Drones Club

Polly Sleeps.

2009-04-04T23:48:00.000-07:00

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Working the Old Soil

2008-05-18T18:08:00.001-07:00

The 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.

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.

- - -

*Unfortunately Todd: Wouldn't that just be a divine name for a SitCom about the little monster?

Yet More Truth Serum.

2008-02-20T00:22:00.000-08:00

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.)

RAY: [returns from restroom] So where we at?

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]

RAY: When it rains, I pour! [drains cocktail, motions for another]

BEEF: Oh man rock it and dock it do you know the origin myth behind the Morton's Salt slogan

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.

BEEF: So advertising shapes culture.

RAY: Advertising is 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.

BEEF: Wow so we got to get into the moving business.

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.

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?

RAY: [pauses again] I...Beef? Beef. Dude. 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.

BEEF: Word dogg all that comin' up like a Coppertone sunrise.

RAY: Huh? Get a move on, man. Don't be high.

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.

The hum-drum happiness of life.

2007-11-14T16:19:00.000-08:00

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.

One of my favorite exchanges went like this:

- - -

ROAST BEEF: Alright Ray so just take like a teaspoon of this stuff

RAY: Heh! You sure it's okay to mix with Tuaca?

BEEF: Oh hell yes doggie this chemical got almost no effects at this dose trust me

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.

BEEF: Okay good uh dogg let's do some questions

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.

BEEF: Do you think you are tall

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.

BEEF: Good uh do you uh are you a main guy in town

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.

BEEF: Great uh can you describe how you feel about McDonald's food

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.

BEEF: Wow dang that is interesting uh so also now do you know how to do laundry

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.

BEEF: Right definitely uh so do you make a pretty mean spaghetti with tomato sauce

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.

BEEF: Lots of folks don't understand basil

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?

BEEF: Oh uh I'll get you some water yeah and a Guinness would be rad as Dickens

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.

- - -

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.

* Sodium Pentothal

I believe I have found my métier.

2007-08-27T14:35:00.000-07:00

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.

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.

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.

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 guesstimate?!") 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).

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.

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.

The Dude and Catastrophe: A modest success!

2007-03-03T07:35:00.000-08:00

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.

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 morue frite en sauce chaud-froid with fat little pommes souffles. 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.

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.

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:

1) No reasonable person wishes to be slapped on the head,
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,
3) No reasonable person sets about town at eight o'clock in the morning on New Year's Day.

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."

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.

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 omakase. I carried the order around to Auguste, with special instructions that the guest needed a bit of a fog cutter.

Auguste's "prairie oyster" (huitre dans le merde) 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.

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.

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!

Pub Name Backpedal

2006-10-25T21:53:00.000-07:00

Ray 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:

ME: [answering] Hello?

RAY: It's a thing, man. What I was thinkin' last night. It's a thing.

ME: Hello, Ray. What's a thing?

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.

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?

RAY: It ain't that I was bein' bad. I mean, it struck me as I sat there, dude. It struck me. "I'm about to open a business called 'Sit Down, Fat Dog.'"

ME: Right. We both liked that name when last we spoke of it.

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.

ME: [sighs] So we're without a name again.

RAY: Not exactly. In fact, the opposite of that, then also better. Téodor talked to Roast Beef, man.

ME: Excuse me?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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?

ME: And a pewter nametag for the purpose of reserving any tap in the place.

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.

ME: Perhaps they'll be our signature bar snack!

RAY: Daaamn, dude. You ain't even got to. But thanks.

ME: See you in an hour. I've got the old tootsies in a sitz bath at the moment.

RAY: Old age, man. Cool. See you in a few.

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.

Pub name correction from Ray.

2006-08-09T22:09:00.000-07:00

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:

- - -

RAY: [answering] Heyo! We got a phone call here!

ME: Hello, Ray. This is Cornelius.

RAY: Connie! Oldest man on the books! How you doin', peaches?

ME: Very well. Are you still excited about the new name for our pub?

RAY: Huh? What? Oh, uh...run that by me again, would you?

ME: The New Public House.

RAY: Whoah.

ME: After I suggested it to you last week, you immediately exclaimed, "Wow. Dude. Yes." I have it here in my notes.

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 kridden. This thing cost fifty large, hoss.

ME: So, you don't like the name.

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 not go in. What you got along those lines?

ME: The Sliz and Kridden.

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.

ME: My goodness. I don't suppose I have that sort of ear, no.

RAY: STOP IT! STOP IT NOW!

ME: Excuse me?

RAY: There's a damn dog in my yard, dude! It's totally fat!

ME: Did you leave the gate open again? What is it doing?

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!

ME: Perhaps call animal control. You never know how a dog will respond, especially to a cat.

RAY: Damn straight I'm callin' animal control. STAY RIGHT WHERE YOU ARE. SIT DOWN, FAT DOG.

ME: Say, that had a nice ring to it.

RAY: What? Dude, it's totally gonna slide my grease trap outta the little holder. It totally found it.

ME: Sit Down, Fat Dog. It's rather a nice pub name.

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]

- - -

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.

Off to scheme on the shingle illustration. It's a bit of a puzzle what, precisely, to depict.

Opening the new pub.

2006-07-26T19:34:00.000-07:00

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 went 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.

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.)

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.

UPDATE: I have, in fact, just gotten off the phone with the good man, and I shall record our conversation here for your edification.

- - -

RAY: Hey, chochi-...chotch...hey, man.

ME: What was that? You can't call me "chochacho" like you do with all your other pals?

RAY: It's just...I think the cutoff age is like 45.

ME: Well, then. I believe in the Spanish, you might adapt the word to "chochichuelo." As in, "abuelo" for grandfather.

RAY: Dude, I like that! I LIKE that! That's perfect! Say, how's it goin', chochichuelo!?

ME: Rather good. I've been looking forward to your call.

RAY: Yeah, exactly. I know. Me too.

ME: So, have you put your finger on a name for the pub?

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?

ME: I do not want this place filled with severe Le Corbusier furniture and pulsing dance beats.

RAY: No, no. I said the wrong word. I meant, usin' that namin' convention sounds kind of insincere.

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.

RAY: Exactly, dude! Man, your mouth is like a golden hole.

ME: Thank you.

RAY: So I was thinkin', just toss that out and start fresh. Let's brainstorm.

ME: We could call it Ray's Place.

RAY: Heh, right. Sorry, I sold that trademark off to the Japanese a couple years back.

ME: Cornelius's Place?

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.

ME: Well, if we're being sincere, I could name it the Iris Gambol.

RAY: Sorry, man. That totally killed my sausage just now.

ME: That was my dear first wife, if you will recall.

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.

ME: Well, precisely. This is a place for anyone to go and conduct the affairs of life, or to avoid them.

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.

ME: That level of comfort and hospitality would be ideal. So, for example, this could be called "The Public House."

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."

ME: Right, right. I detest that amateurish, clinical irony.

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.

ME: More or less. Right. Like a coffee shop, but with hearty food and ale.

RAY: Yeah. So, what are people namin' that kind of place these days?

ME: Choppy McShenanigan's Garlic and Sushi Conglomo-bar.

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.

ME: The New Public House.

RAY: Wow. Dude. Yes.

ME: You like it?

RAY: [hangs up]

- - -

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.

The keys are mine!

2006-06-02T23:31:00.000-07:00

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.

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.

1. The Rat and Nickel
Rhymes with Crab & Pickle. Will probably put people off as derivative and inadequate.

2. The Tired Old World
I kind of like this one. Perhaps because I am tired and old as I write this.

3. The Tired Mill Wheel
Implies even more misery, and isn't that why one goes to pubs?

4. I'm Tired of Hearing Lyle Throw Up in the Yard
I swear, that man could feed ten thousand baby birds, the way he acts.

5. The I'm Tired
I'm tired, let's face it. Am I too tired to name a pub?

6. The Blood and Cuspid
Apparently not!

7. The Well Respected Man
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.

8. The Bitch's Brew
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.)

9. The Abandoned Casket
Quite cool. One imagines the dead, come to life for a pint.

10. The Beckoning Casket
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.

11. The Marrow and Bones
Sorry. I'm leaving now.

Everyone's a pub-namer

2006-05-15T23:08:00.000-07:00

It 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:

1. The Teats and Ass (Lyle)
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.

2. The Butter Place! (Philippe)
I cannot use this.

3. Auld Tarnahan's (Onstad)
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.

4. The Dude and Catastrophe (Roast Beef)
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.

5. RAY, RAY, A HUNDRED RAYS, ONE THOUSAND RAYS (Ray)
I called him a bit late in the evening, and did not get anything beyond this suggestion before he dramatically hung up.

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.

A second career, so late in life?

2006-05-10T22:01:00.000-07:00

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."

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.

A Borrowed Hobby.

2006-03-31T21:57:00.000-08:00

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.)

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.

Rostropovich on cello.

2006-01-28T23:16:00.000-08:00

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.

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.

Felled by the mighty Carnaroli

2005-11-18T23:57:00.000-08:00

Breakfast 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.

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.

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.

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.

A week without the familiar pleasures.

2005-11-04T23:04:00.000-08:00

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 croque monsieur 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 sel gris 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.

A bit of a dark cloud above the old corpus

2005-10-27T20:25:00.000-07:00

Health 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.

A terrible bit of angling!

2005-10-13T00:34:00.000-07:00

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.

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.

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?

Someone has left a cornichon in the toilet.

2005-10-07T20:17:00.000-07:00

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.

Furthermore, I believe it was one of my cornichons.

Gamblers Anonymous

2005-09-19T23:12:00.000-07:00

From 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:

1. Have you ever lost time from work due to gambling?

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.

2. Has gambling ever made your home life unhappy?

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.

3. Has gambling affected your reputation?

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.

4. Have you ever felt remorse after gambling?

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.

5. Have you ever gambled to get money to pay debts or solve financial difficulties?

Yes.

6. Has gambling ever caused a decrease in your ambition or efficiency?

Yes, but so has sleep or time spent in the bath.

7. After losing, do you feel you must return as soon as possible to win back your losses?

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.

8. After winning, do you have a strong urge to return and win more?

It is more my custom to enjoy the rush with a spot of something aged and a hand-rolled.

9. Do you often gamble until you run out of money?

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.

10. Have you ever borrowed money to finance your gambling?

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.

11. Have you ever sold anything to finance your gambling?

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.

12. Are you reluctant to use "gambling money" for normal expenditures?

Not in the least.

13. Does gambling make you careless of the welfare of yourself and your family?

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.

14. Do you ever gamble longer than planned?

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.

15. Have you ever gambled to escape worry or trouble?

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.

16. Have you ever committed or considered committing an illegal act to finance gambling?

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.

17. Has gambling ever caused you to have difficulty sleeping?

See #14.

18. Do arguments, disappointments or frustrations create within you an urge to gamble?

Such contentious circumstances are the fertile crescent of any and all great wagers. This truly cannot be a serious question.

19. Do you ever get the urge to celebrate any good fortune with a few hours of gambling?

Just as good food loves good wine, I have.

20. Have you ever considered self destruction as a result of your gambling?

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?

Afterthoughts.

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.

Small clay statue.

2005-08-22T20:20:00.000-07:00

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.

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.

If I am served another heirloom tomato dish I shall quite simply die.

2005-07-28T00:08:00.000-07:00

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?

As you can see, I am up rather late this evening, afraid to slide between the sheets. Tonight's meal of bucatini in sugo crudo (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.

Au revoir to the spring lamb.

2005-07-06T19:52:00.000-07:00

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.

The constant evolution of things.

2005-06-20T20:51:00.000-07:00

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.

Of course, just now, in mid-post, when I had gone to the kitchen to work up a bit of omelette aux fines herbes 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.

Trial run of the cooking program.

2005-05-15T18:40:00.000-07:00

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

- - - - - - - - -

00:00:00

TEODOR
[runs in gaily, audience interaction, lands on monologue mark and rubs hands together]
Hello and thank you for coming! I'm Téodor Orezscu, and I look like a huge fag. [beams]

CORNELIUS, PRODUCER
Téodor! I really must protest!

TEODOR
If you're gonna stop the scene, you gotta say "cut."

CORNELIUS, PRODUCER
Téodor! You're the vision of the well-heeled host. Why must you denigrate my war—

TEODOR
You have to say "cut"! Otherwise this whole argument will go on the air!

CORNELIUS, PRODUCER
Oh, well! Very fine, then! "Cut, please."

TEODOR
[significantly deflated]
What's the matter?

CORNELIUS, PRODUCER
You made an off-color remark. This is a cooking show, not the Life and Times of Lenny Bruce.

TEODOR
You didn't say "cut," so I thought we were having an in-character argument on the air.

CORNELIUS, PRODUCER
Ah, cinema verité! My dear boy, I perhaps did not catch onto your wholesale shift in narrative paradigms quickly enough.

TEODOR
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.

CORNELIUS, PRODUCER
[a bit miffed]
Producer. At any rate, Howard Stern...is that the man who has people touch one another's breasts on the radio?

TEODOR
Among other things.

CORNELIUS, PRODUCER
He has people touch parts more serious than breasts on the radio?

TEODOR
No, I mean he pushes the envelope of morality and comfort zones in a lot of different ways.

CORNELIUS, PRODUCER
[I shall admit to a bit of uncontained anger here]
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?

TEODOR
Maybe! Let's have fun with this!

CORNELIUS, PRODUCER
I'm wasting my time here. [throws down slate, walks off set]

[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]

- - - - - - - - -

A bit of stick; Cooking Show.

2005-05-07T08:46:00.000-07:00

During the cherished morning ritual I found myself clacking a soft and aged Titleist off the old lob wedge. The ball I discovered in the long grass beneath this spring's effervescent installation of Sally Holmes, and the club had been left perhaps a season ago along the line of Jackson & Perkins grafts which run the length of the brown back fence.

I shot about the yard a bit, my joints complaining that it had been far too long and too many indiscretions past since I last swung a club, when Téodor stepped out of the house for a morning jog. I had been meaning to bandy this cooking show or book idea with him for a while and so during his vigorous stretches I struck up the subject.

Naturally ambitious, he took to the idea like a Basque to cod. He noted that he could assemble a studio using some of Lyle's old video-taping equipment, and that we could film in Ray's rather generously apportioned kitchen. I say, how he did whip himself into a frenzy of excitement! It is just that sort of passion that marks the onset of a great endeavor.

In his stream-of-consciousness deluge I gleaned the following concepts which he wishes to use to shape his show:

1) On the whole the project is meant to demystify food preparation.

2) But it shouldn't be corny and have a low budget like a fellow named Alton Brown apparently has.

3) He will fight a new man during the opening of each episode, then step out of the ring and be dressed in chef's garb by two women.

4) He does not wish to be used as a "transparent MILF magnet like that mumbling Jamie Oliver," whatever that means.

5) Something about cutting often to Roast Beef, who would be sitting at a snare drum with a different oblong vegetable as a drumstick.

Personally, I am delighted to be managing the concept for now. A John Glenn like Téodor will soon come full-term as a monomaniacal monster and be absolutely impossible on set. It is relieving to know this, and to have seen it so many times before: Tomas D'Yvgiveny, Broussard Lambeau, Eric Von Schmidt...they all go through their prima donna period. He probably will, he may not, but Téodor at the bottom of it all has the talent and imagination to last. I shall enter the studio each day with a magnanimous smile, an elder's sense of purpose, and a boost of Chartreuse in the old false wallet. This ship shall come to shore; I am on to a good thing with this lad.

Breakfast wars.

2005-04-20T08:18:00.000-07:00

Oh how I do enjoy that Téodor. We clashed over stovetop real estate this morning, and as it turns out we were both in a mood to whip up a few egg dishes. We agreed in sport to allocate two of the four burners to each man and afford a good half-hour to see who might concoct the finest plates. We would serve our creations to each other and judge on the honor system. Thrilling!

For my half I went to the earth and made a hash of black-eyed peas, mushroom, garlic, and minced ham. Over this I served a poached egg with a particularly reliable tinned Hollandaise and chopped parsley.

Téodor, however, is not to be outdone when kitchen reputation is on the line. One is well advised not to challenge him when victuals are the medium. He goes into a particular fugue state and reminds me rather eerily of Pollock.

His dish was based on a hybrid of Toad In The Hole and risotto. He cooked a pancetta risotto near to completion, and when it was just al dente he made four wells in the pan and cracked a fresh egg into each. He then sprinkled the surface with fontina and bread crumbs and stuck the whole into the oven to bake. When the eggs were set he set the pan on the counter and I, awestruck, ceded absolute victory.

We ate well the both of us, and he being the virtuoso made a suggestion or two which dramatically improved my capricious hash recipe. Apparently the whole affair would have sat better on a spicy pureed tomato concasse, which would have offset the starchiness of the beans and interplayed well with the salty pork.

It is a joy to see a fellow at the top of his game. He really ought to have a cooking show -- or at least a book of his own. Perhaps I will do him the favor of a bit of legwork and see how such a thing might come to pass.

I do adore that Lauren Graham.

2005-04-08T18:02:00.000-07:00

The cable television contract at our house was recently upgraded to include a channel which shows Gilmore Girls every day from nine in the morning until noon. I need not tell you that this has essentially zeroed out my productivity after the cherished morning ritual. I have a newfound appreciation for the character Richard, the father, played by Edward Herrmann. His polished, gentlemanly demeanor and impeccable deportment make one wonder why society at large ever abandoned the habiliment of dignity in favor of sweat pants and connected eyebrows.

But back to my real darling, that Lorelai. Now, you do not out-think me in supposing that my appreciation of willowy brunette beauties (e.g., the ill-fated Ekaterina Gamova affair) is habitual. A trend might be perceived, here. Spurious, due to a low number of data points, but a trend nonetheless. Let me lay that to rest. My first wife, dear Iris Gambol Bear, was as red-headed as the Celtic genotype allows, and rather more strong than long, if you will. After I mourned her, others naturally followed in time, among them a spicy little political doyenne of Thai extraction, and a curvaceous Argentinian who ensnared me in a twisted web of tango and torrid jealousy. As you can see, I am in some small way like the great masters: I simply go through periods. Just as Picasso had his blue, so now do I have my pale, willowy brunettes.

It hits me in the noodle now that I had no reason to defend myself to you. Surely you were humming along, thinking "isn't it fantastic that Cornelius can find happiness, now what web site shall I check next, I do enjoy that one with the butterfly." I suppose this blogging is often merely a therapeutic measure, as though one were laying one's self on Freud's couch while the great man was out of the room, in his stead standing a curious, humming device much like an evil oboe, which took in one's spoken words and distributed them across an incredible, instantaneous, world-wide network of tin ear-horns.

I have invented a machine.

2005-03-31T20:26:00.000-08:00

Who would have thought that in my advanced years I would rediscover a childhood love of machinery? Last week I would not have placed two bits on that particular fixation cropping up, yet here I am, the rather satisfied inventor of a curious bi-purposed contraption that both waters my victory garden and shreds paper documents 8.5" x 11" and smaller.

The inspiration for this device took the form of a television advertisement for a product sold under the name of "Hosey the Flow Cow," a simple cow-shaped plastic cutout with a swinging tail that holds a garden hose. The tail swings back and forth using a modest assortment of mechanical principles and the weight of the hose itself, and the overall effect causes a greater area to be watered than would occur with a stationary nozzle.

Something bit in the old sphere and ere long I was in the potting shed, fooling about over a countertop strewn with springs, gaskets, scrap aluminum and wire. It was the work of a quarter-hour to replicate the Hosey the Flow Cow action, and from there I thought to myself that I ought to milk every last bit of utility out of said device (one's thoughts do turn to conservation in old age). As the unit waved side-to-side across a fairly flat plane of about one foot, it seemed obvious that an armature with a multitude of blades affixed could be attached to the swinging hose so as to tear across a sheet of paper and reduce it to confetti.

The device functions beautifully. I have even placed a small terra cotta coaster beneath the shredding tray to catch the bits, and a single tea candle ignites them as they drift down, creating a warm updraft that takes some of the chill out of the water that falls across my vegetables. As I write this, Téodor and little Todd sit around it, transfixed as though by a campfire, smoking cigarettes and chatting. The overall effect is quite pleasant, in spite of Todd's remarkably vulgar vocabulary.

I have Pay Pal!

2005-03-09T21:38:00.000-08:00

A few weeks back Téodor introduced me to the eBay auction website, and ever since I have had a marvellous time browsing its simply inexhaustible depths. I've found everything from the rare No. 1.125 Mendium nibs that I use on my old Barclayhaugh stylus, to mint Deutsche Grammophon vinyl of Svjatoslav Richter's ‘Klavierkonzert en A-moll.’ Where once the needle sat unappreciated in a haystack, today that haystack is a buzzing hive of commercial activity, to rival any mediterranean open-air market.

At great length Téodor was able to convince me to register for a Pay Pal account, which is a way of using one's checking account on the Internet. It is the same as writing a physical check, only the actual checkbook is not involved, so one must maintain one's ledger with an added degree of care, and phone one's bank often, to check against any fraudulent activity.

Téodor was even so sporting as to guide me through my first bid: a loupe of the magnification required to examine precious gemstones. It was a bit of a frivolous exercise, as I've only got one stone in particular which needs examining at the moment, but I suppose the allure of the computer marketplace had an overwhelming effect on me, and I "placed my bid."

At the moment a dubious character of the moniker "TedsGems41171" seems to always immediately outbid me, but perhaps soon he will tire of this constant watchfulness and I will be able to place a bid which palliates his appetite for this item.

Concern for Philippe.

2005-02-19T23:51:00.000-08:00

Lately dear little Philippe has begun to display the untoward behaviors of early adolescence. He stayed up much past his bedtime recently and attended a party at Ray's, during which he applied some sort of temporary tattoo with an inexcusable obscenity to his chest. Shortly thereafter he came to me full of reproductive misinformation and vulgar "hip-hop" slang. Even more recently, I saw him peering over the fence at a neighbor's hound dog, jubilantly singing the word "Crap!" up and down the Do Re Mi scale.

Perhaps I am merely upset to see him lose his innocence. I, too, partook in decidedly unwise antics at his age.

A time comes to mind when a young Cornelius, unaware of the larger world and his place in it, came within an inch of a lifetime of criminality and regular imprisonment.

I passed many of my formative years in rural areas, as Father was a mining engineer for the coal industry. My family were wealthy émigrés from Newcastle, and brought much of the aristocratic culture of the time with them. When I was born in the 'States, I naturally became a curious blend of both lifestyles. My pageboy hair and velveteen knickers oft drew derision from the barefoot and dirt-caked progeny of those in father's employ. One need only think of the boyhood culture of Tom Sawyer to envision the sort of scamps with whom I passed my days.

One Sunday afternoon with the young roughs in Anthracite, Pennsylvania (a town named for its cherished resource) it was handed down that the group's leader, a boy named Skuggs, desired that we steal him a pie. He pointed his finger and designated two thieves: myself, and a congenitally nervous wisp of a thing named Harold. I did not highly esteem my accomplice, and I certainly did not relish the task of larceny, having been brought into the world above such low denominators.

At any rate, my family were to be in the area a while, and I did not wish to wear the mantle of the pariah, so I led Harold to a Baptist neighborhood where large Sunday dinners were sure to be in preparation. Along the way we developed a plan of action: Harold would ring the front doorbell, posing as a lost brush salesman's son. This would distract the housewife while I nicked whatever pie or pies were cooling on the kitchen windowsill.

All would have gone according to plan had Harold not broken down into a fit of tears and incomprehensible blubbering once our target's front door opened. The behemoth woman who answered his knock was so moved by his breakdown that she immediately picked him up, cradled him in her arms, pulled a tremendous breast from her blouse and forced its teat into his mouth. As I had hidden in the bushes to be sure that the woman would be detained while I commenced with my thievery, I saw all, and quickly devised an alternate conclusion to our ill-advised caper. It did not include rescuing Harold. I ran back to Skuggs and his brood.

The boys received me coolly upon observing that I had returned with no pie, and crossed their arms as they silently closed ranks around me. Skuggs approached with a long switch in his hand and demanded to know where his pie was. I held silent for a few moments, and then let the bombshell drop: Harold was having sex with a woman on her front porch, and if they ran quick they might chance to see the act before it moved inside. The gang departed with an alacrity not dissimilar to the Kentucky Derby.

Upon reflection that evening I felt deep regret at having come so close to the downward slope of vice, and did not socialize for the remainder of our time in Anthracite. Father was told of the shenanigan demanded of me—though prudently not of my aborted complicity—and immediately hired a private tutor. I remained in the house for nearly eighteen months while Father completed his assignment, but the time did serve to germinate a great relationship between the works of Swift and myself.

One might say that Lyle is back.

2005-01-18T20:58:00.000-08:00

Lyle breezed into the house this afternoon, if anything about that man can be described as breezy. Certainly not his bouquet, which was, as per usual, replete with sweaty soiled dungarees, an epidermis of cheap cigarettes, and hot gin sicking up through his salted pores. It seems his time among the Scots did nothing to educate his ways; I would not be surprised if a faint scent of unfiltered "Marlboro Reds" and violently expectorated haggis hung in the air over all of Speyside.

His first act of homecoming was, surprisingly, to kiss the soil. Or rather, the foyer parquet. I mean to say, fall down and vomit on the floor. Ah, that rather more captures the spirit of the engagement. Onward ho.

Having emptied himself of several pints of brownish liquid, as well as an alarming volume of fully intact spaghetti noodles (does the man not chew?) he rolled over, yelled at the underside of the antique sewing table, and punched feebly into the air before falling into a deep sleep. Ethically unable (by just the shortest of noses, mind you) to let him lie on his back, I rolled him onto his side, although I must admit in my agitated state I did roll him back into the puddle. Due to the lovely level nature of our flooring it had mostly dissipated and did not provide adequate moisture upon which to choke, but his cheek did rest rather sweetly upon a bit of the pale pasta. By way of completing the tableau, Téodor unrolled one of his condoms and, using two ballpoint pens, worked it thoroughly into the stinking mass. For good measure, we added a Matchbox toy car and a few pence we came across in Lyle's pocket.

Knowing full well of the Onstads' Draconian enforcement of the "clean up your own vomit" mandate, we tittered not a little upon imagining Lyle scooping this mystery of an evening into a pail the next day.

I do enjoy that Ray.

2005-01-05T23:45:00.000-08:00

It was shaping up to be a calm sort of night, a spot of white tea and the odd tome, a program of pastoral Buxtehude on the radio. Naturally this pristine meditative atmosphere could never have lasted more than five blissful minutes without someone vomiting or engaging me in some sort of wager.

Ere long I was alerted that Ray had called on the kitchen telephone, and wished to scoot the spheres about the old felt. Fair enough, I thought. I enjoy his honest company and the way he lays a dollar down to die.

Tonight he was a wealth of new language while we played. I took it he had been lately steeped in the unsavory argot of the unfortunate "rap" culture...when I commented on the oft-overheard rumor that he had been making time with his ex-girlfriend, he exclaimed, and I repeat verbatim, "Dang, man! You KNOW I think that bitch got a rude fundus!"

A rude fundus indeed. I confess an abiding love of the female form across its many stages, but have never been put off by anything which could be described as a "rude fundus." Time spent with Ray apprises one of such possibilities.

Christmas gifts.

2004-12-26T08:32:00.000-08:00

Long past are the days when I have wanted anything for Christmas. The good denizens of 62 Achewood Ct. have regularly been informed that the occasional spell of good health and suspicion of brandy is enough to keep Cornelius feeling contented to the gills for another year. Thus I was greatly surprised to discover not one but two treats under the tree while I watched the others open their gifts this year.

Philippe had spent about five minutes wrestling with a stretch of ribbon which seemed unwilling to go quietly into that good night, when beneath the tree I noticed a slender package that bore my name. It was from Téodor, bless him. After assuring him that such gestures were appreciated but entirely unnecessary, I slipped the contents from the newspaper wrapper and to my delight discovered a Compact Disc, replete with Segovia's transpositions of the Brandenburg Concertos. Warmed nearly to tears, with the old familiar sting in the nose, I thanked him sincerely and set the Disc into the shared living room player. Soon the house was filled with the crisp, thrilling boxes and squares of Bach.

The second present proved to be a self-portrait from Philippe, for which I had a spare frame in the room, and he was so delighted to see it find a home so quickly that he took a momentary break from vying against his nemesis ribbon to give me a hug.

Ere long Téodor had supplied Philippe with safety scissors and the ribbon was dispatched to the floor. The wrapping paper came off the large object and lo, there stood a curious white robot. Its packaging announced the arrival of the "ROBOSAPIEN," a name which stirred the memory. Earlier in the month Téodor had observed Philippe pining loudly for this robotic toy, and went about taking up a collection, to which I had donated a tenner, not entirely sure what robots cost these days. My donation must have seemed rather quaint, so I attempted to make reparations with the good bear but he would have none of it, noting that Ray had more than adequately covered the $89 price of the toy with a $500 donation.

I looked down at my Compact Disc's casing, which featured a "The Nice Price" sticker and a pricing label sort of carelessly crossed out with the stroke of a ball-point pen. The Disc had apparently cost Téodor $7.99. One of lesser mettle might let his mind wander to imagine that I had overpaid Téodor for my own gift, and that he had netted a handsome $400 profit for his gesture, but in the spirit of Christmas I went into the kitchen to fix a breakfast feast of french toast, lox, eggs, beans, and sausages, which was enjoyed by all. Particularly Téodor, who consumed it to the tunes playing through his new iPod.

Blasted Patrick

2004-12-03T15:58:00.000-08:00

It's no secret around the back fence that Patrick is something of a loose cannon. Recently, while on a stroll through the backyard, the maladroit mistakenly pumped me full of lead, as Hammett might say, and sent me to hospital. I'm happy to say I've been through it all and the cracks and crevices seem to present no infection. A genuine Thank You to Dr. Andretti and his staff.

Patrick has always been a bit of a firework, and it would suit him lovely to receive some sort of federal treatment. The vigor with which he stamps out sidewalk bugs and worms indicates that he is the type who could benefit from therapeutic intervention. Perhaps I will take the matter up with Ray, who is in a position to persuade Patrick more readily.

I'm creaking and groaning about the house, walking a bit slowly and stiffly and cooking mainly hot broths for meals until my inner workings heal a skosh more. Téodor, ever-thoughtful, has taken it upon himself to provide me with daily entertainments, whether in the form of a rented comedy film (this afternoon I enjoyed the wonderful slapstick antics of Sleeper), an improving book or simply a variety of magazines. Life could be worse for a fellow, don't you know.

Greetings from...home.

2004-11-15T01:08:00.000-08:00

It's been a long trip back, and a largely uneventful one. I chartered a flight to Bangkok and then a cattle-car to San Francisco, at which point I freed myself from the sardines and caught a bus wearily home. Forty-eight hours point to point it was, and I was quite the fragrant collar. As the front door yielded unlocked, I could not have been happier to take in the stale air of the old familiar living room. No one was about, but I embraced the emptiness like an old friend. I toted the entirety of my entourage into the bathroom, locked the door, and filled the place with the hot steam of a well-deserved bath. The long soak turned into a shower, and damned if I wasn't back on California time just like that!

Seeing as no one was about, I tottled off to Ray's to shoot a few solo games on the rich burgundy felt. A tray of charcuterie and breads sat nearly untouched on a sideboard, and several boutique ales floated in a pool of half-dissolved ice. I was a man and it was a meal and the perfection with which we executed our mutual purposes was lost on neither of us. Adieu.

Breakfast with Ekaterina (of sorts)

2004-11-04T01:39:00.000-08:00

The hour of morning was perhaps nine, and I sat at the counter of the Troekurov, taking in a bit of local politics and a bit of lox on soft rye. A gentle hubbub had arisen aboveground, so I went over to the slit of slightly frosted window the restaurant shares with the sidewalk, and lo but the noise was a legion of worshipers crowding around Ekaterina and a few of her teammates, who were apparently out for a bit of early shopping. Her hair pulled simply back, her gleeful smile, her sporty track coat...oh, to nestle one's nose against her collar and take in her fragrance. An electric shock shot through my transom.

I was a man torn in halves. Pure passion tugged at my lapel, demanding with a fury that I run to her and let fate sort the cards, but calmer waters prevailed. Taking the dumbwaiter, I quickly ascended to the rooftop, where I was able to observe the town square with great perspective. The girls seemed to head off to breakfast at the human restaurant directly above the Troekurov, and once they had swung through its doors I immediately descended. The staff at the Troekurov make wide-ranging and regular practice of infiltrating their above-ground neighbor for comestibles, cutlery and linens, so it was Marko the waiter who showed me the wall and ceiling passages which would afford me the greatest maneuverability. The good fellow led me to a crawlspace rafter directly above their table, and even brought me a cup of coffee fortified with brandy as I sat and watched them through an air grate.

After two months immersed fairly deeply in the local language, I am fairly versatile with the stuff. For me it is the work of an instant to commiserate with passersby over the weather, the rising price of cod, or the unfortunate deaths of whichever teenagers had passed out in snowdrifts that week. Therefore I was pleased that my little aerie allowed me to overhear every snippet of their conversation.

Their chitchat consisted of what you'd expect from such a pride of beauts: what they expected to shop for, who did what last night, how's it going with him, how's the menu, fish as day's first meal is advisable, my mother just dug a trench, etc. I must admit that Ekaterina's voice was rather surprising. Rather than the delicate, warm lilt I had ascribed her in my countless travelers' daydreams, it was something more in the manner of a freshly electrocuted horse. Love doesn't reach for its hat at the first sign of trouble, however. I reasoned that she had taken a ball in the throat at practice the night before, or might just be coming down with a touch of something rather strong. I noticed that she drank cola, rather than the dark currant vodka of her teammates, so I was somewhat satisfied that she might merely be protecting her health.

Long have I enjoyed my care-worn copy of Gray's Anatomy, a thorough work on human bodily structure. While I sat and worked out whether a volleyball of diameter X could hit a woman of height Y in the crook of the throat where the vocal folds reside, the waiter brought their first course, a consommé. What I saw next rather put me off.

Consommé can be taken in with a spoon or, when presented in the proper vessel, picked up and taken like a tea. Most of the girls preferred the spoon, which is the more modern style, but a few, including Ekaterina, up and drained the bowl with their hands, though it did not have side-handles. Ekaterina was the only one who licked the inside of the bowl. Rather thoroughly, I might add. At one point I believe the object was entirely vertical, much of her face obscured.

This was more difficult to reason out. Perhaps due to her ill health it seemed imperative to her subconscious primal urges to consume every last molecule of the restorative. This rather embarrassing line of reasoning was quickly abandoned once the second course, a beautiful side of salmon in aspic, was presented.

No sooner had the team of waiters set the intricately decorated platter down in the center of the table than she dragged her enormous hand across it, taking up a fistful of the flaky pink flesh and wiping it onto a large slice of bread. The others made no notice of this as they picked up their fish knives and gathered somewhat more elegant portions. Ekaterina wolfed at the thing like a particularly peckish prisoner of war. I felt an uncomfortable knot grow in my throat as they finished off the fish and prepared for the meat course.

An exquisite suckling pig, roasted crisp brown, rested in the center of a silver salver, surrounded by fluffy scrambled eggs, fried potatoes, and the classic parsley-tipped lozenge croutons. Unable to look away, I again watched in rapt consternation as the two waiters set the little beast in the center of the table.

Ekaterina did not let me down. She rolled up her sleeves as the waiters made off, and then her long arms shot out towards the thing. After a few seconds of throttling and wrenching, she had torn the little fellow's entire head off and set about devouring its face with an abandon normally reserved for animals in Stephen King novels.

As I stood to leave, the combined implosion of my love and the cruel brew of coffee with brandy, coupled with the cramped legs of an hours' sit, caused me to lose my balance. Tottering desperately with nothing to grab a hold of, I fell down onto the air grate and crashed right through to the table below, my fall broken by a decapitated suckling pig. I was not sure which of us was worse off.

All eyes were upon me, as you might expect. Surrounded on all sides by women of six-foot six or better, I called upon the old Bear nerve and charged at one, who naturally screeched and ducked away. A moment later naught remained but a flaming trail between their table and the front door. Ducking down an alley and dropping into a disused delivery slide which led to the Troekurov, I caught my breath. I had lost my hat in the ordeal, and imagined that even then Ekaterina was picking fine Pendleton wool from her teeth with a rib bone.

The gents at the bar were a bit curious as to my stench of ham and shaken nature, so with a heart on the dénouement and a bit of drama pulled from the inner wells, I bade them hear my story. Taking court before them I began at the beginning, and told what I never had before: the true reason for my presence there among the great people of Ekaterinburg. Up 'til this point all had been satisfied that I was a writer looking for a new place in which to work, so with undivided attention they listened as I spoke of a love at first sight, across an ocean, on a television set, a Russian girl in Greece stealing the heart of an American whose only wish was to put less of the globe between them. I told of selling my possessions, boarding a plane which went down in snowy wilderness, hitchhiking hundreds of miles only to be stranded in the woods at death's door, and landing in their fair city without so much as an inkling of Plan A. I then described that I had finally espied the object of my longing and followed her to breakfast, at last within feet of the woman I had traveled six thousand miles to meet. A gnat chewing on an atom of carbon would have been asked to leave, so silent was the room.

The Troekurov's clientele is a well-heeled one, and at the first mention of the consommé incident, a gasp or two went up. At the salmon incident, teeth were gnashed and a man threw his hat to the floor. Come the beheading of the suckling pig, all in attendance abandoned their stools and swarmed around me, several in tears. Cornelius had traveled love's truest distance only to have his heart broken at the moment of intersection. Cursed by beauty, they said. God's greatest trap. A good man, they said. To follow the heart is all we can do. Bless the romantic Russian soul, its poetic camaraderie does ease one's pain in times like this. Glasses were set on the bar en masse and filled with vodka. To the tragedy we drank, and we sang, and we ate, and we made bold proclamations and celebrated life during misery.

I leave Thursday next.

Greetings From (Y)Ekaterinburg!

2004-10-24T02:13:00.000-07:00

Greetings from (Y)Ekaterinburg! I believe I have found the most delightful city in the world. Into their cozy and capacious underground I have sunk a local heel, and I now count myself among one of the many regulars at my chosen haunt, the marvelous fin-de-siècle Restaurant Troekurov. No sooner do I pop into the bar than Ivan prepares my morning coffee and herring toast; no sooner do I dart out for the early paper than Raguli has it folded and waiting with my ten kopecks’ change resting on top. It is a city which gets to know you, and for that I have searched far and wide. Certainly one can get into a routine in Manhattan or London, and the mongers know your tastes, but never has the transaction seemed so satisfying for both sides of the stall. That is one quality of the Slavic character to which I have always been endeared: conversation first, money second, if at all. You can buy twenty pounds of pork loin from your Chelsea butcher, but there is always the faint suspicion that as soon as you trundle out the door the clerks are sniding it up over the style of your hat or the size of your ass. Not so here. I have taken drink and dinner with the florist, the mayor, a guitarist, and all manner in between. Like the Swede and the Mexican, the Slav is wholly without snobbery and socioeconomic pretense. An open eye and listening ear takes one in, and vice versa. Whereas the chance meeting of two morning tradesmen on a Houston bus might result in a grunt and the sullen consumption of a frosted pastry, Ekaterinburgers would embrace the opportunity to check in with another striver, and quite possibly might spend the after-work hour together at a local discussing politics and sports over Ziewicz (Zubrowka if it’s cold). If one dropped in on the other at Christmas, how much richer the table for their presence.

Do not worry: in all this I have not lost sight of the gem Ekaterina, and I do think of her daily. Indeed, it is difficult to go a week without seeing her name or photo in one of the dailies. Given my progress with the language and customs, I estimate that the date of our coalescence may mark within the month. I see in the Kvarlovsk that she will play a set of exposition matches at home in the coming week...perhaps I will sluice the popcorn salesman for insights as to the locale of their post-game repasts.

A bit of a detour

2004-10-02T13:36:00.000-07:00

The cargo truck out of Kazan, in which I had stowed away, went off a steep embankment during a particularly violent snowstorm. The driver, rest his soul, did not survive the crash. After relieving him of his cash and flask I buried him in the snow, where he will be preserved until the truck is discovered, no doubt before winter's end. The gravesite is marked with a square of fallen logs, I thought that rather an obvious sign.

Unfortunately the truck was not carrying any food, so I was forced to strike off in search of sustenance. After a few hours of wandering in the darkened forest, trying to keep the road at my side, I was hopelessly lost. Not in any mood to be overtaken by the elements, I fortified myself with the late man's warming vodka and kept ever-vigilant, invigorated not just by the liquor but the purpose of my mission.

For several hours I wandered, here plunging into a snowdrift up to my neck, there cutting my hand as I grabbed for a shattered branch. Just as night had reached its thickest pitch, I spied a dim orange ember of light off through the trees. What first looked like a firefly became the glow of a hearth-fire through a little cottage window. Coming carefully closer, I watched as the family inside wrapped itself up and made off down the lane, carrying bottles and a covered casserole. Presuming they would be out for several hours, I waited until they were out of sight and then slipped in through the front door, which they had left unlocked.

It was a modest enough abode, and I was charged to see that a selection of other casseroles had been left on the counter to cool. Though quite against my ethics, circumstances forced me to reason that I needed the sustenance more than did this family, so taking a large spoon from the counter I carefully took a bite from the first dish. Finding it cold, and suspecting the others were more recently baked, I moved on. The second was scalding hot, fresh out of the oven. The third was perfectly warmed through, and I stuffed myself silly on what turned out to be a succulent pot pie of dark turkey meat, potatoes, peas, carrots and white gravy. The pie was washed down with a large draught of marvelous cucumber vodka from the refrigerator, and between the ordeal I'd been through, the heavy meal and the spirits I found myself barely able to make it back out the door. Knowing it would be suicide to pass out in the snow, I went upstairs to find a place where I could nap until I heard them come back in, at which point I would hop out a window onto the roof.

The family seemed to share the loft as its bedroom: a small bed for the child, and two separate beds for mother and father. Finding the child's bed too hard, I tried the mother's. This one was far too soft to be good for my back, so I moved on to the father's bed, where under the sheets I discovered an assortment of extremely violent pornography.

Growing concerned, I went out to their garage and slept in the attic of their carport. At first light I followed the road for a ways until it met up with the highway again, which I followed until I came across a gas station. At the first opportunity I hopped aboard a truck headed in what I presumed to be the right direction. In a few hours I looked through the slats of the cargo hold and imagine my delight as I saw that we were entering Ekaterinburg! I write you now from an underground Internet café, a hot cup of tea at my side. I intend to book a hotel for the night, freshen up, and get the lay of the land.

Greetings from Kazan!

2004-09-27T08:20:00.000-07:00

By hook, crook and passing truck I've made my way fairly commodiously to Kazan, a large city en route to Ekaterinburg. To note: Tolstoy and Lenin studied here as boys. Also to note: the savory yam and pumpkin pies one can buy on the street, brushed with a sugared, spiced butter. Mainly to note: photos of the lovely Ekaterina can be found here and there in the local periodicals, and I've clipped a fetching portrait of her as a bookmark. When I get nearer her home town I'll hide it in my wallet, but for now it's just the right fuel to keep a fellow slogging on through the gray morning sludge and icicle nights (not to mention the Turgenev). It shan't be long before we mark the meeting our grandchildren will look back upon as their receipt of origin. Until then it's another hot pot of tea, a plate of herring and potato, and a self-guided lesson in cyrillic across the back of a napkin.

Greetings from Moscow!

2004-09-13T06:09:00.000-07:00

Todd's plane was brought down in an ice storm just outside of Belgorod, a city on the Russia/Ukraine border. This is all for the best as Belgorod is hundreds of miles past our destination of Moscow, and far, far past my final stop of Ekaterinburg (or Yekaterinburg). My phrasebook has been all I've needed so far to find a hot cup of tea, a meat pie, and this Internet café. Really lovely people, if you try to speak a bit of the language. One fellow shook my hand a good six times, and cried twice. I say, if this hospitable spirit truly pervades the Russian landscape, then I shall quite enjoy my trip eastwards.

Tootle-ta!

2004-09-07T15:48:00.000-07:00

Tootle-ta, everyone! Tonight I board for Moscow, to slowly make my way to Ekaterinburg, home of Ekaterina! I shall pop into the odd Internet cafe to apprise you of my journey. It shall be the adventure of a lifetime, and I am full of vim and vinegar as the hour of departure draws nearer!

Like a fading photograph

2004-09-02T14:16:00.000-07:00

With each passing day, I feel like Ekaterina is a photograph fading in the sun, soon to wrinkle and fall in bits to the ground, soon never to have existed at all. I'll be blasted if I can get these Russian-language detective agencies to respond. Perhaps I will charter a flight with Todd once my language skills are up to snuff. I could sell the Austin-Healey, that should set me up for a few months or more abroad. Ah, that's just the thing! I shall immerse myself in the local culture for a few months first, to get my feet down. Perhaps in the next town over from hers. That's top shelf, that one. Must be all the fish I've been eating. Tonight, caviar and cabbage soup!

Difficulties abound.

2004-08-29T23:42:00.000-07:00

Try as I might, I could not catch a glimpse of Ekaterina at the closing ceremonies, and now I find myself realizing that keeping in touch with her might not be that easy after all. Or, rather, establishing contact in the first place. I'll be dashed if I can pick up this infernal language of hers; I find the difficulty doubled when a foreign tongue uses an entirely different alphabet. I took a course in Japanese back in college, which proved a particularly thorough flop of a gander of a fiasco.

While looking on-line for a decent local Ethiopian restaurant that delivers, I came across an advertisement for that queer sort of agency that claims they can dig up the goods on just about anyone, so I may pursue a Russian version of said office. All I really require is a reliable mailing address, as my written words will, I am sure, be just the stuff to provoke a tender response. Téodor snapped a rather composed headshot of me this afternoon, which I will enclose.

Goodbye, Olympics. It's a hand-rolled, a suspicion of armagnac and then bed. Oh, and to pine for Ekaterina, perhaps while I brush my teeth.

My shoe risers have arrived!

2004-08-26T13:52:00.000-07:00

The captivating Ekaterina.

Ekaterina stands six feet nine inches tall, and with these new risers I am up to one foot eleven. I might try putting a bit more body in the coiffure, that could get me up to a solid two feet...not quite high enough to hold her hand, but still enough to make a bit more of an impression. Vertical stripes also enhance one's appearance of height, so perhaps a bit of suit shopping is in order. I may dawdle down to Hidden Hills during a break in the action and have Bruno fit me for a few new pinstripes. I may also glance into Tiffany & Co. so as to be apprised of their selection, should it come time to present her with a symbol of my endearment.

Ekaterina

2004-08-23T22:12:00.000-07:00

Oh my heavens. I awoke this morning to find that, after a long night of imbibing at Ray's, I had publicly declared my love for Russian volleyball player Ekaterina Gamova. Well, dash it all, I shan't back down from the stance, for though the inebriation has ebbed, my fondness for the divine creature has not. Say what you will about the great disparities between us, love will find a way. Already I have begun a Russian language primer, and not two hours ago I ordered a set of shoe risers.

I am off to translate a bit of Turgenev, then to pine for Ekaterina, then a hand-rolled in the garden and then bed. Tomorrow I meet Waterbury for lunch and more language instruction; it turns out the old top is fluent in several Slavic tongues. I do like that fellow.

Oh sweet Aphrodite

2004-08-22T23:30:00.000-07:00

Good heaven on earth, I have been struck by the ultimate incarnation of feminine beauty. I admit it in a heartbeat, it is not the most orthodox of unions, yet I shall endeavor to bring it to reality. Softly done in by Ray's steady allowance of potato vodka and Russian phrase books, I find myself with no choice but to pursue the hand of Ekaterina.

Back in the stuff.

2004-08-17T22:03:00.000-07:00

Ah, now that's more like it. My original plan to study up on the Olympic results before watching the delayed broadcasts with Ray was unnecessary, as he has proven his curious tell beyond the hypothesis and down on into law. It's the green thing. If there's a flash of green in the country's flag, uniform, or even eye-shadow, he won't put the far end of a cent on them. We were making the board on a Netherlands/Belgium volleyball match when he spied a bit of green in the close-up of the Dutch digger's necklace...he immediately reversed his bet to side with the Belgians, with no overt explanation.

All this reintroduces the aspect of sport into our wagering, which I am all for. It is not a grind of a game where I simply play one-man Bingo; it's still a bit of an event where I must keep tabs on my competitor and read his whimsy. All that, plus the Austin-Healey needs its oxygen sensor relocated after I modernized the carburettor. That's going to run into four digits or so.

Silly me.

2004-08-16T21:59:00.000-07:00

What with my dire outlook lately, I had neglected to note that the Olympics are upon us. Never was there a richer buffet of sport over which to wager, and Ray is nothing if not a large cloud of green bills when the games are afoot. I casually knocked on his door Saturday to see if he was following the volleyball and swimming, and he hurriedly entreated me to the little encampment of couches, monitors and phones he had arranged in his living room. Wires snaked about the floor, dry-erase boards rested against walls, and several oversized flags hung in the corners. No sooner had I entered the room than he had settled down into his armchair and sounded a canned-air horn at the en-garde of some Men's fencing. I nipped an éclair from a large pastry tray and found a seat.

Five of my dollars said the Romanian fencer would take the Japanese, and we were off and rolling. He likes to bet large on the U.S. teams, no matter the press or insider commentary, so I cleared a hefty sum hedging against Old Glory. Pleasantly back in the easy bills, I settled in and tried to keep both eyes on the bank of monitors which broadcast the full spectrum of competition. Here a tenner on badminton, there two hundred on handball. A hefty grand on medley swimming. Seventy-five cents on women's air rifle, but it was seventy-five cents I didn't have before. He seems to bet against teams that have green in their flag, which is a good piece of information. I shall resume the wagering tomorrow when the broadcasts begin anew, having fortified myself with the real-time results on-line.

Flustered redux.

2004-08-12T17:59:00.000-07:00

I am absolutely dashed if I can devise a new scheme for engaging Ray in betting. Pool lost its luster when he became enamored of golf, he never bit on angling...ah! Oh! I neglected to canvass the full panoply of gentlemen's drinking games! I harbor absolutely no doubt that Ray shall be ultimately smitten by bar-room darts. Perhaps I shall invite him to the Crab and Pickle this evening! Yes, that's just the thing.

Flustered.

2004-08-09T01:37:00.000-07:00

Never in my life have I heard anyone, particularly a purported gourmand such as Ray, take a hot bite of breaded, golden-fried fresh perch and describe it as "muddy-tasting." The blighter even had the gall to throw the rest of his fish in the trash and ask if we kept Listerine. Not only were my hopes of selling him on angling dashed (perch are nearly all one can catch in the local waterways), but he had insulted my cookery and hospitality. When I said that we did not, he rummaged in the fridge and pantry and began assembling ingredients for nachos. The nerve some fellows show.

The joys of angling.

2004-08-08T19:16:00.000-07:00

I've just returned from a lovely sun-dappled day on the banks of the creek. On a few occasions I was forced to stow my tackle and retreat to the bushes, as the creek is very popular with teenagers, but no incident arose (except for dropping my favorite fishing cap, which one of the little scamps tried on, deemed "gay," and threw into the water). So, soggy and unpopular fishing hat on high—keeping me rather cool, in fact—I did pass the morning in casting and by lunch time my creel held two fat little perch. A chilled pint of Fuller's London Pride, a hefty slice of Mitton of Pork (picked up takeaway just yesterday at the Crab & Pickle), and I was fit and fortified for the afternoon. A few more hours' endeavor brought forth three more from the river, little beauties all, and tonight I imagine quite a gathering-round as I prepare the fish fry. Naturally I shall place a call to Ray, so he can sample the freshwater fruits and perhaps develop a taste for the sport himself. A casual discussion of the various expensive tackle one can purchase should whet his wallet sufficiently, I should think.

Well, I'll be!

2004-08-04T23:43:00.000-07:00

I happened to cross paths with Ray this evening, and he declined an offer to wager over pool! My heart sank as he described his total infatuation with the state of his golf game. If I read him rightly, someone has diverted his attention from our sessions into this separate sport. I am left to ponder his curious psychology and devise a tactic for winning back his business. Angling is a fine sport, perhaps when golf has run its course I will pull him back into my corner with rod and reel.

Lunch with Waterbury

2004-08-03T14:48:00.000-07:00

Ray agreed to give Waterbury leisure for a few hours this afternoon, and he joined me for a spot of lunch down at the Crab & Pickle. We were pleased to watch highlights of the Boreham v. Arsenal match on the television, and made good conversation over steak and kidney pie (myself) and an egg salad (his). Not surprisingly, he's a bit of an angler, and we made casual plans to visit the local waterways soon. I say, a fat perch fried in butter would be just the thing.

Just as we were wrapping things up Ray phoned him (Ray makes him carry a cell phone, which causes him understandable chagrin) and asked him what the square root of ten was. To my surprise, he plucked the Mont Blanc from his shirt pocket, did the sum on the reverse of the bierdeckel, and reported the answer. It apparently made Ray angry, for as soon as he had said the number I heard a distinct cry from the earpiece and an abrupt click. Perhaps Ray is betting on maths now?

A remarkable addition to the neighborhood.

2004-07-31T02:13:00.000-07:00

I was quite delighted this evening to make the acquaintance of a Mr. Waterbury, the new valet at the Smuckles household. I shall not raise the issue of who should be waiting on who, but rather observe that he is a true salt, and I recognized him as such immediately. Or rather, he recognized me: I have a weakness for wearing the old college signet ring, and I was not two seconds in his company before he commented wryly on our cricket team's record this season. Floored a few times over, I was scarcely able to defend our honor before he had offered me a silver-cased cigarette and taken my drink order. I do say, I like the fellow.

The poor eyes

2004-07-29T15:56:00.000-07:00

Lord bless the saline miracles of Visine. For the past eighteen hours I was locked into a bit of an 8-ball bender with the good Mr. Smuckles, walking the tighrope of one carefully-engineered victory after another. Many moments recalled the bleary marathon grind of The Hustler. The good news is that I seem to have hit a give-and-take stride with him wherein he seems comfortable winning one of five games. Around two PM today he treated us to a rather upscale wrap-up lunch at Veltliner, a gourmet establishment which lavishes its care upon the day's lesser-celebrated meals. I enjoyed a remarkable club sandwich at his largesse, along with a snifty couple of juleps which we thought might sail us off swiftly into sleep. I must admit, my medicated eyelids grow heavy even as I check over this entry.

The Tree is Watered.

2004-07-25T14:48:00.000-07:00

My decision to throw a game was a mixed success, and I shall run down the details of it for your amusement here.

Donning the aforementioned shambles of a tuxedo and having practiced my stumble-walk on the way to Ray's, I slurred a quick hello to him before making down an imagined tunnel to the bar. I could feel his eyes on my back as I clumsily mixed up a concoction which, through deft sleight of hand and clever use of the pouring thumb, contained nothing more potent than club soda, ice, and a wedge of lime. Just the thing to totter around with. Soon I sensed him sensing that just then was probably an opportune moment for a rematch, as it was rather early for him to be in his cups, yet here I was with my three sheets, etc. He patted his breast pocket, I pantomimed a greedy grabbing motion, and we were off.

It's not as easy to throw a game to Ray Smuckles as one might think. In the end I was forced to play far more precisely than usual, delicatetly missing my own shot while leaving him a lovely lag for a nice short one of his own. Naturally as his "luck" improved, he began to reward himself with a finger of this or two of that after each game, and always insisted that I take a snoot myself. I don't mind telling you that after a few rations of the Talisker I got a bit of a temper going and, annoyed with having to play so well just to engineer a loss, I began to slip and sink shots of my own. Sensing the tables turning, Ray, incorrigible gambler that he is, became tense and insatiable. Wagers rose as he attempted to regain his earlier glories, and I cut him off at a $5300 take, citing uncooperative pupils and an incipient nausea. As I wandered out of the garden, a bit sick at myself for fleecing him again so quickly, I wondered if my plan hadn't worked too well. Now he'll be calling me more often, the taste of those early victories forever fresh in his mind.

As I shut the gate I heard him bragging about having put a few over on "Poor Old Cornelius." At that I fingered the wad in my pocket and vowed that it would grow by leaps and bounds in the coming week.

What to wear...

2004-07-23T18:45:00.000-07:00

Wednesday and Thursday proved a bit of a grind, with Ray rather down at the mouth, though he insisted on playing game after game each night. As an aside, the Austin-Healey should be here Friday next.

For some reason tonight's choice of dress seems particularly poignant. I do not wish to arrive in the nines, as though I were putting on the posh airs of newfound wealth, but I also do not wish to downplay my winnings by arriving in an old college sweater and worn corduroys, for the old boy knows just how much I'm up and it might give him the pique. The best approach is, perhaps, if I come across as rather intoxicated and actually throw an entire game. That might pep the boy up and put more sparkle into the next trouncing. Yes, that is definitely it. You can't keep picking apples without watering the tree. Tuxedo, with the shirt collar open and the tie undone, no jacket—I'll have just come from an afternoon at Napoleon's, meeting with an old friend. That's just the thing. An ash stain on the left leg.

A Machiavellian Decision.

2004-07-21T13:39:00.000-07:00

I suppose some wags will say that I ought not fleece Ray for every penny he puts up for wager, but after a bit of thinking I think I will. The good man certainly does not need the money, flush as he is after all those record deals and that bit with selling the first extant piece of pornography for a half billion dollars. The little chips and dust I gather during our games represent a rather insignificant rounding error in the monthly compounding of his interest. And, should I not be remunerated for the thousands of hours I spent learning the game? Perhaps I will see myself as an honest craftsman in this situation. An artisan, perhaps, creating victory after perfect victory, for the collector.

I have a call in to him regarding a possible game this evening, and have been dreamily leafing through the aforementioned duPont Registry Austin-Healey spread. A red Bug-Eye Sprite with a fetching tan tonneau seems to be looking right at me, its headlights following me no matter where in the room I go.

What To Do With The Winnings.

2004-07-20T18:40:00.000-07:00

I have socked away my customary percentage into savings, and as is my wont I have a separate percentage at hand for discretionary spending. Recently I acquired a lovely new hat, but because my continued winnings have been so remarkable since that indulgence, I find myself at a bit of a loss as to what to do. Better men than I might dole the surplus out to charities, but I've always found that rather dissatisfying. Oh, I cherish the poor and all of that, and I wish them a leg up, but I am wary of the way the funds are managed once they leave my grasp.

So, given that I have several hundred dollars sitting in a pile before me, and no idea what to spend it on, I will repair to the yard for a stroll, a pinkie of Hine, and a hand-rolled. I find that said combination usually puts a new thought or two into my head.

Dirty Pool

2004-07-18T02:25:00.000-07:00

It is to my rather great regret that I did not see this coming. Ray, addictive personality that he is, phoned me up in a desperate frame of mind this afternoon, barely disguised as a pleasant social call to see what I planned to do with all of last night's winnings. I could tell he wanted to put more money on the bumpers, so when he invited me over for some mail-order filets mignon he had "forgotten" he ordered, I cut to the quick and asked if I might bring my cue. As soon as I offered I felt the cringe of guilt that parents who shoot heroin into their addicted babies must experience. Well, something like that. Not exactly. But still, rather foul and soul-wringing. Ray took the bait like a crocodile snapping up a chicken.

Dinner was delicious, but markedly curt. There was not even a vegetable, and no drinks were offered. Soon, it was time for the game.

Well, I thought I had seen the end of it as far as bizarre new cue technologies were concerned, but his apparatus for this evening was truly the limit. Instead of a cue stick at all, he wore a thick, futuristic glove on each hand, and onto his head he strapped a heavy set of goggles, just the sort you might see soldiers wear in night combat. There was a small touch-pad of buttons on one side of it, with which he fumbled awkwardly while sizing up his break. Then he took his position at the head of the table, pantomimed a breaking shot, and to my eye-widening consternation the balls scattered about as though they had been struck. Goggles on, he looked at me and explained that the balls were a special set which responded in kind to the actions defined by his gloves. "Kind of like a video game," he offered helpfully. Apparently the set came from Japan, and could thankfully also be struck with a normal, wooden cue.

I noted that the break had not been a particularly good one, having left the entire rack barely scattered at the bottom third of the table, so I was not too daunted to play. I made short work of the first game, letting him sink a shot when he could, as the tension in the room grew. He removed the fancy gear, insisted on making us drinks, and left for the bar. I sprang into action: donning the goggles, I made a quick study of the touch-pad. After selecting a modality entitled "Krazy-Pool!" I set the sweaty headgear down and picked up some overly-lacquered men's magazine.

He had mixed me a particularly stiff drink, so I partook in good sporting (it was Saturday night, after all, and my opponent was about to show me the finer points of "Krazy-Pool!" so I thought a stinging snoot might enhance the experience).

As we play Loser's break, he was at the head again. After re-donning his gear he went to the table and, to my undisplayed surprise, set up to shoot the cue ball into the right side pocket. Then, he shot the cue ball very strongly into the right side pocket. Great accuracy was used, in fact, with enviable topspin.

He took off his goggles to see what had just happened. The table stood silent, the rack pristine and untouched. My mirth could have filled a stadium, but I managed to keep it behind the teeth.

I may faithfully summarize the rest of the evening by stating that after a few more turns wherein the dictates of Krazy-Pool! sent cue ball after cue ball resoundingly into the right side pocket, he abandoned the technology entirely and returned to an actual stick. As is the case with one in a tight spot, he fell back upon the old familiar, the behind-the-back shot. I cut him off at $905 this evening, the last five dollars won on a particularly pathetic parting game of Rock-Paper-Scissors, in his doorway, as I was trying to leave.

A bit of an underhanded visit.

2004-07-17T01:22:00.000-07:00

I had originally planned to not attend Ray's weekly festivities this evening, but a modicum of greed and a particularly stirring Austin-Healey spread in this month's duPont Registry got the best of me. I donned a bit of a downer outfit, a moth-eaten royal blue v-neck over the old college tie and some tired slacks, and legged it for the place.

After the last debacle Ray had made many promises about not being available to play for a few weeks, but I knew this to be a ruse. As soon as he saw me walk into the yard his head jerked a bit and I felt sympathetic pangs in my pockets. We spoke amiably over gimlets and before long he caved and admitted he'd been working on his game, wouldn't I be a sport and put a few dollars on the table, etc.

He had purchased a rather curious new cue, a graphite-shafted number with a rubber grip that seemed to be ergonomically molded. Also, it has been a great number of years since I consulted the rules of the game but I am fairly certain that no provisions are made for cues which have a sliding panel that sits on the bridge hand, mounted on ball bearings, which essentially eliminates the need for hand-chalking. Figuring the new device would be more of a handicap than a help, I ignored its dubious status and let the games begin.

At first I was profoundly struck by his restraint from using the behind-the-back shot, as he mainly opted for slow, almost painful set-ups in the traditional form. It seemed he had sought third-party instruction and had been reined in somewhat.

Naturally, though, like any player changing their basic technique, he was years from competitive ability. A tortured, forty-five second setup would result in the cue ball rolling a good six inches, coming to rest squarely in the middle of a remarkably vacant stretch of felt.

Let no one say that I drag a good name through the mud unnecessarily. To make a rather long, bizarre and uncomfortable story short, Mr. Smuckles and his Space Rod parted this evening with not less than $5,300 and the promise of a challenging rematch. Giddy and flushed with another pocketful of cash, I repaired to Flanagan's for a late-night meal of pancakes, scrambled eggs and sausage. There is nothing like breakfast and money to make a man feel smart.

The 1845

2004-07-14T18:38:00.000-07:00

As I sat and accounted for my winnings against the good Mr. Smuckles this afternoon I discovered that I was in the mood to do one better than the usual domestic ales one finds around this house. In such a frame of mind I not one hour ago found myself at Lunecchi's, standing before a large open cooler of large bottles of beer. Lately infatuated with white ales, I scanned, left to right, top to bottom, the eye taking little journeys here and there to reminisce upon a favored label. Then, like a cold gust of air it seized me: squat, dark brown, beautiful...a glistening imperial pint of Fuller’s 1845. Ah, how the memories of losing my memories at the old Ensign Ewart did come flowing back like so much of the nutty brown stuff. As I write this now, a tall burnt-orange glass of it sits by the keyboard, capped with a beautiful creamy head. Now I must complete this entry and get to the matter at hand.

Rematch.

2004-07-13T01:55:00.000-07:00

As I had predicted, Ray would not go another day without a rematch on the felt. His call came precisely at 5PM, as though he were making clean numbers on superstition. He gamely invited me for dinner at 6, with more contest at 7. I shot the cuffs, dabbed a bit of English Leather behind the ears, and wrapped the corpus in a rich burgundy vest. I was sport incarnate.

The good man put out an honest spread of spiced lamb burgers, plank fries and imported cream ale. I must remark again upon the genuine hospitality of Mr. Smuckles, no matter what the portent of the evening. We made easy and wide conversation which did not in the least allude to the upcoming match. Soon, though, we retired to the parlor where his Moroccan battleground stood on all fours. After a lovely post-prandial fume and some calvados it was time to chalk and summon old Euclid.

The first indicator that it was to be a night like no other was just after I allowed him to beat my lag and take the break. He chalked, eyed the rack from four sides for tightness, and then, to my greatly contained surprise, set up for a behind-the-back break. I do not know if I have ever witnessed such a spectacle, but I kept mum for posterity.

Although he had doubtless practiced such a break many times in my absence, it did not seem to have done him much good. The cue bounced embarrassingly from his grasp and he lost footing, falling and striking his cheek on the corner of the table. Despite my admonitions he was content to let it bleed, and so we played. It was my shot, as the cue ball had rolled into a pocket shortly after his tumble.

From there I am sad to report that it only fell away from him, though I did my best to throw a shot here and there. Like a runner who curiously refuses the baton, he contorted his way through the game in a manner which might only be called desperate. Desperate and expensive.

After a few more rounds in the same grain I counted a $2300 sum and bid him adieu, citing a pressing social engagement. He insisted I stay for a cigarette and ticked off a number of his own engagements which would keep us from playing again for several weeks.

I think I am going to buy a new hat.

A Sudden Flush.

2004-07-11T02:13:00.000-07:00

Dear Ray took me at less of my word than I had imagined possible, and I did wander away from his pool table four figures more the aristocrat this evening. I would not disparage the fellow's approach in mixed company but he simply must abandon that behind-the-back shot if he is to make any headway with the game. He is like a golfer who will only ever use his driver, simply because it is the biggest club in the bag. The analogy is scant and does not hit on all cylinders, but there you have it.

At any rate, red in the gills with easy money, I believe I will beat a fresh path to the Aidan online shop for a bit of gentlemen's grooming accoutrement. Tomorrow, a good snoot of Talisker down at Napoleon's, for who knows how long this gusher will render its sweet, green oil.

An Uncommon Indulgence.

2004-07-10T01:02:00.000-07:00

It is not my habit to attend the festivities which Ray puts on every weekend. I am no stranger to debauched evenings, but the regularity of their revelry taxes the resources of a man of my vintage. However, it had been a great while since I had donned my Bacchanalian wreath, so when Téodor dropped by my door, as he always does, to invite me along (bless him, I do like that Téodor), I pushed back from my blotter and donned the houndstooth.

I must say, Ray does lavish a lovely and gracious hospitality upon his guests. A well-rounded menu of meats and thoughtful beverage await the attendee, and tonight the flagship items were marvelously flavored pork ribs, matched rather savvily with remarkably sweet old vine zinfandels, and some lovely imported white beer. The man had even gone to the trouble of hiring a sushi chef, who prepared sashimi, rolls, tempura and teriyaki with a smile and that wonderful Japanese legerdemain. I did nip a bit freely from the sake, and before long I found myself laying into the full bar and victuals.

I have a bit of a flip for the old slate, and Ray made short work of talking me into a wager over 8-ball. He has a lovely burgundy-felted one-piece with marvelous Moroccan inlays about the frame, and I don't mind telling you he's a bit free with his technique. A true lover of the behind-the-back shot, he'll try it at geometry's slightest provocation. Unfortunately, this regular application has not improved his accuracy in said configuration. Also, it can be said that Ray has played a great many games in a casual environment, yet does not adhere to any particular school of discipline, which puts him at a marked disadvantage. Not half an hour had passed before I was five hundred the richer and promising a future rematch to a remarkably giddy Smuckles. It seems the old boy is a bit of a sport, and I envision a rather profitable series of afternoons in the coming weeks.

A Kitchen of One's Own.

2004-07-07T21:18:00.000-07:00

I rose from my writing table rather late this evening and found that the rest of the household had already dined. All the dishes cleaned and put in place, all the diners repaired off to their spicy burps and thickly drawn breaths, I had the kitchen to myself. Making my way through the clutter of the refrigerator I happened across a lovely piece of sole and the makings of a fragrant provençal sauce. I sautéed the garlic, onion, tomato, basil and kalamatas in some olive oil and sauvignon blanc, with a dash of dijon and butter, and nappéd it over the sautéed fish. I took it with a bracingly crisp glass of Frascati and then retired to the back yard with a hand-rolled and a Calvados. Tonight's meal was a pleasure.

Le Danse Macabre

2004-07-06T14:51:00.000-07:00

I have thrilling news! For those of you who follow Le Danse Macabre, there is a retrospective on PBS this evening! I do not believe I have been this plussed at the prospect of television since, well, my last post. But Le Danse Macabre is certainly a different specimen entirely. Highlights are sure to include Indice 41, the landmark play that takes place entirely behind the stage curtain, and my personal favorite B.b.B., the story of a young girl whose desire to become a boy is so strong that she emits a constant, low scream throughout the entire production. Chilling, heartbreaking, challenging - Le Danse Macabre spares no-one. 9pm.

That Lauren Graham.

2004-07-05T21:57:00.000-07:00

I must admit to a bit of a chink in the old Bear armor: I am positively dreamy over that adorable Lauren Graham. I know I am perceived as a stony recluse whose heart is protected by thorny memories of great loves gone wanting, and for the most part that is true enough. In the case of Ms. Graham, however, I feel quite content to fawn over her television appearances and dip into the odd daydream of champagne among the dense roses at Hampton Down, perhaps a hand held in hand and a titillating repartee with her devastating wit...forgive me. Of all the beauties that are swung across the television screen, she seems the odd jewel with that classic je ne sais quoi. Not to mention the dimples. Oh! She's on Celebrity Poker this evening! I shall repair to the living room with the well-thumbed and nib and hopefully lavish a few lines upon that invigorating Beatrice.

The 12-hour Shift.

2004-07-03T20:26:00.000-07:00

Good heavens, I made the daft judgment error of picking up Bryson's A Short History of Nearly Everything once again last night late while tucked in with a good snoot of the Very Special OP. I had just worked through a lengthy bit wherein Mr. Bryson treats us to stories of various Yellowstone night-time hikers who fall through the earth's crust into searing underground hot springs and are boiled alive, and I thought the coast might be clear for a while. Not so. He managed to sneak in another chapter about what would result if another meteorite--the type that have been hitting earth every so often for millions of years, apparently--were to strike today (extinction of all living species, of course). At any rate, I couldn't sleep for the thought of all that, especially his use of the phrase "long overdue," so I steadied myself with another finger or two of the VS and watched FoodTV stir into life. As Emeril sliced into a few ahi gems, who should stumble into the house but Lyle, with the bouquet of a long evening about him. So, the sun rose on a nerve-rattled yours truly and his acrid companion passing a bottle of something strong, brown and eventually friendly between them. I am not above such lows, but waking to find that it was 8pm just now has rather put me out. I suppose I ought to get some oil paints and spend a month or two in a field in Aix, far from Mr. Bryson and his overdue meteorites.

Drat, I Have Read More Bryson.

2004-07-02T03:39:00.000-07:00

...and it's got me feeling more down at the existential heel than ever. I've just trembled through a chapter which describes the very real possibility that great blasts of lava can come shooting up through the earth's core in unlikely locations without any warning. The busypen even has the great radius to use the phrase "your own backyard." Thank you, Mr. Bryson, for turning my only sanctum into a potential hotbed of deadly magma spray. To paraphrase his apparent philosophy, "life is a game in which you cannot win, cannot break even, and cannot leave." I do not recall the name of the great mind from whom this was cribbed.

All this on the tail of the chapter which outlines in great detail how unprepared we are should a large meteorite decide to cross paths with our planet. (hint: extinction of all life)

The New Bryson

2004-07-02T01:12:00.000-07:00

Good evening, dear friend. I should like to take this opportunity to forewarn you against reading any of Bill Bryson's A Short History of Nearly Everything in bed late at night if you are not particularly sleepy, as the questions raised therein are particularly disconcerting. The way Mr. Bryson puts into perspective the very slim odds that we should exist at all has caused me to become particularly agitated and depressed on several occasions to date, most recently keeping me from sleep well through twilight, at which point I slept only fitfully while the neighbors' landscapers trimmed their Monday morning hedges and blew the leaves. I admit that on one of these occasions I did seek refuge in numbing Talisker, which left me fairly ruined for the rest of the day after I had napped. I did not dress or shave, and wandered the house simply in my robe and slippers. I do need to make more of an effort to put up best appearances. Lord knows I would be alone in such a crusade.