A CHANUKAH EDITORIAL

[If Dear Abby can get away with reprinting the same frickin’ Holiday Columns every stinking year, why not Blog d’Elisson? We are therefore pleased to offer this previously published Editorial Response, one that is both timely and appropriate to the season. Chanukah begins at sundown on December 21 this year.]

We take pleasure in answering thus prominently the electronic-mail communication below, expressing at the same time our great gratification that its faithful author is numbered among the friends of Blog d’Elisson:

“I am 8 years old. Some of my little friends say there was no Judah Maccabee and that Chanukah is a load of crap. Papa says, ‘If you see it in Blog d’Elisson, it’s so.’ Please tell me the truth, was there a Judah Maccabee?” - Patty O’Furniture

Patty, your little friends are wrong. They have been affected by the skepticism of a skeptical age. They do not believe except what they see. They think that nothing can be which is not comprehensible by their little minds. All they care about is that fat red-suited guy who schleps presents to Yenemvelt and back. All minds, Patty, whether they be men’s or children’s, are little. In this great universe of ours, man is a mere insect, an ant, goornisht, in his intellect as compared with the boundless world about him, as measured by the intelligence capable of grasping the whole of truth and knowledge.

Yes, Patty, there was a Judah Maccabee.

He existed as certainly as dedication and courage and devotion exist. He kicked some serious ass back in the day, Judah did, throwing the Greco-Syrians out of Judea and reclaiming the holy Temple. His struggle was a struggle against assimilation, against those who would be seduced by the pop culture of the day. He fought his battles so that we Jews would retain our cultural identity and not be swallowed up in the prevailing pagan mainstream. Alas! how dreary would be the world if there had been no Judah Maccabee! It would be as dreary as if there were no Pattys. (Or furniture.) There would be no candle-lighting then, no singing Ma-oz Tzur (or even those stupid dreidel songs), no commemoration of the miraculous rededication of the Temple. No Judah? We would even today be schmearing ourselves with olive oil and burning pig hearts as sacrifices to Zeus. And our Christian friends would have no Christmas - for the culture that gave rise to Jesus would have been wiped out. The eternal light - the ner tamid - with which childhood fills the world would be extinguished.

Not believe in Judah? You might as well not believe in fairies. Or the Matzohball That Does Not Sink. Or Eliyahu ha-Navi. You might get your papa to hire men to watch all the seder tables of the world to catch a glimpse of Eliyahu, but even if you did not see him, what would that prove? Nobody ever sees Eliyahu ha-Navi drink his wine at the Seder table, but that is no sign that there is no Eliyahu ha-Navi. The most real things in the world are those that neither children nor men can see. Did you ever see fairies dancing on the lawn? Of course not, but that's no proof that they are not there. (Although those footprints in the grass were more likely made by your Papa as he tried to sneak back into the house with a snootful of booze after the office Xmas party.) Nobody can conceive or imagine all the wonders there are unseen and unseeable in the world.

You can tear apart the knish and see the tasty filling inside, but there is a veil covering the unseen world which not the strongest man, nor even the united strength of all the strongest men that ever lived could tear apart. Only faith, poetry, love, romance, can push aside that curtain and view and picture the supernal beauty and glory beyond. Is it all real? Ah, Patty, in all this world there is nothing else real and abiding.

No Judah Maccabee? Thank G-d he lived - and lives forever. A thousand years from now, Patty, nay, 10 times 10,000 years from now, he will continue to chase the Greco-Syrians out of Judea and combat the forces of cultural assimilation, making glad the heart of childhood.

Happy Chanukah!

[Originally posted on December 25, 2004.]

THE PERFECT GIFT

This time of year, many of us spend inordinate amounts of time shopping for gifts, impelled by both the spirit of the Christmas season (and for us Jews, the unfortunate conflation of the Big Christian Holiday with the minor-league postbiblical celebration that is Chanukah), and the lashing of the merchants’ Advertising Whip.

For many of us, the most difficult part of the whole process is not the expense, nor is it the hours spent schlepping packages through a crowded shopping mall, nor is it wrapping everything up in nice shiny paper that will be shredded immediately upon opening.

It’s finding the Perfect Gift.

Any slob can give someone a present. At the very least, it doesn’t take a whole lot of imagination to pick up a gift card at Crate and Barrel...or any other retail establishment. I’ve often wondered at the appeal of gift cards. Instead of writing a check - a gift that says, “I want to show you I care about you, but I have absolutely no imagination and/or desire to spend time actually shopping for a gift for you” - you buy a gift card, locking the recipient into spending money at a specific retailer before the card expires. The gift card announces that you cared incrementally more than the person who simply stuffed some bills in an envelope...but cash, at least, is good everywhere.

For those who actually want to buy something, there are plenty of items on the shelves that seem to show up during the Christmas season...or just before Father’s Day. Stupid-ass gifts, like golf-ball polishers. Decorative items, such as plastic reindeer with electric noses. If you like tchotchkes, this is the time to go wild.

But the best gifts are those that come from the heart, the gifts that you instinctively know are right. They may be costly, but they need not be in order to be precious to the recipient. The bottle of Château Lafite 1945 for that wine connoisseur...the symphony tickets for that couple who are always humming operatic arias...the box of matches and can of unleaded for the unshaven arsonist who lives under the freeway.

To be able to give the perfect gift, you must know someone well enough to know what is in his or her heart. Their deepest passions, their most closely-held secrets, their emotional cores. It is the mark of true friendship.

I think, for example, of the thin volume of Robert W. Service poems that Eric pressed upon me several months ago, a vintage copy of The Spell of the Yukon. Eric knew of our shared interest in poetry, sure - but what impressed me the most was not only that he knew I would take pleasure in the gift, but that it was something he himself loved...and yet, he was willing to part with it for the sake of giving a friend the Perfect Gift.

There is no more sincere gift, I believe, than the one you would want someone to give to you.

In that spirit, in the event you are casting about for a gift for Eric this Christmas season, you can take the easy route and simply buy a bottle of fine Single Malt...or you can select something more personal, something that speaks unto the very soul.

The choice is yours.

[Tip o’ th’ Elisson fedora to Houston Steve for the link.]

FRIDAY RANDOM TEN

It’s Friday, time once again for this week’s Random Selection o’ Choons as pooped out - randomly, of course - by my Little White Choon Box.

That random element results in some jarring musical juxtapositions, but every so often I discover that two songs that have little in common segue nicely into one another. Like life, the Random Ten is fulla surprises.

The past couple of days have been busy here, what with all the carpet installation activity and all. Of course, anything that forces you to move everything around will have the side benefit of stimulating the Spousal Brain Cells...resulting in all kinds of repositionings and reimaginings. Which means a lot of Moving Yet More Shit Around.

But all of that Shit-Movage will need to be accomplished on a short time line, for Sunday marks the start of Chanukah. And that, in turn, means that we will have a houseful of friends over to enjoy our traditional first night activity: The Momma d’Elisson Memorial Chanukah Dinner.

The menu, as always, will consist of potato latkes and Chinese food.

But before I start schlepping books, boxes, and furniture...and reconnecting all of those pesky electronics (a job I dread), let’s go see what’s on the box:

1. Spanish Key - Miles Davis
   
   
2. Speed Racer - Devo
   
   I’m speed racer and I drive real fast
   He’s speed racer and he drives real fast
   I drive real fast I'm gonna last
   
   I’m a big pirate and I like to steal
   He’s a big pirate and he likes to steal
   I like to steal and I like to kill
   
   Go go go speed racer
   
   I’m a Barbie doll but I got brains
   She’s a Barbie doll but she’s got brains
   I’ve got brains and I like sex
   Lots of brains and she likes sex
   
   I’m your doctor and here’s the bill
   He’s your doctor and here’s the bill
   Doctor steal and here’s the bill
   He likes to steal so here's your bill
   I’m speed racer and I drive real fast
   I’m a big pirate and I like to steal
   I’m a barbie doll but I got brains
   I’m your doctor and here’s the bill
   I drive real fast I’m gonna last
   I like to drink and I like to kill
   Lots of brains and I like sex
   Like to steal here’s your bill
   
   
3. If You Fall - Azure Ray
   
   
4. Tales Of Brave Ulysses - Cream
   
   
5. Maggie Mae - The Beatles
   
   A throwaway track, not to be confused with the similarly-titled song by Rod Stewart.
   
   
6. Drink To Me Babe, Then - A. C. Newman
   
   
7. The Money Song - Original Broadway Cast, Avenue Q
   
   
8. Inner Mounting Flame - Mahavishnu Orchestra
   
   
9. Ain’t No Woman Like the One I Got - The Four Tops
   
   Levi Stubbs’s recent passing marked the end of an era. “Feed me, Seymour!”
   
   
10. Anyday - Derek and the Dominos
    
    

It’s Friday. What are you listening to?

FUZZY FRIDAY

Come sail the Bloggy-Sea with me,
Keep company with Bird and Bee
And Platypus, and Snake, and Bat
And (last, not least) the purring Cat.

Friday Ark #222 is up at the Modulator.

Sunday, Carnival of the Cats wends its way over to Nikita’s Place, AKA Musings of a Mad Macedonian...just in time for the start of Chanukah. Latkes and kittehs!

Update: CotC #249 is up.

FOOTUS

News from the world of medicine has become increasingly bizarre lately. Why, just this morning I read about a woman who is having a face transplant...not in order to look like Paris Hilton or any such crass purpose, but to be able to live a reasonably normal life. This is a Good Thing, as Martha Fucking Stewart might put it.

But what really grabbed my attention was this article about a baby with an unusual brain tumor. Unusual? that ’s putting it mildly, for the tumor consisted of a fully-formed foot. Yeef!

[Dr. Paul] Grabb said that while removing the growth, he discovered it contained a nearly perfect foot and the formation of another foot, a hand and a thigh.

Bedam! A partial homunculus! Perhaps even a baby brother, engulfed and digested! It has happened before, as long-time Esteemed Readers will attest. Fetus in Fetu!

Happily, little Sam Esquibel should be able to go on to live a normal life. And I have a sneaking suspicion as to what his eventual career is likely to be.

He’ll be a podiatrist, of course! Who better suited to the task than a child born with feet on - nay, in - the brain?

NESTLED

Hakuna curls up in her very own bed.

As expected, Hakuna has made herself scarce while the thudding and banging of carpet installation proceeds apace. My guess is that she’s in Elder Daughter’s room, holed up inside the bed’s box spring...her favorite hidey hole for periods of Extreme Kitty-Angst.

I am sure that angst started when we started moving boxes and furniture around, creating an alien landscape of partially empty rooms. It could only have gotten worse when the installers came in, moved out the rest of the furniture, and ripped out the existing carpet and padding.

When it is all over and done with, will she recognize her new surroundings? The new, plusher feeling underfoot - will it throw her for a loop?

I doubt it. After all, this is a cat that, we’re convinced, has a mental Reset Button. As with the Drew Barrymore character in 50 First Dates, her memory seems to get erased every night so that she needs must reacquaint herself with us anew every morning.

FLOOR PLANS

Phase II of the Chez Elisson Floor Renewal Project is underway.

Yesterday, we schlepped furniture, books, and fifty billion miscellaneous tchotchkes out of their accustomed locations, in order to clear the way for the carpet installers. It’s like moving, except without quite as much paperwork or aggravation.

All this...and in three days, we’ll have a house full of people to entertain on the first night of Chanukah. Which means we will have to put everything back. Oy.

But I will say this: Nothing will make your existing carpet look as shabby as the knowledge that a brand-spanking-new replacement is imminent. And this will be Quality Stuff with good padding, not the builder-grade crap we’ve lived with for the past ten years.

I’ve already warned Hakuna, whose excessive affection for the existing broadloom has resulted in a lot of shredded corners and margins. I love her to death, but I’d better not catch her chewing at the carpet edges ever again...or it will be permanent exile to the sunroom.

Meanwhile, our DSL modem and router have been temporarily located. At least we still have a connection!

Update: One of the things I dreaded about this whole thing was the need to dismantle our TV/DVD/surround sound/VCR/CD/turntable/cassette deck/receiver setup.

I did not photograph the massive tangle of wires and cables, but I found a pretty accurate depiction, courtesy of Erica.

Figuring out how to put it back together will require a lot of patience, Scotch, and the kind of engineering knowledge I haven’t bothered to maintain in over 35 years.

THREE BIRDS WITH ONE PAN

Turkey leg confit.

You see here a pan of turkey leg confit: turkey legs cured for a day in a dry rub of salt and spices, then slow-cooked for several hours in an ocean of schmaltz. [You can find the recipe here.] Conveniently enough, I had a whole mess of duck and goose schmaltz sitting in the freezer for just such an occasion.

Turkey, duck, and goose. Kind of like a turducken, but without the necessity of jamming one bird inside the next to create a poultrified Matruschka doll. Instead, you have turkey legs buried in solidified Bird-Grease like some woolly mammoth in the La Brea Tar Pits.

Mmmmm, Bird-Grease.

When it comes time to eat this stuff, I’ll warm it up enough to melt the legs out of the sea of congealed fat in which they are embedded, then roast ’em at 500°F for about 20 minutes. They’ll get nice and crispy, yet they’ll still be succulent owing to that long, schmaltz-ridden visit to Mr. Oven. The flesh, carefully dissected from the bones and cartilage, makes a great addition to Boston baked beans - a kind of Yankee Cassoulet. It can give a meaty punch to a salad...and I’ll bet it kicks ass rolled up in a taco.

Don’t even think about how many calories are in each one of those legs.

Best yet: I get to save the schmaltz and use it again! Pommes sarladaise, anyone?

Update: I just removed one of those legs from its bed o’ Ducky-Goose Grease in a maneuver reminiscent of when Han Solo was extracted from that slab of carbonite in Return of the Jedi. Return of the Turki?

The shredded meat made a fine Turkey Leg Confit Salad when placed atop a pile of mixed lettuces and dressed with a hazelnut-shallot vinaigrette...almost obscenely tasty.

DEAD FRUIT, DRESSED UP

Sound the trumpet; blow the bugle -
SWMBO’s gone and made a kugel.
Bereft of magic like a Muggle?
There’re charms aplenty in SWMBO’s kugel.

[Actually, “kugel” rhymes with neither “bugle” or “Muggle.” Depending on the regional variation you choose, you can pronounce it koo-g’l (with the oo pronounced as in book), or ki-g’l (to rhyme with “wiggle”).]


SWMBO’s apricot kugel, hot out of the oven.

Those who attended the Hysterics at Eric’s this year had a chance to sample the Missus’s apricot kugel...an exotic, never-before-experienced Eastern European treat to almost all, with one notable exception.

No, I won’t post the recipe. When She Who Must Be Obeyed received it, she was sworn to secrecy. What I can tell you is that it contains egg noodles, sugar, eggs, apricot preserves, cream cheese, cottage cheese, and sour cream - with dried apricots for decoration. The proportions...and the secret spices? You’ll have to guess.

Perverse as I am, I can’t help but imagine a Bizarro World version of this delicious dish, a version made with prune jam (AKA lekvar) and pitted prunes in lieu of the apricot preserves and dried apricots. SWMBO is both horrified and repulsed by this idea...but what do you think? Does a Prune Kugel sound appetizing? Or would it make you run for the hills? Or toilet?

One thing is for certain. If I ever do make it, the Missus will kick my ass for desecrating her recipe. And I wouldn’t blame her. But it’s a risk I may have to take as I go in search of Pruney, Kugelly Goodness...possibly inventing the ideal brunch dish for the maturing Baby Boom generation.

TEACH YOUR CHILDREN

Any reasonably intelligent parent will tell you: Children are not born with a fully-functioning set of social skills. As parents, our Prime Directive is to instill those social skills...the necessary tools that allow people to live together happily in a civilized society.

David Bogner understands this, as is evident from this post in which he tells a story of teaching his five-year-old son Yonah a few basic telephone manners. Is five too tender an age for such a lesson? David and I both agree: No.

When I read David’s post, I thought back to a little incident this past Friday morning as Houston Steve and I were taking our leave from breakfast at the Local Bagel and Smoked Fish Emporium.

As we headed for the door, we saw an acquaintance sitting at a table with his thirteen-year-old son. Said acquaintance - let’s call him Bubba - proceeded to introduce us to his son - let’s call him Danny - as any father might do.

That’s when I saw the iPod Nano in the young man’s lap...and the earbuds jammed firmly in his ears.

I reached over and gently yanked the earbuds out. “Here’s how this works,” I said. “Your dad is going to say, ‘Say hello to Mr. Elisson.’ You’re going to shake my hand, and I’m going to say, ‘Nice to meet you, Danny.’ Then you’re going to repeat the procedure for Houston Steve, here. And after that, you can stick those earbuds back in. But for right now, you’re going to pay attention to the people around you. It’s a valuable social skill - one day, you’ll thank me.”

And that’s pretty much what happened. Bubba didn’t say a whole lot, but his eyes called out a silent message of appreciation. And Houston Steve and I had a good chuckle as we headed out into the parking lot.

Folks, kids don’t learn by osmosis. They learn by example, and by instruction. Make sure you provide both.

My friend David Bogner surely would agree.

CLICHÉ-O-MATIC

One of my old Blog-Buddies, happily returned from a nine-month hiatus several weeks ago, has come up with an invention so wondrous... so perfectly suited to our times... so necessary... that I am gobsmacked with awe and delight. Spittleflecked, if you will, with profound amazement and amusement.

Esteemed Readers, may I present Charlie Hatton and his Cliché-O-Matic™.

No longer must you use tired, worn-out old expressions and catchphrases. Be the first one on your block to use sparkly new expressions and catchphrases!

Fame may elude you - after all, who remembers the person who first uttered “All Your Base Are Belong to Us” or “Klaatu Barada Nikto”? But you will feel the pride of Electronically Assisted Creativity. Try it today!

THE KRINGLER RAV

This morning at minyan, Lou, who has led Tuesday shacharit services since time immemorial, yielded the bimah to another: It was clearly a Special Occasion.

Afterwards, I congratulated the gentleman on his fine davening skills. “You seem to know what you’re doing up there. If you’re looking for a full-time gig, perhaps I could hook you up,” I told him.

I was, of course, being a Smart-Ass. For the gentleman in question was our very own Rabbi Loomis [note: not his real name], who was celebrating his sixtieth birthday.

After services - and a small tot of Chivas - we headed off to the Local Bagel and Smoked Fish Emporium, where the Rabbi treated us all to breakfast, as dictated by local custom. Houston Steve and I enjoyed a bit of sable and kippered salmon with our Toroidal Breadstuffs as we watched our host blow out the candles on his cake whilst wearing a silly hat. Not as silly as a colander, perhaps, but it got the job done.


Our Rabbi celebrates. The sign reads, “CAUTION! 60 year old having a senior moment.” And check out that fancy yarmulke!
[Photo credit: Houston Steve]

With his moderately portly build and with his snow-white hair and beard, Rabbi Loomis could conceivably be mistaken for a popular Seasonal Personage. Who knows? If the economy gets really rocky, imagine the possibilities for a side income...

THE ELISSON BOOKSHELF

Being yet another installment in a series entitled “What I’ve Been Reading Lately.”

My last Bookshelf Post was, appropriately enough, on April Fool’s Day, over eight months ago. And now, what with all of the holiday gift shopping going on in these short weeks before the year-end frenzied confluence of Christmakwanzakah, it’s an excellent time for me to stand here in my Bully Electronic Pulpit and pontificate about what I have been reading. Who knows? Perhaps you may be influenced by my impeccable Literary Selections unto the point of purchasing them for yourself...or giving them as gifts. Or picking ’em up at the library, the most economical alternative.

Here’s what I have read since early April:

April

• The Ten-Cent Plague: The Great Comic Book Scare and How It Changed America - David Hadju
  
  A look at the world of pre-Code comics and the paranoid cultural struggle that led to their replacement by the sanitized tripe with which we are all too familiar. Carefully researched and entertainingly written.
  
  
• Lost Horizon - James Hilton
  
  The book that gave us the term “Shangri-La,” this was the first novel ever to be published in paperback.
  
  
• Fail-Safe - Eugene Burdick, Harvey Wheeler
  
  Another golden oldie, I remember this being an extremely popular and topical novel during the height of Cold War paranoia. It was released in October 1962, the same month as that monumental exercise in brinksmanship, the Cuban Missile Crisis. Even as a mere ten-year-old, I was fully aware that my world was on the verge of going up in nuclear flames. What I didn’t know was just how close a call we had...and that there were nuclear warheads sitting in Amityville, just one town to the east, which made us a primary target.
  
  
• Siddhartha - Hermann Hesse
  
  Practically everyone I knew read this book while in college. I waited. But I read it in Japan, in a traditional Japanese ryokan in Kyoto, the perfect setting for a story about a man’s lifelong search for enligtenment.
  
  
• The Omnivore’s Dilemma: A Natural History of Four Meals - Michael Pollan
  
  The story of where our food comes from...and why, if we are what we eat, we Americans are really nothing so much as giant ambulatory corn chips. Fascinating, entertaining, depressing, and enlightening.
  
  
• Kindred - Octavia Butler
  
  A masterful novel from the late writer, one of the rare People of Color writing in the SF field.
  
  

May

• The Shell Game - Steve Alten
  
  Oil industry thriller, rife with spelling and usage errors to the point of being unintentionally humorous.
  
  
• Duma Key - Stephen King
  
  King’s best novel in years. Boogitty boogitty!
  
  Rant - Chuck Pahlaniuk
  
  This guy’s novels are in a bizarre class by themselves.
  
  
• Who Stole The Funny? - Robby Benson
  
  A story set in the world of television, hysterically funny despite being peopled exclusively with one-dimensional characters.
  
  
• In Defense of Food: An Eater’s Manifesto - Michael Pollan
  
  A follow-up to The Omnivore’s Dilemma, this book is more prescriptive and less entertaining, with a message that can be condensed into seven short words: “Eat food. Not too much. Mostly plants.” Words to live by.
  
  

June

• Disguised As Clark Kent: Jews, Comics, And the Creation of the Superhero - Danny Fingeroth
  
  Fascinating topic; alas, the writing is repetitious and dull.
  
  
• The Kill Artist - Daniel Silva
  
  The first of Silva’s Gabriel Allon series. Taut, fast-paced thriller, perfect beach reading. My friend Gary got me hooked on Silva’s books, and I started devouring them (as you will see). I can polish one of these off in a day or two.
  
  
• The English Assassin - Daniel Silva
  
  
• The Confessor - Daniel Silva
  
  
• 211 Things a Bright Boy Can Do - Tom Cutler
  
  A lot like The Dangerous Book for Boys, but much edgier. A somewhat abashed recommendation from David Bogner (Treppenwitz).
  
  
• A Death in Vienna - Daniel Silva
  
  

July

• When You Are Engulfed in Flames - David Sedaris
  
  More nutty essays. The title comes from hotel room instructions Sedaris saw while staying in Hiroshima. Imagine that: Entertaining Translations in Japan.
  
  
• Little Brother - Cory Doctorow
  
  A cautionary SF tale with political overtones, examining the consequences of having an overzealous Homeland Security organization.
  
  
• I Was Told There’d Be Cake - Crosley Sloane
  
  David Sedaris with a vagina.
  
  
• The McSweeney’s Joke Book of Book Jokes - McSweeney’s
  
  

August

• Prince of Fire - Daniel Silva
  
  
• Liberal Fascism - Jonah Goldberg
  
  
• The Messenger - Daniel Silva
  
  

September

• The Secret Servant - Daniel Silva
  
  

October

• The Year’s Best Science Fiction: Twenty-Fifth Annual Collection - Gardner Dozois (editor)
  
  Crammed full of excellent short fiction, it took me a full month to work my way through this tome.
  
  
• Final Theory - Mark Alpert
  
  
• The Man with the Iron Heart - Harry Turtledove
  
  In which Turtledove posits an alternative world where the Nazis prosecute an effective resistance post-WWII, echoing the real-world experience in Iraq.
  
  

November

• Ender in Exile - Orson Scott Card
  
  Card revisits his Ender series, this time writing a genuine sequel to the brilliant Ender’s Game
  
  

December

• Moscow Rules - Daniel Silva

Whew. Thirty books. Eight months.

Right now I’m in the midst of Gregory Maguire’s Wicked: The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West (much darker than the stage musical version). Lots more books to read...and if I don’t figure out what to do with the old ones, the Missus may have me sleeping in the basement...

So: What have you been reading lately?

THE AFTERMATH

I imagine that a medieval peasant, upon returning to the smoking ruins of his village after Tamerlane and his hordes came through, raping and pillaging, would have felt much as I did early this afternoon.

The house was a shambles.

Ashtrays were piled high, overflowing with smoldering, lipstick-stained butts. The kitchen trash can was crammed with empty liquor bottles. Every horizontal surface bore drink rings. Puddles of vomit splotched the carpet; fortunately, it was almost impossible to see them thanks to the drifts of used condoms littering the floors.

Brassieres, most with unidentifiable stains, were draped over chair backs. One, notably, was stuffed into the downstairs toilet.

The Chalet Kristy after a three-day blogmeet was as clean as a freshly-fallen blanket of snow in the Canadian Rockies compared to this horror show.

Residual estrogen fumes lingered in the air, the natural consequence of having a gaggle of Vagino-Americans packed into a small space. I could feel the ol’ Twig-and-Berries shriveling under their concentrated hormonal assault. If I stayed much longer, the consequences could be serious. Man-boobs! A desire to watch “Dancing with the Stars”!

A guy like Eric may get the heebie-jeebies from thoughts of zombies, but you can take this to the bank: There is no horror to compare with the aftermath of a Baby Shower.

WRITER’S BLAG

The man may foam at the mouth when he writes...but boy, does he write. His take on the Blagojevich scandal, f’rinstance.

More fitty-cent words than you can shake a stick at, including the infrequently-encountered (yet oh, so evocative) “marthambles.” And I am always a sucker for the odd kidney stone reference.

Go thou and read.

FRIDAY RANDOM TEN

Wow...is it Friday already? Why, so it is.

This promises to be an interesting weekend. She Who Must Be Obeyed is hosting a baby shower this Sunday, which means there will be all sorts of frantic cookage and cleanage disrupting my peaceful Saturday. The cookage I understand; when you have a horde of chattering wimmin in the house, you have to give them something to eat, lest they begin devouring the sofa cushions. But the cleanage? The house will be far filthier after they all leave...so what is the point, exactly, of cleaning it before they show up?

There are the kinds of questions only a Feckin’ Eejit would dare ask on a blog that his spousal unit reads.

And so, before the hammer comes down, let’s brighten things by taking a peek at this week’s Musical Miscellany, barfed out at random by the iPod d’Elisson. What’s playing today?

1. Tell Me Why - The Beatles
   
   
2. Canned Music - Dan Hicks & His Hot Licks
   
   Canned music, canned music
   Playing on the radio
   Canned music, canned music
   Without a doubt it doesn’t go
   Favorites on the jukebox
   Are only half the show, when it’s
   Canned music, canned music
   
   A little before she left me
   I asked her what it’s all about
   She said I feel like dancin’
   I feel like stepping out
   I took her with the van
   Where the band was on the stand, playin’
   Live music live music
   
   She got us on the dance floor
   To me it was a sight
   I never seen my baby movin’
   Like the moves she made on me that night
   I did not have a chance
   The way that music made me dance
   It was some
   Live music, live music
   (It ain’t canned)
   
   Canned music, canned music
   Playing on the radio
   (It ain’t canned)
   Canned music, canned music
   Without a doubt it doesn’t go
   Favorites on the jukebox
   Are only half the show, when it’s
   Canned music, canned music
   
   The rhythm was all around us
   We was really steppin’ out
   My baby said I'm livin’ for this music
   I asked her what it’s all about
   She said I’m such a silly girl
   This stuff has got me in a whirl, ain’t it
   Live music, live music
   
   And that was the night she left me
   Danced herself into my memory
   My baby had to leave me for the drummer
   I guess I’ll never solve that mystery
   I think I’ve learned my lesson
   Just don’t get too near the band, when it’s
   Live music, live music
   
   A little before she left me
   I asked her what it’s all about
   She said she feel like dancin’
   She feel like stepping out
   
   
3. The Grotto - Bernard Herrmann, Journey to the Center of the Earth (1959)
   
   
4. The Mikado, Act II: Brightly Dawns Our Wedding Day - D’Oyly Carte Opera Company
   
   
5. Luna - Smashing Pumpkins
   
   
6. Samson and Delilah - The Barry Sisters and Jan Bart with Sam Medoff and the Yiddish Swingtet
   
   
7. King Kong: Suite - Charles Gerhardt / National Philharmonic Orchestra
   
   From the 1932 version of King Kong, the only one that matters. Max Steiner’s atmospheric score is such a perfect counterpoint to the action on the screen, it’s hard to imagine anyone doing a better job of putting music on film...even the legendary Bernard Herrmann.
   
   
8. Animal Zoo - Spirit
   
   
9. Women and Men - They Might Be Giants
   
   
10. I Am The Walrus - The Beatles
    
    The first and last songs on today’s Random Ten list are from The Beatles. It is a continual source of astonishment (to me) that the same group could produce two songs so dissimilar, a mere three years apart...
    
    

It’s Friday. What are you listening to?

FUZZY FRIDAY

Winter is icumen in
Yet animals won’t freeze,
Thanks to good insulation in
The Ark that plies the seas.

Friday Ark #221 is afloat, with our very own Hakuna in the Crow’s Nest.

This Sunday, be sure to stop by Artsy Catsy for the 248th edition of Carnival of the Cats. It’s Perfectly Catrocious™!

Update: CotC #248 is up.

ON CAKE, AND PERMISSIBLE DECORATIONS THEREFOR

No matter what form your celebration may take,
Remember one rule, for your sanity’s sake:
A rule that you never – nay, never - may break.
Don’t stick birthday candles in a Urinal Cake!

SNOW IN HOUSTON

The Missus and I were just watching the news only to find out that it has snowed in Houston.

In equally likely news, Hamas has agreed to accept Israel’s right to exist as a Jewish state and to cease all terrorist activities; NBC, ABC, and CBS have announced an immediate moratorium on the creation of new reality television shows; and the Reverend Jeremiah Wright has apologized for being a Big Fucking Idiot.

[Well, it really did snow in Houston, anyway And it may do so here, too.]

THE SOUTHERN GENTLEMAN

I am a long-time denizen of the American South, my adopted home...but once there was a time when I was unfamiliar with this part of the world. Hard to imagine, eh?

Aside from our annual trips to South Florida, I grew up with little exposure to Southern Culture. Not that South Florida was southern in any way - it was not, being packed with Yankees - but to get to and from it by car, we had to traverse great swaths of Southland. It was my chance to marvel at exotica like segregated water fountains and to enjoy my annual bottle of Dr Pepper.

That changed when I went off to college. Princeton University, that is, AKA “The Duke University of the North.” For in my freshman year, one of my roommates was an authentic Southern Gentleman.

He was tall, with a ruddy complexion and flaxen hair, David was, and he drove a Fiat Spyder sports car. Unlike many of us, David did not dress like some sort of fucking hippie. He wore Oxford shirts and tweed sport jackets. The effect was not quite professorial; I soon learned that it was vintage Good Ol’ Prep-School Boy.

David eschewed the popular Recreational Medicaments of the time, preferring the drug of choice of the Southern Gentleman: Bourbon whiskey. This he would consume in vast quantities on the weekends as he made his rounds of the eating clubs on Prospect Street.

In the first few days of freshman year, David joined the rugby team. Getting banged up did not seem to bother him, and after a few weeks he was working on a nice cauliflower ear. I’m pretty sure he got through that first year with his teeth intact, but only because he made a strategic investment in a mouth guard. Wimp.

It was David who taught me about the Southern way of life. How to drink; how to party; how to talk to women; in short, how to be a Southern Gentleman. His lessons fell (mostly) on deaf ears back then, but I quietly took them to heart. They have served me well ever since.

We knew that he came from a moneyed family, but we did not know the extent of that wealth until we started visiting him in his native surroundings - a sprawling ranch house in Arlington, Virginia - over various vacations. During one of those visits made a side trip to Horsey Country: Middleburg, Virginia, a tony little village out in Loudoun County that (it turns out) attracts visitors from around the country and has the reputation of being “the Nation’s Horse and Hunt capital.” Fox hunting and steeplechasing! Tailgating! You can well imagine that I felt right at home. (A Gefilte Fish Out of Water was more like it.)

David was the second youngest of five children. There was a big age gap between the eldest three siblings and Dave; his brother Dick - a doctor, as were both Mom and Dad - was over two decades older than him. Next in line were two sisters, Jane and Sally. Then came Dave, followed by his kid brother Paul.

Dick, Jane, and Sally. Hmmm. Those names sounded familiar. But when I found out that the dog’s name was Spot and the cat’s was Puff, I made some sort of snide remark to Hal, our other roommate.

“It’s no coincidence,” Hal responded.

The original Dick and Jane readers had been written (so Hal said) by a family friend beginning in the early 1930’s. When he was casting about for names for his characters, he thought of Dick, Jane, and Sally...inspired by our roomie’s much-older sibs - who were old enough to have been the right age at the time.

Of course, the original Spot and Puff were long gone...but the names lingered on in their replacements.

“Bullshit!” you may cry. There’s no fucking way you went to school with Dick Jane, and Sally’s kid brother!

Believe it, Esteemed Readers. As much as I do, anyway...for that is how the tale was told to me, back in the spring of 1971.

And David? He’s still alive and well. Last time I saw him, it was by sheer coincidence, running into each other at the airport in Greenville, South Carolina about 25 years ago. Since then he has spent a good chunk of his career in the insurance business - at one point he was an executive veep at Aetna, and now he’s a director of an offshore holding company. I keep hoping to bump into him at Reunions...maybe 2009 (our 35th) will be the year.