Cesar Castaneda revisited

I have been a champion of Cesar Castaneda since the first time I saw him work a bull before an indifferent audience in Tracy, California. He did not care that very few in the crowd understood the art of the matadores. He was there to torear, and he did a good job. I have since seen him on both sides of the border, and realized that the core of a good matador was there. Many people I know think very little of him, and I suspect that it has a lot to do with external factors (he is, after all, Tijuanense). So, I was particularly pleased to read that Gerry Campos has noticed that there is something there.

Gerry is rather astute (as I have known him to be in general). Cesar is, indeed, one of the few matadores who realizes that the California bullfights are at the very least a chance to get paid to practice with livestock before an audience, albeit a fairly indifferent one.

It's Just Art

Yes, Tyler, it really is just art, and it would be a tragedy for even the stoned mezzo-retard with the sideways baseball cap who blasts his friggin' [c]rap "music" in my neighborhood at three am to take a bullet, even for a Diebenkorn, even for the Last Supper of da Vinci.

Preserving art for future generations is a noble thing to do, but a sense of proportion is in order. Preserving human life, no matter how great the art, is more important. If you cannot agree to that, you have some serious contemplation to do.

Of course, Tyler did say, "short of taking a bullet", so I am not shaking my finger at him. I just have encountered too many people who have problems with getting these basic priorities straight.

Literary Either/Or

Courtesy of The Summamamas

My answers and comments are in parentheses.

Hardback or Paperback (hardback for most books)
Highlight or Underline (neither)
Lewis or Tolkien (Tolkein, but neither one is really my thing)
E.B. White or A.A. Milne (A.A. Milne)
T.S. Eliot or e.e. cummings (Eliot)
Stephen King or Dean Koontz (King, when made into films by Kubrick)
Barnes & Noble or Borders (Yuck. Borders, if I can't get to Cody's or City Lights or Greenapple or...)
Waldenbooks or B. Dalton (a pox on both their houses)
Fantasy or Science Fiction (science fiction)
Horror or Suspense (hmmm. Tie)
Bookmark or Dogear (bookmark)
Large Print or Fine Print (fine print. Saves space)
Hemingway or Faulkner (Papa)
Fitzgerald or Steinbeck (Steinbeck. Kalifornia Uber Alles)
Homer or Plato (Homer)
Geoffrey Chaucer or Edmund Spenser (Chaucer)
Pen or Pencil (pen)
Looseleaf or Notepad (notepad)
Alphabetize: By Author or By Title (by category (which really settles it, since I am nitpicky in my categories), then by author)
Shelve: By Genre/Subject or All Books Together (genre/subject- see above)
Dustjacket: Leave it On or Take it Off (take it off when reading the book, shelve it with it on)
Novella or Epic (epic)
John Grisham or Scott Turrow (huh?)
J.K. Rowling or Lemony Snicket (huh? huh?)
John Irving or John Updike (Updike)
Salman Rushdie or Don Delillo (Rushdie)
Fiction or Non-fiction (both. Fiction wins by a hair)
Historical Biography or Historical Romance (historical biography)
Reading Pace: A Few Pages per Sitting or Finish at Least a Chapter (finish at least a chapter)
Short Story or Creative Non-fiction Essay (both)
Blah Blah Blah or Yada Yada Yada (blah blah woof woof)
“It was a dark and stormy night…” or “Once upon a time…” (once upon a time)
Books: Buy or Borrow (buy)
Book Reviews or Word of Mouth (both, but word of mouth probably wins)

On this date...

Three years ago today Melanie woke me up and said that it was time to go to the hospital. Having seen too many movies of babies being born in taxicabs I immediately bolted up, but Melanie said, "no don't worry, there is time. Make your espresso and then we will go."

I made my espresso and we left. At 5:41pm on August 26th, 2001, we had a screaming, annoyed baby with a funny shaped head. Her head is no longer funny shaped, but sometimes she still gets annoyed and even screams. We discourage that, however.

Anyway we spent that night at the hospital, and I came home the next morning to tidy up, and make phone calls and all of that business. I found a completely undrunk cup of espresso sitting on the kitchen counter. Now, if I forget to drink my espresso, I have a three year old who will remind me. She will remind me of all sorts of things, including things like the approach of the garbage truck at the break of dawn ("Babbo! I want to see the garbage truck!" will ring out from her room on Friday mornings).

Three years ago she drank Mamma's milk and did not talk. Now she insists on sparky water (sparkling mineral water - Italian, natch) and sausages and chicken and Greek yogurt with honey. She has definite preferences, and has a mad determination to know the origins of everything she eats (flour is from wheat that grows in fields, salt is evaporated from sea water in France, etc.). She can tell you that the meat from her favorite sausages comes from the pig's shoulder and will correct me when I see a green field out of the corner of my eye and misidentify it as rice when it is really alfalfa.

Three years ago we had to carefully cradle her head when we picked her up. Now, if I am not careful and alert, she will tackle me. She is eager to help with all the chores except cleaning her room, and has gotten to where her help actually makes progress towards getting the chores done. She has started her apprenticeship in the kitchen, as the family pasta maker.

It all amazes me. But my amazement must wait, as she is emitting an aroma, which is a good reminder that she still is a little one.

Anyway, Happy Birthday Amalia Faye Gioconda Cecilia Keilholtz e Neves!

More on the Collectors' Gallery Idea

First, go read this, which offers some interesting ideas on the topic I posted a week ago. Lenny makes a good point about the astronomical cost of such an endeavor, and the possibility of getting various embassies to pony up. Good idea.

What really intrigues me is his mentioning that Arbus, Judd and Hirst are old hat, which, of course, they are in the world of chasing avant-gardes. Thinking about the mercurial notion of contemporary art makes me want to start a betting pool on when the whole thing implodes. Who will be the first major museum to admit that the whole notion of an avant-garde is now essentially meaningless? Whose about-face will be the most amusing? Which museum will stubbornly cling to its manic search for the next new thing? Which critics will say that they predicted this years ago?

Then, of course we will get the folks who have been lurking on the sidelines, waiting to reintroduce the cause of their pet mediocrity, someone who was "neglected" for years.

The sad thing will be that a lot of great art will be neglected, as people crawl over each other to out-Beaux Arts their rivals. There will be some great abstract expressionism lost in a sea of big, brown eyes.

Another thing that will be interesting is watching the hedgers, like one Joseph Pearce (you know the fellow, who has turned his skilled and trained eye (giggle, titter) to the task of arts criticism: "cor blimey, some of this modern art ain't so bad! Cripes! Pour me another Watney's"), who have sort of cautiously endorsed very limited ideas of modern art (none of which they have even the foggiest notion of anyway). When the silliness of Mr. Hirst and Kara Walker and what have you has become the cause du jour, and a lot of folks start taking shots at a lot of modern masterpieces, I will be most interested to see who sticks by their guns and who joins the new bandwagon.

Obviously my view is that there is a lot of kee-rap passing as art these days. Always has been, but it has been particularly brutal in the last 20-30 years. There are also plenty of lesser paintings made by otherwise brilliant painters (although I cannot think of three Diebenkorn stinkers). However, for the most part, modernism has been a very good thing for art. What hurt art was the decision to move the teaching of art from a trade school/apprenticeship approach to an academic approach. When a young artist who lacks Picasso's formidable drawing skills tries to capture the dynamism of cubism, he is heading into troubled waters. When he goes into abstract expressionism without the discipline and eye of a Diebenkorn or Kline, he is doomed.

Hopefully the fallout of the collapse of avant-gardism will include a revival of proper training. Otherwise we will have nothing more than sentimental kitsch, rendered by people with as ferocious an axe to grind as the aforementioned Miss Walker. We are seeing a bit of this in music, as neo-tonalists, feeling emboldened, seem dead set on wrapping the world in mounds of dreary fake Romanticism.

Stolen Screams

I seem to remember Munch's Scream being stolen before, or am I confused?

Anyway, it is a fine statement of the sort of emotion that one should really grow out of, or maybe should become so accutely aware of that one finally does something about it, and not a bad painting, so it is sad that someone has taken this to who knows where.

I cannot really understand the point of stealing a painting like this. There can be no market for it. Even the shadiest dealer should have enough sense to realize that this one of those items where its value lies in its identity. It all brings to mind some underground complex, where the head of K.A.O.S. is sitting on some great stolen art collection.

"So, you see, Mr. Bond, with this painting I shall be able to complete my bid to TAKE OVER THE WORLD!!!!"

Art theft seems like something that can only be done with the backing of an army and a sovereign state.

Olympic Groundhog

I have a confession to make: I am bored to tears with the Olympics (with the exception of a couple of events, but I can easily do without those). I was rooting against my beautiful Bay Area getting saddled with the stupid games, and was elated when the bid went elsewhere. Yippeee! Let Newyawk deal with the traffic, security issues, and associated headaches.

Anyway, I used to like the Olympics, but they have steadily grown to the same over-bloated self-importance that I associate with Walt Disney or Steven Spielberg. They really lost me when they turned pro.

When it seems that Olympics fever has gone on long enough, I emerge from my hole to check: Olympics? Yes? No?

Melanie informs me that we are only about half way through. So, back to my hole, and it will be another six weeks of fog. Or is it the other way around?

Ox Kidneys Julia Child

This is basically a combination of an Italian approach to game combined with a classical French approach to game. I have chosen the game treatment for the ox kidneys because of their strong flavor.

First, make a sauce:

1. In hot goose fat, saute a large finely diced shallot and three whole, peeled cloves of garlic.

2. Add finely diced carrots and celery (about two each). Saute.

3. Add a generous helping of sliced crimini mushrooms, combined with a handful of reconstituted porcini mushrooms (reserve the juice).

4. Add the juice of the mushrooms, a generous splash of red wine, and a good splash of glace de viande and a bouquet garni of thyme, winter savory, Greek oregano, bay leaves, juniper berries, French rue, lovage, and parsley, tied in a cheese cloth.

5. Simmer until the flavors blend together. Season with salt and pepper.

6. Saute the whole kidneys in very hot butter, turning so that they cook evenly.

7. When they have cooked for about ten minutes (you want them to still be pretty bloody in the middle), remove them from the heat, trim and slice the kidneys, then finish in the sauce.

8. Serve with red wine and a good bread.

Mea Culpa...

I have been tremendously busy and unable to blog this last week. I will shoot for some recipes in the next week, an art rant, and some other stuff. Oh what fun it will be!

Maybe tomorrow night I will post some Julia Child tribute stuff. I invented a dish in her honor that went over quite well, considering that it was ox kidneys. I will give you the recipe for that as soon as I can type it up.

Art Meseum Thoughts

First, go read this entry from Tyler Green's Modern Art Notes, then come back for debate.

I will be brief out of necessity, since I have a heap of work threatening to engulf me at any moment (and since one of those crucial tasks is to get more diapers, I really don't want to be engulfed by any of that), but my basic point is that while the contemporary art world is global and completely interconnected, there is no reason to encourage that trend. I am more interested in what local collectors are looking at than what Saatchi finds compelling.

A show of what lives in local collections is a fascinating measure of the community (and note that I am not implying any sort of sophistication index, I am simply curious: we might find that Chicago collectors prefer secondary colors, we might find that Portlanders favor figurative drawings, who knows? I would like to, as it helps flesh out a portrait of the community). To give into the globalization of the contemporary art world is to do two things: first, it ratifies the McStarbuckization of even our higher culture. Second, it distracts artists from making art and looking at the real world around them.

If the Society of Six had been au courant they probably would have been far less interesting as artists. Instead they received a tiny exposure to fauvism and futurism and developed a home-grown way of painting that remains quite compelling today (yes, I was at the Oakland Museum again yesterday afternoon).

Now that we all know what is going on everywhere we tend to spend less time looking at the city, at nature, etc., and more time looking at reproductions of art on the computer, in magazines, and so on. That, combined with a completely archaic notion of an avant-garde, forces art to increasingly spend time peering up its own, well, you know what.

Let's call that an opening salvo and let the argument go from here!

The inevitable...

I have been finding myself more and more thinking about putting images on the blog. So far I have not done so, since I do not have a digital camera, I really have no idea how to post them, and I figure that images probably take a whole lot of space and bandwidth, and that Ann might get grumpy if I do that (seeing as how she hosts this blog for free, or the occasional paella). However, these are probably just excuses. The truth is, I should at least learn how to do it, so that I know if it is feasible.

What I have really been thinking about is that writing about art and the art's relationship with landscape is difficult without recourse to images.

The reaon I am posting this is not to ask how to post images. That will come later. First, I am going to have to bite the bullet and get a digital camera. If anyone has had any great experiences (or warnings about the other kind of experiences) with any particular one, please let me know. I do not want to spend a ton of money, but I want something that would take some decent pictures.

For real photography, I will stick with film, for now, although I am not really smitten with film and would shed no tears if it went away forever. It is just that we have a good film camera, so I see no need, as of yet, to go out and get some fancy digital camera. I just want a basic one.

Any recommendations?

Friday Five

While I work up the Julia Child Tribute Menu (so far I have 12 courses), I will offer a Julia Child-inspired Friday Five.

1. Tell us about the first time you tried a recipe from Mastering the Art of French Cooking.

2. What was the most recent thing you cooked from one of Julia Child's cookbooks?

3. Can you do a fair Julia Child impersonation?

4. What is your all-time favorite Julia Child recipe?

5. What page does your copy of Mastering the Art of French cooking fall open to on its own? Describe the bits of stuff that have become part of that page.

My own answers are in the extended entry section

1. I was 13 and started to get intrigued by French cooking, particularly the difficult stuff. One weekend I was left on my own and decided to make croissants from scratch for brunch when my parents returned on Sunday. I used a different book for that, but they were beautiful, so I decided that I needed to do something else. I thumbed through MTAOFC and kept going back to cheese souffle. It came out exactly as it was supposed to.

2. I used her recipe for roasted chicken (with a cognac pan reduction sauce) on Monday night.

3. Yes, but cleaning the kitchen afterwards is a bit of a chore.

4. Pate de canard en croute (boned stuffed duck baked in a pastry crust). MTAOFC, Vol 1, page 571.

5. Volume 1: Page 402/403 (Cassoulet). There is considerable moisture damage, and brownish stains that are probably meat-related. On the reverse side are what look like blood stains. There is a bit of crusty stuff that is probably bean residue. I use this recipe once a year for my Nouveau Beaujolais party.
Volume 2: Page 62/63 or 64/65 (French bread), due to thick crust of flour in the binding. We use this recipe once a year, for Christmas, when the bakeries are closed and we absolutely must have proper French bread to go with our Christmas dinner.

The End of an Era

Californian Native Daughter Julia Child passed away in her sleep three days before her 92nd birthday.

There was no person who had a greater influence on the American palate than Julia Child (besides, arguably, Ernest and Julio Gallo, due to their winning a place for dry wine on the American dinner table).

Even professional chefs will admit that when all things go wrong, you reach for Julia Child to figure out how to fix it. Not Escoffier, not Bocuse, nor even James Beard or Jacques Pepin, rather you reach for a book written by someone who did not take a cooking lesson until she was in her 30's.

I will think of a fitting tribute menu to cook sometime soon and will post it when I think of it.

Bullfights!

This is just a reminder that Gustine's festa of Our Lady of the Miracles is coming up. Due to a family reunion, we will not be able to attend the weekend events, but I will certainly be at the Monday bullfight on September 13th. It looks like it is going to be a great cartel.

The reason I am bringing this up now is that I have heard from a lot of folks who are interested in going. I am happy to be the tour guide for this event, but be warned that it is one of the most packed bullfights of the season. Although it starts at 8pm, we will have to be there much earlier. This bullfight will be at standing room only easily by 7 and will be sold out by 7:30.

What this boils down to is that we will need to leave probably by 4pm from the Bay Area in order to get seats. If you are in the area and want to join us, please let me know. If you want to meet us there and don't know what I look like, keep your eyes on this website, as I will tell exactly what I will be wearing, where I will probably be sitting, and when I can be found at the food and beer stands.

Also, there is a serious thing to consider about this. Gustine is very close to a major wetlands. The mosquitoes fly in clouds. West Nile virus has hit California. Be prepared. I have only found the things to be as bad as they are in Gustine in Minnesota. No other place on Earth comes close. Last year I absent-mindedly swatted my arm without looking. When I did look down there were five dead mosquitoes where I had slapped. Long sleeves, repellent, all of these things are a big help in combatting the little menaces. Not as good as liberal applications of DDT, but don't get me started on the grave error banning that chemical was.

Also, on September 18th, there will be a Tourada a corda (bullfight on a rope) at Pico dos Padres. Those are very fun events.

Then, the next day will be a big bullfight in honor of the 90th birthday of one of the legends of California bullfighting. I might not make it to the Tourada a corda, but I will certainly be at this one. There are four horsemen, three matadores, and two forcado groups (one from Lisboa) on the cartel. One of the matadores is Vitor Mendes, who is a great matador. The band will be from the Azores. There will be entertainment on both days, and the bullfight starts at 5pm. This is another that we will want to get to early, although the last time we got to Pico dos Padres late, the seats were taken, so we joined the crowd on the hill above the bullring, and it was actually quite nice. Still, I would rather be in the seats.

Finally, mark down Oct 16 and 18 for the Our Lady of Fatima festa in Thornton. I am planning on bringing Amalia to the day bullfight on the 16th, since I promised that I would take her to one more, and Gustine gets crowded and goes very late into the night (ditto with Pico dos Padres, although if I make it to the a corda, she will want to come to that). So, if you want to get the toddler commentary, get in touch with us and you can sit by us. Amalia is quite enthusiastic about the fiesta brava, although she might get off on a tangent and start identifying where the various beef cuts come from on the bull.

Vamos al toros!

Artists Top Ten List

Tyler Green has asked art bloggers to list their ten favorite artists as of the moment of typing them. His list amazed me for the simple reason that he includes four artists from my list along with an artist I completely loathe. I would like to see him talk more about this, but I find it amazing that someone who lists Diebenkorn and Matisse would like Newman.

Anyway, here it is:

1. Richard Diebenkorn
2. Henri Matisse
3. Paul Cezanne
4. Pierre Bonnard
5. Robert Ryman
6. Piero della Francesco
7. Giotto
8. Rembrandt
9. Wayne Thiebaud
10. Frank Lobdell

Ask me tomorrow and it might be different. Who knows? It might not be. I think that this is pretty much the usual list for the last couple of years. Perhaps Rembrandt is sometimes replaced with Van Gogh or Goya or Sargent or Winslow Homer, perhaps Lobdell sometimes loses out to August Gay or Louis Siegriest (later works) or Constable or Turner (watercolors in particular). If I am in one of those moods, Robert Arneson probably sneaks on there once in awhile. If I am in the throes of Kalifornia Uber Alles sentiment, then Gregory Kondos, Raymond Staprans, Thomas Hill, and William Keith might pop up there. I suppose that Pierre Puvis de Chavanne and di Chirico make the cut at times (not to mention Lucian Freud and Howard Hodgkins). Sometimes Hockney or Miro might make the cut (although rarely).

My list also changes with frequency of museum visits. There are some artists who really get to me when I have been seeing their work a lot (Motherwell and a whole host of baroque painters come to mind). Others I tend to like more in theory and reproduction (hello Mr. De Kooning), but when I am seeing too much of their actual paintings, my enthusiasm wanes.

When it comes down to it, the only artist who is probably guaranteed a permanent spot on this list is Richard Diebenkorn. I have seen a lot of his work, most of the pieces multiple times. I have studied his work, including his drawings and the wonderful intaglio works he did for Crown Point Press. There is something about his command of line and space, not to mention color, that just grips me deep down and will not let go.

Probably a big part of my love of Diebenkorn is that he was not afraid to show his own influences. He rejected the Nietzchean balderdash put forth by Clyfford Still (an artist I run hot-cold on. When he was good, he was very good. When he was bad, he was as hysterical as a thirteen year old who has read too much Edgar Allen Poe). In my own painting I do not hide my influences. My art does not spring from my innermost being like Athena, fully grown in armor. Neither did Still's, although that was his story, and he stuck to it.

Diebenkorn never seemed to have been affected by that posturing. He was frank about his admiration for Matisse, for Bonnard, for Hopper, as well as for some of his gifted contemporaries in the artistic hot house that was the San Francisco Art Institute back in the late 1940's and early 1950's.

Two artists who are noteworthy in their exclusion from my list are, of course, David Park and Elmer Bischoff. Both artists I enjoy tremendously, but neither one of them grips me to the extent that the others on the list do. There are some Bischoff paintings that I can get lost in. There are some Park paintings that make me tremble in the face of their power, but as a whole, neither artist comes close to their good friend and colleague, Richard Diebenkorn.

Another artist who probably should be on my list is Nell Sinton. The only reason she is not on there is that I have just not seen enough of her work. What I have seen was powerful stuff, but I need to see more before I consider her for inclusion on my top 10.

On Music

Terry Teachout quotes a snippet about the triad and music from Paul Hindemith. If I were to believe this poppycock for even a moment, I do not think that I would rely on a composer as dry, dull, and all-around awful as Paul Hindemith to go to bat for me. Paul Hindemith is, of course, as well-known for his self-importance as he is for his nearly unlistenable music.

On the topic of terrible composers, I have recently heard Amy Beach rumblings. Amy Beach is the perfect composer to trot out for a variety of reasons: she was a woman, she was writing tonal treacly stuff in the Age of Berg, and she was almost completely ignored in music history.

A number of years ago one of the travelling Beach scholars made a stop at the UC Santa Cruz music department. The feminists were a-goggle, the neo-tonalists had these goofy grins plastered on their mugs, and the majority of us were baffled. This stuff was horrendous. "Danny Boy" treated to orchestral variations sort of bite-your-hand-to-keep-from-laughing-out-loud sort of drivel. For anyone who had ears, this was ample evidence as to why composers thought that tonal romanticism was dead.

Anyway, during the presentation this Beach scholar showed a picture of a whole bunch of people at the Panama Pacific Exhibition in San Francisco. The unjustly neglected Amy Beach was proudly among them. "This is a picture of Amy Beach with her contemporaries in the world of music," and rattled off a list of names. I had heard of two of them (both mediocre treaclers of a quasi-Irish stripe. Yes, I know, I am being unfair to the dear Hibernians. I realize that the Irish take their music very seriously, and I respect that. Now if they would only take it back to Ireland and bury it, then I would be most obliged. I exempt the bagpipes and the work of Planxty, but as soon as the song gets to teary eyes and "only our rivers run free" I start to scream). So, when it really came down to it, Amy Beach was forgotten because, like most of her chums, she was, well, forgettable.

So I cringe when I see some misguided ensemble putting Beach on the program. Western Art Music needs Amy Beach and Paul Hindemith the way haute cuisine needs listeria.

La Notte di San Lorenzo

Don Jim notes that today is the feast of St. Lawrence and that a meteor shower happens on this feast. Back in 1982 Paolo and Vittorio Taviani made an incredible film, called La Notte di San Lorenzo (English title: Night of the Shooting Stars) about a group of villagers escaping the destruction of their town in Tuscany at the hands of the Germans and their Italian Social Republic (you have to understand that at this point the Fascist Party had removed Mussolini from office and had him arrested. The Germans rescued him and installed him in a puppet government in the North called the Italian Socal Republic. Most of the fascists at this point saw which way the wind was blowing and were quickly hiding their black shirts in trunks, along with pilfered guns, just in case the commies really were going to take over, although they were quickly joining partisan brigades as a bit of insurance) stooges.

The film is a beautiful one, well worth watching again and again (I saw if for the first time in the theaters, which, knowing Sacramento's time delay in getting foreign films, must have been 1984 or so. I have seen it many times since). So, if you were planning on watching a movie tonight, I highly recommend La Notte di San Lorenzo.

Starbucks and Lingo

This entry by Terry Teachout has some amusing stuff, but the last item, in which he quotes Lileks, particularly made me giggle. Lileks and Teachout are framing the coffee language in an old-fashioned, 'Mercan versus new fangled, Aye-talian. Teachout even says that, outside Italy, he would never use Italian to specify the size of his coffee.

Now, the funny thing is that the term in question is that Seattle peculiarity, the so-called "venti," which will result in rather strange results if one orders venti caffe latte in Rome. The term, as used by Ahab's mate, is a goofy amalgam of English measures and the Italian language. It has no basis in the real lingo of espresso fanatics.

Now, obviously I disagree with the notion of not ordering my drink in Italian. When in Rome, do as the Romans. When in Little Rock, do as the Romans. Well, how about do as the Tuscans or Umbrians? Anyway, Rome is close enough, so it works for me. Exporting Italian culture, manners, civilization, food, art, etc. is an international act of mercy and charity. Being half German, I understand hard-headed pride in thinking that there are ways out there that are as good as Italian ways, but it just isn't true. I think of old St. Boniface, chopping down the oak tree, and I say "bring it on!"

I never have ordered "a cuppa Joe." I never will. First, the sort of places that serve cuppsa Joe are serving drip coffee, which rots you from the inside, if taken more than once a month or so. Second, the cuppsa Joe are generally brewed with horrid Farmer's Brothers coffee beans. Third, if one is going to be a snob, one should be a snob in an elevated direction. Anti-snobbery snobbishness depresses me: "I am superior because I roll around in my own filth."

I prefer to take a different approach on the rare occasions that I have to drink Starbuck's swill. I order in correct Italian coffee nomenclature. If they want to foist "venti" on the world, well, make my espresso molto ristretto, per piaccere! And if I order a double, I don't want to hear you say "doh-pee-oh."

Of course ordering any variant on a classic espresso drink is quite pointless at the Seattle embassy. Years ago they bragged about how well-trained their baristas were. It paid off. One could finally get a decent espresso, even in Minnesota. Then, a few years back, they switched to a completely automated system. Now, the beans are ground, packed, tamped and the shot pulled without the least human intervention. The result is terrible espresso, very much like what is served in almost any Paris cafe.

I initially was a big supporter of Starbucks. After all, they were doing their part to spread some Italian culture. I could even tolerate the "venti" with a roll of the eyes, but that was when they were serving drinkable espresso. Now, I only go there on emergencies, and even then rather reluctantly. I would go back to supporting them in a minute if they got back to the heroic work of bringing decent espresso to the mission territories.

Simple but good variant on clam linguine

A while back I posted a clam-saffron linguine recipe. I was going to make it the other day because it is a fast dish, and we were getting back home on the later side, so I wanted to have dinner ready on the double. Unfortunately I remembered that we were totally out of saffron, so I did this:

Heat a splash of extra virgin olive oil in your skillet.
Add about three cloves of minced garlic. Fry gently for 50 seconds.
Add the meat (juice reserved) of two cans of chopped clams.
Sprinkle a teaspoon of pimenton over the clams and saute.
Add a generous splash of pastis or Pernod and clam juice and simmer.
Add a generous splash of cream and a little dash of good vanilla extract.
Thicken over moderate heat. Adjust for salt and pepper.
Finish cooking your linguine in the sauce and serve with chopped parsley.
Serve with a dry rose (we had a Marques de Carceres Rioja rose) and a green salad.
Do not be offended if your horse-obsessed toddler calls it "hay."

More Praise for MT-Blacklist!!!

A couple of days ago I noticed that some spam had made it to the site. I was in a hurry, so I didn't zap it with MT-Blacklist. Today, when I got on to do it, I found that MT-Blacklist had already gone out and zapped the offending spam. I love it when technology performs even better than expected.

Clinton and Kerry

You know, it is probably a symptom of my general disdain for democracy, but I really could never get that worked up over Bill Clinton. He just was too much of an oaf for me to get angry at. It was when he played the sax on television that I realized what a complete loser he was, just another boomer parent trying to look cool and hang out with the kids. Ick.

You never hear about Fed Chairman Greenspan's reed career. He could actually play. When he wasn't playing professionally he was hanging out with abstract expressionist painters and Ayn Rand. Yet Jay Leno never had him play on his show. It's too bad, since he can probably really blow. Well, maybe not now, but in his day.

Instead, we get Clinton honking his tenor. Cripes. He was worse than Kenny G.

But I never had a deep down loathing for the man the way a lot of conservatives did, even though he is such an awful musician, yet had the gall to play on national television. Observing the Clinton years was like watching a baby boomer dance. You might feel a little embarrassment for the boomer, you might find it funny, you certainly find it hideous, but you don't hate the poor guy for it. After all, he has to wake up in the morning and still be him.

In fact, when it came down to it, the reaction he got from Republicans amused me even more. "Vincent Foster!" Wait. Let me get my tinfoil hat on. OK. Tell me about how Clinton ordered Vincent Foster's death. Tee hee hee. It must be this modern age, but the Republicans seem to be smoking some powerful stuff. And inhaling, to boot.

Mrs. William Clinton, well, she is another story. Bad, bad news. Bill was just a goober made good. Mrs. William Clinton was more like an alien who comandeered a human body. She wants to be President, but she will never be my president (OK, revelation: no woman who is neither a Hapsburg nor a Mussolini will ever be the head of any state that I pledge fidelity to. I remain an entrenched sexist). She has vacant eyes, even though they dart around.

Now this Kerry fellow seems much more like Mrs. William Clinton. I can get into voting against him. I am even remaining true to my lukewarm endorsement of the Protestant Bush, simply because of my view of Kerry. I never voted for Clinton, but I also never voted for Bush Sr., nor for Bobdole (very senior). Instead I voted for Libertarians and the like.

I had a similar loathing of Gore, and voted for little Bush. Every time I have a slight feeling of regret, I think of Al Gore and feel proud to have voted for Bush. So proud that when I look at Kerry, I want to do it all over again.

So, here we are, getting closer and closer. I still do not like Bush (it's that "you see" stuff that drives me batty) and still avoid voting for Protestants on general principles (which leaves Kerry out in the cold, too), but I am still endorsing Bush. I listened to snippets from both candidates today. Bush almost lost me with his "ya see..." and then a bunch of sap about looove. Kerry lost me the minute I heard that grating voice.

In fact, when I hear Kerry or a Kennedy, I am forced to recall Abraham's words to God about Sodom. We need to find 10 good men in Massachussetts. We have Mark, there are the Mello Brothers, who make those great linguicas, and, uh, well...

So, here is the belated Friday One Hundred/Fifty?/Howabout Five?

1. List in the comments' boxes seven people who should be held up to God as reasons not to smite Massachussetts.

2. Help! Harvard lost some of the biggest fruitcakes on its faculty to Princeton. In honor of the occasion, create some sort of award for Cornel West.

3. Write an all-rhymed acceptance speech for Professor West.

4. Earn a chance at being a sportscaster for a day! California and Massachussetts seem locked in a fanatical battle to lead the world into complete moral decay. In your best adrenaline-charged voice, narrate events. C'mon. Give it your all! Give it all you've got! Give 110% and don't forget the basic fundamentals. Remember the goal of this football game is to get the football, to move the football over the goal line, and then to kick it between goal posts. It all boils down to the team that does this the most, wins the game. Any comment, Pat?

5. Describe an experience you had with Moxie or fiddlehead ferns.

Another Prayer Request

This morning Don Tosti, musician, composer, band leader, and raconteur, passed away. He was 81 years old and had been suffering from cancer for several months. The last time I talked to his sister before he passed away the doctors had just given him three to six months. That was two weeks ago. His sister told me that he went to bed Wednesday night and went into a coma, from which he never woke up. That night he was his cranky old self, even though he was in tremendous pain and emaciated. I got to know Don Tosti from my Arhoolie days, when we put out a collection called The Pachuco Boogie, which featured several of his classic cuts from the late 1940's. He was someone that you enjoyed calling for business, but you had to block out two hours of time for the conversation.

Even though he retired, we managed to convince him to make one more performance in Oakland. It was a lot of fun to see the young audience appreciate this octogenarian and his music. His greatest pride and vexation was that Lalo Guerrero often took credit for his own music. In fact, a few years ago Lalo was being honored for something and enlisted Tosti's help in transcribing some songs. Tosti helped, but had to grouse, "Lalo, all these years and I am still writing your music for you."

Tosti was a child prodigy, with a seat in the violin section of the El Paso symphony when he was 12 years old. He did stints with Jack Teagarden and Les Brown until his father chided him for not playing his own music. Tosti got a band together and pioneered a hip, swinging jazz sound, sung in calo Spanish called the Pachuco Boogie. Naturally, most people think of Lalo Guerrero when they think of the genre, but Tosti was the brains behind the whole thing.

Unlike many of the vernacular musicians of the period, Tosti was a shrewd businessman and held on to the copyrights of his own songs. For the last few years he has lived in Palm Springs where he regularly exchanged words with his neighbor, Lalo Guerrero, when he was not out walking his beloved chihuahua.

Please pray for the repose of his soul.
Requiscat in Aeternam.