More on The Lack of Protestants in Heaven...Budweiser Gelato...A Good Bar

First, my apologies to John Salmon, whose comment I deleted by mistake in my rampage against spam. I will address his, and Patrick's concerns right now.

Both of you did not read my post very carefully. It was not a Feeneyite position. I am not saying that Protestants don't get into Heaven, just that once there they cannot be Protestant anymore. Just as there are plenty of Catholics in Hell, I have little doubt that there are plenty of good Protestant people who, although lacking the Graces of the Eucharist and Penance, have, after sufficient purgation, been admitted to Heaven. This is not bigotry at all.

Second. There were two non-spam comments that I deleted due to their content. One was a Protestant post that blasphemed the Eucharist. The second was a Protestant post of the sedevacantist stripe. I do not tolerate sedevacantists. Their posts will be deleted.

Third. Budweiser gelato. I could not believe it and had to try it. It was very good. IF you are in the Bay Area, go to Yoogo Gelato on Columbus and Broadway and try it, along with their other great gelati. Next time I might try Durian. Or maybe not. Mango jasmine was good, too.

Fourth. If you are looking for a good bar in downtown San Francisco, might I suggest Azul off of Grant by Post (accross from the old White House department store, now a Banana Republic). It is a bit more hipsterish than my usual hangouts, but the owners are a Catholic couple with three kids and refreshingly Conservative views. The bar is cool looking, well-stocked and will hopefully become a Caribbean restaurant soon. More on that as it happens.

Barbecue Experiment Report

I did it. The modified barbecue sauce was good. I have too much to do tonight, but I will try to get a recipe up this weekend.

If you are hot to try it, buy a couple of baskets of figs and drop me a line at EKeilholtz@aol.com to let me know that you did this, and I will make sure to post a recipe before your figs go bad (which can be as fast as two days).

Baseball and Hellbound Protties

Last night we went to Porky's, our favorite blue-collar pizza parlor (excuse me, pizza palace) in San Leandro. They had baseball on the TV. I had forgotten that there were still teams playing baseball. Even this late in October. I was just at the Colliseum yesterday but there was no game going on. Come to think of it, none of the players were around either, so they must be done for the year. Too bad, as the weather has been much better for baseball in October than in September.

Maybe in April, when we are in Arizona with the team I might suggest the idea of playing baseball in October to one of their folks. It really makes marketing sense, as a few more weeks of baseball are sure to increase ad revenues, ticket sales, memorabilia sales, etc. Maybe it would be one of those suggestions best left to Saturday night, closing one of the bars with the marketing folks:

"You know, you ought to consider playing in October! I think October baseball would go over very well in Oakland. And I am not talking about that one week into the month business, either, but all the way through..."

Of course in April, everyone is positive that THIS YEAR will be THE YEAR! So, the natural response is "oh, you watch. Come October we're going to sweep the Series!"

April optimism. I bet even that every April the Cubs think that they aren't going to stink. Hah!

And speaking of stinking, that makes me think of heretics, liberals, apostates, and pagans.

The other day, in writing about Meier, I said, "to Hell with her" due to her abandoning the True Faith for some Prottie Dog Heresy (tm). A friend of mine said, "oh no, that is too much like Hamlet."

So let me clarify. When I said "to Hell with her" I meant that not as a wish but simply as an observation. It seems to be her wish. I hope she sees the light and comes back to Holy Mother Church and the Sacraments. I also hope that she withdraws from consideration and the President appoints a real nominee, but that is beside the point.

The point is that this bright woman is on the road to Hell, a road of her own choosing, and it is too bad.

So, here is some food for thought:

There are no Protestants in Heaven.

Pray! Obey! Fight! (and thanks to the Professor for this wonderful combination of two great slogans. I think I might make him an honorary Falangist).

And, while on the topic of stinking pagans, have you ever noticed how comical the Wicci people are? Where does Central Casting find them? OF course around the Feast of All Saints, they come out of the woodwork, declaring that they don't wear pointy hats, that they don't ride brooms, but then they spout all of this balderdash that is actually funnier than the stereotypical witchery (and I am not saying that they are telling the truth, as they are devil worshippers, even as they say they aren't. I wouldn't be surprised if they didn't wear pointy hats in their covens. I have certainly heard some cackle).

Neo-Wiccans would be a laugh riot if they weren't spreading this crap around. The Armed Forces have Wiccan chaplains. These are grown-ups with a solemn duty, and they are running around dabbling in this stuff. I bet you Portugal doesn't have Wiccan chaplains (Spain, alas, has a prime minister who might as well be a witch, complete with black hat and broom). Malta doesn't have Wiccan chaplains.

Wiccan chaplains did not tend to Miguel Cervantes at the battle of Lepanto!

If there are two crimes that are deserving of the death penalty they are:

1. Promoting Celto-Germanic paganism and
2. Promoting the ordination of women

Under the Keilholtz Dictatorship the law will read:

"All those women and their accomplices (accomplicesses?) who have hands laid on them on riverboats shall be burned at the stake with the rest of their coven."

Free Saddam!?!

Driving through (where else?) Berkeley the other day I saw the first "Free Saddam!" grafitti. I have been waiting for this.

To tell you the truth I would much rather have Saddam free than Leonard Peltier or Mumia Abu Jamal, mainly because both Peltier and Abu Jamal got completely fair trials and are assuredly guilty as sin. Saddam, on the other hand, was a bastard, but there are two mitigating factors here: One. Saddam, while definitely a genocidal psychotic, was the best Arab leader out there. Two. This court has absolutely no validity. It is a show trial worthy of 1930s Moscow. There is really no way out of this situation besides the death of Saddam (unless he could be retired to house arrest in Southern France, which would not be so bad, because then there is no killing of anybody, and you would have him around for information AND you prevent him from being a martyr, because in keeping him you allow him to age and say silly things from time to time), and it should have been done earlier, as a military action or an "accident" while taking him into custody. Putting on a show trial sends a terrible message to the Arab world, and putting up judges who have had about three weeks of training strikes me as a bad way to go.

So, while I cannot endorse the sentiments of "Free Saddam" I certainly am opposed to this kangaroo court.

"I Think I'll Just Sit Here And Drink"

It was bound to happen, and I should have expected it last night. Whenever you are on a roll with painting, particularly watercolors, where you can finish a painting in a relatively short amount of time, you get a turkey.

Reflecting on it all, I suppose that I should have known that I had only a fragment of a pictorial idea, and less of an abstraction strategy. I should have returned either to the theme I had been working on, or worked from life. But no, hubris sets in. I can wing it! I can recreate the image I got from Highway 13 at 70 miles an hour! Forget about it.

So, the day after a session like that, I am bound to sit down and decide whether art is better than drinking.

In both cases we are looking at a similar time commitment: from around 10pm to 2am. In both cases we are looking at a similar zilch in terms of finished product: a dead soldier or pack of empties versus a piece of expensive French watercolor paper, besmirched with costly French watercolors. Cost? At the price they want for good paint and paper, I could have been lapping up a decent single malt. Clean-up? I don't drink to the point of throwing up, so it would have been taking out bottles, cleaning glasses. Instead I was carefully cleaning Kolinsky sable brushes.

Now, the differences: There would have been no expectation of anything to come out of drinking, except maybe some good conversation, and the savoring of whatever it is that I was drinking. Drinking must be social, or it sets up a feedback loop that turns normal people into Charles Bukowski characters. I talk to myself enough. Don't need to do it over a bottle of Oban.

Painting, on the other hand, can never be social, because some dimwit chattering at you as you are trying to get a line or color right makes you paint wrong. That sort of thing drove Pollock back to heavy drinking, and I understand why. Drawing I can do with people nattering away about their cousin Jeb who went to art school and boy is he talented because he can draw any comic book character from memory and it's really crazy at art school because they are all about throwing paint at canvases instead of really drawing, you know, like, all those bulging muscles on superheroes... but not painting.

Sometimes I start painting with music: something rhythmic, lots of Alberti bass, or moving continuo, or jazz. Then I move to so something much more meditative: Morton Feldman or Keith Jarrett playing the Goldberg Variations on harpsichord, or maybe Respighi or Nino Rota (have to be in the mood) or some Scandinavian avant-garde jazz, something austere. Then, as I get deeper into the painting, all I want to hear is the sound of brush on paper, palette knife on canvas, footsteps, sharpening pencils and charcoals, only the sounds of work.

So, painting is not good for company. Drinking is. That would make drinking the better activity.

Can't drive after a good night of drinking? I am always too spent to drive or do much of anything after a lengthy painting session.

Slur my speech? OK, but I rarely have much to say that is of any interest after painting:

E: Alizarin crimson's got that blue thing going.

M: What?

E: Alizarin. Oh, maybe permanent red would have worked better, but then I would have had to cool down the Naples. Naples yellow. That is a great color.

M: Is that the bright yellow that is almost orange?

E: No, thats cad yellow medium. Naples is like sand. Sandstone. Can't use hue, though. Commie plot, hue. Gotta be real Naples yellow. Lead, baby, lead! Oh yeah, do you see any yellow paint or white paint on me? Those both have lead, and I should wash them off. Maybe I should have used a warmer red, though.

Erik retreats to the studio, where he stays for another two hours

E: Well, just blew that. The colors were good, but then they got all loused up with that crappy permanent red. Should have stuck with the alizarin...

M: What do you think of the candidates for mayor?

E: I would rather paint Ignacio, to tell you the truth. More fun woriking on his eyes and forehead. Dellums, I don't know. I would have to do some drawings. I don't know what he looks like as well.

M: I mean their policies.

E: Well, you could use some symbols in the background, although either one could have a hammer and sickle back there. I suppose horns on Ron Dellums would be too much symbolism? Maybe the ghost of Jim Jones hovering over him...

And so on. Painting makes you think only of painting. Drinking, well, you think of all sorts of things.

Then there is the day after. Too much booze and you have a headache, are sensitive to light, are tired, and fairly useless all morning. Too much painting and you have a headache, are sensitive to light, are tired and fairly useless all morning, but you have the urge to go out and do more. It's like dope. With a hangover, I don't want to smell the stuff. With painting, I want to dive right back into it.

The horrid painting in the other room beckons. I must go. I have no choice. I see gobs of gouache in my future.

I should have called Jared over last night and opened a bottle of the good stuff...

Coming Attractions!

Right now (I mean that literally, at 2am) I am reformulating my California barbecue sauce: simplifying, keeping it more in line with autumn, etc. Once it is done, I will be reformulating the whole California barbecue: a new mayo-free slaw, adding a balsamic onion garnish, a new semi-focaccia to serve it on, etc. When it is all done, adjusted and accepted, I will post the recipes.

So far the sauce is based on three types of peppers, three types of organic, heirloom tomatoes, prunes, figs, onion, garlic, red wine, balsamic vinegar, white wine vinegar (to correct acidity), Worcester sauce, espresso, spices, lavender, sea salt and oregano. It tasted pretty good half an hour ago. I might smoke the sauce, or smoke part of it to see if that is worthwhile.

Other than that I have been busy reviewing restaurants and cooking old warhorses (braise them in red wine...just kidding).

Another Painting in the Bag!

Still on an incredible roll, although tonight's watercolor was not that good. Still, another painting is finished. Sure, these are watercolors: it's not like I am cranking out oil paintings (those things take forever to get done). And, the process for building an art website is rolling on as well. All this means that you will get a chance to see my work without having to come to Oakland or tracking things down in Pittsburg, Sacramento, Santa Cruz, Portland, Fiddletown, or wherever else the things might be.

On a side note: watercolors smell funny. I like the smell of oils much better, and it is not that the turps make me light headed (they don't, which is good, because I have known artists who cannot work with the real thing anymore, and I have yet to find a perfect substitute. Mineral spirits work fairly well, but turpentine is much better. That orange non-toxic stuff is wretched). The best smell is encaustic. Gotta love that beeswax.

Pinter's Prize

Melanie was in the shower when I heard the news. What follows is the transcript of our conversation as she was stepping out of the shower

E: Somebody won a prize.

M: What?

E: Somebody won a prize in literature.

M: A prize in literature?

E: Yes, a Scandinavian prize in literature.

M: The Nobel Prize?

E: Yes. Somebody won the Scandinavian Nobel Prize in Literature.

M: Oh, Pinter won the Nobel?

E: Yes. Pinter won the Scandinavian Nobel Prize in Literature.

M: Harold Pinter.

E: Yes. Harold Pinter won the Scandinavian Nobel Prize in Literature.

Then later Amalia and I were driving, listening to Hank Williams' "Move it On Over."

Amalia: He's a big dog.

Next Verse

Amalia: He's a mad dog. A big mad dog.

Next Verse

Amalia: A bad dog. A big bad mad dog.

At this point I could no longer resist.

E: Yes. A big bad mad dog.

Amalia: A big bad mad dog.

Help! Please give the Nobel to someone else quick, or we might just go crazy over here!

Censorship...

By the way, today I engaged in a bit of censorship. On a post from last year's Ramalamadingdong, I wished all of the Mohammedans a very happy holiday with the announcement of a contest for the design of the basilica that shall be built in Mecca.

Today I got a very indignant and upset comment from some Mohammedan or Mohammedan-simp. I deleted it and had some great pork, accompanied with a margarita. The next pro-Mohammed comment I get, I will simply edit it so say some funny stuff. You have been warned.

You want Free Speech? Go to Iran. They give lots of Free Speech to Mohammedans. So long as they are the right kind of Mohammedan.

Because it boils down to this: we all want free speech, but we don't want the enemies to have it because we all know that free speech is a useless crock that presumes that ideas are just all harmless fun.

Error has no rights.
Error has no rights.
Error has no rights.

Say that each morning before you read your Syllabus of Errors.

Now repent of that Liberal foolishness before I have to send some fellows out to talk to you. Really nice guys, if you get to know them, and they can even be reasonable, so long as you stop spouting off that garbage you keep muttering.

It really is a shameful thing how some people like to mutter like old ladies in the piazza.

On Flattery

One of the strategies for slipping spam into the comments's box is to use flattery.

"Nice blog! Keep up the good work"

"This is really an interesting post..."

It will get you nowhere, unless it comes with a left-knee genuflection and the minimum tribute of a pound of decent coffee beans. Flattery that comes with tribute, I accept. Otherwise, I might just look at you with contempt, especially if you are using flattery to get your spam through on my blog.

Of course, if you can't afford to give me a bottle of 100% blue agave tequila or an original Rembrandt, flattery can be accepted if it is interesting flattery. I am no Puritan.

Speaking of which: all of the flap over Meier or whatever her name is bores me. All I need to know is that she defected from the Catholic Faith as an adult. To Hell with her.

Bush can do better than that. Or, if not, to Hell with him too. Too much more of this crap and I might have to vote for Democrats.

Har har har.

Vote Falange! It's good for the body, it's good for the soul. Or don't vote. What you have to say on the matter is probably of little consequence anyway. Stay home. Resist The Man.

Believe! Obey! Fight!

Anyway, speaking of Democrats, of the repugnant variety, I have decided, against my usual practice of trying to pick the least offensive of a wretched slate, to endorse Ron Dellums for mayor of Oakland. If four years of that inept ass doesn't break the back of the East Bay Democratic machine, then, well, to Hell with Oakland. The people get what they deserve and they deserve to get it good and hard.

Or you can vote Felange!

B.!O.!F.! and, yes, AEIOU to you too.

Just don't tell me that you like my blog in the comments box before touting your particular goods or services, or I might make you drink castor oil. It's good for you, quite whining.

De New De Young, not De Old De Young

Yesterday we went to a members' preview of the new De Young Museum. It opens to the general public on Saturday.

Since I am still painting furiously (finished, I think...have to look at it again, the eighth painting in the last three weeks), the blog has had to take a back seat. So, until I get a block of time at the computer (and not one in which I need to delete spam comments and pings for an hour), this brief review will have to do:

1. Great building. I did not like the look of the plans, but the real thing is stunning. The copper siding will be particularly cool as it ages. The galleries are comfortable, the art is allowed to really shine (and when we are talking about nineteenth century art like Bierstadt and Church, shine it does), and the courtyards are a pleasant respite for the eyes.

2. Six or seven Diebenkorns, including Seawall, one of my all time favorites.

3. At least seven Thiebauds. Yipee!

4. Great view from the tower.

5. Did I mention all the nineteenth century stuff? Thomas Hill, Thomas Moran, Frederic (not Thomas) Church, James A.M. Whistler, Sargeant, Prendergrast, etc. Feast for the eyes.

6. The Piazzoni murals are stunning in their new home. I have never seen them in person, and to be able to walk around looking at them was a real treat.

7. Cool site specific works...more on that later.

8. Good early American modernist works: John Marin, Marsden Hartley (can't seem to get enough of him recently), an interesting Rothko (from, I think, his days in San Francisco), a lovely Motherwell.

9. Location. Location. Location. A museum in a great park wins points simply by being in the great park.

The Alligator and the Python

This story is about a python that ate an alligator and exploded.

Who needs Harryhausen?

Art and stuff...

This is getting boring, I realize, but if you bear with me, I will eventually get to writing some real posts, probably mostly about art, since I have been thinking about, doing, and reading about art a lot these days. I actually have a few things I want to write about, but have not had the time. I even had ambitious plans for tonight, but am just too tired. If I don't get to bed soon I will not be able to get what I need to get done in order to go to the Marsden Hartley show at the Crocker (I am in Sacramento tonight).

As for cooking, I have not done much that new and unusual, so the next food post will be general ruminations about food and culture, Julia Child and Alice Waters, etc. Go get a copy of the latest Gastronomica, which you should read anyway if you have any interest in these topics, as it is a tribute to Julia Child.

As for baseball, bah humbug. Season's over as far as I care. Football? At least the Raiders won one. I think my aversion to the 49ers might go permanent.