tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-75120012024-02-20T10:37:09.832-08:00Drones ClubUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger72125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7512001.post-24431341727050629742009-04-04T23:48:00.000-07:002009-04-05T23:05:12.639-07:00Polly Sleeps.March was a deuce of a stretch, given the passing of Polly's mother and the financial evisceration of her father's automotive dealership. When the going gets tough the marginal go bust, and her family was put to the screws. Without health insurance her dear mum's emphysema went without the finest care, and without unapologetic cardiac patients sporting Greg Norman and raspberry noses her father could not move a Buick Lucerne to save his soul.<br /><br />She is trebly distraught, and I am grateful that she has finally found sleep in the other room. No doubt the tortuous closing flits of her mind's final conscious eye were a pastiche of overcranked reels of father and matron holding her precious form in various small back yards...of steadily-reddening Kodachrome snapshots taken at the very moment her apple cheeks expelled their birthday cake candle-puff.<br /><br />It is one of the true jukes of life that as we go on we feel terrible loss at the memory of a childhood passed—even if it were another's, and a happy one. I cannot help but feel a sting in my eye at the idea of her littler self playing in innocence and joy in a favorite dress, trusting in the permanence of family and home and the very earth, truly enjoying Christmas for its scented cookies and unguessable treasures. That the fresh sheets, bedside lamp, and fluffed pillow which once helped her sleep have long since been thrown in the landfill and buried under mountains of busted screen doors and moldering cantaloupes...these realizations are hard markers along the many lanes in which we honk and shuffle toward the grave. <br /><br />She herself might not feel the loss of such particular times, but I feel it for her. Call it love, or call it selfishness, or call it a finger of the essence of the pear amplifying both. I'd prepare a bouquet from the garden for her bedside table but she'd know I'd been up fretting. She's canny like that.<br /><br />Oh, time to get on with it. One can't stew and wallow in these pools of nostalgic regret all night; where would that leave a man? Firmly without his evening intake of Waugh or Nat Sherman, that's where—and that is no wind-swept jetty upon which any fellow should ever find himself.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7512001.post-32851951516491353702008-05-18T18:08:00.001-07:002008-05-18T23:37:46.304-07:00Working the Old SoilThe rainclouds having retreated, it was once again time to busy my fingers in the earth. Fashion begins with foundation, as they say, so I occupied myself for a few mornings with the removal of winter's detritus: those cheap grassy weeds that grow but do not flower, meandering tendrils of ivy, the moldering carcasses of eviscerated dog toys, and a year's worth of competitively-flung bottle caps. Eventually I had a few level beds with which to work, and I even had a pallet of good red clay brick delivered, which I stacked up and watered on a sweltering day to make humid afternoon sunning bays for my orchids.<br /><br />Unfortunately Todd*, employing the varied and misfiring talents of his ruined mind, mistook one of my cherished phalaenopses for a heroin-producing opium poppy, and gobbled it right down to the roots. Then, instead of penning a smash album of transcending genius and unifying pathos, he immediately fell over in fits of peristalsis and did a noisy wee on the side of my Coca-Cola. The visuals of the reassembled orchid did nothing for me, so I sprayed both art and artist off among the tomatoes with the hose and went inside for an iced glass of mint tea. <br /><br />- - -<br /><br />*<span style="font-style: italic;">Unfortunately Todd</span>: Wouldn't that just be a divine name for a SitCom about the little monster?Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7512001.post-22092425668409120212008-02-20T00:22:00.000-08:002008-02-20T00:40:36.821-08:00Yet More Truth Serum.As I described previously, some of the boys discovered an old bottle of Sodium Pentothal in a hidden drawer disguised as a regular plank-end in one of my old pub tables. Last night they once again slipped a pleasant little dose into Ray's tipple, and the resulting conversation might be said to exclusively reside below. (I fear it went unrecorded by his drinking buddies.)<br /><br />RAY: [returns from restroom] So where we at?<br /><br />ROAST BEEF: Alright dogg you were straight up wrong about it not rainin' today so you got to drain that G&T all at once [points]<br /><br />RAY: When it rains, I pour! [drains cocktail, motions for another]<br /><br />BEEF: Oh man rock it and dock it do you know the origin myth behind the Morton's Salt slogan<br /><br />RAY: [pauses] If I am honest, I recall hearing that the promise Morton's Salt made to consumers was that it would not clump up in times of humidity — a common problem with salt at the time. Hence the clever slogan, "when it rains, it pours." The girl with the umbrella in the rain slicker is iconic, and far more classy than the Jodie Foster Coppertone ad, in which a dog tries to eat a naked child's underwear. I have always found that ad tasteless. I feel that the advertising agent was making an appeal to a powerful client he knew was a pederast. <br /><br />BEEF: So advertising shapes culture.<br /><br />RAY: Advertising <span style="font-style: italic;">is</span> culture. In between advertising we do things like talk about what we have been up to, but all we have been up to is following the instructions of advertising. Going to the gym, going to Burger King, downloading the latest music or driving the latest car. If you think about it, even non-sponsored images are advertising: the old woman with her walker is an advertisement for old age; the young boy with no helmet and a cheap scooter is an advertisement for making the community nervous. He will die beneath the wheels of a car, and it is mathematically likely that it will be a neighbor of his at the wheel, and this will make one of the families have to move. A moving company makes five thousand dollars, or less, per move. On average. <br /><br />BEEF: Wow so we got to get into the moving business.<br /><br />RAY: It seems unlikely. It's an unpleasant enterprise, and many of the employees report fatigue. There is also the issue of poor meals during travel, which affects the bowel.<br /><br />BEEF: So this is why you always say that most moving company guys are dumb as a bowling ball but with the same number of major holes?<br /><br />RAY: [pauses again] I...Beef? Beef. <span style="font-style: italic;">Dude</span>. Why you talkin' about whatever while my G&T goes all Death Valley? Come on, man. Here's a twenty, get us some fries and some other stuff, maybe the mushroom caps comin' out crispy tonight...wait, no. Hate those. Fries and some poppers. Set us up.<br /><br />BEEF: Word dogg all that comin' up like a Coppertone sunrise.<br /><br />RAY: Huh? Get a move on, man. Don't be high.<br /><br />I took the cue and had the kitchen prepare a lovely little platter of fried treats for the men. They stood themselves pints and cocktails well into the night, with "Coppertone" quickly emerging as the evening's wink-nudge word. The fried scallops and lager had a nice "copper-like tone" to them, and Téodor openly mused whether a winsome young lass across the room had a good "coppertone." Lyle asked if Revolver had been released on the Coppertone label, and that curious little Emeril fellow even joined in, refusing to karaoke on the grounds that his ear had a real "copper tone" which prevented him from hitting proper notes. Ray laughed and nodded to keep up appearances, but one did feel a bit sorry for him in spots. Here and there. Not the sort of welling-up that comes when a child with leg calipers topples off a bridge, but the merest suspicion of a wince. Invisible, of course, and fleeting.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7512001.post-23142576315275864632007-11-14T16:19:00.000-08:002007-11-14T18:38:19.717-08:00The hum-drum happiness of life.It's been going well at the Dude and Catastrophe lately. Last night the boys found a bottle of truth serum* inside a hidden compartment in one of my old tables, and after nipping and experimenting with it for a while the most wonderful things began to take shape.<br /><br />One of my favorite exchanges went like this:<br /><br />- - -<br /><br />ROAST BEEF: Alright Ray so just take like a teaspoon of this stuff<br /><br />RAY: Heh! You sure it's okay to mix with Tuaca?<br /><br />BEEF: Oh hell yes doggie this chemical got almost no effects at this dose trust me<br /><br />RAY: [sips] Huh! Don't taste like much. This didn't taste like much, but if I could elaborate, I'd say it almost tasted slightly like a sugar substance was in the suspension. Is that right? A suspension? Kind of a chemistry term. I never was good at chemistry. I saw Mark Witterman win the chemistry award in 1992. I wasn't jealous, but the ceremony did make me slightly mad.<br /><br />BEEF: Okay good uh dogg let's do some questions<br /><br />RAY: I like questions. I have liked questions since a very early age. From a very young time I have enjoyed answering questions. I often wonder if I could make a career of it. My mother asked me questions.<br /><br />BEEF: Do you think you are tall<br /><br />RAY: I am tall. I am a tall person, but not as tall as other people. When I want to describe my height, I say that I am tall, but it depends on your standards. As far as I care to admit, I am a tall man.<br /><br />BEEF: Good uh do you uh are you a main guy in town<br /><br />RAY: I am a main person in town. A lot of people look to me to see what I am doing. There are people like me in every city on earth. I am one of them. There is no plan, there is no assignment. It's personality-based. My personality is that I do what I like and people with less personality or confidence can observe me and see that a confident person is doing a certain thing. They can then act like me in order to create safety.<br /><br />BEEF: Great uh can you describe how you feel about McDonald's food<br /><br />RAY: It is a wonderful product in terms of sensory satisfaction, but I have been aware of the media surrounding its negative effects on earth, culture, and health. Unfortunately we get used to this food at a young age, through lazy parenting, and therefore crave it throughout our lives. I will not fight this, but at times, rarely, this idea informs my food purchases and I opt instead for Taco Bell. That is, if I am looking for food while in my car.<br /><br />BEEF: Wow dang that is interesting uh so also now do you know how to do laundry<br /><br />RAY: Laundry is not something that interests me. I pay someone to take care of that. I could learn how to do it but that is not where my passions lie.<br /><br />BEEF: Right definitely uh so do you make a pretty mean spaghetti with tomato sauce<br /><br />RAY: I have worked on this dish, but I have not been successful in making a version which does not totally rely on heaping spoonfuls of grated Parmesan cheese and dashes of salt. I have difficulty with the herbs. I feel as though I do not understand basil.<br /><br />BEEF: Lots of folks don't understand basil<br /><br />RAY: I...I'm getting thirsty. Why...whoah. Head rush just now...I...wanted to play darts when I came here today, how come we ain't playin' darts? Was I just blankin' on you guys?<br /><br />BEEF: Oh uh I'll get you some water yeah and a Guinness would be rad as Dickens<br /><br />RAY: Doggs, I'm tired of sittin' here! Let's go toss a few. New round on me. What's everyone havin'? Aside from Beef. I got his Guinness order. Dude always has that beer.<br /><br />- - -<br /><br />So, then — on throughout the afternoon did the tricks and travails of my little group play out. The other patrons found them self-contained and charming, and stood by through meals and pints and games of checkers and chess to enjoy their harmless, occasionally crude antics.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">* Sodium Pentothal</span></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7512001.post-59378718201182815542007-08-27T14:35:00.000-07:002007-08-27T20:57:39.134-07:00I believe I have found my métier.The métier of my advanced years, that is. I enjoy nothing more than pulling into the pub around eight in the morning, polishing the brass and straightening the chairs, filling the condiment baskets with their vinegary ablutions, and then, at ten, unlocking the door and cocking the little derby on the stuffed red robin in the window. (When his hat is on straight, we are closed, and when it is cocked, we are open.) It may sound rote and plebeian, but it suits my days just fine to sidle up to the inside of the bar and take an order, make a bit of pleasant conversation, and keep a bit of a book on the side.<br /><br />Yes, we accept betting under the counter here, and I've got a nice little sideline taking commission on the wagers going round. Covers the rent alone, I don't mind saying. Funny how just being there to take a man's money every day can make one wealthy.<br /><br />The downside of running a double-vice establishment is, of course, those who plant themselves within and take a bit of a long leash. Ray was the first to test the bounds of the Dude and Catastrophe. Being a man who takes to strong drink like a drain in a fountain—as well as an inveterate gambler—he came to deep lows our first few months of operation.<br /><br />It started simply enough. He would glide in, buy a round for whomever was seated, and then wonder aloud if, perhaps, anyone had an opinion concerning how skilled he might be at darts. ("Come on, people! Not even a <span style="font-style: italic;">guesstimate?!</span>") Inevitably the wallpaper would put forth a darts prodigy to take him on, and soon the projectiles and cash would blur the air. Ray, being less than adroit at most parlor games, often went high into four digits' worth of debt, and would only agree to halt play at closing time (when I put the robin's hat on straight, the lights dim and the jukebox fades).<br /><br />In the throes of a binge, however, matters took an altogether different turn. Ray, deep in debt to one particular opponent, repeatedly put up large sums of cash to keep the place open after hours. Sipping or gulping neat Macallan, smoking, and drawing meaningless geometric stratagems on notepads, he crashed into sunrise not unlike Newman in that great film The Hustler. Only, in this instance, he literally crashed — sending salvers of highballs and ashtrays bounding across the floor. Up from the rubble was he hoisted, crowned in dust and crumbled cigarette foil, asking if his toss had landed fair. It had not, and we persuaded his opponent to settle over a round and make tracks amongst the bakers, paperboys, and diffident junkies who scrum at first light.<br /><br />Even in such instances do I enjoy the highs, lows, and unknowables of the job. It's a bit like manning a joystick at Cape Canaveral: lovely equipment, men on task, and always the promise that things which go awry are capable of going so awry that the course of a federal program is altered forever.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7512001.post-37919609206726225152007-03-03T07:35:00.000-08:002007-04-16T00:08:34.997-07:00The Dude and Catastrophe: A modest success!Eight o'clock in the morning, January 1st, 2007, saw the doors of the Dude and Catastrophe swing wide open for all the world! Well, in truth, I simply unlocked the front door from the inside and got the thermostat going against the twenty-degree weather, but symbolically I am sure you take my point. It had been Ray's idea that we open on the first day of the new year — I am not sure if he meant for this tidbit to make a lovely talking point later, or if it was based on a misunderstanding of the tax code. Either way, I had on my finest cardinal vest (a cashmere bordering on sweater-vest, with lovely antique scrimshaw buttons depicting the countenances of early American presidents), my green oilskin apron, and the proper old black tie in half-Windsor on a white shirt. I was barkeep incarnate. Not one man in a million could be helped against the desire to order a pint and a pie from me.<br /><br />Back in the kitchen Auguste, the Frenchman I'd found to prepare food throughout the day, cursed artfully to no-one in his passionate mother tongue. I had fully expected that my modest kitchen staff would be of Latino extraction (and had even taken a mild refresher in that Gatling gun of a language), but Auguste had been the first respondent to my advertisement, and his references were beyond compare. In truth, I found him substantially overqualified to prepare my traditional menu of scotch eggs, fries, burgers, fish, pies, pasties, peas, and the occasional stew. For his audition meal, he took stock of the pub's meager pre-opening larders, and prepared from scratch a <span style="font-style: italic;">morue frite en sauce chaud-froid</span> with fat little <span style="font-style: italic;">pommes souffles</span>. How could I resist this anti-pretentious take on fish and chips? Rather than presenting a trendy modern "deconstruction" of a classic dish, he had reverse-engineered it into its likely nineteenth-century roots. You don't fiddle with the things in your pocket at the end of that interview — you take the man's hand firmly and lead him to his locker.<br /><br />Food aside, the place was bedecked with a modest assortment of my collected art and found trophies (viz: deer skulls, wonderful old stenciled mechanics' admonitions, petrified leather cleats from my track and field years, and the like), and the espresso machine steamed away like a happy little truckless train. Tables had been set with baskets of HP sauce and other vinegary condiments; a Crewe Alexandra "greats" video showed on the back-bar television (a behemoth wood-paneled relic from the cold war, which sat heavily on the strong old counter). The lights were low, with hurricane lamps glowing here and there like fireflies keeping to themselves among the corners and rafters of the quiet, sound-absorbing room.<br /><br />Now, despite the myriad experiences from which the outside observer might remark that I had taken little or no intellectual benefit, I have been served well by the following consistent observations upon the nature of our fellow selves:<br /><br />1) No reasonable person wishes to be slapped on the head,<br />2) No reasonable person will deny himself a plate of steaming, buttered spaghetti noodles, especially when said dish is proffered by a voluptuous nude maiden of a personally favored ethnic extraction,<br />3) No reasonable person sets about town at eight o'clock in the morning on New Year's Day.<br /><br />At best, I expected a few patrons might wander in after lunch, still blinking in disbelief at the stamina of their hangovers, and asking for coffee laced with "that small something which reclaims the body for the sake of the mind" (or vice versa — I can never recall that pithy little bit of drunkards' poetry). For several hours my nil expectations bore the invisible fruit of success. This is known in the trade as a "soft launch."<br /><br />Around about noon Téodor dropped in, bless him. The last I had seen of the lad it was eleven o'clock on the evening before, and his scotch-scented deportment had suggested that once the new year did arrive, it would likely be cornered into a one-sided conversation about television chefs, cookware, and electric guitar music. How fortunate are the young, who can draw their sabers up the necks of their champagne until the gophers resume their somnolence beneath the navy blue sunlight which blankets the vegetable pastures, yet still wolf down brunch with full pleasure and no fear of peristalsis or malheur.<br /><br />To his credit, he did seem utterly relieved that no one else was in the place. I silently thanked him for appearing the slightest bit vulnerable to the ravages of a night on the rails, and asked if he'd like a little something to absorb whatever was left of his roiling seas. His wraparound sunglasses firmly in place, his chin in his palm, he weakly motioned with his free hand for an <span style="font-style: italic;">omakase</span>. I carried the order around to Auguste, with special instructions that the guest needed a bit of a fog cutter.<br /><br />Auguste's "prairie oyster" (<span style="font-style: italic;">huitre dans le merde</span>) is simple but effective. First, he splashes a tablespoon of olive oil into a pint glass, swirls it around, and pours out anything that isn't residue. Then, with the glass at a forty-five degree angle, he slides in an extremely fresh, orange egg yolk, careful not to break it. Down the same chute are poured a careful jigger of brandy, a teaspoon of Worcestershire sauce, four vigorous dashes of Tabasco, a squirt of ketchup, a dash of celery salt, and a penny. It is taken all in one quick gulp. I purposefully indulged a bit too much one evening just so that I could witness its effects, and I must admit I wish I'd found this recipe much earlier in life. Absolutely invigorating, and, like a fine helicopter ride, it sets one back down on the tarmac so smoothly you'd swear you'd never gone risking everything in the first place.<br /><br />From there Auguste timed forth a lovely menu of shirred eggs with smelt and flamed pastis, crumbed potatoes, rough planks of buttered "thieves' toast," and Turkish coffee. Over the course of the meal it was a pleasure to watch Téodor spring back into successive stages of animation and well-being. There is something about the French system of eating, there is a logic to it that cares like a mother for even a stranger far afield. The Germans have their shiny shoes, and the Chinese have electrical engineering students raining off of high rooftops, but give me the French any day.<br /><br />From that first customer things have grown steadily and quite satisfactorily. In future installments I hope to jot down for you a few pleasant little accounts of the days and nights at the Dude and Catastrophe!Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7512001.post-1161845140486546002006-10-25T21:53:00.000-07:002006-10-25T23:45:40.566-07:00Pub Name BackpedalRay called today. As usual, all previous arrangements stood up, did a curious pirouette, and landed facing completely different directions. Rather than relay my thoughts on the various touch-points, I shall simply let the facts speak for themselves. Our call went more or less like this:<br /><br />ME: [answering] Hello?<br /><br />RAY: It's a thing, man. What I was thinkin' last night. It's a thing.<br /><br />ME: Hello, Ray. What's a thing?<br /><br />RAY: So we been openin' this pub, right, and construction's all done, and you got the decor all like you like it, with the big wood bar and old sports mallets and stuff on the wall, but there I was. On the can, dude. I tell you that because I want to be honest at every step of the way.<br /><br />ME: The bar is physically complete, ready to open, and you had the audacity to sit on a toilet. Ray. Really now. Couldn't that have waited until the future?<br /><br />RAY: It ain't that I was bein' bad. I mean, it struck me as I sat there, dude. It <span style="font-style: italic;">struck</span> me. "I'm about to open a business called 'Sit Down, Fat Dog.'" <br /><br />ME: Right. We both liked that name when last we spoke of it.<br /><br />RAY: Yeah, but things...ideas mature over time, man. You get perspective. Sit Down, Fat Dog ain't a good name for a bar. It ain't a good name for anything, really. First of all, dogs are crass, and no one cares if they sit down. Second, plump animals don't sound edgy. A pub, even a classy friendly one, got to have a hint of edge.<br /><br />ME: [sighs] So we're without a name again.<br /><br />RAY: Not exactly. In fact, the opposite of that, then also better. Téodor talked to Roast Beef, man.<br /><br />ME: Excuse me?<br /><br />RAY: Turns out Roast Beef had suggested a name to you for the pub before? Anyhow, he and Téodor were talkin' about it, and Beef told him the name he thought of. Téodor really liked it, and came up with this whole design for the shingle, man. It is laden. It is a cuss with a Glock and a hoagie. This thing is ready for action. T even thought so much of the design before he showed me that he had a life-size board carved out and painted. Chills, man.<br /><br />ME: If I recall, Roast Beef had suggested naming the place, "The Dude and Catastrophe." This was because his computer was more or less on fire at the time. He then hung up on me. I didn't consider it a serious contribution.<br /><br />RAY: Either way, man, you got to see the thing in real life. Plus, the thing's in the original format, the one you liked, the "The-and-The" style.<br /><br />ME: Well, I do admit to a deeply ingrained fondness for that style. "The Dude and Catastrophe," though. Seems a bit...Roast Beef. I'm not sure it's entirely my style. It's his diction and mentality from soup to nuts.<br /><br />RAY: I have put over two hundred and fifty thousand dollars into this project. You picked out the carpet. This is a gentle reminder from Ray Smuckles, LLC, a Delaware Corporation.<br /><br />ME: [pauses, collects self] I'm terribly sorry, Ray. I was caught up in myself. Please accept my apologies. You've been more than generous. I think it's a gamble, as a name, but life's nothing without a good gamble now and then, yes?<br /><br />RAY: All I want's a place at the bar, Cornelius. Thanks for bein' the idea man behind this. I'm only too glad to fill in my part. You gonna always have a napkin and a chilled glass for me, right?<br /><br />ME: And a pewter nametag for the purpose of reserving any tap in the place. <br /><br />RAY: Daaamn, I like that. So, you got to see this sign. Come on over, chochichuelo. Thing's in my garage. Also I mixed up these things called Dutch Crumbles, I just baked them in the oven. I'm not sure if they're right or not. I didn't have a recipe. I don't even know what they are, actually. I'm callin' them that until enough people can eat them that someone can identify them. Maybe you know what they are.<br /><br />ME: Perhaps they'll be our signature bar snack!<br /><br />RAY: Daaamn, dude. You ain't even got to. But thanks.<br /><br />ME: See you in an hour. I've got the old tootsies in a sitz bath at the moment.<br /><br />RAY: Old age, man. Cool. See you in a few.<br /><br />All that said, I'm typing up our chat while the timer runs out, and I'm quite guarded about this design of Téodor's. He's talented enough in his own right, but so young I can scarcely believe he has the collected wherewithal to execute a good pub shingle in the traditional style. Perhaps an extra finger in the Riedel before I trod over, to enhance my generally magnanimous nature.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7512001.post-1155189041830984112006-08-09T22:09:00.000-07:002006-08-09T22:50:41.910-07:00Pub name correction from Ray.When last I wrote, Ray seemed to have wholeheartedly endorsed my suggested name for the pub I am about to open: "The New Public House." It was straightforward and unpretentious. Immediately after I suggested the name to him, he shot back with a "Wow. Dude. Yes." and hung up. I didn't hear from him for a few days after that, and assumed he was filing the necessary paperwork. Well, one knows how it is with old Ray, doesn't one? I rang him up earlier today and ran the whole thing past him again, this time with drastically different results. Witness:<br /><br />- - -<br /><br />RAY: [answering] Heyo! We got a phone call here!<br /><br />ME: Hello, Ray. This is Cornelius.<br /><br />RAY: Connie! Oldest man on the books! How you doin', peaches?<br /><br />ME: Very well. Are you still excited about the new name for our pub?<br /><br />RAY: Huh? What? Oh, uh...run that by me again, would you?<br /><br />ME: The New Public House.<br /><br />RAY: Whoah.<br /><br />ME: After I suggested it to you last week, you immediately exclaimed, "Wow. Dude. Yes." I have it here in my notes.<br /><br />RAY: ...last week...last week...oh. Shit, dude. You know what it was? Right when you were tryin' to tell me the name you thought of, the UPS guy showed up with my new Louis Vuitton golf bag. This thing is the sliz, man. This thing is <span style="font-style: italic;">kridden</span>. This thing cost fifty large, hoss. <br /><br /> ME: So, you don't like the name.<br /><br />RAY: Huh? Public Bathroom or whatever? Naw, dude. Listen, the thing has got to be nuts, just grab you and not let go. It's got to be like, you see the sign, and you can't <span style="font-style: italic;">not</span> go in. What you got along those lines?<br /><br />ME: The Sliz and Kridden.<br /><br />RAY: Ha ha. Those words don't make any sense in this application, man. You got to have an ear for the jizz bus to be able to use those.<br /><br />ME: My goodness. I don't suppose I have that sort of ear, no.<br /><br />RAY: STOP IT! STOP IT NOW!<br /><br />ME: Excuse me?<br /><br />RAY: There's a damn dog in my yard, dude! It's totally fat!<br /><br />ME: Did you leave the gate open again? What is it doing?<br /><br />RAY: It's totally lickin' my grill brush and spatula! God DAMMIT! YOU THERE! STOP IT! I KNOW YOU KNOW I'M MAD AT YOU!<br /><br />ME: Perhaps call animal control. You never know how a dog will respond, especially to a cat.<br /><br />RAY: Damn straight I'm callin' animal control. STAY RIGHT WHERE YOU ARE. SIT DOWN, FAT DOG.<br /><br />ME: Say, that had a nice ring to it.<br /><br />RAY: What? Dude, it's totally gonna slide my grease trap outta the little holder. It totally found it.<br /><br />ME: Sit Down, Fat Dog. It's rather a nice pub name.<br /><br />RAY: Sit Down, Fat Dog...Sit Down, Fat Dog...wow. It's like, "I have to know what that is." Damn, dude! Yes! I'll call Tim down at City. Got to go. Ciao, bye, hi, etc. [hangs up]<br /><br />- - -<br /><br />So, finally we've got a name we are both pleased with. "Sit Down, Fat Dog." Truth be told, I rather like it more than The New Public House, which now strikes me as too plain. If you've got to choose between "The Muck & Galoshes," and "Sit Down, Fat Dog," I think we both know where you'll be hanging your hat and plonking down your hard-earned dollar.<br /><br />Off to scheme on the shingle illustration. It's a bit of a puzzle what, precisely, to depict.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7512001.post-1153968536382965912006-07-26T19:34:00.000-07:002006-07-26T23:35:30.570-07:00Opening the new pub.As it turns out, the technicalities of re-opening the rechristened pub nipped me quite viciously in the rear. I could not carry over the existing liquor license due to the name change, so it was incumbent upon me to pony up twenty thousand of our finest for a new one. The plumbing hadn't been inspected since Jerome bought the establishment in the 80s, during which time local bureaucrats seem to have come up with literally tomes of new regulations. The only regulation that seems to have existed at the last turn of ownership was that there had to be a pipe draining away from the toilet; it doesn't seem to have been important that the pipe actually <span style="font-style: italic;">went</span> anywhere. As near as the county inspector could tell, the pipe from the pub's loo just kind of goes off 'round a corner somewhere and disappears. Seems to work well enough to me, but that's not good enough for the local carbon-copiers. A new channel had to be cut through a foot of cement, leading to the public sewer line, which of course has an access fee nearly as dear as the front row at a Rolling Stones concert.<br /><br />The long and short of these and the many other mounting costs? I put in my call to Ray Smuckles, asking if he would care to act as a silent partner in the business. He was all aboard rather quickly — and his only demand was naming rights. This suited me quite well, as that was really the only sticking point in my entire vision for the place. (You may refer to prior blog posts, in which I actually consider naming the thing something like The Frustrated Old Man.)<br /><br />Fortunately, Ray had forgotten his original suggestion of naming the pub "RAY, RAY, A HUNDRED RAYS, ONE THOUSAND RAYS." He promised to call me back with a name, and said he'd take care of all the civic permitting in the meanwhile.<br /><br />UPDATE: I have, in fact, just gotten off the phone with the good man, and I shall record our conversation here for your edification.<br /><br />- - -<br /><br />RAY: Hey, chochi-...chotch...hey, man.<br /><br />ME: What was that? You can't call me "chochacho" like you do with all your other pals?<br /><br />RAY: It's just...I think the cutoff age is like 45.<br /><br />ME: Well, then. I believe in the Spanish, you might adapt the word to "chochichuelo." As in, "abuelo" for grandfather.<br /><br />RAY: Dude, I like that! I LIKE that! That's perfect! Say, how's it goin', chochichuelo!?<br /><br />ME: Rather good. I've been looking forward to your call.<br /><br />RAY: Yeah, exactly. I know. Me too.<br /><br />ME: So, have you put your finger on a name for the pub?<br /><br />RAY: Oh, that! Yeah, I been meanin' to think about that. I mean, I had one thought, and that was that you were totally stuck on that "That and That" format, like the "Hog and Derrick" or whatever. But that ain't modern, you know?<br /><br />ME: I do not want this place filled with severe Le Corbusier furniture and pulsing dance beats.<br /><br />RAY: No, no. I said the wrong word. I meant, usin' that namin' convention sounds kind of insincere.<br /><br />ME: Okay, I can see where you're going with that thought. People don't use that construction anymore unless they're imitating the past for commercial reasons.<br /><br />RAY: Exactly, dude! Man, your mouth is like a golden hole.<br /><br />ME: Thank you.<br /><br />RAY: So I was thinkin', just toss that out and start fresh. Let's brainstorm.<br /><br />ME: We could call it Ray's Place.<br /><br />RAY: Heh, right. Sorry, I sold that trademark off to the Japanese a couple years back.<br /><br />ME: Cornelius's Place?<br /><br />RAY: It kind of is your place, I mean you designed how it looks and everything. But I don't like the word "place." Seems kind of 70s.<br /><br />ME: Well, if we're being sincere, I could name it the Iris Gambol.<br /><br />RAY: Sorry, man. That totally killed my sausage just now.<br /><br />ME: That was my dear first wife, if you will recall.<br /><br />RAY: Yeah, I know. Bad idea. Trust me. Let's move on. This is a place for your neighbors, a place to live your life. We got to dodge this crazy stigma that a bar is a bad place to spend your time. This is a "public house," you know? A bar is a place where drunk people smoke and say things they haven't thought about.<br /><br />ME: Well, precisely. This is a place for anyone to go and conduct the affairs of life, or to avoid them.<br /><br />RAY: Yeah. It's kind of just a room where life happens, and you can eat tasty food and put back a few pints. It's like your childhood, but with pints.<br /><br />ME: That level of comfort and hospitality would be ideal. So, for example, this could be called "The Public House."<br /><br />RAY: Yeah, that ain't without its merits, but goin' straight on a name like that is just comin' offa trendy right now, like havin' a restaurant named "Restaurant." <br /><br />ME: Right, right. I detest that amateurish, clinical irony.<br /><br />RAY: Wow. What? I mean, never mind. So like we got this nice warm idea of a public bar-place where you ain't got to just get plastered, it's for spending regular time, maybe just read in the corner, or have a sandwich and talk to the bartender about what it's like to have hair. <br /><br />ME: More or less. Right. Like a coffee shop, but with hearty food and ale.<br /><br />RAY: Yeah. So, what are people namin' that kind of place these days?<br /><br />ME: Choppy McShenanigan's Garlic and Sushi Conglomo-bar.<br /><br />RAY: Well, right. Maybe the present ain't such a hot time to look to. Maybe let's just go back, but only like fifty percent, and remember to be straightforward.<br /><br />ME: The New Public House.<br /><br />RAY: Wow. Dude. Yes.<br /><br />ME: You like it?<br /><br />RAY: [hangs up]<br /><br />- - -<br /><br />I take this to mean our new pub is to be called The New Public House. I like it. It says what it is, and that is important in this day of "360° Wrapps" and "P.F. Chang's China Bistro." You won't find a mango-mint beignet at The New Public House. You won't be offered anything containing ahi tuna or kaffir lime leaves. You're going to have a rich pint in a heavy glass, maybe a pot pie or basket of fries, and there are a few tables around where you can set up a game of cards or project old home movies onto the wall.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7512001.post-1149318190261288172006-06-02T23:31:00.000-07:002006-06-03T00:03:10.273-07:00The keys are mine!As of the first of the coming month, the keys to the Crab & Pickle will be mine! I have signed all the necessary paperwork, and escrow has begun. Jerome demanded in writing that I rename the place — poor fellow, the whole affair has just left him in tatters — so it is now more pressing than ever that I find something new to put on the shingle. As mentioned previously, trying to have someone else name your pub is like having them put your glasses on for you: it will forever feel wrong until you re-seat them yourself. <br /><br />I'm going to use this free space to free-associate a list of names. It's the first proper generative device I've thought to use, actually. As the departing soul says to the body, here goes nothing. <br /><br />1. The Rat and Nickel<br />Rhymes with Crab & Pickle. Will probably put people off as derivative and inadequate. <br /><br />2. The Tired Old World<br />I kind of like this one. Perhaps because I am tired and old as I write this. <br /><br />3. The Tired Mill Wheel<br />Implies even more misery, and isn't that why one goes to pubs? <br /><br />4. I'm Tired of Hearing Lyle Throw Up in the Yard<br />I swear, that man could feed ten thousand baby birds, the way he acts. <br /><br />5. The I'm Tired<br />I'm tired, let's face it. Am I too tired to name a pub? <br /><br />6. The Blood and Cuspid<br />Apparently not! <br /><br />7. The Well Respected Man<br />Got you there, didn't I! I am most certainly not too old to enjoy The Kinks. In fact, I see them as absolute staple material on the jukebox. <br /><br />8. The Bitch's Brew<br />As earlier, I came into this pub because the previous owner's wife was a "terrible bitch." Is this set of circumstances not a brew she boiled up? (On reflection, I think this one is quite weak.)<br /><br />9. The Abandoned Casket<br />Quite cool. One imagines the dead, come to life for a pint. <br /><br />10. The Beckoning Casket<br />Okay, I'm obviously in no mood to name a pub. It's a finger or two of something stiff, a hand-rolled, and then to bed. Perhaps the cherished morning ritual will restore the marrow I am lacking. <br /><br />11. The Marrow and Bones<br />Sorry. I'm leaving now.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7512001.post-1147762204178532872006-05-15T23:08:00.000-07:002006-05-15T23:53:44.670-07:00Everyone's a pub-namerIt is an interesting social phenomenon that upon announcing one's intention of opening a pub, everyone and their mother has got a great name for it that you absolutely must use. I've collected the following rogues' gallery of unpromising dactyls from my housemates:<br /><br />1. <span style="font-weight: bold;">The Teats and Ass</span> (Lyle)<br />His idea for the shingle illustration was that of a cow's teat violating a buttock, at which point I suggested that he took his pornography too early and too often.<br /><br />2. <span style="font-weight: bold;">The Butter Place!</span> (Philippe)<br />I cannot use this.<br /><br />3. <span style="font-weight: bold;">Auld Tarnahan's</span> (Onstad)<br />As ever, he is thinking like a marketing firm and not a local pub owner. I don't know anyone named Tarnahan, and it is not common for me to use the old spelling "Auld." The whole thing smacks of the ersatz.<br /><br />4. <span style="font-weight: bold;">The Dude and Catastrophe</span> (Roast Beef)<br />He was very much involved in some sort of computer meltdown when I solicited him, and I expect he will come up with something better later.<br /><br />5. <span style="font-weight: bold;">RAY, RAY, A HUNDRED RAYS, ONE THOUSAND RAYS </span> (Ray)<br />I called him a bit late in the evening, and did not get anything beyond this suggestion before he dramatically hung up.<br /><br />I continue my search for the perfect name. I can tell that this will be difficult, and I can also tell that I ought to stop asking anyone's advice.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7512001.post-1147324590129739682006-05-10T22:01:00.000-07:002006-05-15T23:06:10.153-07:00A second career, so late in life?The most delightful opportunity has arisen. While lamenting the day's angling at the Crab & Pickle this afternoon, I overheard the owner and keep, a fellow by the name of Jerome Naughty (indeed his birth name - I have met his parents, Mr. and Mrs. Paul and Doris Naughty), claim bold and loud that he would be selling the place within the season. I gathered the scoop from Drenqi, the little old Basque in the txapela who perpetually seems to work off the same glass of Lillet: seems Jerome's got to sell the place because "his wife, she is a bitch," and "Jerome, he no can stand for it no more."<br /><br />That logic aside, the place is on the quiet market and I'm damned if I can think of a reason not to strike while the iron is hot. A pub is a simple business, needing only a man to bring the kegs in the morning, a fellow to fry the foods, and a busboy. A keep such as myself could pull pints and set out the dekels, all while making sure the patrons were kept in good conversation, darts, and pickled eggs. I tell you, the only stop between here and there is the little meeting or flash of the mind wherein I choose the new name for the place. I shall keep you apprised thereof.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7512001.post-1143877183847124292006-03-31T21:57:00.000-08:002006-03-31T23:39:43.893-08:00A Borrowed Hobby.Our friend Roast Beef and a few of his cronies have long been involved with early-morning trashspotting—viz, the interpretation of trash-day recycling bins, much as the matronly Haitian might interpret the entrails of a freshly-killed chicken. To hear them speak of it, it is great sport, and at a party recently I overheard them recounting past and future excursions with all the argot and gusto of any expert assembly.<br /><br />Piqued, I asked if I might get to know more, and to my surprise the little fellow Emeril invited me along on the next day's foray without so much as batting an eye. This morning I joined them sharply at 6:15am, well-bundled and holding an umbrella against the driving rain. As advised, I carried a flashlight and a pocketful of napkins.<br /><br />Emeril's first order of business, upon meeting at the corner of Tate and Herschel, was to distribute a heavily spiced and, to my great delight, entirely succulent smoked turkey leg to each member of the group. He brines and then smokes these all night before a "hunt," and had even thought to make one for me. I found the steaming-hot poultry invigorating in the chilly morning air, and clutched it tightly in my napkin as I snacked. We moved onward, purposely taking a route which had no recycling out, so that the group could socialize a bit before the sport began. Then, without warning, we turned right at Crescent and the game was afoot. All conversation stopped as we drew within twenty feet of the first curbside bins, the regulars casting looks this way and that, scoping the entire context of the house before focusing on the discardeds.<br /><br />Upon reaching the bins the group gathers round, and seems to have an unspoken five-second agreement to remain silent. Nostrils flare, eyes dart, glances are stolen at the sponsoring house. The first-to-speak makes a curt comment about the most obvious thing, a thing which all present are understood to have noticed immediately. In this case, it's a no-brainer. The residents of 621 Crescent have a new puppy, as evinced by empty cans of wet puppy chow. For my benefit, Roast Beef points out that this is consistent with the general evolution of the children's food packaging found in their bins over time: their child, most likely a boy, is about seven, a fine age at which to receive a puppy. Emeril notes that it is an upscale brand of puppy chow, and to underscore his remark, he points to the new BMW 6-series in the driveway, a paperboard dealer plate still in the license plate frame. The father has recently been promoted.<br /><br />By and large I remained reticent throughout my first trip with the crew, though I did venture to make one statement at a moment of absolute certainty. Via the telltale price label on a jar of Marmite yeast extract, I divined that a person of British heritage had recently joined the household in question. The label announced a price a good three dollars greater than a knowledgeable local pays for the stuff, as the jar was purchased at the local gourmet foods store, and not the hole-in-the-wall UK Foods which one doesn't tend to notice for a few months. This drew a sliver of respect from the crew, and that was all I needed to know that I'd made an impression.<br /><br />Later on the trip we threw our naked turkey drumstick bones into the yard of a pit-bull breeder, an outlaw move that left me a bit shaken, and also had occasion to use the flashlights. (Handy for simple mail-slot fraud, mainly used to see if distributors had dropped any sample packs onto the floor of the local tobacco shop, which were quickly picked up with Spongebath's spring-loaded gripper.)<br /><br />The convocation ended abruptly at Central and Green, with an air of anxious anonymity, no handshakes or talking, like the diaspora of uncomfortable passengers getting off a bus. At first I felt as though the group had "ditched" me, but then I grasped the practicality of the dispersion. I treated myself to a coddled egg and toast a few blocks away at Yikes! family breakfast restaurant, then ambled quickly home.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7512001.post-1136359377653372732006-01-28T23:16:00.000-08:002006-01-28T23:07:13.460-08:00Rostropovich on cello.The old man came through town this evening, and I had managed a subterranean balcony, as it were. The view was not everything, but the acoustic quality of the space was remarkable, and Rostropovich himself was every bit his melancholy instrument. He held Schubert in his hands like a dying vine of water, and the accompanist's piano rippled outward in sombre rings. The evening deeply resists meaningful summary.<br /><br />Upon returning home Téodor mentioned to me that he had a bit of "crossover" cello music he thought I might be interested in. It consisted of a few pop melody exercies by a band called "Unplugged Nirvana"? Is that right? It was cute in its own Magic-Marker way, I suppose. I indicated that the instrument was appropriately used to imbue the composition with grief and left it at that. He seemed pleased enough, and went back to flipping through his CD-case.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7512001.post-1132469338974384872005-11-18T23:57:00.000-08:002005-11-19T22:54:19.166-08:00Felled by the mighty CarnaroliBreakfast had been a puddle of prunes and soaked oats, and lunch an apple, chewed miserably in the corner of the yard, alone, scowling at the ground, wishing the meal could just be over. That evening, while on a third constitutional walk, as day drew to a close and lights began to flip on here and there, through the street-facing windows one could hear tap water filling pasta pots, chops sizzling in pans, knives hitting cutting boards as they rhythmically dismantled fine aromatics and herbs.<br /><br />After three weeks at this miserable health-diet, I put the resolute foot down. What harm could there be in an evening of pleasurable repast? As I made for home, I set the jaw, steeled the eye, and thought out the many dishes I would order in from Hong Kong Sam, my old standby hole-in-the-wall for ginger-rich dumplings and beef chow fun so fresh and delicate that it literally trembles like an undercooked egg on the plate.<br /><br />When I turned the final corner my senses were re-oriented: I caught the old familiar whiff of Téodor's sofrito, that oniony base from which all of his brilliant risottos arise. Blinded by pure, gluttonous desire, I quite literally ran into my room, recovered an Amarone I had been hiding from myself behind a potted plant, and took a seat at the kitchen table. Téodor, bless his wild heart, had laid out an orchestra pit of rendered guanciale, chives, tomato, and a taleggio cheese so runny and malodorous that I feel it must have been wrung from the sock of Romulus himself.<br /><br />The Amarone didn't quite pair, Téodor was a fussing priss about the texture, and Philippe tipped a water glass onto my leg, but I have never, ever, known such pleasure as that creamy, rich, sweet, porcine risotto. I ate until the plate was clean, drank until the bottle ran dry, and set about a walking tour of the backyard with a hand-rolled and two generous fingers of Calvados. It seemed a new place to me, and even the manual reel-mower abandoned in the center of the lawn had a life-affirming beauty to it. Wordless Buddhist poetry welled up within me, if you know what I mean.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7512001.post-1131176245090043862005-11-04T23:04:00.000-08:002005-11-04T23:37:25.140-08:00A week without the familiar pleasures.The finger did shiver a bit, longing for the warmth of the hand-rolled, and the cage caught chill at the slightest onset of breeze, unfortified by brandy, but the ledger shall show that I did weather the week with a drastically reduced intake of sodium, tobacco, alcohol and fat. I subsisted on boiled lentils, aromatic broths, halibut, and steamed greens, flavored here and there with a shake of "Mrs. Dash," a spice-based salt substitute that, quite frankly, does not in the least bit begin to fill Old Man Morton's straining, creaking hobnail boots. For breakfast, muesli and defatted Greek yogurt are my constant companions...I ought be careful not to wear yellow, lest strangers take me for Lance Armstrong and parade me about on their shoulders, spraying geysers of champagne into my giddy maw, shoving hot <span style="font-style: italic;">croque monsieur</span> into my hands, lading my arms with bundles of cured meats and jars of olives, filling the basket of my bicycle with calvados and cognac, packing my pockets with pâté de foie gras, tucking granules of <span style="font-style: italic;">sel gris</span> into my cheek, and, finally, strapping an entire Serrano ham across my back in the manner of a quiver and pushing me off in the direction of a forest, where I might do what I will with all these things and dance the night away under the stars, deliriously happy, affirmed of life and senses, with poetry in my heart, mortality comfortably at bay, the whole lot. Yes, I had better not wear yellow.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7512001.post-1130479898454093732005-10-27T20:25:00.000-07:002005-10-27T23:11:38.486-07:00A bit of a dark cloud above the old corpusHealth insurance, that fair-weather friend of the aging, had me down at the doctor's this morning, getting a complete physical work-up. The good news is that I am not dead in the conventional sense; the bad news is that high blood pressure requires me to drastically reduce my intake of salts, fatty foods, alcohol, and tobacco. You do not misread me: the four seasons of my day are to be shuttered and replaced with a regimen of, oh, I don't know—foraging for cucumbers in tight black pants, or something like that. I'm a bit downcast this evening as I have a last hurrah with a plate of speck, taleggio, crusty bread, and a stiff pour of a favorite aniseed beverage. Tomorrow it's wild cucumbers and strained tomato-water for this old varsity coat. If you pass me in the street and I am the ghost of a wisp of a man, his eyes sunken, his skin lacking that vitality which comes with cholesterol and pleasure, do not mock me, for I will have my cucumber-rifle packed with dry powder, and although its sting is a modest one, it does drive home the point that I've suffered enough for one day and there is no room at the inn for your barbs.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7512001.post-1129190510021902952005-10-13T00:34:00.000-07:002005-10-13T01:01:50.040-07:00A terrible bit of angling!Word around the Crab and Pickle last night was that the bluegill were jumping, so this morning at dawn I was a fixture on the old banks of the creek, casting and reeling, casting and reeling, my creel opened just-so, hanging in quiet anticipation at my side.<br /><br />Though the flies and little white moths (I still do not know their name, those rice-sized silvery flits) did dance thickly above the surface of the water, not one bluegill in a thousand could apparently be roused from his watery bed to feed. Perhaps it was the barometric pressure, which was particularly low this morning. We once had a dog which would sink into a deep despondency as fall arrived. She would look at her food dish as though it contained worms which bled from between their segments, and trot backwards from a good ramekin of beer like a nun presented with a ramekin of beer.<br /><br />At any rate, all this thought of firm white fish with crisp skin has put me right into an angling frame of mind, and I'll be lightly damned if I'm not frying up a bit of the cornmeal-crusted tomorrow evening. What's a fellow who can't catch his own dinner, after all?Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7512001.post-1128741889268818462005-10-07T20:17:00.000-07:002005-10-07T20:24:49.273-07:00Someone has left a cornichon in the toilet.Someone has left a cornichon in the toilet, an act I find as immature as it is distasteful. For a fool to make it the distance between the refrigerator and the commode thinking the entire while that this act would tickle or otherwise give humorous pause to his fellow housemates is supremely disappointing.<br /><br />Furthermore, I believe it was one of <span style="font-style: italic;">my</span> cornichons.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7512001.post-1127030488839889802005-09-19T23:12:00.000-07:002005-09-20T00:36:39.856-07:00Gamblers AnonymousFrom time to time I, as a fellow with a bit of a sporting bent, am careful to check in with the governing institutions-that-be in order to ensure that I am keeping a healthy balance of the stuff in my life. I found the following test on-line, courtesy of Gamblers Anonymous, which I filled in with much interest:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">1. Have you ever lost time from work due to gambling?</span><br /><br />As framed, this question quite simply does not stand, as the implication is that man is designed to live as a cog in a 40-hour wheel and that all pleasurable entertainment is secondary.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">2. Has gambling ever made your home life unhappy?</span><br /><br />But of course! One can't have highs without lows. Has gambling ever made my home life happy? Again, the answer is yes. The implication here is that we are to live in an emotionless stasis, which I refute with a smartly raised Scotch-and-soda and wink of the eye.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">3. Has gambling affected your reputation?</span><br /><br />In the finest of ways. I am regarded throughout the peerage and beyond as a man against whom one had better have done his math.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">4. Have you ever felt remorse after gambling?</span><br /><br />Remorse is the instinct of the dilettante. The novice hunter may feel regret as he takes the life of a buck or wild boar, but in time he translates these emotions into the philosophy of a higher intellectual plane. In life, as on the felt, there are wins and losses. It is the natural order of things.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">5. Have you ever gambled to get money to pay debts or solve financial difficulties?</span><br /><br />Yes.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">6. Has gambling ever caused a decrease in your ambition or efficiency?</span><br /><br />Yes, but so has sleep or time spent in the bath.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">7. After losing, do you feel you must return as soon as possible to win back your losses?</span><br /><br />Of course! The desire to win keeps the senses alive and alert, and keeps one at the top of one's game. Does Bill Gates slink off into the woods with a cyanide pill after losing an important high-stakes court case? Not a chance! He is back in the office at sunrise the next day, mad as a hornet, scheming to recoup his losses.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">8. After winning, do you have a strong urge to return and win more?</span><br /><br />It is more my custom to enjoy the rush with a spot of something aged and a hand-rolled.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">9. Do you often gamble until you run out of money?</span><br /><br />When one dwells within a five-par of Ray Smuckles, all one needs is a dried pea and three walnut shells in order to replenish the old roll.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">10. Have you ever borrowed money to finance your gambling?</span><br /><br />One evening while a bit light good old Ray loaned me a twenty so that a betting environment could be established regarding what brand a certain pair of shoes hanging from a power line might be. It was his unwavering opinion that the brand was "British Knights," and he was rather staunch in this, citing numerous facts about the fellows who "ran" in the neighborhood, as well as a number of hip-hop culture references, so I took the "any possible brand but that" shot at three to one. I came out the winner when a child with a flashlight was summoned from a nearby house and the dangling "shoes" were revealed to be a few pieces of fast-food trash inside of a heavily knotted household trash bag.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">11. Have you ever sold anything to finance your gambling?</span><br /><br />Not as such, but I have sold my gambling to finance a purchase. The story involves Téodor, Texas Hold 'Em at Ray's, a hidden earpiece, a small camera disguised into a straw cowboy hat, and a particularly nasty case of food poisoning which kept me in bed with the laptop for the evening. We split the winnings and as soon as I was back on my feet I was one case of Inniskillin the smarter.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">12. Are you reluctant to use "gambling money" for normal expenditures?</span><br /><br />Not in the least.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">13. Does gambling make you careless of the welfare of yourself and your family?</span><br /><br />Dear Iris Gambol has long since passed, and we had no children to think of, so I am afraid I am the sole heir and benefactor of a long one on the rails.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">14. Do you ever gamble longer than planned?</span><br /><br />One does not plan to gamble for a set amount of time! My goodness! This is tantamount to asking the United States government if they occupied Viet Nam for longer than they had intended. Things arise.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">15. Have you ever gambled to escape worry or trouble?</span><br /><br />My dear questionnaire writer, all the diversions of life are meant to help us escape worry. The liquid is meant for the bottle, the leaf is meant for the roll, the meal is meant for the palate, and love when not worry makes whole. Or so such a rebuttal, issued by the poet Whiting, might go.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">16. Have you ever committed or considered committing an illegal act to finance gambling?</span><br /><br />Gambling is illegal in my state/county, so it's all one big quandary. I suppose I ought not to answer this on-line, what with Google and all.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">17. Has gambling ever caused you to have difficulty sleeping?</span><br /><br />See #14.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">18. Do arguments, disappointments or frustrations create within you an urge to gamble?</span><br /><br />Such contentious circumstances are the fertile crescent of any and all great wagers. This truly cannot be a serious question.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">19. Do you ever get the urge to celebrate any good fortune with a few hours of gambling?</span><br /><br />Just as good food loves good wine, I have.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">20. Have you ever considered self destruction as a result of your gambling?</span><br /><br />I once smashed an ice bust of Oscar Wilde with a fairway wood, but it had been the apogee of a long night of revelry, and the occasion was the anniversary of his death-day, so if you ask me I will freely tell you that I had sunk far too many to remember whether or not I had gambled that evening, let alone set fire to prominent government buildings or loudly declared my love for my own genius down the street-level exhaust shaft of an underground parking garage. At my advanced age we regret the things we said as youth, but dearly miss the energy with which we said them. Is youth, particularly the ability to metabolize sausage, truly wasted on the young?<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Afterthoughts. </span><br /><br />I gamble, and smoke tobacco, and imbibe alcohol, and consume meats, and on the occasion of my hundredth birthday I shall don my slip-resistant booties and dance a brief but vigorous step upon your grave, for I have better places to be and better company to keep, you tired old nag.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7512001.post-1124782240145692142005-08-22T20:20:00.000-07:002005-08-23T00:32:00.886-07:00Small clay statue.Shortly after today's cherished morning ritual I was presented with a crude totem of yours truly, fashioned by young Philippe out of a substance he calls his "play dough," which itself seems to be a crudely disguised casualty of Onstad's grudge match with the concept of kneading fresh pasta. It consists of a green ball, meant to represent the greater portion of my corpus, with a brown ball atop it, which naturally I take to be the head. A few crude ears were stuck on top of the brown ball, and something like a paper clip or pencil tip was used to sketch a low relief of what I believe is my pince nez. On the whole it could be taken for a figurine of any old fellow who happened to have lines scratched on his face, but as I have it on good authority that this is in fact my doughy likeness I accept it as such. I assured the lad that he was on to great things with his technique, gave him a quarter, and bade him to study Michelangelo. One must be supportive of childrens' early endeavors no matter what the discipline, for a strong tongue (or simple honesty) all too often nips their evolving sense of ability in the bud. <br /><br />In other news, I had the chance to tootle about with a saxophone for the first time in a great while. Ray had procured a rather fine specimen on a lark, and before long the fingertips were fluttering up and down the keys, here and there striking up hints of the old Desmond masterpieces I labored to imitate in my younger years. The tone and timbre of the instrument was eerily familiar to the original Take Five-era recordings, and at times I found myself briefly transported to the old cold studio where Brubeck and the fellows sat and hammered out their timeless odd time. I strongly expect that in the coming weeks I shall be paying the Smuckles residence more visits of the ulteriorly-motivated sort.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7512001.post-1122536556991435372005-07-28T00:08:00.000-07:002005-07-28T00:42:36.996-07:00If I am served another heirloom tomato dish I shall quite simply die.There is no more succinct way to put it: I am absolutely sick to death of heirloom tomatoes and basil. Téodor, bless his intentions, is so in tune with seasonal cookery that he is blinded to the notion of satiety in these items. Night after endless night we are waylaid with salted tomato atop grilled bread, tomato-basil risotto, caprese salad, stuffed roasted tomatoes, gazpacho, pizza margherita, pico de gallo, capellini pomodoro...the combinations are as interminable as they are ruinous to the digestion. With all this acidity, each meal has become a separate and nuanced session of torture, followed by a delicately administered regimen of Maalox, soda water, and anxiety. Will I be able to sleep? Will I awaken in the dark, a fire raging against the back of my throat? Will the bands of steel tighten around my chest as the sweat beads on my forehead? Will tomato season never end? <br /> <br />As you can see, I am up rather late this evening, afraid to slide between the sheets. Tonight's meal of bucatini in <i>sugo crudo</i> (pureéd raw tomato/basil/garlic sauce), with an antipasto of pickled sardines, mint and peppers, has me dreading the transition from upright to horizontal. I'm off now to see if there isn't anything on television. With my luck, the cable will be out and the only available programming will be a snowy episode of Emeril Lagasse poaching tomatoes in vinegar and baking soda.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7512001.post-1120724104286515852005-07-06T19:52:00.000-07:002005-07-07T01:15:04.290-07:00Au revoir to the spring lamb.Au revoir to the spring lamb, to the fresh peas and wild salmon, to the lovely little fava beans asleep in their velveteen stocking. July is upon us and pregnant with sweet moisture are those plump meaty beasts, the heirloom tomatoes...also upon the tables are clumps of basil the size of pampas grass, and the last ripple of Brunswick figs. This very evening at the farmer's market I tucked two mummyknock loaves of seeded, wood-fired Pugliese into the burlap, along with a splendid assortment of the above-mentioned and the usual aromatics. It is my full intention to spend the weekend in appreciation of all players atop golden, oiled, grilled bread, an insouciant zinfandel in the Picardie.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7512001.post-1119337469972755872005-06-20T20:51:00.000-07:002005-06-21T00:04:29.976-07:00The constant evolution of things.Téodor and I buried the hatchet this weekend and I must say our once-dire situation has surprised me by becoming, in that way of ways, a bit of a phoenix. He's got plans for a cookbook to accompany his show, a combination which I understand is in vogue, and asked if I might lend a hand where the printed page was concerned. Only too happy to provide guidance in my chosen field, I assured him I would work with my agent in order to provide maximum exposure to the appropriate editors. When last we parted it was with a hearty handshake and a mutual sparkle in the eye. <br /><br />Of course, just now, in mid-post, when I had gone to the kitchen to work up a bit of <span style="font-style:italic;">omelette aux fines herbes</span> in a hot buttered pan, he ran in and dashed paprika over the setting curds. I suppose he's about college age, so such shenanigans are to be endured.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7512001.post-1117090535472672012005-05-15T18:40:00.000-07:002005-05-26T12:43:37.676-07:00Trial run of the cooking program.When last I wrote we were off to the races with Téodor's cooking show, and since such time we have made significant progress. I shall chronicle our first "trial run," which is to say, the crudest of crude sketches of what we will eventually achieve. <br /><br />His original idea of starting the show off with a fight and a few provocatively-attired women hadn't sat well with me from the get-go. It reeked of that deplorable television wrestling, and betrayed a surprising personal immaturity. As is so often the case with genius, world-class talent in one area travels hand-in-hand with the vilest of proclivities. Forman was right to leave the near-constant analingus out of Amadeus, but in doing so sacrificed a true portrait of the composer. This is merely to illustrate my point, and I shall stop waving my cigar about like a garrulous old wheezebox. <br /><br />Instead of the hormonal opening he envisioned, I casually suggested starting the show off in the manner of a host, perhaps offering the home viewer an aperitif and settling their nerves with a well-told joke. I also had a few words regarding his choice of attire, which was decidedly sloppy and certain to alienate a large portion of the audience. Aged jeans, sneakers in circus colors, and an unbuttoned shirt over an imprinted t-shirt — this is not the attire of a man who brings others round to his way of thinking. A smart host instills trust in his guest by first dressing the part: fine shoes, pressed and tailored trousers, a gaily colored four-in-hand (as opposed to that bulwark of the boardroom, the full Windsor), and either a blazer or carefully coordinated cardigan. I had brought a selection of just such clothing and egged him into it with only a little fuss. <br /><br />While we discussed the recipes he had prepared I poured him a lovely dry Chablis, and soon some of the indignant iron had melted from his spine. We set his mise-en-place, his mise-en-scene, and placed the camera. I stood with my slate, counted five, four, three, (two), (one!) and clacked. Téodor bounced in with the energy of a gazelle, ran to where an audience would sit, and pretended to shake hands, his Chablis marvelously controlled! It was inspired. Soon he bounded gracefully back to the spot we had marked with tape for his monologue and rubbed his hands together gleefully. He was hospitality incarnate — with just a little guidance I seemed to have brought the ship to shore! <br /><br />At this point I shall interject that what follows could be attributed to the professional shortcomings of both parties. Many maiden voyages are plagued with the odd detail gone missing, and ours certainly suffered from the usual assortment of dropped napkins and embryonic chains of command. <br /><br />Rather than jot down an account told unfairly through my own exposition, I shall set forth here a transcription taken directly from the videotape itself. Let no wag say that I ever had harbored any intention of maligning either Mr. Orezscu or myself. <br /><br />- - - - - - - - -<br /><br />00:00:00<br /><br />TEODOR <br />[runs in gaily, audience interaction, lands on monologue mark and rubs hands together]<br />Hello and thank you for coming! I'm Téodor Orezscu, and I look like a huge fag. [beams]<br /><br />CORNELIUS, PRODUCER<br />Téodor! I really must protest!<br /><br />TEODOR<br />If you're gonna stop the scene, you gotta say "cut." <br /><br />CORNELIUS, PRODUCER<br />Téodor! You're the vision of the well-heeled host. Why must you denigrate my war— <br /><br />TEODOR<br />You have to say "cut"! Otherwise this whole argument will go on the air! <br /><br />CORNELIUS, PRODUCER<br />Oh, <em>well!</em> Very fine, then! "Cut, please." <br /><br />TEODOR<br />[significantly deflated]<br />What's the matter? <br /><br />CORNELIUS, PRODUCER<br />You made an off-color remark. This is a cooking show, not the Life and Times of Lenny Bruce. <br /><br />TEODOR<br />You didn't say "cut," so I thought we were having an in-character argument on the air.<br /><br />CORNELIUS, PRODUCER<br />Ah, cinema verité! My dear boy, I perhaps did not catch onto your wholesale shift in narrative paradigms quickly enough. <br /><br />TEODOR<br />I thought it had edge. Not many TV cooks have openly hostile relationships with their directors. I was kind of riffing on a Howard Stern kind of thing. <br /><br />CORNELIUS, PRODUCER<br />[a bit miffed]<br />Producer. At any rate, Howard Stern...is that the man who has people touch one another's breasts on the radio? <br /><br />TEODOR<br />Among other things. <br /><br />CORNELIUS, PRODUCER<br />He has people touch parts more serious than breasts on the radio? <br /><br />TEODOR<br />No, I mean he pushes the envelope of morality and comfort zones in a lot of different ways. <br /><br />CORNELIUS, PRODUCER<br />[I shall admit to a bit of uncontained anger here]<br />Do you wish your cooking show to have footage of nude breasts being fondled by people whose sole job qualification is that they can get up at three in the morning? <br /><br />TEODOR<br />Maybe! Let's have fun with this! <br /><br />CORNELIUS, PRODUCER<br />I'm wasting my time here. [throws down slate, walks off set]<br /><br />[a few moments later Téodor comes round the counter, looks into the camera so closely that his nose becomes incredibly large, then the tape goes black]<br /> <br />- - - - - - - - -Unknownnoreply@blogger.com