Lenten Recipes

I should post some decent Lenten recipes, but I am feeling pretty uncreative these days, due to being the only one in the house not afflicted with a cold. I actually had little traces of it Wednesday, which I wrote up to staying up too late Tuesday, but by the end of the day it was pretty clear that it was an old fashioned cold. Melanie and Amalia had coughs and fevers and all that, but it missed me other than a little bit of a runny nose.

So, cooking has been a matter of old standards and leftovers. I have a restaurant to review Saturday night, but other than that I hope to be back in the swing of things. From what I saw at the market last week I am predicting that I will be cooking with root vegetables still, various greens, perhaps crabs, probably some sort of fish or another (I owe a good friend some tilapia recipes, so I might buy some tilapia and do some experiments).

Also, I am always open to requests if you want some ideas on any ingredient I can probably come up with something.

Friday Five

No Friday Five from the Friday Five folks, so I am going to use the suggested one from Summamamas.

1. What is your favorite type of literature to read (magazine, newspaper, novels, nonfiction, poetry, etc.)?

Probably novels, art criticism, history, poetry, philosophy, theology, natural sciences. Or something to that effect.

2. What is your favorite novel?

The River Why by David James Duncan. Or perhaps At Play in the Fields of the Lord by Peter Matthiessen.

3. Do you have a favorite poem? (Share it!)

It changes, depending on my mood. Most recently I have been in Danteland, since the Lectura Dantis has gone back to Inferno, and I am always amazed at how stunningly beautiful Dante's writing is. For a while it was "L'apres-midi d'un faun."

4. What is one thing you've always wanted to read, or wish you had more time to read?

Too many things in this category.

5. What are you currently reading?

The aforementioned Inferno, , a book on Scholastic Culture from 1000 - 1300 (the actual title and author's name escape me at the moment), Richard Rodriguez's Brown, a mediocre biography of Allen Ginsberg (I think it is called Allen Ginsberg in America or someting like that. It is not worth recommending, but it was $5 in hardcover on the remaindered table, so I could not resist), as well as pre-bed rereading of Milan Kundera's Book of Laughter and Forgetting. Next on the list is probably Percy Walker's The Moviegoer, as soon as Melanie finishes it. I am also keen on reading Russo's latest, as Melanie really liked it, and I have liked the other Russo that I have read.

Dixie Quiz

Since I am interested in regionalisms, I did end up taking the Dixie/Yankee quiz, although I find it problematic to divide American English that neatly (what about Boont?). I came up with 55% Dixie, no doubt due to the huge influence of Oakies and Arkies in California's Central Valley. I knew kids who never left the state and sounded like they were from Oklahoma (and this is two or three generations removed from the Dust Bowl refugees).

The quiz linked to an interesting site on the antlion, which is a fascinating creature. As I mentioned in a comments box on another blog, when I was a demented ten year old (as opposed to now, when I am a demented thirty-two year old), I used to stage gladiator fights between different species of ants in antlion dimples. A red ant would fight a black ant and then, POOF! The antlion would devour one or both.

Sick, I know, but they don't really have much of a nervous system. And I did learn more about the habits of the order hymenoptera than most of my peers. I am still fascinated by the habits of bees, wasps, and ants. I have built ant farms and investigated wasp nests (be careful when doing this), and am amazed by the whole thing.

Here in California we are facing a twofold invasion: fire ants and killer bees. The killer bees will probably be pretty docile by the time they get here, due to breeding with honey bees. I have heard horror stories about fire ants, but am still curious about them. The scariest ants I have encountered so far were the monsters in the Amazon basin. Those suckers are big, black and beautiful. I can watch them all day.

Of course Amalia's interests in instecta are in butterflies and ladybugs. Can't say I blame her. They are lovely creatures. We are fortunate to live very close to one of the monarch butterfly wintering sites. If you ever have a chance to see one of these places, by all means do so. Monarchs are gorgeous. Around here their only rival in splendor (at least in the order lepidoptera) are the swallowtail butterflies.

Some day I hope that she will take after me and find cockroaches some of the most interesting insects around, but I can wait. I understand that to a two and a half year old color is everything, and cockroaches are fairly bland compared to her favorites. Still, I find the site of a Madagascar cockroach one of the most breathtaking things known to man. They are the heavy cavalry of the insect world, looking like tiny Crusaders off to retake the East from the insectoid equivalant of Mohammedans (hmmm. What would that be?). Think about that image for awhile. I bet that Pixar never uses it. Too bad.

I like most insects, but I am not crazy about the order diptera. Two wings is just not enough, and they also are the disease vectors around here. I have posted before on my mourning of the loss of DDT in our arsenal against diptera, something I think about in late summer when I am at the bullfights in the middle of the San Joaquin Valley, being eaten alive by swarms of nasty little buzzing things. I predict that a massive outbreak of West Nile Virus changes a lot of folks' notions of DDT.

Links update

I am finally getting around to adding to the links. It has been awhile, and I realized that some of my favorite sites are not on there. I added the Curt Jester, and the two bullfighting sites mentioned below. I also have to say that it is with some sadness that I had to delete one of my favorite comments box contributors, as he has stopped his excellent blog (get a new one, John, we miss you. Also, you were the only Prottie (agnostics like Lileks don't count) that I linked to, so now I look even less ecumenical than ever). I also added Reflections in d minor which replaced another fine blog that has gone away (come back, Gregg!).

There are scads of others that I should add, and I will eventually. If you notice that you are not on the list and should be, please holler!

Bullfighting in California

If you are at all interested in the California Bloodless Bullfights, here is the place to go for schedules. Sometimes they are not updated in a timely fashion, so I recommend checking out this site to verify.

Balance

Last night I was up until 11 making gumbo for the National Shrine of St. Francis of Assisi's Mardi Gras Fete. I got home and Melanie said, "you smell like fish." It must have had to do with peeling pounds and pounds of shrimp and crabs. So, tonight for balance, I got to stay up until 11 eating said gumbo. Yum.

The not-so-secret to a good gumbo is the dark roux, which is a tedious thing to make if ever tedium were encountered in the kitchen. Beyond that, the sky is the limit as to what you put in: rabbit, chicken, shrimp, greens, goose, hephalumps and woosles, whatver. We used chicken, shrimp, crab, andouille sausage, ham, mustard greens, lacinato kale, and la trinite: a blend of capsicum, onion, and celery. For seasonings I used dried thyme, dried basil, dried oregano, cayenne pepper, sriracha pepper paste, garlic, and finished with file powder. I boiled the shrimp and crab shells to make the broth for the gumbo, so it was really seafoody. If anyone really wants the detailed recipe, I will be happy to provide it, but it is long and I ask that it only be requested if one has an inkling to actually make it. If it is just idle curiosity, then please look at a few gumbo recipes first and then, if you have any questions, feel free to ask.

For some good recipes in a book, I recommend The Commander's Kitchen by Ti Adelaide Martin and Jamie Shannon. This is the cookbook for the Commander's Palace in NOLA, which is a fantastic restaurant, well worth a stop.

Happy Mardi Gras!
Laissez les bons temps rouler!

Nortonic Currency

Ryan mentioned in the comments box that he thinks that I would fit the Emperor Norton mode quite well. He wants me to print money with my picture on it, as Emperor Norton did. That is a capital idea, but I need to come up with what I am going to call my currency. Too many dollars out there, and they retired the Lira's number (10,000,000,0000 or something like that). So I have to look to our friends the Irish. The Punt. However, I find overuse of the punt to be a sign of wimpiness. Real men try for the first down, even when it is fourth and long. So, out goes the Punt.

Now, the swamp-dwelling Low Germans used to use Fl. as the abbreviation for their Guilder. Fl stood for Florin, which is named after the city that crushed my ancestral city of Pisa (boo! hiss! We'll get you back, you Florentine fools!), so I think they are bastards, but they are Tuscan bastards, so I will have to go with them. Also they have a great cathedral and superb tripe.

So...

Hear ye!
Hear ye!

The second Emperor of the Nortonic Dynasty has proclaimed his currency to be the Florin!

Be Happy and Drink to that!

Silly Quiz Time

There are a couple of quizzes floating around, and neither one of them is something I need to take to know the answer.

I am neither Yankee nor Dixie, but Californian. That Mason-Dixon stuff happened on the other side of the Sierra, and I make it a point not to dabble in foreign affairs. I probably tend to sympathize with the Southerners, though, because they never had the Puritans, nor Harvard, and they give us tobacco, Faulkner and bourbon. They also have New Orleans, which is my kind of town, in a non-Californian, non-Italian my-kind-of-town sort of way.

As for which mad historical leader I am either Emperor Norton, Cola di Renzo, or perhaps Alfredo Stroessner (is he still alive?).

And I don't need no stinkin' quiz to tell me these things!

Friday Five

When was the last time you...

1. ...went to the doctor?

Last June was the last checkup on the hernia surgery. Unless I get sick I will probably go another five to ten years without seeing a doctor. I do not believe in excessive preventative medicine and have warned doctors that any attempt to test my cholesterol will be met with violent resistance. All those tests are bad news. Once we are fully grown and no longer have to see what percentile we are in height and weight it is silly to expose ourselves to doctors too much. Who goes to doctors' offices? Sick people. How can I be sure that Amalia is going to catch a cold? Take her for a routine checkup. It drives me nuts and is bad enough that she has to suffer through it. It wouldn't do if both of us were catching yearly colds from routine check ups.

2. ...went to the dentist?

Don't ask. After suffering under the brutal Dr. K. I don't think anyone would willingly step foot in a dentist's office again. I will have to go in soon, however, and I am dreading it almost as much as I dread shopping for clothes.

3. ...filled your gas tank?

Monday. At Santa Cruz. Paid too much for the gas, too, but thought that it wouldn't have been worth it to drive further. Could have saved 11 cents a gallon, though.

4. ...got enough sleep?

I must have last night, because I feel well rested, although I shouldn't have, by the clock.

5. ...backed up your computer?

Don't do it. At Arhoolie we did it every week and it was a pain and never came in handy. I have never done it on any of my personal computers. I do back up occasional documents, but I don't go through the whole "backing up the computer" ritual.

My apologies to Alicia...

Especially as she celebrates her 30th Anniversary!

BUT...

She commented that she misses the California produce, particularly the strawberries in April and May, and, while I feel for her, I must report that we are getting the first spring strawberries from San Diego County at our farmers' market and they are lovely. Irises are blooming in our backyard, the asparagus is good again, and it still looks like autumn two blocks away.

So, for all of my readers stuck in the permafrost of the East, let me invite you to fly over here and have homemade strawberry shortcake with us!

Harpsichord Pieces on the Guitar

Anton Sherwood commented on my piano post that he likes to play harpsichord pieces on guitar. I have to say that some of my favorite renderings of Scarlatti have been on guitar. I would really like to see a Portuguese guitarist do some of Scarlatti's Iberian influenced works on the guitarra portuguesa. If any of you play that magnificent instrument, please consider these pieces!

For Spanish guitarists, might I suggest Soler's Fandango?

Question Two

Question Number Two. What famous painting would you wish out of existence?

This is a really tough question. I am inclined to want to delete scads of crap: Warhol, Koons, Newman, Schnabel, Kinkade (although he is so much in the realm of product rather than art that I probably would have to let him be handled by another branch of the Keilholtz Police – sort of an additional insult to him that the Keilholtz Art Police would consider him outside of their jurisdiction). However there is always a temptation to “get at the root” and try to stamp out the error in the bud, hence the Pre-Raphaelites wanting to get back to where art was pure and build from there.

If there is one constant in the arts it is that an idea comes about, gets explored to the point where everyone is a little sick of it, it is pushed around and expanded in order to breathe new life into it, until a new generation comes around and rejects the whole thing.

When we look at the glory of the beaux arts style of architecture, it seems incomprehensible that Gropius et al would have rejected it, but to understand their rejection we need to look at how tired it had become. In just about any American city one can find at least one stunningly ugly example of beaux arts building. In Berkeley one need only walk onto the University of California campus to see a whole assortment of grotesque, gray buildings, buildings that scream empty pomp and bluster and are completely without charm or beauty. Now, when we want to look for tired ideas, we need look no farther than the contemporary modernists (and their pomo offspring), so young architects are looking to the pre-Bauhaus for the pure and noble.

Being human, we see these changes and get all caught up in the spirit of the times and dualist thinking and come to some pretty laughable conclusions: idea X [as observed and lived in its late, degenerate form] is inherently bad and to recover beauty we must go back to idea pre-X and start all over. Artists certainly do this, but they always do it within a tradition that was passed to them through the dreaded idea X, so their rhetoric is tempered by the realities of craftsmanship. Thus Picasso may have started a revolution of sorts, but there is always something of Puvis de Chavannes lurking beneath the surface.

Critics tend to really fall into this trap, because they tend to either have never had the experience of craft (and many of them really don’t know how to take a deep look at the painting, or a good listen to a piece of music anyway) or they have fallen away from it. So they are the ones that tend towards foolish statements, blaming so-and-so for the state of such and such a genre. Often artists fall into these traps because they listen too much to critics (note that I am not arguing against any reading of arts criticism, rather believing anything that is contradicted by and irreconcilable with direct experience). In certain cases the artists were simply nodding, because they did not think about it long enough, or they were sick of trying to correct misconception, or that they found that the critical rhetoric boosted sales.

When artists start to blame the degeneracy of an idea on the idea itself, they often retreat to some mythical ideal, when all was pure and wonderful. For the Florentine Camerata this was the ancient Greeks (although their citing of the Greeks was nothing more than a vague notion of singing dramas – they had no idea what the Greeks were actually doing in music). The happy result was opera.

The result rarely looks anything like the sources being emulated (except by hacks who slavishly imitate older forms to make their pastiches), so the Pre-Raphaelites do not look like Giotto, Monteverdi does not make musical archaeology, and so forth.

When I think of trying to banish one painting from the collective memory, my first tendency is to fall into this trap and try to find where “art went off the rails.” I could pick Warhol, or more logically, Duchamp, or even Toulouse Lautrec. However, I cannot really say that Duchamp caused Warhol, or that the inevitable end of German Expressionism is the silliness that is Schnabel.

Since it is foolish to wish simply one Warhol out of existence, and not all of them, I will have to abandon this route.

OGIC thinks that perhaps some overexposed painting like Munch’s Scream that has been reproduced and commercialized to death should vanish. I disagree. Make the coffee mugs and T-shirts and clever cartoons vanish, not the painting. Here we have an example of a painting continuing to resonate with viewers, and I have no impulse to try to stop that.

All of this leads us to content. I suppose that if I were to wish a painting out of existence, it would have to be because the painting is patently blasphemous, nothing more than immoralizing agitprop, completely lacks artistic merit and serves as a rallying point for the Enemy. The painting that springs immediately to mind is the elephant dung painting that was in the news awhile back. Or perhaps the posters of ACT-UP.

There is the personal vendetta school: any painting that gets the attention of the public before one of mine is going to be something that I would want gone, even if it were a great painting. If I were in a group show and someone else’s work were attracting the attention of buyers, you can bet that that other person’s work would come into the crosshairs of my Imaginary Vaporizer. It is not a pretty thing to admit about yourself, but when it comes down to it, the arts are pretty competitive, and artists struggle for crumbs. I might admire a painter at the same time that I am thinking, “ugh, now I have to contend with THAT!”

Five Questions

Following Don, who is following OGIC, to whom the questions were asked, I am going to answer these one at a time:

(1) What book have you owned longest—the actual copy, I mean?

(2) If you could wish a famous painting out of existence, what would it be?

(3) If you had to live in a film, what would it be?

(4) If you had to live in a song, what would it be?

(5) What’s the saddest work of art you know? And does experiencing it make you similarly sad?

I will start with #1, and will tell you that the answer is different now than it would have been three years ago. Three years ago, I would have forgotten about a whole section of my library that was boxed away both physically and mentally. However, someone has come into our lives two and a half years ago who suddenly made that part of the library relevant again.

There are probably multiple titles that would win the prize, but the one that I think was my first book that still is in the library is "The Owl and the Pussycat," followed by Richard Scarry's Book of Nursery Rhymes. Perhaps the order is wrong, but I think that is it.

San Francisco

As everyone knows, I love the City of San Francisco. Even though I am in exile accross the bay, I consider it my city, and would move there in a second. As it is, we go to mass in San Francisco, so we are there at least once a week as a family. I am there at least one other time for lectura dantis, and often Amalia and I go over just to take walks, look at the boats, etc.

One of the great things about the city is that it is a remarkably normal place, for the most part. One can easily be in North Beach and not see a Rainblow Flag, men holding hands and purses, and the other sort of depravity that one thinks of when hearing "San Francisco." It is the same in most neighborhoods in the City. So, I find it particularly terrible when San Francisco's wretched government decides to defy the state government and God over the marriage issue.

Hopefully the state will step to the plate for the defence of marriage. I am not too optimistic, as the Gubernator has been fairly pro-sodomy. Obviously we need to storm Heaven with prayers, as He is probably the only one who can do anything about this abomination (a mini volcano erupting at Market and Castro would be a powerful sign).

If you don't live in San Francisco, consider this advanced warning as to what you will be facing in two years. What starts here eventually even hits Wyoming and Alabama, so pay attention to the Western Front, where all is not quiet at all.

I am strongly opposed to legislation by constitutional amendment. If a marriage definition amendment were to happen, it would have some good consequences, but ultimately it would reinforce the notion that rights are whatever 51 percent of the population or two thirds plus one or nine judges or the Mayor of San Francisco thinks they are.

I am not sure what is left for people to do, besides presenting lists of 10 good men in the City.

Friday Five Alternative

I am glad that others hated last week's Friday Five, too. This one has been offered as an alternative:

1. What did you have for breakfast this morning? If you didn't have breakfast, why not?

Ham and Cheese Croissant from Gayle's Bakery in Capitola (one of the best bakeries in the world, probably worth a trip to California specifically to go there. For me a visit to the Santa Cruz area is incomplete without a stop at Gayle's).

2. What's your favorite cereal?

I am not a big cereal eater. I suppose Grape Nuts, as they have more substance than the rest.

3. How often do you eat out? Do you want that to change?

At least twice a week (if we are only talking dinners). One of those is almost invariably the taqueria, which is a cheaper meal than if I cook it myself. I would like for us to eat out three or four times a week, but that is mostly because I am a restaurant critic, and am definitely counting those paid gigs.

4. What do you plan on having for dinner tonight? Got a recipe for that?

We had tamales (from Trader Joe's), as we got back from Santa Cruz too late to want to cook anything.

5. What's your favorite restaurant? Why?

I will have to go with Oliveto in Oakland for a place that I would eat at every day if I could. Paul Bertolli is a great chef. For special occasion restaurants I would probably have to go with either The French Laundry in Yountville or La Folie in San Francisco or Manka's in Inverness or Cafe des Artistes in New York (although the last time I ate there was 10 years ago or so, so it may not be as good). For a good, reliable regular sort of place, US Restaurant in San Francisco (I will even get more specific and tell you that we eat there at least twice a month, and I generally alternate between my two favorite items, although I have liked everything I have had there) and Taqueria San Jose in Oakland (we have eaten there about once a week for the last 7 years) both count.

Runners-up would be Pearl's in Fremont, Chez Panisse in Berkeley, Restaurante Mercedes in Morelia, Chiki Jai in Tijuana, Napoleon House in New Orleans, but then I have to really start to think, because there are a lot of great restaurants in New Orleans, and that gets me to thinking about New York, and then that brings me back to San Francisco, and, well, forget about it. Too many good places. Also, there are those that I have had incredible meals but have no idea if that is a constant feature, or just a one time fluke.

Don Cherry

OK, I read Terry Teachout regularly, as he has some very good things to say about the arts. So when I encounter this post about the "Don Cherry affair" I get really excited. Don Cherry was one of the most interesting free jazz players, always the top of my own Talent Deserving Wider Recognition list (the current person to hold that spot is Sonny Simmons - go buy the Live in Paris double CD from Arhoolie and you will see what I mean. I will warn you that the sound quality is pretty bad. Chris was not sure he even wanted to put it out, but we listened to it, and the music was incredible, bad sound or no).

Since I have about all of Cherry's records, I thought, "great, stuff on Cherry." It tuns out that it is a hockey player with the same name who scandalized folks in Canada by doing something or other. I don't follow hockey. Soccer on Ice. Yawn. Anyway this Conan O'Brian or O'Brien fellow was saying something insulting to the Quebecois and it had something to do with Don Cherry (hockey boy Cherry), and....wake me up later. I used to watch this Conan fellow, once in a great while. He was pretty funny, but the main reason I liked to watch him was the bandleader, a drummer with a really awful style. And his Ed McMahon character was good. I think his name was Andy or something.

Anyway, obviously I am not too up on pop culture these days. I used to at least know who was who and what was which, but no longer.

I guess I should not be surprised by the lack of a post on free jazz, since the musician Don Cherry has been dead for a number of years, and I really can't imagine much of a scandal involving him (save the cracks about free jazz being scandalous). So, there you go.

Since there is obviously a deficit in free jazz posts, let me recommend a couple of great free jazz records:

Ornette Coleman. The Art of the Improviser. Even Melanie likes this one.

Art Ensemble of Chicago. Actually I recommend anything and everything they ever did. Great guys. Great musicians. Lester Bowie is another great one who deserved wider recognition.

Sonny Simmons. In addition to Live in Paris, Manhatten Egos is great, as well.

Sun Ra. The Heliocentric World of Sun Ra. Both volumes are great.

Courtesy of Lynn at Reflections in d minor...

10 Questions

1. What is your favorite word? "Fish" Just say it to yourself about a hundred times. Whisper it. Yell it. What a word.

2. What is your least favorite word? "Compassionate" There is nothing wrong with what it really means, but I am sick of it becoming a euphemism for "accepting the whole liberal slate." Some leftist gossip columnist once praised Tammy Faye Baker for saying that she had "had enough of organized religion." How did this gossip columnist describe Tammy Faye's statement? Compassionate. For me it was an Ah-hah! moment. I realized that "compassionate" means "on our side" to these liberals, and I am definitely not on their side. When that nudnick GHW Bush started yammering about "Compassionate Conservativism" I relized that he was doomed. The implication is that conservativism is not compassionate unless modified (not arguing fer or agin, but pointing out what the language implies). Dumb move. Along with "Compassionate" allow me to toss "affirming" to the pile. If I have to get to downtown Oakland from the freeway I have to pass the Unitarian (but pagan, too, because the only thing we really don't like is a Trinity) Universalist Church, which is proudly an "open and affirming congregation." Really? If I showed up in full fascisti regalia and proclaimed Nova Roma, do you think these folks would affirm me? Or would they figure that even though they are Universalists, they might make an exception for homophobes? To these yahoos, "affirming" means one thing: "we think sodomy is grand."

3. What turns you on (inspires you)? The City. Drinking espresso. Drawing. Painting. Playing the harpsichord. Chasing Amalia around the park. Cooking tripe. The Latin Mass. Big Sur. Swimming in the freezing Pacific Ocean (haven't done that in years, though). The view from Mt. Diablo. Staying up all night and watching the sunrise from Telegraph Hill. Good bullfights. Reading at 3 am. Building things. Solemn Sung Vespers. Haggling with farmers.

4. What turns you off? Scientologists. School board meetings.

5. What sound do you love? Harpsichord. The sound of an ironworks (blast furnaces are particularly lovely). The sound of an ocean liner docking. Fog horns. Loons. Trains. The Blue Angels. Stan Getz. Birds. Pedestrian traffic, especially at 1am.

6. What sound do you hate?. Overamplified rap "music" coming from cars. Equal tempered instruments. 90% of the "folk revival" crap. 99% of "alternative rock."

7. What is your favorite curse word? (if any) Hmmm. The blog might get banned from Italian schools if I said.

8.What profession other than yours would you like to attempt? Dictator.

9. What profession would you not like to participate in? Anything connected with clothing. Designing it, making it, selling it.

10. Presupposing that Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates? "Come on in! You will find your harpsichord tunes itself here!"

Friday five

We are going to Santa Cruz this weekend, so if we leave tonight I will not be posting again until Monday. Otherwise I might post some stuff tonight. Meanwhile, this is a pretty dumb Friday Five:

1. Are you superstitious?

No.

2. What extremes have you heard of someone going to in the name of superstition?

I have encountered some pretty dumb bunnies who do all sorts of little things to avoid some silly fear. I suppose the most extreme is to refrain from calling the 13th floor the 13th floor.

3. Believer or not, what's your favorite superstition?

Evil Eye. Of course.

4. Do you believe in luck? If yes, do you have a lucky number/article of clothing/ritual?

Luck, sure. I don't think of God as that much of a micromanager that He tinkers with card games and the like. That's why we have the science of statistics.

5. Do you believe in astrology? Why or why not?

No, because it is foolish, has no basis in any science and is not even a particularly interesting vice. I mentioned to some idiot once that astrology is an accurate indicator of personality about 1/12th of the time, and she said, "well, that is better than nothing." Astrology is for those who think the Da Vinci Code is history. In the Keilholtz dictatorship horoscopes will be banned from the newspapers. I generally assume that people who ask, "what is your sign" are idiots. I like to tell them a different one. It is really funny when they say, "I knew it!"

My mother believes in "women's intuition," some sort of intuition about things which she would have no possible way of knowing. I noticed that what she was doing was selectively remembering when her intuition was correct. When it was totally off the mark, it was forgotten. Now, she could have been correct in 1 out of 50 times, and she would forget 49 of those examples. Most people who believe in irrationalities use this sort of experimentation, and that is how it is with astrology. When the myth hits the reality once, it is remembered more than the 11 times it is wrong (although many of those things are written as to be vague and open enough that they have weasel room).

Confession time

No, not that kind of confession. That is left in the confessional, not plastered on the Blog.

What I must confess to you is something that is not a mortal sin, but probably will destroy what little credibility I have as a doctrinaire musician.

I have been playing the piano again.

If you ever talk to someone who has battled a serious addiction they will tell you that the first sip, puff, snort, whatever is all it takes to end up in the depths again. So, just like our famous ancestor who said, "that woman, whom You gave me," I am going to blame someone of the fairer sex.

You see, it all started innocently enough. Amalia loves to plink and bang on my parents' piano when we visit. The other day she was singing "Mary Had a Little Lamb" to an almost Charles Ivesian accompaniment. Because she was actually somewhat close to the melodic contour, I decided to help her a bit. That was the fatal moment. Later she went out with her Nonna to the store. I had the house to myself. I tried to listen to a CD that I was supposed to review for the paper. No use.

Within ten minutes I was knee deep in Satie, and wondering where the book of Beethoven sonatas was. Schubert, Beethoven, Satie, all that is fine. One can write it off as a binge. But then I found the book of Chopin. It was over and for two hours I played that filthy instrument.

Oh how those ringing tones seduced me!
Oh how enchanting it was to emphasize a note with dynamics!

I even hit rock bottom and did the unspeakable. I played Bach. On the piano. At least I still felt a little dirty about it, but it was fun. I imagine the great Kirkpatrick looking down with tears, thinking that another one had reverted. It was over, but I was already thinking about which piece to work on next.

Fortunately there is no piano at our house. The only cast iron I keep is in the kitchen (well seasoned and ready to fry a steak, thank you). Since we do not have a lot of room, that is the way it will remain for some time. But once a week I will probably be in the throes of a terrible noise. I can handle it. That is what they all say. When you see me on the streets humming Chopin waltzes, you will know how it all started.

I still fervently believe in the utter and complete supremacy of the harpsichord (yes, say it all together: the sound of two skeletons copulating on a tin roof during a hailstorm). I still think that phrasing by dynamics is the inevitable degeneracy of piano playing. I still think that those who publicly play Bach and Scarlatti on a piano should be branded and flogged. But I cannot say that I am not taking a sick pleasure from it all.

Next will be some modern pieces. Perhaps even the Berg Sonata, opus 1. Perhaps Debussy. I don't know. But there you have it. I, a weak man, have become a relapso. And I have the gall to blame a toddler for it!

The Demise of a Great

Especially after the collapse of Valley Media, those of us in the record industry started getting mighty nervous about the future of Tower Records. For those of us who were involved in non-Top 40 type music (insofar as Top 40 even exists anymore), Tower was extremely important. When our distributor put Tower on hold until they brought down their balance, our sales hurt tremendously. Want to put out a collection of historic Banda Sinaloense music? Tower was good for at least a few hundred of them. Tower was the store that had everything.

The troubles of Tower were something that I followed keenly. I grew up within walking distance of 16th and Broadway, where the Tower still stands, illuminated in neon, an art deco becon of record industry history. The cafe that occupies the spot where Russ Solomon started selling used 78's from jukeboxes at his family's drugstore, has kept the original neon sign. That Tower, which is really part of the Tower Theater, was the place that I visited more than any other spot in town. From about 1986 to 1990, I saw every film that they screened in that theater. After the film, I would walk accross the street to the record store.

Tower Records was annoying. They were always blasting horrid music. The clerks tended to be surly and, unless you found the specific buyer in the genre you were looking for, completely useless as far as giving advice goes. However, the buyers in each section were good at what they did, and I always knew that I could find something that I did not have and was interested in. Tower was the only place in town that had any selection of classical, jazz, and world music.

I spent many a happy hour at Tower, in spite of everything, browsing through the bins, revising my lists, etc. If the atmosphere was too horrid, I would walk across the parking lot to Tower Books, which was also the only game in town in the pre-Barnes and Nobles/Borders days.

So, for me, Tower is not a chain, but the local record store. My family's printing business printed their calendars and some of their publications. For a teenager who was completely fed up with Sacramento's cultural offerings, Tower was a window to another world. We might have had a B Symphony, but as long as Tower was strong, the greater world of classical music had a little tentacle into the town.

So, I have to admit that I am sad, but completely unsurprised, to learn of Tower's filing for Chapter 11 bankruptcy protection. I am actually surprised that they held on for so long, given how bad things had become.

The problem with the demise of Tower is that for many folks in the retail side of the record industry, this will be seen as proof that a deep catalog store is no longer viable. I strongly disagree. Tower was mismanaged, but the concept was not the problem.

For me, this will not be that bad a problem. In the Bay Area, we have plenty of good record stores, for instance Down Home Music, The Musical Offering, Berigan's, dba Brown, Amoeba, etc. When Tower is sold, which is the inevitable outcome of the Chapter 11 reorganization here, it will probably emerge as a shadow of its former self. If it follows the Warehouse model (a sure loser that has proven to be a bad idea), the new owners will probably be filing for Bankruptcy fairly soon as well. That will leave Borders as the only nationwide retailer with any selection at all (and that has been steadily declining since their emergence on the scene). Without the competition from Tower, I do not foresee their improving.

Certainly music fanatics will be able to purchase anything from Amazon or by downloading, but there will be a loss to the music world with the demise of good record stores. They serve a function beyond just retail, and that function will have to be taken up by some other venue. It remains to be seen what that venue will be, but I predict a fairly dry spell for a few years.

All of this will translate to a weak record industry. Without the industry, we will need something else to filter the scads of recordings that artists will directly shovel into the market, often without the benefit of a good producer. Will blogs do this? Possibly. Someone will have to, as the technology makes it easier and easier to get one's music out there, so consumers will need to turn to someone to help decide what to spend time on.

How will musicians make money? I don't know, but they will (or society is really doomed). Selling records has never been a huge income generator for most musicians. For those who make a decent profit from it (not counting the pop superstars), they generally sell directly to the consumer at gigs. Downloading? It remains to be seen. I am skeptical, but I am watching the ipod.

Anyway, the best case scenario is that Tower gets it together, that Russ Solomon wakes up and leads the whole thing back to glory. I am not optimistic, however, and do not relish seeing such a grand institution fade into obscurity.

Nocino recipe

This recipe is for future use, because you will not be able to get the green walnuts until mid-summer. Traditionally you will want to pick them in the morning of the Feast of St. John the Baptist. You will need 21 nuts per batch. They should be green, picked before the shells develop. You wipe them clean, but do not wash them. Quarter them and put them in 4 1/2 cups of vodka or grappa (preferred, but expensive) along with a few whole cloves, a small stick of cinnamon, the zest of an orange (be careful to remove all the pith), a branch of fresh, cultivated juniper (about the size of your finger - broken, not cut, and from a juniper that is out of spraying reach of local cats). Let it sit in the sun for 40 days, shaking every third day. Note that when you are handling the nuts, everything they touch will turn brown, including your hands for a few days, even with a lot of washing. The fluid in the jar will start to look like motor oil. Filter the extract into a large bowl through cheesecloth.

Make a simple syrup of 2 cups sugar and 1 1/4 cups water (bring to a boil, stirring. Skim the surface and simmer for ten minutes). Allow to thoroughly cool. Add the filtered base back to the jar with the syrup and the juniper branch. Leave the stuff in the jar until Christmas, removing the juniper around All Souls Day. At Christmas, filter the stuff again and let it sit until at least Easter. Bottle and wait until next Christmas to drink it.

When you remove the walnuts, cover them in sweet Marsala and let them sit for a month. Use this Marsala as an aperatif. Use the walnuts in homemade spumoni.

Be warned. Nocino will stain anything it touches. Be careful when bottling.

Questions? Ask and I shall answer.

Toddler Iron Chef

Last night Amalia had rabbit for the first time. My mother cooked it for us (we were in Sacramento for the day), and it was delicious (served with tomato sauce over polenta). When it arrived at the table I exclaimed "Rabbit! I love rabbit!" My mother gave me one of those horrified looks and a "shhhh." You see, Amalia is at that age where animals are all cute and cuddly.

However, I will not give in to Bambism, and I always try to show Amalia examples of animals eating other animals, with rational explanations that some animals eat other animals, that people eat animals, and that this is what God intended. So I had to make it clear that we were indeed eating rabbit.

I have to admit that I was a little worried that Amalia would react poorly, as seeing the rabbits at the farm is one of her favorite things. She didn't really react other than wanting to eat that yummy looking stuff in front of her. She wanted more, so I gave her a scoop of polenta and sauce, as a bed to put the meat on. Before I had a chance to put the meat on, she looked at me and said, "Babbo, I want more rabbit."

The long and short of it is that Amalia is a confirmed rabbit eater. When asked what we should have for lunch, she did not give me her usual answer (sausage), but said rather enthusiasticly, "rabbit!" So I guess that the next time that we play Toddler Iron Chef, she is going to have me stewing rabbit.

Of course, eating rabbit makes me crave paella with rabbit, seafood and chorizo, so the first thing I did when we got home was to take an inventory of the required ingredients. We may have to take a drive to Galvan's or the Spanish Table tomorrow.

Speaking of the Spanish Table, I bought a jar of cardoni over there a while back. When I made fondue the other night I thought that it would be fun to dip cardoni in it. I was a little nervous, as I had never had the jarred variety. They were quite good, although they are cooked to the point of falling apart, which made them a little tricky for fondue. At $2.99 for a good sized jar, I highly recommend them. Preparing cardoni is a labor intensive task with lots of peeling and paring and parboiling in acidulated water. I will still do it, mainly to encourage farmers to keep growing the stuff (and I do like the way that the fresh ones hold up), but with a jar of them on hand, it makes a cardoni gratin a snap. I will probably put them on salami sandwiches, too.

Speaking of Birthdays...

Ferbruary 9th is Alban Berg's birthday. Berg remains one of my all time favorite composers (off the top of my head, that list would include Webern, Stockhausen, Berio, Tchaikovsky, Harrison, Rzewski, Domenico Scarlatti, Monteverdi, Liszt (late works), Bach, Debussy, Feldman, Respighi, Verdi, Couperin (probably a tribal thing with harpsichordists), Saluzzi, Monk (both Meredith and Thelonius), Anderson (Laurie, not LeRoy), Gershwin, and Mozart). I particularly recommend his opera Wozzeck, the Lyric Suite, and the Violin Concerto. My favorite is actually his Piano Sonata, opus 1, an early work of free atonality that, in the hands of a good pianist, brings me to tears every time.

I probably listen to more Webern these days than Berg, although nothing fits a stormy night better than the Violin Concerto and a single malt scotch (well, maybe the Art of the Fugue and a good, unfiltered sake - an unusual combination, but one that always works for me when the wind is driving the rain in horizontal sheets).

My first exposure to Berg was in college. It was Wozzeck, and nothing in music has been the same to me since. Certainly my view of opera has been forever changed by the experience (I always loved and still love Italian opera, but this one blew me away much more than anything before or since). Wozzeck and Porgy and Bess have been the two operas that have stopped me in my tracks and made me listen without the slightest mind wandering from beginning to end.

Berg, much more than Schoenberg, realized how gripping twelve tone music could be. He also showed, again more than Schoenberg, how organic a development atonality was from late Romanticism. Berg is one of those composers who changes the way one listens to earlier music. I hear Wagner, and I think of Berg. I hear Beethoven's Grosse Fuge and think of Berg. I hear Chopin, even, and think of Berg. I hear Phil Glass and I desperately want to hear Berg, just to get that drivel out of my ears.

After hearing Berg, I was a committed dodecaphonic fanatic. Notice that when folks attack twelve tone music, they first aim their guns at folks like Elliot Carter. This is appropriate, as Carter was among those who turned the excitement of twelve tone into a deadly academic trap: preciousness without the slightest charm. Berg had none of that. His music was virile and exciting and supremely beautiful.

The poor fellow had his share of shortcomings and faults in his personal life and beliefs. He, like many nervous moderns, drifted from religion straight into the idiocy of superstition and esoteric folly. However, like Kandinsky, Berg's creative output transcended all of that. The beauty in the work of artists like that shows that beauty does not originate from man, rather from God.

Thanks to all the well wishers!

I had a very relaxing and low-key birthday, which is perfect in my book. I was able to cook us a simple dinner (fondue on Saturday night, and then Spaghetti Carbonara on Sunday), to go to mass on a beautiful and sunny day, to play with Amalia (who gave me the best birthday present of all - a lovely painting she did and delivered by jumping on me when she decided that I needed to haul my lazy bones out of bed, exclaiming, "Happy Birthday, Babbo!"

I don't feel any older than I did before; the days of expecting a sudden and radical change on my birthday are gone. I think of those "milestone" birthdays, when one gets more stuff to do: driving, voting, etc., and 32 is not one of them. Since this blog will remain in the Internet seemingly forever, 35 will not mean that I get to be President (if you people do elect me, don't say you weren't warned), so this is going to be the pattern for some time.

I like the number 32. It has a good ring to it. Better than 31, which sounds terrible. 31 flavors, nearly all of them indigestible. No thanks. After Baskin Robbins changed the marshmellows in Rocky Road, I have stayed away. They used to be fascinating: like little sweetened pencil erasers. Now that they resemble actual marshmellows, forget it. I can get better Rocky Road elsewhere, although it has not been my favorite flavor for years.

Of course when one is over the age of about 10, the day after one's birthday quickly returns to the realm of the normal, which is fine.

Chinese New Years, on the other hand, seems to drag on longer and longer each year. I am all in favor of these sort of celebrations, but Chinatown is right next to North Beach, and the parking has been intolerable for a month because of this, so I am glad to see it come to a close as well. Now I can go back to allowing a half an hour to get to mass, which is preferable than having to allow an hour.

My birthday always reminds me that Lent is around the corner, and I actually look forward to Lent. I like the reflection, the Penance, the more sober liturgy, etc.

Of course our local weather is on its own calendar. As we prepare for Lent, our weather screams "spring!" We have had mid-60's temperatures, cool breezes, the first of the spring flowers. The other day I went down a street that is still basking in fall foliage, with crocuses and California poppies already popping up. I can think of no other place on Earth where one goes from autumn to spring, with some overlap even. I remember back at Holy Cross Parish in Santa Cruz we had a girl in the choir from the midwest. She said, "I just can't get into the feeling of Lent here. At home all is covered in snow and here the flowers are in full bloom."

Even in high school the first blooms of February seemed vaguely strange. It always seemed that summer vacation should be just around the corner, but of course it wasn't (although now time passes much faster than in those days). The spectacular flowers that always got to me were the pink magnolia trees (we called them tulip trees, but I was set straight by a gardening fanatic who told me that tulip trees were something else, and that these were a variety of magnolia trees). In high school I did a plein-air painting of the tree accross the street. It is gathering dust in my parents' garage. It really is a pretty horrible painting, but it triggers a lot of memories for me whenever I see it.

I still want to get outside and paint when February comes around. By the time summer is here, I am more than happy to be in the cool shade of the studio, but now I want to take my folding easel outside and capture what cannot be captured in toto, rather in little glimpses. While I normally think of my biggest influences as Matisse and Diebenkorn, February makes me want to paint in thick, expressive Van Gogh goo. I don't paint that way very well, since it goes against everything that I have worked for in painting (namely, that Van Gogh never really painted. It was all drawing. Great drawing, but not really painting). But I get this itch in February and want to embrace cloissonisme and the whole bag of tricks.

A similar thing happens when we start getting our summer fog. Once in awhile a shaft of light breaks through and hits the Bay and I cannot help but think of Rembrandt. I admire Rembrandt, but his vision is not mine (and I really cannot say that I am the better for that). However, in three months I will be thinking of chiaroscuro drama and will probably do another series of monotypes that will never be shown to anyone but a few close artist friends, just as an amusement.

Foodwise, winter is a trick. Root vegetables and oven-roasted meat tend to dominate. By late March I will be thoroughly sick of citrus fruit. I will start to fantasize about ripe dry-farmed tomatoes and grilled linguica and gazpacho, but those things will have to wait.

Spring is the hardest season, because we think that we should have great produce, but for the most part it is embryonic. Until the green garlic of April, we have to do with the pungeant, bitter leftovers from the last harvest. Onions are not much better. At least the fava beans are young and tender, and the pea shoots are fantastic.

Anyway, I have promised to post the nocino recipe, which I will do when I get back home (tomorrow evening). It is hard to think about nocino when it is still in bottles, not really ready for consumption. The temptation is there to sample, but it will not be right. That will have to wait until Easter, at the very earliest. Nocino is a fall flavor, and it is strange to think about it when the bulbs are poking up out of the ground.

Contrary to what outsiders think, we do have seasons in California. They just vary by microclimate and are always more subtle than elsewhere. I enjoy these subtleties more each year. Nothing makes me want to scream "thank you" to God more than the way He works in the seasons. I think that a big part of enjoying the season is to embrace the specific discomforts in each one.

I used to long for the cool weather in the summer and the heat in the winter, but now I find that bitter, damp cold in December is as much of a gift as warm summer nights. Likewise, the 100+ degree days in summer are a great reminder of our own limitations. One cannot ignore the limitations of the physical body when it is very cold or very hot. Nothing speaks so well for the importance of something than its absence (I think of this when I see an angry atheist punk rocker screaming for something he deep down knows he is missing, but cannot quite bring himself to embrace).

Without fasting, feasting is meaningless. Without the bite of the cold, the joys of warm days lose their luster.

Advance Warning

If any post seems more than usually incoherent this weekend, please forgive me, as I am celebrating my birthday. On this day in 1972 (that is 29 years ago - in the Keilholtz dictatorship we do not admire the Commies, but there is something about their ability to change basic facts to fit with ideology), I was born in the Great State of California, in a town that will someday be known as Carmichael del Caudillo.

To celebrate my birthday, please have a Sapphire martini (diluted with a splash of water, as gin is sold at too high a proof in this country) and tell me about it. I was going to have a martini before dinner, but realized that I am out of gin and had forgotten to get more. They say the memory is the first thing to go.

If for some strange reason you do not drink gin, then you can celebrate with roast pork and fried potatoes, or trippa alla fiorentina or by playing Toddler Iron Chef (go to a good butcher shop and let the 2 year old pick the meat. It is great fun and you might learn to cook something you never have done before. If you are really adventuresome, do this at the Oakland Housewives Marketplace, which is practically a museum of variety meats). If you want to stop by here to celebrate, please make sure to call first, as we might be doing something after mass. If you really want to give me a birthday present, then come to mass at the National Shrine of St. Francis and volunteer to help with collection, as I am on duty as head usher and am always looking for volunteers.

Odd Patterns...

create your own visited country map
or write about it on the open travel guide

Again it is strange that some of the big voids are in places about whose cultures I am interested. I also realized that I have never been to San Marino, which is really weird, given where it is. I think that next time I am in Italy I will have to take a detour.

One of the interesting things is what to mark when you are not sure about a country, because you cannot remember where in an old country you were in relationship to where the lines were later drawn. I am not sure if any of the parts of Czechoslovakia I was in were in Slovakia. I am certain of the Czech Republic, but only took a guess on Slovakia. I was very young, and do not remember all the places I went to (really all I remember of Czechoslovakia was Prague).

I also refuse to recognize the Istrian Peninsula as part of any nation besides Italy, so when I mark Italy it covers whatever foreign power is holding Istria this week as well. Aren't there any great Italian poets with military and political aspirations to go adventuring in Yugoslavija anymore?

I don't know what it says about me.

create your own visited states map
or write about it on the open travel guide

I really like the Midwest, too (at least the states I have visited in the region). Someday I will make it to these other states. Since my favorite way to travel is by train, I will have to figure out the right plan (and then figure out when we can take such a block of time out to do it). Otherwise I like to drive (backroads as much as possible). The problem is that I don't know a lot of people in these states, so I would have to take longer, because when you wing it you inevitably make mistakes and stay in the boring part of town and then you find out where the interesting stuff is, and then you need to stay an extra day and you hope that the people you are planning on seeing the next town down will not mind you being a day later, etc.

Friday Five

1. What's the most daring thing you've ever done?

Getting married.

2. What one thing would you like to try that your mother/friend/significant other would never approve of?

Ole! Not as a matador de toros, but I would like to step on the sand in some fashion some day.

3. On a scale of 1-10, what's your risk factor? (1=never take risks, 10=it's a lifestyle)

5

4. What's the best thing that's ever happened to you as a result of being bold/risky?

Getting married

5. ... and what's the worst?

I plead the fifth.

Mel Gibson

I have to say that I agree with Elinor on the strange glee that is pervading the Catholic world (cyber and otherwise) over Mel Gibson's The Passion. I will preface these remarks by saying that I have not seen the film and am willing to give it the benefit of the doubt. And certainly the historical facts of the Passion itself are not really contested by sedevacantists, so I am probably less skeptical than if Gibson had made a film that had more of a potential of error.

However, I will (if I decide to go see it, which is a matter of more factors than simply wanting to see it or not) be on guard for errors of interpretation. I am skeptical of the film, as I have yet to see a Gibson film that was really that great. Overblown productions just do not do it for me. I prefer Italian neo-realism to the sort of films Gibson normally is associated with.

What gets me, though, is the gush that is coming out about the film (another thing that tends to put me on guard, as gushed about films tend to fade in the memory mighty quickly - does anyone remember much about that awful Dances with Wolves?). Elinor is right. If some whack-job fringite who was not a handsome and famous Hollywood type made the film, would Catholics be as ecstatic over it? I doubt it.

Certainly Catholics are not immune to bad taste, nor to the charms of overblown productions. There are plenty of good Catholics who think that Spielbarf makes good films. As the visiting bishop told Don Quixote in Greene's Monsignor Quixote, "holiness is not a guarantee of good taste in literature." Or film, for that matter (The Lord of the Rings films come to mind, although I have yet to see the Return of the King - number two was dull enough, albeit visually stunning, as I am sure number three is).

I am not suggesting that one must be a good Catholic or even a good person to make good art. Mozart, David, Mahler, and countless others stand as evidence of that. But it seems that Catholics are gushing over the film because Gibson has Catholic sentiments, including Catholics who find my own Triumphalism to be hopelessly passe in this age of ecumenicism. Perhaps Gibson has created great art, in spite of himself (as it often is the case), but I am just as guarded about it as I would be if the film were made by a Protestant.

If we are going to exercise tribal loyalties, let us at least have the integrity to keep it actually within the tribe.

The primary election

Since we do not have the option of registering as Catholic Falange yet in California, I do not register with any party. I do not fit in with any of them, although I probably tend to vote for Republicrats more than Demicans (last General election, for the first time, I voted a straight party ticket, based on an intense dislike of Gray Davis. I voted against him again last year) . I like elections, even though I am not a big fan of liberal democracy. The elections themselves are fun. I like the late nights at headquarters (growing up in Sacramento, I went to more than my share of those), watching glassy eyed politicos shout themselves hoarse, this minute in joyous exultation, the next in feeble attempts to rally the troops.

There is a reason for these displays. They sap the energy of the losers, so that when the party is dwindling to the last few parasites who cannot face their own joblessness, the politician is too tired to break down and sob. No one wants to see a potential leader, even a loathesome twit like Ralph Nader, sobbing in public.

No, I take that back. I would love to watch Ralph Nader sob in public. But, just about anyone else, no. Not even Dean Howard (I really hate these double first names. Howard Edwards John Dean or whatever they are all going by - a man ought to have a first name, like Wolfgang and a last name like Torquemada. Dean Howard is just double dipping, which is disgusting).

For the winners these crazy election night parties give them that great glazed look. Sometimes they look like they are ready to eat someone. If you look really close, many of them are drooling at this hour. It gives them the humility that they need, just as it spares the poor loser the really ugly moments of defeat.

But my love of elections transcends who wins or loses. Sure I have my favorites. I might like so and so's foreign policy, or the fact that the Xes really dislike Mr. Z, but I am never completely gung-ho for any of them. I probably vote negatively more than I vote positively: Mr. H gets my vote because he is not as bad as the rest on this issue or that issue. In some cases negative voting is very personal: Well, he might be brain-dead, but he isn't Tom Ammiano or Barbara Boxer.

I also tend towards old fashioned ways of settling ties: Latin names first (Italian, Portuguese, Spanish, French, the rest, in that order), followed by German, then Irish (all advantage here might be wiped out by rule number one: I generally do not vote for Protestants, especially if they are former Catholics or their grandparents were Catholic or if they claim to be Catholic and are no more so than Ian Paisley). I will rarely vote for a woman for public office (exceptions have been made, and if you give me long enough I might remember one). I do not vote for people who went to USC. In the Presidential election I favor Californians, followed by Texans, followed by, well, the rest of the country.

But these rules tend to be if all things are more or less equal. Or not. Part of being an undemocratic person is that you tend not to get too worked up over this stuff. I don't listen to too many of the audition speeches, nor the debates (last one I heard was between Dick Cheney and Fred Liebermann or Joe or whatever his name was).

But I will vote vendetta. And once in awhile a politician comes along that I follow, looking for viability in every potential opponent. Dianne Feinstein is one (someone I have loathed since Dan White elected her Mayor of San Francisco). Barbara Boxer is another, as is Barbara Lee (I have gotten to distrust the name Barbara or Brbra or whatver variant is out there). So, when I got my sample ballot I checked to see what the rule was (it was changing each election for awhile). Sure enough, those of us who float around in the dark, nondeclared reaches of the electoral swamp get to pick which ballot to vote.

My first thought was "allright! I get to vote for the least candidate the Democans have to offer!" But then I remembered that my vote could be the beginning of a turn of events that puts the clown in office. "I only voted for Gray Davis because I thought he would be easier to beat in the General Election," said an unnamed friend last night.

So, I will be voting the Republican ballot, since Barbara Boxer needs to be brought down low. It is all too bad, in a way. I thought that it would be fun to vote for Al Sharpless. I never would in any circumstance that I thought he had a chance in. But, jetzt es ist ganz im Ernst. We must defeat Boxer if this state is to be worthy of the name Bear Flag Republic!

Kalifornia uber Alles!

Announcements!

At the risk of turning the blog into a Bay Area bulletin board, let me remind all in the area that the North Beach Lectura Dantis begins the cycle all over again with Inferno, starting next week (this week we are finishing with St. Bonaventure's Journey of the Mind Into God). We meet every Wednesday in the basement of the National Shrine of St. Francis of Assisi on Vallejo, between Columbus and Grant at 7:30pm. For next week, please have the first three canti read, and bring your copy of the Durling translation (we really do prefer that everyone work out of the same translation, as we spent way too much time in the past comparing translations). The Robert Durling translation is excellent. It is published by Oxford Press and has notes by Robert Durling and Ronald Martinez.

Finished with the Calligraphy Project!

The alternate title of this post is: Look, Mom! I can start to feel my fingertips again! I had decided to use a pressure sensitive pen instead of a chisel nib, so that I could get greater control of the line width and vary it independently of pen direction. It looked great, but to do this, the scribe must put a lot of pressure on the pen holder. The result is numb fingertips for a couple of days.

However this is all a good thing, because it really brings home the point that the project is done. Now I have to dynamite, I mean, clean up the studio. It has become increasingly poorly arranged, and I am finding it difficult to work in. It's amazing how this happens. It starts out with a really efficient design, but then a work table gets put away in the wrong place, and "this box of stuff that will go to the office soon, I promise" still sits, and then the box of books that needs filing still needs filing, and the next thing I know I am having to spend ten minutes looking for a paintbrush.

So, I will probably have to go to IKEA and get a bookshelf (and a Manager's Special Meatball plate with fries), and then lock myself in the studio for about five evenings, which is not really the worst thing to have to do, so far. Right now the studio is my inner sanctum. No one is allowed in without my permission, and no one but me or those assisting me on any project are allowed to work in it.

However, Amalia needs a better work space for painting. I am sick and tired of cleaning up paint mess in either her room or the living room. For the first time in my life I am going to be permanently sharing my studio with another artist, and a very messy artist at that. I foresee hours of fun, with both of us working at our respective work stations. Of course the first year will be the hardest because Amalia can start and finish a painting session before I am even warmed up. So we will see.

Book event!

One of my favorite music writers, Elijah Wald, is going to be speaking (and playing the guitar) at Black Oak Books in Berkeley tonight at 7:30. Tomorrow he will be in City Lights Books in San Francisco at 7. For those of you outside the Bay Area, here is his schedule. I first got to know Elijah because he wrote the book for the Arhoolie Records' 40th Anniversary Collection. I reviewed his Narcocorrido book on Rootsworld, and highly recommend him. This current tour is for his latest book, which is on the myths of the blues.

I have heard some of the stuff that he has put in the book, and it is all very fascinating. Also, Elijah is an interesting character, a great raconteur and definitely worth checking out.

David Ireland Part II

This weekend a friend was in town who has worked with me on a variety of projects, from music to art. One thing that we always seem to get back to is sculpture. Mike is a great fabricator. I can sketch an idea out in rough and he can quickly figure out how to build it. He also is quick to find sloppy ideas, poorly thought-out areas, and the like. We work well together and have for the almost 15 years that we have worked together. Our best work is probably in the border area between sculpture and musical instruments. Last year (or the year before, perhaps? Time flies) we had a show of sound sculptures in a gallery in San Diego, where Mike lives.

I also like going to museums with Mike, because he can talk about art well and has the ability to really look at it critically (an ability that is increasingly rare these days). So we went to the Oakland Museum.

Amalia is not into looking at art for the length of time that we are, and Melanie was not too crazy about the Ireland show the first time she went, so they went off to the Natural History section to look at animals. So Mike and I had a good hour or so to digest the Ireland exhibit.

I was at least as impressed by the Ireland show the second time as I was the first time. The art babble on the wall text bugged me just about the same, but one thing really got to me. The curator made the claim that Ireland was somehow bucking convention by using "dirt" in his paintings, "a material not usually associated with making art." Well, I mentally ran through the contents of my paint box and have to ask: what, pray tell, are terre verte, yellow ochre, Burnt Umber, and that is not even thinking about terra cotta, if not varieties of dirt? Since I do not like dyes, almost my entire paint box was dug up somewhere.

Certainly Ireland's dirt is less refined than the dirt that Windsor and Newton dig up and grind into linseed oil, but then so are some of the lesser brands. Ireland's dirt looks like dirt, but so does Moran's or Watteau's, when that effect is needed.

Another idiotic claim was made about one of Ireland's projects involving turning a house into a sort of walk-in sculpture. The inevitable quote was on the wall about painting and walls and dissolving and Zen and all that, along with expressions of astonishment that Ireland saw the walls themselves as integral to the art.

I can think of a little chapel in Rome or a certain duke's ceiling or many other examples where the walls were the art. Sure they had figurative works on them, but so what? Are audiences really that stupid that they think that all art is portable?

Anyway, the low level of curatorial babble has been well-documented and will provide fodder for the next generation to tear the current one to pieces. What stands and will continue to stand is the art, which, all concepts and fads and trickeries aside, must be formally sound. Ireland might be smitten with all the Zenesque goofiness he talks about, but when it comes down to it, he understands form. His sculptures, many of which are assemblages of commonplace items, have a way of etching themselves into the memory. His later works on paper show that he has paid careful attention to Diebenkorn, Ryman and Oliveira (and ignoring the sometimes tedious trends in Olliveira's work).

Even his large chairs (for Bay Area folks who are not going to make it to the museum - the giant chair outside the Emeryville IKEA is one of his), reminiscent of Oldenberg, share in the ability to dance on the edge of good sculptural form and whimsy. I don't know if Ireland is going to be remembered as a great figure in late 20th century art or simply as a good local example (for more on the deprovincialization of American art, read Teachout's About Last Night - he has been talking about this recently), but he provides us with a model of how late modernist ideas of art can still work to create interesting pieces.