucktards they grow in Texas.
Get in that Exact Change lane, and you can make book on there being at least one Gaping Asshole who will either have nothing but a Double Sawbuck, or who will rummage throughout the entire cabin of his or her vehicle, looking for the exact change that they almost certainly don’t have.
Morons.
Behavior like that would get you shot and skullfucked on a New York toll road.
They even have gone so far as to relabel the “Exact Change” lane to say “Coins Only.” Just in case you are one of those idiots who think Exact Change on a tollroad includes paper money.
But this is just carping, for I got to the airport in plenty of time, and the flight was neither overcrowded nor late. We arrived in Atlanta a few minutes ahead of schedule, and, thanks to some well-timed traffic signals, I was able to get to Chez Elisson within an hour of stepping off the aircraft.
She Who Must Be Obeyed greeted me upon my arrival with a glass of wine in her hand and a “come hither” look in her eye. There would be no Friday Evening Blog-Posting, no, no.
Time to make some waffles...
FRIDAY RANDOM TEN - SLIGHTLY LATE
Of course, where would I be on the first Friday of 2006 but at the headquarters of the Great Corporate Salt Mine in sunny Houston? Occupied with actual work as I was, I had no time to post my usual Friday Random Ten...so here’s my Belated List of Choons from the Little White Choon-Box:Friday Saturday. What are you listening to?
- I Should Have Known Better - The Beatles
- Saved By The Buoyancy - Mitch Hedberg
- You To Thank - Ben Folds
- Where The Wild Roses Grow - Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds
- Across The Universe - The Beatles
- Reality Blows - Laurence Simon
- Get On Top - Red Hot Chili Peppers
- Fortuna Imperatrix Mundi - Christian Thielemann, Orff: Carmina Burana
- Where’s The Money? - Dan Hicks & His Hot Licks
- How Could I Be Such A Fool? - Frank Zappa
WAFFLING
It might have been during the recent Family Invasion Week that She Who Must Be Obeyed suddenly decided that we needed a new Household Appliance.
At one point during the week, she had cooked up a big Mess o’ Pancakes. Pancakes are a very occasional treat at Chez Elisson, and there is no better time to have them than when there is a house full of people. Hot off the griddle, slathered with just-melting pats of fresh creamery butter and drizzled with pure maple syrup...ahhhh, that is heaven, bruthuh.
And it was likely with the warm smell of those flapjacks drifting through the house that the idea crystallized in her mind. That smell sparked a mysterious mental connection, perhaps a reminiscence of the free continental breakfasts at the Cheap-Ass Lodging House at which we stayed on our last trip to Savannah.
“Honey, don’t you think we need a waffle iron?”
“Why…yes! I believe we do!” So easy was it to gain my assent to this Essential Acquisition.
Understand this: I grew up in a Waffle-Free Household.
Back in my snot-nose days, we had no waffle iron in the house. In the New York suburbs of the 1950’s and ’60’s, Waffle Houses were thin on the ground; nay, nonexistent. Sometime in the 1960’s, we had the International House of Pancakes – but who orders waffles in a Pancake House, anyway? It’s perverse. To us, the very concept of waffles was just this side of being alien. Pancakes, si, waffles, no, in Chez Eli.
In 1964, the World’s Fair came to New York, and among the Exotic International Foods that came along with it were Belgian Waffles. Big, inch thick waffles, sprinkled with powdered sugar and topped with a huge dollop of whipped cream, amidst which was nestled a strawberry. But I did not have One Fucking Belgian Waffle in the two years that the Fair sat in Flushing Meadow.
[As an aside, do you know what they call Belgian Waffles in Belgium?
Waffles.
No, really. Actually, they spell it wafels, and they are everywhere, in a seemingly infinite variety. Honkin’ thick ones; thin, crisp ones; syrup-encrusted stroopwafels. Belgium is Waffle Heaven, friends. Getting a wafel in Belgium is easier than buying a Coca-Cola here.]
Of course, as a result, I lusted after waffles. It was more than just the elusiveness, the unobtainability, the foreignness. Fact is, they tasted damn good. Like pancakes...but with syrup traps!
So we went to the local Household Articles Shoppe. It boiled down to a choice between three irons: a rather flimsy-looking Cuisinart that made thin, round Waffle-House style cakes; an Emeril Lagasse model with interchangeable plates – you could make waffles, pizzelles, and panini-style sandwiches, but each plate bore an insufferable “BAM!” imprint; and a solid-looking Krups machine that had the deep plates needed to make Belgian waffles. The only Krups left was the floor model; we snatched it up.
And, finally, this morning She Who Must Be Obeyed and I put the iron though its paces.
Here’s a useful All-Purpose Waffle Recipe:
2½ cups all-purpose flour
½ tsp salt
1 tsp baking powder
4 tbsp granulated sugar
3 eggs, separated
2 cups milk
½ cup vegetable oil
Sift together the flour, salt, baking powder, and sugar. That’s what the standard instructions tell you, anyway. Screw that. I just aerate the flour with a dry wire whisk before I measure it, and I use the same whisk to mix the dry ingredients.
Combine the egg yolks and the milk: mix well and add to the dry ingredients. Add the vegetable oil. [Today I used only ¼ cup of oil and it worked just fine.] Mix well.
Beat the egg whites in a separate bowl (add just a pinch of salt) until they form soft peaks. Fold the egg whites into the rest of the batter.
Heat up your waffle iron and you’re good to go. I found that with our model, four minutes gave us waffles that were crispy and brown on the outside, yet just perfect in the center – not overdone. You will, of course, need to adjust the timing to your own machine’s needs and to your taste.
To these fine waffles, all that was necessary to add was a little dab of fresh butter and some 100% pure maple syrup. But waffles are extremely versatile, and you can top ’em with almost any damn thing you like. Fresh fruit? Honey? Confectioner’s sugar? Go wild! It’s your waffle!
POSTSCRIPT:
So this morning She Who Must Be Obeyed and I were sitting in shul, and our friends Gary and JoAnn came in and joined us, sitting next to us in our pew. We exchanged greetings, and then JoAnn asked, “So, what have you-all been doing this morning?”
“We made waffles.”
JoAnn leered at me. “So that’s what they’re calling it these days.”
It was obvious right away that in her house, “making waffles” has an entirely different, far more lascivious meaning. Gary’s lewd wink confirmed my speculation.
“Yeah, we ‘made waffles,’ too.”
“Well, then, I guess we ‘made waffles’ and then we made waffles…”
Gotta love them waffles!
At one point during the week, she had cooked up a big Mess o’ Pancakes. Pancakes are a very occasional treat at Chez Elisson, and there is no better time to have them than when there is a house full of people. Hot off the griddle, slathered with just-melting pats of fresh creamery butter and drizzled with pure maple syrup...ahhhh, that is heaven, bruthuh.
And it was likely with the warm smell of those flapjacks drifting through the house that the idea crystallized in her mind. That smell sparked a mysterious mental connection, perhaps a reminiscence of the free continental breakfasts at the Cheap-Ass Lodging House at which we stayed on our last trip to Savannah.
“Honey, don’t you think we need a waffle iron?”
“Why…yes! I believe we do!” So easy was it to gain my assent to this Essential Acquisition.
Understand this: I grew up in a Waffle-Free Household.
Back in my snot-nose days, we had no waffle iron in the house. In the New York suburbs of the 1950’s and ’60’s, Waffle Houses were thin on the ground; nay, nonexistent. Sometime in the 1960’s, we had the International House of Pancakes – but who orders waffles in a Pancake House, anyway? It’s perverse. To us, the very concept of waffles was just this side of being alien. Pancakes, si, waffles, no, in Chez Eli.
In 1964, the World’s Fair came to New York, and among the Exotic International Foods that came along with it were Belgian Waffles. Big, inch thick waffles, sprinkled with powdered sugar and topped with a huge dollop of whipped cream, amidst which was nestled a strawberry. But I did not have One Fucking Belgian Waffle in the two years that the Fair sat in Flushing Meadow.
[As an aside, do you know what they call Belgian Waffles in Belgium?
Waffles.
No, really. Actually, they spell it wafels, and they are everywhere, in a seemingly infinite variety. Honkin’ thick ones; thin, crisp ones; syrup-encrusted stroopwafels. Belgium is Waffle Heaven, friends. Getting a wafel in Belgium is easier than buying a Coca-Cola here.]
Of course, as a result, I lusted after waffles. It was more than just the elusiveness, the unobtainability, the foreignness. Fact is, they tasted damn good. Like pancakes...but with syrup traps!
So we went to the local Household Articles Shoppe. It boiled down to a choice between three irons: a rather flimsy-looking Cuisinart that made thin, round Waffle-House style cakes; an Emeril Lagasse model with interchangeable plates – you could make waffles, pizzelles, and panini-style sandwiches, but each plate bore an insufferable “BAM!” imprint; and a solid-looking Krups machine that had the deep plates needed to make Belgian waffles. The only Krups left was the floor model; we snatched it up.
And, finally, this morning She Who Must Be Obeyed and I put the iron though its paces.
Here’s a useful All-Purpose Waffle Recipe:
2½ cups all-purpose flour
½ tsp salt
1 tsp baking powder
4 tbsp granulated sugar
3 eggs, separated
2 cups milk
½ cup vegetable oil
Sift together the flour, salt, baking powder, and sugar. That’s what the standard instructions tell you, anyway. Screw that. I just aerate the flour with a dry wire whisk before I measure it, and I use the same whisk to mix the dry ingredients.
Combine the egg yolks and the milk: mix well and add to the dry ingredients. Add the vegetable oil. [Today I used only ¼ cup of oil and it worked just fine.] Mix well.
Beat the egg whites in a separate bowl (add just a pinch of salt) until they form soft peaks. Fold the egg whites into the rest of the batter.
Heat up your waffle iron and you’re good to go. I found that with our model, four minutes gave us waffles that were crispy and brown on the outside, yet just perfect in the center – not overdone. You will, of course, need to adjust the timing to your own machine’s needs and to your taste.
To these fine waffles, all that was necessary to add was a little dab of fresh butter and some 100% pure maple syrup. But waffles are extremely versatile, and you can top ’em with almost any damn thing you like. Fresh fruit? Honey? Confectioner’s sugar? Go wild! It’s your waffle!
POSTSCRIPT:
So this morning She Who Must Be Obeyed and I were sitting in shul, and our friends Gary and JoAnn came in and joined us, sitting next to us in our pew. We exchanged greetings, and then JoAnn asked, “So, what have you-all been doing this morning?”
“We made waffles.”
JoAnn leered at me. “So that’s what they’re calling it these days.”
It was obvious right away that in her house, “making waffles” has an entirely different, far more lascivious meaning. Gary’s lewd wink confirmed my speculation.
“Yeah, we ‘made waffles,’ too.”
“Well, then, I guess we ‘made waffles’ and then we made waffles…”
Gotta love them waffles!
Friday, January 06, 2006
FRIDAY ARK #68
Come visit and ride the Friday Ark.
It’s the Modulator’s weekly Zoological Park.
The perfect place, if you wanna
Get your dose of Virtual Fauna.
A spot in the Bloggy-Sphere with no politics –
Just kitties, doggies, snakes, birds, and jolly ticks.
It’s the Modulator’s weekly Zoological Park.
The perfect place, if you wanna
Get your dose of Virtual Fauna.
A spot in the Bloggy-Sphere with no politics –
Just kitties, doggies, snakes, birds, and jolly ticks.
Thursday, January 05, 2006
MONTHLY STATEMENTS
Being a compilation of the first lines from the first post of each month of the past year. [Moom stolen shamelessly from here.]
January: What a way to begin a New Year.
February: 99.9% of the acting, singing, and dancing talent in Family d’Elisson resides in the collective bodies of Elder Daughter and the Mistress of Sarcasm.
March: In October 2001, She Who Must Be Obeyed and I, along with the Mistress of Sarcasm, took a mini-vacation up in the Boone - Blowing Rock section of North Carolina.
April: Jeezum Crow, there are so many Carnivals these days, I feel like the barker at the side-show.
May: I inadvertently stumbled upon the Magic Summoning Ritual that causes Matata to appear instantly...and it doesn’t even require a can opener.
June: Yep, the Bonfire is now in its hundredth crap-spewing incarnation.
July: The reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated. - Mark Twain
August: Pete Vonder Haar (A Perfectly Cromulent Blog) hasshit on my dinner table tagged me with a meme, and since those who live by the meme die by the meme, I am honor bound to play along.
September: There are plenty of people who see God’s hand in the devastation that has struck the U.S. Gulf Coast.
October: Kimberly, who understands that life without Music and Cats would be Boring and Pointless, hosts the eightieth edition of the Carnival of the Cats.
November: The Smegmaster at smegmaster.com (sounds nasty if you parse it just so) hosts the 122nd Bonfire of the Vanities, complete with snazzy non-flaming Official-Looking Seal.
December: At breakfast today, my Morning Minyan compadre Barry R. told me a story of a colleague of his that is, in his words, “dumber than soap.”
It occurs to me that there are way too many Blog-Carnival and cat posts represented here, given the Random Sampling. It also occurs to me that you could have some fun with thismeme moom. F’r instance, you could post the last sentence from the last post of each month. Or you could, you know, just ignore this stupid crap.
January: What a way to begin a New Year.
February: 99.9% of the acting, singing, and dancing talent in Family d’Elisson resides in the collective bodies of Elder Daughter and the Mistress of Sarcasm.
March: In October 2001, She Who Must Be Obeyed and I, along with the Mistress of Sarcasm, took a mini-vacation up in the Boone - Blowing Rock section of North Carolina.
April: Jeezum Crow, there are so many Carnivals these days, I feel like the barker at the side-show.
May: I inadvertently stumbled upon the Magic Summoning Ritual that causes Matata to appear instantly...and it doesn’t even require a can opener.
June: Yep, the Bonfire is now in its hundredth crap-spewing incarnation.
July: The reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated. - Mark Twain
August: Pete Vonder Haar (A Perfectly Cromulent Blog) has
September: There are plenty of people who see God’s hand in the devastation that has struck the U.S. Gulf Coast.
October: Kimberly, who understands that life without Music and Cats would be Boring and Pointless, hosts the eightieth edition of the Carnival of the Cats.
November: The Smegmaster at smegmaster.com (sounds nasty if you parse it just so) hosts the 122nd Bonfire of the Vanities, complete with snazzy non-flaming Official-Looking Seal.
December: At breakfast today, my Morning Minyan compadre Barry R. told me a story of a colleague of his that is, in his words, “dumber than soap.”
It occurs to me that there are way too many Blog-Carnival and cat posts represented here, given the Random Sampling. It also occurs to me that you could have some fun with this
CARNIVAL OF SATIRE #15
I never tire
Of Satire.
It’s a downright miracle -
My love of Things Satirical.
Mark A. Rayner has posted the fifteenth Carnival of Satire at the skwib.
Of Satire.
It’s a downright miracle -
My love of Things Satirical.
Mark A. Rayner has posted the fifteenth Carnival of Satire at the skwib.
BREWSTER COCKIE
Copyright (c) 2006 Tribune Media Services, Inc. All rights reserved.
Brewster Rockit, Space Guy, that is.
Ya gotta love a comic strip that slips a Fecal Humor gag past the syndicate.
Wednesday, January 04, 2006
CARNIVAL OF THE VANITIES #172
Harshly Mellow (gotta love that name!) hosts the latest edition of Carnival of the Vanities.
Was it my imagination, or did last week’s Carnival never get posted? Just curious...
...and Zeuswood, the Harshly Mellow One, has filled me in. Carnival #171 was posted at Chicken Soup 4 the Damned on December 28. Hmmm...musta missed it in the midst of the Frenetic Holiday Rush.
Was it my imagination, or did last week’s Carnival never get posted? Just curious...
...and Zeuswood, the Harshly Mellow One, has filled me in. Carnival #171 was posted at Chicken Soup 4 the Damned on December 28. Hmmm...musta missed it in the midst of the Frenetic Holiday Rush.
DUCKS REDUX
It’s not exactly a Wildlife Preserve we live in here, in this, our Little Patch o’ Suburbia, but every so often we see a scene right out of Nature, Red in Tooth and Claw.
Here we present Mr. and Mrs.Future Turducken Mallard, out for an afternoon stroll.
A handsome couple, to be sure, but why is it that I am seized with a sudden desire for Sauce Bigarade?
Here we present Mr. and Mrs.
A handsome couple, to be sure, but why is it that I am seized with a sudden desire for Sauce Bigarade?
ALL QUIET ON THE ELISSON FRONT
Alas, it is quiet at Chez Elisson, with the Mistress of Sarcasm having returned, along with Significant Other Mickey, to Savannah this morning. Elder Daughter and Khody took off yesterday afternoon, flying out to Boston and Washington, D.C., respectively.
Elder Daughter, Morris William, and the Mistress of Sarcasm.
The rest of the clan - Morris William, Rebecca, and little Nephew William - headed out Saturday afternoon, so we had a Gradual Familial Houseguest Decompression. [When everybody leaves at once, the Sudden Decompression can cause the Emotional Bends.]
It’s hell, it is, having our daughters go back to their respective homes after over a week in their company here. We’ve always been close with them, and it’s easy to forget that they don’t still live here with us. It is the natural order of things to have one’s offspring move out and move on, but that knowledge is but cold intellectual comfort. Saying goodbye is tough, even if you know it’s only for a while.
The good thing - if a Silver Lining must be found - is that the Excessive Holiday Face-Stuffing Season is now officially over. Because it’s so much fun to Consume Mass Quantities when family is around.
What makes it worse is, both the Missus and I like to cook. And since we play well together, we take turns.
Just to illustrate, Monday evening, She Who Must Be Obeyed put together a little Mexican-style dinner. Tortilla chips and her made-from-scratch Best Frickin’ Guacamole On The Planet. Chicken enchilada casserole. Pinto beans. Frijoles negros refritos. Spanish rice. And, for dessert, her Infamous Cherry Cake, the recipe for which is a closely-guarded family secret.
And last night - exactly a year since I posted about cooking up a big ol’ pot of gumbo - we all were attacked by that selfsame Early January Gumbo Jones. And thus it was that I found myself stirring up a cauldron of that most excellent brew.
Tonight?
Tonight it will be just the two of us. Leftovers will be on the menu, with that gumbo topping the bill.
And, alas, it will be quiet at Chez Elisson.
Elder Daughter, Morris William, and the Mistress of Sarcasm.
The rest of the clan - Morris William, Rebecca, and little Nephew William - headed out Saturday afternoon, so we had a Gradual Familial Houseguest Decompression. [When everybody leaves at once, the Sudden Decompression can cause the Emotional Bends.]
It’s hell, it is, having our daughters go back to their respective homes after over a week in their company here. We’ve always been close with them, and it’s easy to forget that they don’t still live here with us. It is the natural order of things to have one’s offspring move out and move on, but that knowledge is but cold intellectual comfort. Saying goodbye is tough, even if you know it’s only for a while.
The good thing - if a Silver Lining must be found - is that the Excessive Holiday Face-Stuffing Season is now officially over. Because it’s so much fun to Consume Mass Quantities when family is around.
What makes it worse is, both the Missus and I like to cook. And since we play well together, we take turns.
Just to illustrate, Monday evening, She Who Must Be Obeyed put together a little Mexican-style dinner. Tortilla chips and her made-from-scratch Best Frickin’ Guacamole On The Planet. Chicken enchilada casserole. Pinto beans. Frijoles negros refritos. Spanish rice. And, for dessert, her Infamous Cherry Cake, the recipe for which is a closely-guarded family secret.
And last night - exactly a year since I posted about cooking up a big ol’ pot of gumbo - we all were attacked by that selfsame Early January Gumbo Jones. And thus it was that I found myself stirring up a cauldron of that most excellent brew.
Tonight?
Tonight it will be just the two of us. Leftovers will be on the menu, with that gumbo topping the bill.
And, alas, it will be quiet at Chez Elisson.
Monday, January 02, 2006
BEAR WITH ME
Now that Grizzly Man, the Werner Herzog documentary about the late self-styled naturalist Timothy Treadwell, is available on DVD, the Assembled Multitudes at Chez Elisson all got a chance to see it.
It’s a strange movie, filled with gorgeous scenic vistas and remarkable photographs of wild animals in their natural habitat. It’s also a meditation on the monomaniacal folly of one man, alternately sobering and hilarious. Sobering, because Treadwell paid the ultimate price for his folly. Hilarious, because, well, the man was a fucking nutjob. Unintentional comedy, to be sure, but Jee-Zus, was this guy amazing.
Werner Herzog deserves a huge amount of credit for fleshing out this portrait of what was clearly a very strange, very unusual, very driven man. Using Treadwell’s own video footage, Herzog constructs a three-dimensional picture of Treadwell, with all his passion as well as his absurdity. It must have been a challenge, avoiding the all-too-easy potshots. The trick to this movie was making sure Treadwell did not end up appearing too ridiculous.
Let’s face it. You have here a man who would warble ecstatically while resting his hand on a steaming pile of bear shit: “This was just in her! This came out of her butt!” OK, sure, but, Tim, it’s shit. And bear shit ain’t any better than human shit unless Size and Partially-Digested Berry Content are virtues.
It’s easy to dismiss Tim as an Enviro-Lefty Nutjob, but I’m here to tell you that more serious environmentalists, lefties or no, would consider him as a borderline psycho. You can see the paranoia growing; you can see the increasing tendency to be hostile to (most) other humans. Tim, perhaps, did not want to be human. Or he was unhappy with the human he had been, and found comfort in his new-found identity as a Lover of Bears.
The bears, alas, did not love him back. They were not friendly men in bear suits, at the end of the day - they were dangerous wild beasts. Treadwell himself often commented on how dangerous they were, but it is questionable whether he really took his own words to heart. In the end, he - and his girlfriend - suffered the fate one could say he deserved...possibly the fate that he really desired.
Back in August, when the movie first came out in theatres, I wrote a few snarky haiku about Mr. Treadwell. My cruel little poems still ring true, albeit in a minor key:
Oh, Mr. Choc’lit -
Hold me in your warm embrace.
Nibble on my face.
Bears are so cuddly.
Look at that one, cuddling Tim
In his intestines.
Bears shit in the woods.
It’s their nature - what they do.
Tim Treadwell: Bear Shit!
Ahh, rest in peace, Timothy Treadwell.
You have followed in the footsteps of other humans who, in the fullness of time, have had close encounters with Grizzly Bears. For the delectation of my Esteemed Readers, I provide some possibly familiar examples below, courtesy of Warner Brothers and the great director Robert Clampett:
Copyright (c) 1941, Warner Brothers.
HOT KITTY SKRITCHING ACTION
Matata, the Grey Slut-Kitty, loves getting her belly rubbed, especially when she parks herself on my shoes. Click on the frame below to see Miss M enjoy over half a minute of Skritchy Fun.
[Caution: If you are Rob Smith, this video may cause you to bust a blood vessel. You have been warned!]
[Caution: If you are Rob Smith, this video may cause you to bust a blood vessel. You have been warned!]
Sunday, January 01, 2006
EIGHTH NIGHT
Today is the first day of the year according to the Gregorian civil calendar.
If you’re into Meaningless Religious Trivia, that would make it the day of Jesus’s B’rit Milah - his ritual circumcision. So it’s appropriate for Christians to celebrate the day with wine and cookies, maybe a nice catered bagel and smoked fish lunch. Or even a cold cut tray from the local deli.
For us Jews, until sundown, it was the first day of the month Tevet. It’s pure calendrical coincindence that the days of Tevet 5766 will coincide with the days of January 2006.
And this evening at sundown, the last day of Chanukah began.
If you’re into Meaningless Religious Trivia, that would make it the day of Jesus’s B’rit Milah - his ritual circumcision. So it’s appropriate for Christians to celebrate the day with wine and cookies, maybe a nice catered bagel and smoked fish lunch. Or even a cold cut tray from the local deli.
For us Jews, until sundown, it was the first day of the month Tevet. It’s pure calendrical coincindence that the days of Tevet 5766 will coincide with the days of January 2006.
And this evening at sundown, the last day of Chanukah began.
Haneirot halalu anachnu madlikin, al hanisim v’al hanifla-ot v’al hat’shu-ot v’al hamilchamot, she-asita la-avoteinu bayamim haheim baz’man ha-zeh v’al y’dei kohanekha ha-k’doshim. V’khal sh’monat y’mei chanukah haneirot halalu kodesh heim, v’ein lanu r’shut l’hishtameish bahem ela lir’otam bil’vad, k’dei l’hodot ul’haleil l’shimkha hagadol, al nisekha v’al nif’l’otekha v’al y’shuatekha.[A technical note: The lights pictured above are NerLights olive oil lamps. They are little glass ampoules, each containing a wick and enough olive oil to burn several hours, sold in convenient sets of 44 - enough for all eight nights. To use ’em, you just crack off the tops of the ampoules and set ’em down in your chanukiyah, and you are ready to roll. No drippy wax...and they burn smoke-free, glowing with a beautiful warm light. Olive oil - just like Back In The Day, am I right?]
These lights we kindle to recall the wondrous triumphs and the miraculous victories wrought through Your holy priests for our ancestors in days of old at this season. And for all eight days of Chanukah these lights are sacred; we are not permitted to make ordinary use of them, but we are to look at them and thus be reminded to thank and praise Your holy Name for Your miracles, Your wonders, and Your deliverance.
CARNIVAL OF THE CATS #93
The lovely and talented Rahel, host of Elms In The Yard, has started the New Year right with her excellent assemblage of Kitty Love: the ninety-third Carnival of the Cats.
Hakuna, Matata, and Neighbor all wish Carnivalgoers a Happy (Gregorian) New Year, filled with Love and Skritches.
Hakuna, Matata, and Neighbor all wish Carnivalgoers a Happy (Gregorian) New Year, filled with Love and Skritches.
CARNIVAL OF THE RECIPES #72
The seventy-second Carnival of the Recipes is up at Caterwauling. Plenty of tasty treats, with a holiday theme to ties things (loosely) together. Enjoy!
For, as it is said: Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow, we diet.
For, as it is said: Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow, we diet.
ELVIS, SCHMELVIS
Elvis, Schmelvis, indeed. There’s only one King...and that’s King Kong.
All others are mere pretenders to the throne.
Last week, I spent a pleasant afternoon with Don (Mr. Laura Belle) and Khody, taking in Peter Jackson’s epic reimagining of King Kong. I had deliberately gone in with modest expectations. I have a jaundiced eye when it comes to remakes in general; when a Beloved Classic is involved, disappointment is even more a statistical likelihood.
To me, the 1933 original version of King Kong is not only a Filmic Classic, it may be my favorite movie of all time. As many times as I have seen it over the years, it still never fails to move me, with its heartbreaking story of a King-Hell Brute snatched away from the land he ruled, only to meet an ignominious death. It has all the elements of great tragedy, including a protagonist who is all too human despite having the outward form of a giant gorilla.
Kong works so effectively because gorillas are so close to us on the Great Tree o’ Evolution. Dark cousins, as it were. Giant man-eating, city-destroying lizards (Godzilla notwithstanding) just don’t pack the emotional wallop that a Big-Ass Gorilla does, because we can all see ourselves in that gorilla’s eyes.
Jackson’s remake, unlike the Dino de Laurentiis botch in 1976 that starred Jessica Lange, Jeff Bridges, and Charles Grodin, was not only a technically brilliant retelling of the story, but a respectful homage to the original Kong. The inclusion of some of the old Kong set design and the brilliant Max Steiner score as components of the New York stage show was a great way to incorporate these elements without being heavy-handed. The scenes aboard the steamship Venture did a much more effective job than the original of conveying the filth, the rough seas, and the claustrophobia of a long ocean voyage.
And King Kong his ownself, as envisioned and made real by Jackson’s effects team, was wonderful. I say this as one for whom the old King Kong was the iconic Movie Character, primitive as he was.
The only thing that didn’t work for me was Naomi Watts’s interpretation of the Ann Darrow role. Sure, Fay Wray screamed a whole lot, but Naomi gets a little too emotionally involved with the Big Guy. It strains credulity, is what it does.
But this is a quibble.
The 2005 King Kong will never replace the 1933 original. But it stands on its own as a great movie, and it’s a damn sight better than most of the crappy Big-Effects Moveez out there today.
Only one question remains, however. This new Kong is a perfectly imagined Magnified Gorilla in so many ways. Why, then, does he not throw his Volkswagen-sized turds at his adversaries? Mr. Jackson, explain yourself!
HAVEL HAVELIM #51
So much going on all at once!
It’s the seventh day of Chanukah.
It’s the first day of the Hebrew month of Tevet. [Rosh o’ th’ Chodesh to ya!]
And it’s time for the 51st edition of Havel Havelim, AKA Vanity of Vanities. Go pay a visit over at Shiloh Musings for your weekly ration of Jewish-themed posts.
It’s the seventh day of Chanukah.
It’s the first day of the Hebrew month of Tevet. [Rosh o’ th’ Chodesh to ya!]
And it’s time for the 51st edition of Havel Havelim, AKA Vanity of Vanities. Go pay a visit over at Shiloh Musings for your weekly ration of Jewish-themed posts.
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