Weekend Gourmet
During her travels Mom made a stop at one of the local green grocers. She likes this particular vendor because he carries these beautiful and enormous bunches of basil for a dollar. Usually she's able to make two batches of pesto and still has a little bit of basil left to add to a little salad.
She made her pesto and the scrapings from the blender went into a potato salad, like a hint of Genovese dreams.
Usually when she makes pesto, we make pasta with shrimp or scallops -- in lean times with chicken. This time, Mom was looking for something a little different. So instead of the usual, she settled on salmon and yellow squash. It rocked!
On Saturday, I took the bit of potato salad left and the bit of pasta left and mixed them up. I wasn't about to spend too much time on the kitchen -- just because it is my kitchen time doesn't mean I want to be there. I love it, but there are limits to my love.
I had a small pork loin. I crushed garlic (a lot of it) and made a marinade of olive oil, crushed pepper, Italian seasoning (dried herbs) and about a teaspoon of kosher salt. I browned the meat, added about a quarter cup of water and vinegar and let it cook covered for some 20 minutes. It came out very tender and subtly seasoned to complement the salad.
It was simple and unassuming, but very tasty.
Space: the final frontier?
At the moment, NASA is having quite a week, following the anniversary of Apollo 11's Moon landing.
First we had a no-go. That was followed by an uneventful and successful take off. Except it wasn't, there was a problem. And now the crew of Discovery is stranded (not); and the party is over, nobody else gets to go up until we figure out the foam problem. But, we are told those guys can probably come back. We'll see…
A few hours ago, the official word came that there is a tenth planet in our system. A planet bigger than Pluto, word from the NASA website is that it is "about 97 times further from the sun than the Earth, the planet is the farthest-known object in the solar system, and the third brightest of the Kuiper belt objects." (Later in the day, space.com informed us that the comparison to Pluto is inaccurate.)
Props to CalTech and JPL!
Of course, this means that everything you thought you knew about the solar system will become obsolete in the next few years. Remember when you memorized all the Soviet republics for social studies quizzes? Sorta like that, but BIGGER! While these sweeping changes were taking place in the USSR, we used to joke about the spiking levels of alcoholism and nervous breakdowns at Rand McNally, poor cartographical bastards.
No name has been announced, though there is an application in and we will be notified when the name is approved by the International Astronomical Union.
Because it is the third brightest, we could call it "Kalea" - Hawaiian for bright. Since it is Number 10, we could call it Bo -- Hollywood for 10. There is no rule that proclaims that planets or objects within the system be named after a Roman or Greek deity, seeing as we were at our least creative when we named the sun and the moon. My next proposal is to name the planet after Jimmy Doohan/Montgomery Scott, but that's the Trekker geek within speaking.
Then space.com also announced a second discovery of another planet (this one with a moon). So 7/29/05 is going to go down in history as a very exciting day for science nerds the word over!
To sum up: lots of new places to explore, no way to get there.
Is this bliss?
This morning, there was a soft and cool breeze playfully nudging the curtains and I realized that I was moving about at a quick pace. And I could breathe and smell my coffee! It was about 70 degrees and there was almost no humidity. I was light-headed for a moment. Walking to the subway, I found myself so giddy, I spied a huge grin on my face as I walked past the Laundromat and saw my reflection smiling back at me. Somehow that tickled me and I let out a little laugh.
Ordinarily, this would seem like rather unstable behavior, but everybody else seemed enchanted into a sort of internal bliss this morning. Not the born again type of bliss, but something more unadulterated and simple: just joy and gratitude.
It felt like lounging on a small beach, with your feet on the water, drinking champagne and eating chocolate truffles, while watching the sunset as B.B. King manhandles Lucille in the background.
Was it really that perfect a day? The jury is still out on that. But given the abuse we've received from the Weather Gods, it certainly felt like a blessing.
The contrast was monumental, but of the two extremes, I have to vote for the champagne and chocolate thing. And that is why, you should all vote for me for Supreme Empress and Commander of the Universe. I'd be good to you.
Promises, promises...
Not much to say tonight. Too darned drained to even try. I will say this: they promised me a huge thunderstorm and at 10 nothing had happened.
The day had a nightmarish quality to it, hot and humid with the air quality approaching mystical daggers poking at my lungs. The sinus headache that customarily comes around 4 p.m. arrived a little early today and started kicking my insides at 11 a.m. And just as I considered praying for my head to finally explode, in deference to pleas from ConEd to conserve energy, the employer decreased AC power. Oh joy!
The rest of the afternoon was spent going in and out of semi-consciousness, rubbing sinus cavities trying to make the pain magically evaporate (a futile attempt), as a sweet little migraine elevated my threshold for pain.
When I arrived near home, and walked the 4 blocks to the house, I watched the sky turn from a steel gray, to a charcoal gray and finally a deep black. A stale and cool wind picked up debris and dust, making breathing even more interesting. I heard some rain starting to come down. That lasted about a commercial break during Jeopardy. But that dangerous thunderstorm they promised, the one that would finally cool us off and put us out of this hellish misery: it hasn't arrived yet. (Technically, it rained, a pathetic little downpour but it's not what they promised me!)
I want my gale winds, the hale and the torrential rains! Don't make me promises you can't keep you Lying Weather Bastards!
"Of course, you realize this means war..."
My introduction to the beauty and excitement that is classical music can be attributed to two factors:
1.
Pablo Casals -- who lived out the last decades of his life in Puerto Rico and would often perform on television, lobbied for music education and was instrumental (heh) in creating an auditorium of fine arts.
2.
Bugs Bunny.
Who among us all could possibly forget that our first encounter of the works of Wagner came when Bugs besieged Elmer Fudd in a clever version of
"Ride of the Valkyries" ("Kill the wabbit!") ?
Everybody loves that crazy rabbit. Well, I always did. For the last 65 years he has been making kids and kids at heart giggle.
Sure, we all pretended to be Superman, Spidey, Batman, Catwoman, Wonder Woman, the Man from Atlantis or even the Mummy. But at some point, almost subconsciously, we've all wished we could be more like Bugs. He's cool, even in apparent defeat -- and he didn't lose often, though he was sweet when things didn't work out as he expected. He beamed confidence and humor and charm. He was quite the athlete, a great actor (did a mean Hamlet!), a witty conquistador and he is a really good basketball player (he played with MJ, y'know?). Plus he kicked some serious Nazi ass! He mixed it up in tights as a Merry Hare. Bugs is a Renaissance Dude with a touch of Class Clown and Rebel, lover and hustler. He cooks, he drives, he flies, and he looks good in a tux.
Happy Birthday, Bugs!
Happily Ever After, the Disco Version
I was about 14 when our neighbors' oldest daughter demanded to be allowed to marry. She was in love, they had no right to deny them their love and if they did not comply, she'd simply run away with him.
She was screaming. Her mother was trying to reason with her. The middle child cried for the screaming to stop (at the top of her lungs). The youngest, the boy, couldn't care less. The father was too drunk to even notice the commotion. He drank to a numbness approaching complete sensory annihilation.
As this was going on, Hilda was moving towards Enrique's car and threatening never to return or let them see their already conceived grandchild. Ricky tried to calm her down, which she didn't appreciate because she did
not like to be told what to do. Then he asked her not to speak to her mother
that way, which she appreciated less. So as they were arguing about her right to love and live, she and Ricky got into a fistfight.
For the wedding, my grandmother gave me a few bucks to buy them a present.
"What's the point? It's not like it's gonna last!"
My grandmother told me to go to the five-and-dime and get them something nice and to stop being a cynical little witch.
I bought them everyday glasses. It was a practical gift: a set of 8 glasses with a caddy. I knew she liked to throw things. I gave her 9 of them, one heavy and metal to add insult to lacerations. Love hurts.
Less than 6 months after they made our poor priest perform a mass with a straight face, the marriage was over.
"So, Ma, you think I can ask for the glasses back? Maybe they'll give me a refund for the partial set."
Mami didn't find it amusing.
Is self-governance kinda like self-abuse?
This is the capitol building in San Juan, Puerto Rico; the scene of plenty an atrocity… It stands as the symbol of self-governance in an island that is one of two such self-governing possessions of the United States.
On this date, in 1898, Gen. Nelson Miles along with 16,000 of his best friends from the U.S. Army and Navy invaded the island of Puerto Rico. This was followed by the Spanish-American War and
yada yada yada: 54 years of colonial rule!
Again on this date, in 1952, a constitution was ratified by voter referendum and Puerto Rico was proclaimed a commonwealth of the republic – making her sons and daughters naturalized citizens of the US with its civic duties and responsibilities as well as the advantages of federal concessions. However, islanders differ from mainlanders in their insistence of retaining Spanish as their official language (though English is taught since elementary school) and not being allowed to vote in presidential elections, while remaining completely at the mercy of whichever idiot sits in the Oval Office. (Puerto Ricans are also better looking than most mainlanders.)
The Commonwealth is known as
Estado Libre Asociado (Free Associated State), though some question the validity or truthfulness of all 3 parts of that.
These are the generally accepted facts and I refuse to follow with political arguments. So after 53 years of humming "we're-not-worthy", and playing to the political intrigue of "he-loves-me/he-loves-not", today is a holiday on the island – with schools, government offices and most commerce closed – many consider it a day of mourning caused by the political corruptness of traitors and collaborators and the moral bankruptcy of the oppressors. There is a huge parade; there will be speeches and then fireworks – music, dancing, drinking and food through it all.
So depending on where you stand:
¡Féliz día del E.L.A.! or
¡Libertad!
F'd Chicken? (WTF?!)
F'd chicken sounds dirty, but I'm not sure we are allowed to refer to it as "fried" anymore, are we? People have fake heart attacks when you say the "f" word.
Not sure how humid and unbearable next week will be, and Sunday afternoon and early evening was very nice. So I took out the cast iron frying pan and got busy. I marinated the chicken legs and thighs in olive oil, plenty of crushed garlic, kosher salt and hot sauce. I browned it and finished cooking it by steaming.
The idea is that our "picnic" chicken tastes fabulous cold, hot or at room temperature. Whatever happens, weather wise, Mom will not have to sweat over a hot stove any time in the next few days.
This chicken is not the greasy stuff you get at some fast food joints, though the traditional deep fried stuff has apparently fallen to a mere memory in the American kitchen. Or so the media says... I found a great
recipe you may want to look at and possibly try someday. But it that sort of thing frightens you, just read it and enjoy pretending.
Summer Leftovers
On the weekends the kitchen is mine. This is the time during the week, when I let loose and create culinary art. Unfortunately, it has been so unbearably hot and humid that cooking is not on the top of our favorite things to do.
For this reason, we have been relying a lot on salads. And Saturday night we had accumulated enough salad leftovers to create an entire meal of it: tomatoes and onions in a tangy dressing; slaw; pesto pasta with shrimp; and Mom's chayote with tarragon.
Chayote is a Latin American summer squash and
Gourmet Sleuth has a nice page including recipe links. My great grandmother and my grandmother used to make chayote stuffed ground beef and rice that I couldn't possibly duplicate.
Ten years ago, Mom found a recipe that she immediately ripped off the hometown paper and she kept bringing out and lovingly glancing at it, "I'm gonna make this…" she'd say entranced by the anticipation of tasting it. This has now become one of our summer staples.
Place a whole chayote in a saucepan and cover with water, bring to a boil and simmer for about 10-15 minutes. Drain and place under cold water. Peel and discard skin. Slice thinly and pour olive oil, lemon juice, salt and pepper to lightly coat and season as well as chop about one tablespoon of tarragon (you may use less if dried). Serve at room temperature and it can be refrigerated and it will keep for a good week or more.
If you cannot find chayote in your local market, any summer squash can be substituted, and you can find some fabulous recipes at
http://www.nikibone.com/recipe/chayote.html
Defining Special (in so many ways)
July 23rd is special around these parts. Many interesting things have fallen on this date throughout history.
In 1904, it is claimed, one Charles E. Minches invented the ice cream cone. And it's Vanilla Ice Cream Day!
In 1921, Calvert (Larry "Bud" Melman) DeForest is born. Others sharing a birthday on this day:
1888 - Raymond Chandler, author
1892 - Haile Selassie, emperor of Ethiopia and reason for Rastafari Celebration the world over
1940 - Don Imus, American talk radio host
1961 - Woody Harrelson, actor and a non-Rastafrian who will doobie up nonetheless
1965 - Slash (born "Saul Hudson"), guitarist (Guns N Roses)
1973 - Nomar Garciaparra, baseball star shortstop
1973 - Monica Lewinsky, Congressional intern/skank
In 1966, Francis Albert hit the top of the charts with "Strangers in the Night." Other top charters include:
Woody Woodpecker Song - The Kay Kaiser Orchestra (1948)
Whatever Will Be Will Be (Que Sera Sera) - Doris Day (1956)
The Girl from Ipanema - Stan Getz/Astrud Gilberto (1964)
Lean on Me - Bill Withers (1972)
It’s Still Rock & Roll to Me - Billy Joel (1980)
Pour Some Sugar on Me - Def Leppard (1988)
Today is the first day of the sun sign of Leo (the creative and romantic Lion rules the Zodiac's house of pleasure). More importantly, on this day our friend Roberta decided to grace Brooklyn and the world with her presence. For this reason, Mom makes her no-bake blueberry pie and we celebrate her.
Happy Birthday, Roberta!
Brooklyn A&M?
Wednesday morning, the very first thing I heard on the radio news was something about a school principal in Brooklyn who found a marijuana plant in a flower bed in the courtyard of Paul Robeson High School.
I probably shouldn't encourage that sort of behavior, but my first reaction was to laugh so hard I almost swallowed my toothbrush. You have to love the brazen nonconformist anarchy shown by the little bastard who pulled this off.
Amidst all the shock and anger displayed by the adults, the learning opportunities presented here seem to be less obvious to them than to me. With this one little incident, you could create very relevant lesson plans about botany (science), mid-twentieth century countercultural history (social studies), Allen Ginsberg poetry (language arts), or psychedelic rock (if we still had a music program in New York City)...
Other obvious lessons could include subject areas such as chemistry, marketing and math.
The
New York Daily News had a great opportunity too, but they bungled a perfectly good stoner/literary reference with this headline:
A weed grows at Brooklyn school.
In its early days, Brooklyn used to be farm country. Maybe we need to go back to our original roots (no pun intended, I swear) and repurpose Robeson High to our first ever A&M.
Clothes Gone Amok
It was so hot that when I entered the house, my clothes instantly stuck to my like a second floppy, wet skin. In my desperation to ditch the clothes, I started doing a ridiculous little dance, drenched and whining because I couldn't move faster to alleviate my suffering.
This was the stuff of true horror -- it was like these garments were simultaneously fused to me and mocking me in my moment of anxiety!
I could picture some psychotic storyline where the clothes would suction themselves to different body parts and laugh hysterically at me. And it's only a matter of time before somebody scribes it.
Stephen King might come of his fictional retirement for it.
We are already in the midst of bad robot movies. Back in April the New Scientist did an item about microchips inserted into fabrics that would help change colors and patterns (insta-fashion!) and maybe even serve as IPods. The idea of my blouse singing to me seems a bit surreal and slightly scary. Mood rings I get, but mood micro-minis are a little too much.
And, what if, like the Cylons, these AIs decide they no longer want to serve me and instead want to rid the Universe of my needy kind who can't even dress themselves? What then?
Clothes gone amok, that's what! Amok!
FOX executives are in mid orgasm: "When Clothes Attack!" "If Clothes Could Kill!" "Psycho Fashion: Gastineau Girls: The N ext Generation!"
The horror, the horror… Until smart clothes become a reality, how about
smart ass clothes?
I guess, I'll just have to beam myself now...
"A can nae change the laws of physics!"
Our dear Scotty has retreated to the aether, finally one with everything.
James Doohan passed away this morning. We will forever be thankful for every time we heard him say, "I've giv'n her all she's got Captain, an' I canna give her no more!"
See you in syndication and the odd Star Trek dream. (What? Don't
you all have Star Trek dreams too?! Don't look at me like I have three heads. Besides, that's the B5 dreams.)
You made us all genetically-tartaned ones prrroud of our lineage!
Commuter Types: The Pushy Twit
I was sitting on the sweetly air conditioned R train, finally at a total temperature -- surface and internal -- approaching human. Outside it felt like 197-degrees with added gravity. At the train station it felt some 30 degrees higher.
I'd settled in with the Einstein book, a comfortable spot between me and the next commuter and his financial rag.
That's when she entered our lives. The Commuting Pushy Twit. She threw herself at the seat between us, her bony left cheek landing on my thigh. Her clunky shoes managed to knock off my foot, like a curling iron. A foot, I may add, that appeared to be safely tucked under the seat, but not safe from her giant twit feet. She almost knocked the book off my hands (a 416-page hard cover book, at that).
I turned to face the twit. This is Brooklyn, and while an apology would be nice; it isn't expected. But if you wrong someone, acknowledge their presence, even if it is just to shrug off your own stupidity. We count that as a sort of incompetent apology. And give you brownie points when considering whether it would be worth it to kick you unconscious. Not that
I would, but before caffeine on 90-plus weather with humidity to match, evil thoughts come easily.
She turned her head away from me and upturned at an angle, staring at the bolts above her head. The guy in the suit stuck his entire face into his Wall Street Journal. I waited for it. I stage whispered (in Spanish), "Animal." She, deeply offended, huffed and stormed off. The old lady sitting next to me on the lateral doubles cracked up, "Hah! For such a pushy little twit, you'd think she'd have the strength of her conviction to endure a true staring contest..."
Yeah, some people can't play the game. If you need to practice, go
here. Otherwise, don't mess in the Big Leagues. There is no cushy DL in real life in Brooklyn.
Bon Bini, Mi Kier Ranka Lenga?*
Despite the deplorable publicity the island of Aruba has been getting lately, what we remember is a lovely land, with beautiful beaches, delicious food, great music, friendly people and an Aussie dude.
We visited the island of Aruba for their first or second Latin Jazz Festival. I spent the majority of the daylight hours in the cooling and serene waters, along with this giant Australian named Bob. You could walk some 80 feet out and not even be waist-deep in the water. He was extremely hairy, with glistening dirty blond hair that shined under the unforgiving sun. He would always wear a cowboy hat in the water. It was creepy! But he was really friendly, always waving and shouting a "G'day!"
The average temperature there is about 80° and it is very pretty. For such a small place, it is replete with white sand beaches, grottoes, a natural bridge, caves, a lighthouse, a natural pool, and exotic fauna and flora. The island is beautiful as are the people with their exotic mix of Caquetio (Arawak) Indian, African, Spanish and Dutch. And they were so sweet! They have several museums specializing in culture and folklore, coins, antiquities and native archeology. It's a very colorful place. And the restaurants offer amazing food, including a remarkable array of international cuisines.
It gets far hotter than the average; it was a dry heat, but I'm pretty sure that it reached 110° one day -- and I'm failry certain that was the temperature just as the sun was going down! I got the hint of how hot it got there as we drove from the airport to our hotel and I saw a cactus growing on the side of the road.
* "Welcome, I want to French kiss." Good phrase to know when in heat. Use with caution, of course.
Vacation as French Farce
It was so hot in the apartment yesterday, at one delirious moment I had this image of our first visit to Barbados.
Our room was on the first floor with a little balcony in the garden, curtained with palm trees and a clear view of the dark blue sea. In the late afternoons, we would sit back there and have a few cocktails and lounge like royalty, the sea breeze caressing us with the sound of little children frolicking in the pool. Paradise.
One night we stopped at the bar, after a late night supper in town. There was some dance contest going on. It was loud and silly, but pretty funny. You know, white people dancing. We kept trying to get the bartender's attention, but he couldn't hear our order for cognac. Eventually, he spotted us and in recognition of the big tippers with the bronzed skins, he gave us a huge smile. He was wearing his little bartender's apron. I hadn't noticed before, but now turned to Mom and said, "Oh my God, it's Salomé!" I was referring to the houseboy in the original, French version of
La Cage Aux Folles (though I'm not sure that was his name, just what I call her).
Mom is a very graceful lady, usually. This evening, she spit out very expensive cognac all over the bar, her dress, my arm and the drunken vacationer standing next to us. And as Mom cackled, so did Salomé the Bartender widen his smile and join our merriment by filling our snifters to the rim. This experience gave us a whole new meaning to the word nightcap!
Spooks Can't Cook
A summer, some years back, our friends Debbie, Ivette and Peter, Mom and I got into Debbie's car and drove up to Hyde Park. We had a dinner reservation at the CIA. That's the
Culinary Institute of America, not the spooks. The spooks can't cook. They keep shooting the main course!
It's like that FOX reality program, "Hell's Kitchen" -- the instructors have a contingent of student chefs running around terrified of how badly the have screwed the dining experience of the well-dressed patrons in the dining room. Still, the service was far superior to that at many of the restaurants in New York. The food was dream-like good. So good, in fact, we sat there and stared at the beautiful presentation, our heads swirled. And the aromas were mesmerizing!
The grounds are beautiful too. But it was the food at Escoffier Restaurant that stayed with us for all these years. The mere mention of the place causes all of us to just go into semi-hypnotic state, where our eyes glaze over and our mouths water, and we mutter, zombie-like, "CIA… CIA…"
We stayed at a small B&B in the area and spent the following day lounging in the Hudson Valley. Once you leave the city, the big and tall buildings, New York becomes this postcard of greenery and beauty that seems ethereal in comparison. One of these days we have to do that again. It makes for an absolutely magnificent day trip!
Peek-a-Boo!
I walked into the local pharmacy to pick up some chocolate hazelnut crépes roulées to have with our coffee. Within 6 seconds of entering the store, the one two-year-old there spotted me and immediately ran to play with me among the boxes of cookies and cake.
I'm a kid magnet. My theory is that I have a giant neon sign over my head that says "kid-friendly" and only tykes can see and read it.
At times like these, the child in question and I end up playing peek-a-boo. Geek that I am, I have always wondered about peek-a-boo existing outside a cultural vacuum. Greek, Korean, Mexican, Sudanese; it doesn't matter from where the child's family hails; they all find that game entertaining and hilarious.
Much has been written about peek-a-boo across cultures. Scientists just did an experiment with monkeys, and found that young monkeys tend to play with gender-appropriate toys (overwhelmingly, females pick dolls and males trucks). Maybe peek-a-boo is some sort of genetic imperative. I think it's just practice for full-fledged flirting.
That's right: peek-a-boo is a tool for the propagation of the species.
Girlie Things
I admit not having much to say right now. I'm a little tired and a bit cranky (hot). However, there is one thing I'd like to share. I was thinking about Victorian, Regency and Edwarding gowns, costume balls, tea parties and all sorts of girlie things.
Then I found a link to Liana's
paperdoll collection. It reminded me of our friend Natalie and her delightful granddaughter Rose, with whom we share a love for paperdolls.
I have several paperdoll books, including a really funky Erte. It's the artwork that really attracted me from the beginning, the colors, the lines. Go play!
Liberté, Liberté Chérie: Happy Bastille Day!
Today is Bastille Day, a day that symbolizes liberty, equality and the brotherhood of man. Although all that good will is on hold because we still not talking to the French, I think.
I don't get involved in geopolitical intrigues if it will interfere with my ability to hold a theme party. Go to this
Bastille Day webpage and make sure to check out the recipes: you have to forgive the French almost their whole existence when you think about these two simple words:
lobster potpie!
And if you must let them eat cake, let it be chocolate mousse cake.
Finger Lickin' Newspapering
For years, I would cherish Wednesdays because this was the day that several newspapers would print their Food section. The Times, Boston Globe, L.A. Times and the Washington Post were some on my list. There was this great newsstand chain around the city, and as I moved from the Rockefeller Center area down to Union Square and the Village for work, I'd visit them weekly.
I could spend hours browsing esoteric international periodicals ranging topics from the culinary, comics, religion, archaeology, crafts, Victoriana, travel, music, literary, technical, collectibles, photography and anything else that stroke my fancy that week. There were favorites, but I was eager to branch out often. I have always been an adventurous and eclectic reader.
These days the excitement of those long-gone Wednesdays is no more. A lot of the newspapers publish parts of the food sections online and too much of the content has been syndicated so that all local nuances have been lost for the ease of ready-made columns. I am relatively far from Rock Center and the Village newsstand closed after I graduated from NYU.
But the spirit of Wednesday's food sections of yore remains and we try to cook one of the old recipes we found in one of those newspapers years ago as often as possible.
This week's selection was chicken in green sauce, one of my favorites. It's a great dish because it slow cooks unattended and the biggest effort is putting the herbs and condiments in the blender to create the velvety green sauce. It involves garlic cloves, a bunch of scallions and parsley. Most of you have heard me wax poetic about the green sauce before, go here for the
recipe!
My Mind in Perfectly Linear Fashion
I met an adorable little boy today.
His name was Jericho.
My own name is unusual in some parts of the world (in others people bow to its sacredness); I did find this a highly unusual choice of name, despite its Biblical implications. My first thought was not of Jesus walking into the ancient town on the original Palm Sunday. Instead my mind went straight to Mel Brook's "History of the World: Part I" -- yet another reason why I am going straight to Hell.
Of course, I am only assuming that they meant the Biblical town on the West Bank; because I somehow doubt his Bronx-bred mother knows anything about Jericho Beach in Vancouver. If you have some time, you might want to drop by there in a couple of weeks for their annual "
Sin at Sunset" event. They claim to celebrate the 7 Deadly Sins.
I've always wanted to host a Victorian costume ball based on the Seven Deadly Sins. For my costume I'd combine my favorites (lust, gluttony and laziness) and cover my nakedness in chocolate and lay in a hammock to watch the action.
Hell is Relative
The temperatures today hit the almighty three digits--something many of my fellow men compared to Hell.
Of course, hell is a relative term (and I don't say that because I'm smack in the middle of an Einstein biography and my entire body tingled when I saw E=mc2 written on the page this morning).
I lived in Puerto Rico, and even there hellish heat comes in relative degrees. There is a town in the southern coast that is so stifling, the tar on the road is pliable and you literally sink into it when you try to walk across it. And though I swore I'd never be one to encourage the whole Paris Hilton thing, I must say, "That's hot!"
So playing around with the idea of a relative hell I found out this is where I stand:
You approach Satan's wretched city where you behold a wide plain surrounded by iron walls. Before you are fields full of distress and torment terrible. Burning tombs are littered about the landscape. Inside these flaming sepulchers suffer the heretics, failing to believe in God and the afterlife, who make themselves audible by doleful sighs. You will join the wicked that lie here, and will be offered no respite. The three infernal Furies stained with blood, with limbs of women and hair of serpents, dwell in this circle of Hell.
The Dante's Inferno Test has banished you to
the Sixth Level of Hell - The City of Dis!Here is how you matched up against all the levels:
Take the Dante's Inferno Hell Test
The Not Ready for Salvation Players
The only sensible thing to do after God runs you out is to go home, dust yourself off, and pop a copy of "
Saved!"
It reminded me of my First Communion when I told my next door neighbor that despite what my grandmother said, God would not strike you dead if you committed a sin. To prove my point, we stood outside, while I looked towards the heavens and recited every dirty word I knew (admittedly a limited repertoire because I was just a kid).
Unfortunately, we lived in a town known for its afternoon showers. After I was done, the skies turned a gloomy black and a curtain of cold water descended on our sinful little heads. We both ran to our respective bedrooms to think about what we had done. Of course, since we lived to talk about it, it greatly diminished the fear factor our elders had tried to instill on us since birth.
Visiting God
This is our 20th year living on the border between Sunset Park and Bay Ridge. In that time, I have found myself walking by the
Basilica of Our Lady of Perpetual Help almost daily. Miraculously, I have never been inside. I left the Church as a child, but I love going into churches. I love the architecture, the artwork, if not the dogma.
Once I decided maybe it was time to go check it out, but it was closed. I took it as some sort of sign. I didn't take it personally.
Today I had to run an errand in the early afternoon and decided to stop in the Basilica. I went in as there was a small wedding being performed.
Dennis was letting his presence known across the northeast, and the sun had long gone under cover of darkness. As I sat in a back pew, glancing at the beautiful panes of stained glass, the wind began to pick up. The front doors were open and the pamphlets on one of the tables picked up and whirled in a little vortex, landing all over the floor. I got up and picked some up, and placed them so that they'd stay put.
Then the wind began to howl, the skies drew darker and some drops made their way down. I was half expecting Jack Nicholson to drag himself in and start lecturing us about "Women! Was it a mistake? Or did He do it to us
on purpose?"
I ran out, trying to make it home before the heavens opened up, and also to avoid the blot of lightning my grandmother always warned me about. From the top of the stairs all the way down, my skirt did an obscene little dance, threatening to give all good Christians at street level a good look at the Promised Land. Then my hair broke free and all 10-inches of it flayed in the wind. A heretic banshee running from the House of the Lord.
I refuse to overanalyze it. Dude: Apocalyptic!
Surreal Summer Takes Off
The
Powers That Be have a wicked sense of humor. It is the least alienating explanation to some of the things we must all endure in life.
But this summer is turning
Whedonesque. It's like Wolfram & Hart has completely taken over -- and not the Firm as headed by the champion, I mean the Firm when Lindsey and Lilah shoved each other around like hyperactive kids with sibling rivalry.
First Sandy retired. Now there's the threat of Rehnquist retiring as well. Now, I'm not saying I hear a song in my head (except maybe "The witch is dead, the wicked witch is dead"). Good riddance. The man is a troglodyte. That's a huge exaggeration, of course, and quite the insult to troglodytes.
In their infinite wisdom, the
PTB have allowed
Tumbler to pick 2 Supreme Court Justices. So it turns out that the Partners at the Home Office aspire to be screenwriters and are planning the most horrifying joy ride humanity has ever seen.
In the next few weeks we are going to look terror right in the face, complete with a traveling and televised circus. Fasten your seatbelts, darlings, it's going to be a bumpy ride! Ah, this is the stuff of nightmares. Well played, Evil Bastards. Cue the Big Bad! Fade to black.
Lucky 7
Too exhausted to have extensive thoughts and relate them in compound sentences...
I awoke up too tired, in fact, and the reaction to the London bombings was just jaded. Couldn't invest the emotion to mourn the poor souls who lost their lives and instead tried to settle on the fact that at least it wasn't 9/11, because I'm not sure we can withstand 2 events such as that in one lifetime. Then I caught myself in mid-thought and shuddered. Cold!
I suppose recognizing my own cynicism is reason to hope that I can turn it around.
It was an odd day from that moment on, but I was too busy to think too much about anything but the tasks at hand. And, then at the end of the day, my contract got renewed and extended in the period of about 7 minutes.
Finally, too tired to read, I surrendered at my seat on the bus -- trying not to think about the fact that I was sitting on a bus, during rush hour. I closed my eyes and let darkness propel me into Sunset Park. I awoke at my stop and quickly disembarked.
Tomorrow will be better. Life always finds a way.
Deconstructing Bob
The criticism of Bob Woodward never ceases to amaze, amuse, confound and piss me off. The complete impossibility of it is as grand and immense as the universe itself! Therefore, I will now rant...
This criticism is usually founded on his strict adherence to the facts -- as if this was a deadly character flaw for a reporter. The biggest problem Bob detractors have is his clinical detachment, the fact that he states facts and never delves into poetry, charm or judgments.
The man is a reporter, not an artist, judge or observational comedian. He reports. Seems so simple, doesn't it? The subjects he covers (or at least the ones he is best known for) are gargantuan in themselves. Why is it necessary for him to interpret every word, every action, every freaking nuance?
By virtue of the critics, not only should he have investigated Watergate; but also headlined the series, "BAD REPUBLICANS! NO WHITE HOUSE FOR YOU!"
Did we really need Woodward to tell us he felt their actions were reprehensible, or instruct us that we should feel these were bad deeds?
His lack of florid language does not detract from
your ability to formulate a thought on your own, to follow the story to moral truths you all learned as toddlers, for Christ's sakes.
People: truth is its own beauty, even when it is not pretty. Accept it.
Finally, if you are looking for an explanation as to motive, the source is senile. You are not going to get the closure you yearn. He barely remembers his own role and there is not indication he left behind any artifacts to ease our curiosity. The one clear thing to me is that Woodward has never considered (and will always be incapable of considering) that it was he who was used, but a very smooth and clever operator. But that would destroy the fond memories of a relationship that was built on the hero worship of youth, a jaundiced emotional thing but a real thing to those who suffer it. And still, this is no actual proof of motive, because none can be ascribed based on it.
Woodward's biggest sin is to have adopted this mantra:
"I will always cherish the initial misconception I had about you."
Welcome Back, Mr. Woodward
My life can be easily broken down into a series of minor and major obsessions. It would be a simplistic way to deal with me as a character or subject, but it wouldn't be too far off the truth.
The obsession for this week returns Bob Woodward to the surface of my unrealized dreams. I always wanted to follow in his footsteps, but the truth is I'm not sure anyone can. Even at my most confident or arrogant, I can't do it. This is not to say that the man isn’t flawed. He is, after all, just a man. There must be a flaw there somewhere. I just can't see it and would refuse to acknowledge it if I did. It's easy to accuse the Emperor of nakedness, but one does not notice the same in a God. It's rude!
I spent my day reading reviews and excerpts of the new Woodward
book, with a growing yearning for the Dateline interview and trying not to regret taking too many other roads--none leading to the promise of following in his footsteps.
Years ago, one of the largest ad agencies used to run a contest in which they'd ask prospective employees to write an essay explaining whom in history they'd have lunch with. (Yes, I ended that sentence in a preposition and I defy you to call me on it!) I could never settle on
one lunch partner, and Jesus figured prominently (just so I could say the words,
"So . . . how's Dad?") and Woodward would always make the grade--simply because he was Bob and, in my mind, a deity all to himself. When I blindly adore, I don't disappoint.
Slightly apropos: a cursory glance at the Columbia Journalism Review left me with a quote that is priceless and probably speaks beyond its mere words (if you follow such things or ever did):
Fact-checking Hunter Thompson was one of the sketchiest occupations ever created in the publishing world.
--A Technical Guide for Editing Gonzo
By Robert Love
Declaring Independence by Default
At the top of this weekend, I asked Mom, "Hey, wanna go to the movies on the Fourth?"
So we scoured the papers and between the two of us, poor unfortunates with no cable, we couldn't come up with anything to throw money at!
We can assume some of the responsibility of the ongoing slump Hollywood has been experiencing in recent months. But I prefer to put the blame on Tom Cruise. I admit, it is a little cruel to pick on a mentally unstable guy, but it's neater than analyzing something that means so little in the bigger scheme of things.
It was almost tragic that there was not a single title that made us think, "Let's get dressed!" Or at least consider putting on shoes… The hot tickets left us cold. The only two things we considered, a documentary about penguins and an animated film about a moving castle would require a train ride. The idea of traveling for entertainment did not appeal to either of us.
The Brooklyn Academy of Music did have a Johnny Depp retrospective--which a former English major titled "In Deppth"--but I didn't want to pay to see movies we have already seen, some of which I own and others which I can catch on network TV or buy for about $4.99 at the local video store.
That left "Star Wars" and not only have we already seen it, we will own it as soon as the Lucas-approved DVD hits the market (to complete the collection).
This is Independence Day and we found ours in the form of borrowed DVDs, fried chicken and potato salad. So screw you, Cruise!
Happy Birthday, Ron!
Today is Ron Kovic's birthday. Ron's my hero. I have no idea where he is these days, out in California somewhere; but I am pretty certain that he is being mischievous in that particularly wicked and delightful way of his. He can't help it; it's just the way he is.
He's probably flirting with pretty girls. Again, not something he can help.
He is making some uptight people very uncomfortable and mad; he is making others think. Whatever, Ron is making full use of his First Amendment Right. He can't help himself. He is entitled, of course.
An American, he has fought for his country (a brother from the Proud), is a strong advocate for Veterans and the disabled; born on the fourth of July. Ron is a lot of things. Today he is
the birthday boy.
We met in Stony Brook many years ago. I was minding my own business. Brooding… He came by to cheer me up. We talked for a long while about love, life, politics, poetry, food, movies and anything else that came to our heads. There was no rhyme or reason except to communicate and keep the whole thing going. It was easy to enjoy his company because he is just an extraordinary guy. And funny: the man is freaking hilarious!
We laughed a lot. We had a fantastic time!
Our meeting ended with me sitting on his lap as he sped down the hallways on his wheelchair through the basement at the student union -- he hooted and I squealed while we raced past faces that were sometimes smiling, some confused and others offended.
He made quite an impression on me. I never watched the movie because Tom Cruise freaks me out and my Ron was way cuter. And real.
Happy birthday, Ron!
23 years, 9 months, 7 days
This is a weekend full of loss.
Sandra Day O'Connor has tendered her resignation to the nation's highest court. Twenty-four years ago I would have never guessed that after hearing this news I would go into a funk, hearing John Travolta whining in my head:
Sandy can't you see I'm in misery
We made a start now were apart
There's nothing left for me
Love has flown all alone
I sit and wonder why-yi-yi-yi
Why, you left me oh Sandy…
Besides the obvious win-win outcome of knocking TomKat out of the top of the news and national discourse, I see an endless array of ridiculous arguments over who should be replacing the Justice.
I expect that there will be a contingency screaming for another woman. There will be another contingency screaming for a Latino. Others will claim that it is time for a female African American to join the fray. There will be a smaller group screaming for an Asian counterpart for the old white guys on the bench.
I say we don't even try to replace Sandy. There will be no other Sandy. There are logical arguments for this, but I will let the OpEd writers of America take the responsibility to try to affect the outcome of something they have no power over.
Write your Congressperson. Let's get wild and truly integrate the highest court of the land! Let's find and nominate a Punk Rocking, Native American Lesbian with ADD as our next Justice.
Bookmark her page and remember her for always:
Oyez, baby!
Good night, Luther
The first time I heard Luther Vandross sing, I understood the meaning of the phrase "velvet voice" as well as the concept of melting slowly. It was like a string orchestra with dozens of cellos playing. Luther could do things to me with a simple note that most men have never achieved with a full arsenal of alcohol, assorted recreational drugs and the advantage of being in my presence.
Unlike most folks of my generation, I have never been big on lyrics. Mostly I concentrate on melodies and harmonies, the words tend to get in the way. I appreciate the poetry involved, but most popular songs have lyrics that rarely relate to me (so I skip that part and concentrate on what brings me most pleasure: the sound).
Besides, I have never been big on love songs. I find them sappy. Luther's songs, more than love songs, were these poetic vignettes of life and loss, heartbreak and joy. And for once, in music, I understood it all. And I was transported!
I remember one night, on my way home, I was listening to Luther and even after years of owning the record, I stopped walking to fully listen to his rendition "A House Is Not A Home." It was overwhelmingly beautiful. He left me lightheaded. When he decided, more recently to release his version of a popular songbook, and chose "Always and Forever" and "Killing Me Softly" I took a deep breath and prayed he didn't screw them up. Ye of little faith, said my inner Luther fan, and I breathlessly found new favorites.
I don't think I'm eloquent enough to express how sad Luther Vandross's passing is to us at the Temple. That voice will haunt us and we are grateful to have several videos, albums and CDs that have immortalized the man. His voice is deeply embedded in our souls and we will always remember the man and the artist fondly.
Yeah, still in love...
Oh, Canada...
Every July 1st, I have a moment of silence. 1. To celebrate the fact that it is Canada Day. 2. To mourn the fact that I am not sitting at Café Vivaldi in rue Prince-Arthur tucked away in the Latin Quarter.
For two consecutive years we visited
Montreal for the Jazz Festival, and I was so completely mesmerized with the city that more than a decade later I am still not over it. I still dream of it and won't shut up about it.
We went into this bar one night and a local band was doing a tribute to Ray Charles. Pretty funky. Especially because the lead singer spoke no English and sang the songs phonetically, and with a French accent: Joh-jah, Oh Gee-oh-gee-ah! At Le Petit Bar, the band got a little fed up with a drunken man who insisted on heckling as they performed. One of the band members kept playing percussion in his face. This seemed to confuse him sufficiently that he headed for the door. The drunk had casts on both forearms, and as he headed for the door, the friendly Canadians offered this advice: "Go play in traffic!" A shop owner asked me which tribe I belonged to--which prompted a hasty getaway, as Mom feared an international incident. The food was amazing, the entertainment was awesome, and the people were mostly friendly and sweet.
One morning after breakfast I heard what I referred to as "jungle drums" and Mom made a racially derogatory comment about my father's heritage. I walked towards the sounds, which were faint, and found ourselves witnessing the very colorful West Indian Day Parade -- although at the time thousands of people watched the magnificent costumes, I was lewdly watching this long-haired blond dude, half naked, standing on the roof of a brownstone across the avenue; his glistening, tanned chest and his ridiculously metallic/raspberry Speedo set against the bluest of skies, his beautiful mane flowing in the wind. Mon Dieu! I dubbed him Thor because he hit me like thunderbolt!
During our first trip, I picked up a copy of the July 5th Montreal Mirror to check what was going on around town. I felt I needed to thoroughly read this paper; I owed it to the Canadian writers, editors and citizens who contributed. I found this ad (a copy of which I still have in my possession, because it reminds me of the zany time I had there):
SCUMBAG(S)! To the person who stole my Miele bike. I hope you are hit by my stolen car, White VW Rabbit, see you in the hospital. Dave
Happy Canada Day!
During her travels Mom made a stop at one of the local green grocers. She likes this particular vendor because he carries these beautiful and enormous bunches of basil for a dollar. Usually she's able to make two batches of pesto and still has a little bit of basil left to add to a little salad.
