The Downside of Vacation Time

I was walking back from the bakery this morning, eagerly awaiting that first bite of steaming hot croissant avec jambon et fromage, when it hit me. There were very few cars out on the streets. What's the deal? Is New Year's Eve becoming a big sleep-in holiday, too? Is this normal for a, let see...New Year's is Monday so today must be...Sunday. Sunday! And the mass I would normally go to is already over.

Fortunately, there is masstimes.org, so we are able to find plenty of afternoon masses (at this point, it would take too long to get ready for an 11am).

Fortunately I am not doing anything elaborate for New Year's Eve dinner: French onion soup, salad, pannetone for dessert, followed by cigars and cognac.

No recipes for the blog, though, since they are from other people's books (Julia Child Mastering the Art of French Cooking for the soup, Michael Chiarello's Tra Vigne Cookbook for the pannetone).

So, dear readers, thank you for bearing with my time-impaired fog of pointless observations and useless, recipe-less food nods. My celebration is your penance (although I really don't know what horrible thing you did to have to come reading this blog).

Apocalypto

Don't bother. I am beginning to think The Passion was a fluke.

Here we have (this would be a spoiler alert if the ending wasn't so obvious from the get-go) the energizer bunny hero dancing on the boundary between the improbable and the impossible, all the while remaining firmly in the predictable. Add some hokey synth "world" music and a good dose of Deus ex machina (OK, Mel, having that come with a friar bearing the Cross was cute) and you have it. Oh yeah, and gobs of blood.

Now, anything that shows how bloody and awful Mayan/Toltec/Aztec civilizations were is probably a good dose of reality in a culture that thinks that all Indians were nature-loving peacemongers whose world was cruelly destroyed by the mean Europeans. However, couldn't Gibson have come up with a better story?

In 1502 they must have already had the telegraph, because the ending was obvious from about the third scene.

Anyway, I am beginning to think that Mel has a fetish for blue paint (and, well, blood). Perhaps he should have just gone DADA and had Jaguar Paw deliver his fist-shaking manifesto in a Scottish brogue. At least it would have been funny. And we can all be thankful that the film did not come with a rant about the Jews starting all those wars (or the tagline: Mesoamerican Slaughter: the holocaust even Hutton doesn't deny).

On the good side of the ledger, it was visually appealing, even with the muppet Jaguar, and offered an interesting view of what a Mayan city looked like. Coming home, I pulled out a couple of Mexican history books, and it seems that the costumes were pretty accurate (I never realized that the ghetto-chic thing of putting jewels in the teeth had pre-Columbian antecedents, but I found two sources describing this, so I imagine that it is pretty accurate).

My rating is low: one star (better than Cats, but, hey, what isn't?). It seems, from reports from the girls, that Charlotte's Web is the better film. I am sure I will be seeing it on DVD when it comes out. I will not be seeing Mel's Turkey again.

Off to the Movies!

I am going to see Apocalypto this afternoon, so I will be able to give my report this evening. Or tomorrow. Did I mention how much I like vacation pace?

The girls went off to see Charlotte's Web, which, if it is good, I will end up seeing on DVD anyway, and only my Dad and I are interested in bloody films set in pre-Columbian Mexico.

Anyway, is it possible to improve on the cute cartoon version of Charlotte?

What next? Remaking Mary Poppins?

By the way, one of the best reasons to have a goose on Christmas, besides the fact that it tastes so good, is that you end up with large quantities of goose fat as well as large quantities of goose stock. Goose stock is one of those great staples that every house should have once in awhile. It makes the best risotto (and, when turned into a double stock with veal bones, will go into our New Years Eve dinner of French Onion Soup).

So, do yourself a favor and roast a Christmas goose. It would make a great centerpiece for an Epiphany dinner.

Also, on the topic of food: now's the time for roasted beets. They are easy to cook and very yummy, especially with chunks of warm goat cheese.

However, as much fun as it is to wax ecstatic over food, it is time to go indulge in Mel Gibson's strange vision.

Meanwhile...

I know that what you really come here for are...

YouTube clips!

Howzabout George?

If the "helmet hair" era is not your thing, here is a young George:

And this:

Of course there are those who complain that there are no singers like him anymore. I disagree. Alan Jackson is, as far as I can tell, the heir to a great country music tradition. Here he is with George Jones:

And, finally, this is a great example of Jackson's voice:

Well, not really "finally." You can't do a country post without Hee Haw and Buck!

Maybe that will be the new format: All Hee Haw All The Time!

Of course, who doesn't love Loretta?

Benny Hill on Twang?

It is like hanging out at the bar with your old friends. One more and we'll all go:

A Blog Entry?!?

Ah yes, there is this blog thing. With readers who are probably feeling neglected. Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.

Is Erik struggling with some hardship? Sickness? No. And no. Melanie and Amalia have slight colds, but all is well here in Sacramento (where we are hanging out until Monday). Today was a gloriously clear day, with a brisk wind to remind us that it is, indeed, winter. We have been to the Crocker Art Museum, where Amalia got to do a crafts event (and painted two watercolors that make her Babbo very proud), and Babbo got to look at some fantastic paintings. We saw our friend off at the station. We cooked another big dinner for some other old friends.

After everyone went to bed (I am the lone night owl here), I got to sip espresso and read a hundred pages of Eugenides' Middlesex, which is a fascinating book. I will report more on it when I am finished. Tonight I was planning on getting back to work, but the reality is that when I go to bed, there will probably not be a speck more pigment on any paper than there is now. It is all I can do to break out of vacation mode to update the blog.

Tomorrow is another day, and I will have to do some painting, or at least drawing. And then I will probably bore you with an art post (does anyone read those anyway?), or maybe a rant.

Recipe? Goose pancetta? Perhaps.

Meanwhile, please continue to have a Blessed and Merry Christmas season!

Feast of the Nativity and St. Stephen's and St. John the Evangelist

First, I hope everyone had a wonderful celebration of the Nativity. We sure did.

I was going to remind you to listen to that great carol that is for yesterday's feast, "Everybody Must Get Stoned," (and a fat lip to the first person to point out that that is not really the title of the tune), but I got busy doing work that you will probably not appreciate, that no one will appreciate... oh. I have been informed that it is not considered correct to commemorate a martyr by adopting a martyr's pose. Darn. I had a whole list of things.

Anyway, today you are supposed to have your wine blessed. Don't forget.

Which brings me to the business at hand: our out of town guest has been persuaded to stay another day. The party continues. Serious blogging will resume tomorrow or maybe tonight if all these pikers call it in early and I still have energy (3 am two nights in a row, followed by 2 am! Yippeeee!).

So, please continue to have a merry Christmas, and don't you dare take down those decorations until Epiphany (I told you the day after Thanksgiving was too early!).

Three things.

First, we sampled some of our mincemeat, and it was very good. I will post a full report when it is baked into pies. The flavors are very Christmasy, with loads of fruit and spice, supported by a rich beefy meatiness.

Second, I am now officially in the throes of Christmas preparations. Expect little or no blogging until the feast of St. Stephen.

Third, please say a prayer for the repose of the soul of Jason Brown, a friend of mine from high school and college who recently died of brain cancer.

Ursonate and You

Well, there is this thing that Mark Shea posted that is very funny, and it puts me in mind of a couple of other things, Kirt Schwitters' Ursonate being one of them.

While blogging will be light today, until later, I leave you this 21st century take on Schwitters:

If you object because you are a purist, then I will simply raise and eyebrow and say, "what, pray tell, is a dada purist?"

Although it would make a great band name: Juerg Volta and the Dada Purists.

Of course the best way to come up with a band name comes from the legendary Al Jazzbeaux Collins. I could not find any of his comedy material on YouTube, but I did find this footage of him talking to Lionel Hampton (and how can anyone complain about Lionel Hampton? And his band plays towards the end, with some great close up footage of Hampton):

We listened to the Purple Grotto every Saturday night, and have yet to find a weekly radio event that comes close (although Mal Sharpe's Back on Basin Street every Sunday night on KCSM comes close (and you can hear it online)).

Lute Backed Hurdy Gurdy?

What, pray tell, Mr. Keilholtz, is a "lute-backed hurdy-gurdy?" Is that the thing that the man with the monkey plays?

No! No! No! That is a barrel organ. The only thing it has in common with a hurdy gurdy is a handle. It only plays what has been pre-programmed, as it were, into it by means of pegs or loops that trigger notes much as a music box does.

A hurdy-gurdy is a string instrument that plays by means of a wheel scraping the strings. A keyboard stops the main melody string to make various notes, and one or more other strings play drones. When the hurdy-gurdyist moves the wheel a little fast, a special string that buzzes makes a sound. Hurdy-gurdies can be either diatonic or chromatic, and they can take a variety of basic forms.

One of the common way to make a hurdy-gurdy is to take a guitar or lute and use it as the body. Here we have a guitar-backed hurdy-gurdy:

If the hurdy-gurdy maker had used a lute to start with, it would have been a lute backed hurdy-gurdy (a very hot recording, turn down the volume first, as this is a bright instrument as well). Be sure to watch to the end, as it is a very good performance, and you have to see the musicians grin at the end:

There are other types of hurdy gurdies as well, like this Hungarian variant, which I posted to show that there are other types of hurdy gurdies, and that one does not need to be a guy in a beard to play the thing:

By now you are probably noticing something: yesterday (or the day before, I don't remember), it was bagpipes. Today hurdy gurdies. What is the connection? Hurdy gurdies sound like a hybrid between the fiddle and the bagpipe because of?

Yes. Drones. Keilholtz likes droning instruments.

First person to comment "that is why he drones on and on so" gets a fat lip.

And finally, enjoy this rather primitive, yet good sounding hurdy gurdy with a Russian tune:

Santa Stalin or Hitler Claus?

We finally saw Polar Express, which was, overall, an amusing experience. Peculiar animation, some rather goofy moments, a character playing a lute-backed hurdy-gurdy (wins big points from me for that), overall worth seeing once.

However, the images of Santaklausstadt in the North Pole were kind of creepy, as in Albert Speer-choreographed creepy. "Heil Santa!" He even appeared in a Leni Riefenstahlesque manner. I mentioned this last night to a friend who replied, "no, I think it is a more Stalinisitic Santa."

Either way, very creepy, and immediately gets my demented little brain working overtime, thinking up other twists on the already twisted commercialized world of Secularchristmas.

Perhaps in the Speer-designed world of the North Pole they gather around and sing "Adolf, the Blue-Eyed Reindeer." The movie is much like the classic Rudolph, except that in the end absolutely everyone dies, and takes three hours doing it with bizarre remote-key modulations built around the deceptive use of dominant seventh resolutions, and then the author comes out and talks about the culmination of art, music, religion and myth for another eight hours.

Now, the proof that Santa is a commie is well known (wears red, distributes toys evenly to all the children, something else. I can't remember exactly). But can you see him chortling "Ho Ho Ho Chi Minh!" Or "Mao-ey Christmas!"

No, this is not how the television show goes, but we all know, "the revolution will not be televised."

And whitey's on the moon.

The Best One Yet! Margarita Time!

Melanie was alarmed to notice that the search request for: get your wife drunk on tequila recipes drove someone to Erik's Rants and Recipes.

I asked Melanie what recipe I should post for this, and we decided to go with a Margarita.

1 part (now, get this in detail, as it is important to get the right stuff) 100% blue agave, SILVER tequila (reposado is too subtle for a margarita, and anything less than 100% blue agave is going to be almost half rum - not so tasty, and will give you a nasty hangover if you have too many)

1 part freshly squeezed lime juice

1 part Triple Sec (yes, you can use Grand Marnier, but Triple Sec is just fine).

Put all in a shaker with cracked ice (put that stinkin' blender away!) and pour into chilled glasses (or on the rocks) whose rim has been rubbed with the insides of one of the squeezed limes, and dusted with kosher salt. Enjoy!

Here's a thought.

Perhaps people shouldn't name their children after saints, because if the children get canonized, then we are stuck with more of these cumbersome two-or-three-named saints: Francis de Sales, Francis Franco y Bahamonde (or Francis of Madrid), Thomas Aquinas, etc. When we really like to have one name saints: St. Jude, St. Barnabas, etc.

Otherwise the litany sounds a bit like a phone directory:

Lisieux, St. Therese of, pray for us!
Avila, St. Teresa of, pray for us!

And if this keeps up, which it hopefully will, because we hope that all of these folks become saints, we will have to go with something horrible like this:

All saints named John, Pray for us!
All saints named Peter, Pray for us!

Perhaps we should give all children unique names, so that if they are canonized, the Roman Calendar doesn't get too confusing.

Of course we could end up with a St. Aardvaark, as unique names would start having to take some strange turns.

Aardvaark is a really good name, though.

Just a thought.

A change in the links

Since Jeff Culbreath has recently quit blogging (again), his blog has been taken over by a "traditionalist" who links to SSPX. Sorry, but that won't do. Instead, I am replacing this link with Meg Quinn, who is living in the great frozen waste known as Canada. Or Kanada, since it always seems vaguely sinister to replace "c" with "k" (now you know a little bit about why I am so sinister). Check her out.

Well, now!

Here it is the 21st, and I still have not finalized my Christmas menu, nor have I sent Christmas cards. Ever year I think, "we should send homemade cards" and I even have a drawing, but it involves seven linoleum blocks, so it will have to start around September, when it is just too hard to get into the Christmas spirit.

Oh well.

The good news is that we are going to be able to spend a whole week in Sacramento with my parents, something that has made Amalia positively giddy. Grandparents are great. They spoil you. They want to spend a lot of time with you. And when it comes time for discipline, they hand that off to parents, making the parents the bad guys. That's me: Babbo Spoilsport.

I remember those days fondly. Now I get the other end of the stick, and I have to say it doesn't annoy me nearly as much as it should. In fact, I find watching my parents interact with Amalia just about as much fun as watching Amalia interact with her peers.

Today her school had a field trip where all three of the kindergarten classes went to an old folks home to sing. They were all dressed festively, and were on very good behavior.

It is something that we read about often, and probably think about, too, but if you really want to do a good deed, go visit (singing is optional) someone in one of those homes. For me it is always a little sad, though, because I remember when my own grandparents, who I was very close to, had to go into one of those places, as they needed medical attention far beyond what we could provide.

But those memories are not entirely maudlin, as there were those times when I would visit my grandfather, who had completely lost it in terms of his knowledge of time-space, especially after my grandmother died, and he would delight in telling me all of the things that he did that morning. Now, these were generally culled from a lifetime of happy memories, and weren't humanly possible to do in one morning, but the nature of his dementia was that they were as fresh as the sunrise, and having someone to tell them to was almost as fun as the things themselves. In his memory close friends who had been long gone were there, fishing, working on iron, building things, etc.

I still miss them, and know that they would have loved Amalia (and vice versa). My grandmother died right before Christmas eleven years ago, and my grandfather died a couple of weeks before our wedding, ten years ago. I still think of them every day, whether it is because I find a neat object (they were constantly picking up treasures they found on their long walks), or because I am using my grandmother's old work bowl, or my grandfather's anvil (he made it himself from a piece of railroad track).

I also think of my grandmother when I am cooking, as she definitely disapproved of the direction my cooking was going in: all that French influence seemed to her like superfluous garnish on the good, wholesome Italian food she loved. She never minded the Chinese or Mexican influence, though. But when the cream and butter came out, she would give me that "what do you need that for?" look. And God forbid I did something as crass as stirring pasta, rather than tossing it.

Of course it paid off. I might like the exploration of the nouvelle cuisine, or the sumptuous splendor of la grande cuisine, but when it comes time for comfort food, it must be straight from the Tuscan hills.

Your Ecumenical Moment of the Day!

It has been awhile since I have slammed our dear friends in the Anglitic/Episcopagan communion. Mostly since they have been doing such a good job of slamming themselves recently (it seems that you can get an Episcopagan cleric to say something silly these days faster than you can say "Gene Robinson").

One of the funnier aspects of the crumbling of the Druid of Canterbury's little sect is that it is being misunderstood by the secularists almost entirely in Catholic terms, where we have a nice, clean split with one side being the Liberals who want wymyn priestesseses (pheh! phhhhht!), married priests, married homo priests, guitars at mass, polyester pantsuits on the few nuns that are still around (except when protesting, as the habit makes a good prop), vernacular all the time, church in the round, etc. And then you have the traditionalist, orthodox sorts.

We will leave out the various SSPX and Mel Gibsons, since they are really Protestants.

Now, the Episcopagan Sect is different, in that the high church is where the fruitcake infestation tends to be strongest. "Sodomites with atrocious accents." And the ones favoring sexual orthodoxy tend to be wrong on just about everything else.

Don Jim has a good entry on this, except that it does tend towards a lot of handwringing, which is the "polite" way of dealing with Episcopagans. Not me. I would rather have seen all of England's beautiful churches razed than turned into the dens of thieves and heretics that they have become, and I will tell you so, and I will tell them so.

It is not OK to be an Anglitic/Episcopagan. It is absurd, wrong, silly, and evil. Stop it. Just stop it. No crying about this, that, or the other thing. Just go. Give yourself the best Christmas present you can: become Catholic. Leave the "denomination" to fracture into a million parts. There is no honor in staying on. You are much better than that. You were made for something better, like communion with the Church Christ founded, not membership in the Club Henry VIII founded.

And that is your ecumenical dialog for the day.

Christmas Music!

Get in the Christmas Spirit with... bagpipes! Yes, the traditional Italian Christmas instrument (it makes sense. Think sheep, and it will all come together). This is a great clip:

Or, here is a shorter clip, but very well played:

And, last, but not least, Chestnuts roasting on an open fire. Really:

Gamelan

This is a Balinese gamelan (as part of some instructional program):

It is a nice, scaled-down ensemble. For those who want the flash and dazzle of a large, virtuosic gamelan, we have to go no further than Berkeley, where Gamelan Sekar Jaya is the King of the metallophones. Here they are doing Margapati:

The Harder They Come

Mentioning The Harder They Come got me to thinking about the film. It so happened that we were at the video store on Monday, and I saw it as I passed through the foreign film section, so I picked it up. It has, after all, been quite some time since I saw it last, so I wanted to see what I thought of it now.

I still like it, although it is not without faults. For instance, Ivan's situation, while all too common, is presented a little heavy handedly. It could have been a lot stronger if it were presented with a bit more complexity. I don't want to put in any spoilers, because it is a very good movie (with some very interesting shots of Jamaica), and one of the best soundtracks ever compiled, so you should rent it. One word of warning: the language is technically English, but it might take you a while to get into it, if you have not had experience with Carribean patois, especially those of lower class Kingston. It is not quite as opaque as Third World Cop, which was (poorly) subtitled, but it will make most American viewers want to sit forward and pay careful attention to fully grasp what they are saying.

I should also warn you that there are naughty bits.

Overall, however, it is a good story and a beautifully shot film.

I Got it!

While the Greek Orthodox Church and the Catholic Church are improving their relationships,these guys could have summit meetings with the SSPX, where they could all wallow in the trough of bitterness together.

Sung, together, in disharmony, with an irritable dinosaur:

You hate me.
I hate you.
But not as Much
As We Hate Together
Our Respective
Bishops, Patriarchs, and Hierarchies!
We really are a bunch of Protties!

Remember, boys, use your imagination! Oh, I see Pulvermacher already has that covered.

Then, after an unpleasant dinner of potatoes, they could play "pin the anathma on the cleric," that always fun game of resentment and nastiness.

On the last two weeks of Advent...

I really like Christmas. I like the food, the decorations. All the lights, parties, some of the music (although "Little Drummer Boy" has got to be about the most insipid song ever written), hot sweet drinks that I normally wouldn't touch. Cold, thick sweet drinks that I normally wouldn't touch. Etc.

However, as Christmas approaches and the level of activity leans towards the fever pitch, I begin to think of how nice it would be to be on some tropical island, listening to gamelan angklung or gong kebyar (OK, it is not just "some" tropical island, obviously), and eating curry. Then, we could return for Christmas on the 23rd, just in time for the holiday.

Well, the cold weather has something to do with it. When is global warming going to kick in? Did someone forget to pay the bill?

Tipping

On my Yahoo News page I see the obligatory article on how much one should tip various people at Christmastime.

Let me answer this for you: nothing. zero. nada. zilch.

Now, if you have some mailman who really goes the extra mile, knows you by name, etc., then, fine, give him something.

But for the letter carrier (very literal usage here, because parcels inevitably end up sent back, because the lazy-ass civil servant on our route cannot seem to figure out the connection between declining service and increasing business for the brownshirts) who has ignored our mailbox for years (two boxes on a duplex. Clearly marked. Why oh why do we need to sort the mail that was all put in one of the boxes? Every day?!?), who delivered an invitation to my cousin's party in October, when the party was in July and the invite was mailed from accross the bay in late May, that letter carrier is lucky that she is a protected class of person, which might be the only thing that keeps people on her route from "going postal" on her.

Newspaper carrier? My normal policy is "bah humbug" but he did send out a Christmas card with a very Catholic and devout religious message. In a neighborhood that is probably 20% Buddhist and 25% Protestant. Good for him. And he has to work for the cretins in circulation. Anyone who has to work at the bottom of the Circulation rung deserves something. I don't know how much, but something.

Barber? Well, if I make it to the Barber (it will be my third visit of the year), then the tip will be my usual. The chances are I will cut my own hair, then get Melanie to make the back not look as crappy as it will after I cut it myself.

Gardener? We don't have one, but if we did, he would have to go into that above and beyond the call of duty range to get a tip.

We are too tip happy, and, while I might sound like Scrooge here, what this does is let the employers off the hook. Now, for a gardener or other independent contractor, it is trickier, because they are reluctant to raise prices for fear of losing the business, but it is what they have to do if they want more money, not hope for a tip at the whim of the customer. If they raise prices and the level of service, they will end up making more money for less work, which is a good thing. Let the bargain hunters settle for the competition.

So, by tapering down on tipping, we can bring back a situation where someone is paid for their work and does not have to rely on the caprice of the customers.

Yours for a tip-free holiday!
Ebeneezer Keilholtz

Sometimes I Love Preservationists. Usually I Just Want to see Them Put in Prisons For a Very Long Time

By now the story is familiar: some architectural gem is going to be torn down so that a developer can build blocks of ticky tacky. The Preservationists come down and pester City Hall and hold Press Conferences and Pass Petitions, and so forth and so on and on and on. Nowadays it usually ends in the courts. On and on and on. And the result is generally about as logical as a toss of the coin, but much energy and resources go into it. So much so, that doing anything requires a war chest of funds to battle the Preservationists, who will get sentimental over the damndest things.

This, for instance.

Now, I will admit that I don't think I have seen the building in person, and one must be very careful (almost to the point of not-do-it-at-all careful) of judging a building solely on photographs. However, is this the sort of thing that needs preservation? In New Orleans?

I love good modernism (which this may be. I don't know), but there are limits, and this preservation for the sake of preservation is nothing more than silly sentimentalism, just as the fever pitch campaign to save the last Doggy Diner in San Francisco was.

People need to realize that simply because they have gotten used to a thing, doesn't make it an essential and eternal part of a place.

Now, I am against the wholesale flattening of areas, and the conquest by monolithic chains, peddling cultural dreck in the name of consumer choice, but this hardly counts as that.

What this idiocy does is to make it harder and harder to build anything, and New Orleans needs that right now about as much as San Francisco needs more poofters.

Also, I am noticing a disturbing trend, where local governments are totally in thrall to faddish causes and to these lobbyists who pretend not to be lobbyists, because they don't make money for their work. With the sort of third-rate dreck that goes into City Politics, we end up with the ideas that have the most volume winning out, and normal people simply do not have the time to spend fighting the pet cause of each and every village idiot. So, the result is that we have city councils racing each other to be more in line with the Village Idiot Platform (see foie gras, smoking regulations, tinkering with election procedures, tragicomedia around the way to honor holidays, etc.).

Jacques Brel

Is there anyone who writes songs like this anymore?

Damn the Macacas! Full Speed Ahead!

Now, even though Erik's Rants and Recipes is run by a reactionary, we try to keep it from being a reactionary broadside, in that we almost completely avoid newsy commentary on the hot button issues of the day. Part of this is our general disdain for democracy and part of it is due to our more specific disdain (and yet, curiously, also glee) of the level of political discourse that is so base and deficient that it screams from the rooftops why liberal democracy is a horrible institution.

Also, one of my all time least liked politicians, the DisHonorable Dianne Feinstein (D-California), has epitomized reactive politics. Her legislative agenda is always the morning newspaper, and her nannying instincts are immediate: any time any sort of problem gets the first whiff of media exposure, Feinstein is on the case, lickety split. Never mind deep research. Never mind measured, sober steps. Something must be done! And now! For the Children!

So, we generally let news age on the shelf for a bit before we comment.

Hence the frequent discussion of the Spanish Civil War, which remains, like it or not, the focal point of modern Western Civilization. All roads lead to the Ebro, and we are on the side of civilization, order, decency, and the Holy Faith, standing in union with JONS-FALANGE and St. Francis of Madrid, and we look on those who aren't with pity at best. Most people are against a Franco of Orwell's imagination, a Franco of the liberal press, a Franco of Socialist Pamphlets.

And Spain makes us think of Gibraltar, that blight, that pimple, that abscess on the Roman shore, a rock known for harboring barbarians and Europe's only wild monkeys (not counting the Dutch), the macaques. And macaque calls to mind Sen. Allen and his little heckler (it has been a good year for hecklers, right Mr. Richards?).

Now, we have defended Sen. Allen's use of the word "macaca" in this very space. In fact, it is about the only thing we have found defensible in this otherwise milquetoast Republican.

So it was with no small delight that this article showed up on our Yahoo page this fine (yet freezing) morning.

Which brings us back to the reactive and the reactionary.

With "macaca" being the year's "most politically incorrect word" we have decided to honor the word by making today officially "Macaca Day." Normally, we would have to see such antics as reactive, offensive simply to give offence, but upon deeper reflection we will find...that that is exactly it.

We owe our thin-skinned brethren of the Left frequent doses of abrasion. It is through these treatments that they will develop the thicker skin that will allow them to remain firmly grounded in reality, thus ignoring the minor irritations that send them flying into disproportionate hissy fits.

And when this hypersensitivity spreads beyond its nucleus into more normal areas, the whole nation is in danger. Honestly, I expect the United States to fall, not to tanks, but to a platoon of hostile troops smoking cigarettes and wearing a little aftershave. All they will have to do after the initial assault, is stand on top of the stairs, thus preventing the few of us who are not gasping in spasms of indignation from getting at them with our wheelchairs.

So, welcome to Erik's Rants and Recipes, a thoroughly offensive zone for the effete liberal, where cigars and whisky are the norm, where queers get smeared (remember that game? I betcha kids could get expelled from school for playing that one nowadays), where seatbelts are suspect, where fur is worn by the women, veal and foie gras eaten by all, where the deer and the macacas play (until shot by the local hunters).

Happy Macaca Day to you, Mr. Scrooge!
And Happy Macaca Day to each and every one of you!

I Think I Have Been Very Good!

So, it has been a few days since I posted any YouTube clips, so I don't feel so bad posting this brilliant 29 second long tribute to the great Ray Harryhausen:

Judging an Industry by its Christmas Parties

I have decided, based on Christmas parties alone, that the record business is the best business. Never mind that the industry is in a nine year slump with bleaker forecasts, when you have a record label party, there is going to be good music.

I just got back from the Arhoolie Christmas party, which is a great chance to catch up with old co-workers, old musicians, young musicians, music journalists (hey, where were they this year?), folklorists, and assorted people connected with roots music in the Bay Area. The food is good, the conversation good, and the various rooms full of musicians jamming and having a great time are amazing.

Last night was a printing industry party. This is another industry that has seen healthier days. The people are great. Since this was in Sacramento, most of the oldtimers are people I grew up knowing. There was plenty of food and drink and good conversation, but no live music, except for when my godfather did his vocal impressions of various archaic typesetting equipment (if you ever get a chance to hear that, jump at the opportunity. The linotype is a gem).

We will not be going to any newspaper parties this year, but from past experience I know what happens in those: great food, unbelievable wine, good conversation, tequila and conversation that degenerates until the wee small hours. But...no live music.

I don't get it. Live music is easily obtained. It is not that expensive, especially if you just have guests bring their instruments (this probably would fall flat in the newspaper business, though. They would probably have to hire someone - which we did when Melanie organized the thing and had free reign), and it makes for great parties.

Now, part of the advantage of being in the Bay Area is that you can have people bring food, and it will all be pretty good. Some of it will be very good. But nothing is fancy, and the setting is a warehouse and a record store with the shelves cleared out. But the party is always a highlight of the year.

So, there you have it: you want your party to be great, have good live music. The rest can take care of itself.

Laundry and Spam Deletion

My two least favorite chores are laundry and spam deletion from the blog. Neither one allows the satisfaction of true completion. Unless you do your laundry naked (and I don't want to hear about it if you do), even if you empty your basket, it is not really done. Ever.

Similarly, several times this week I have deleted a host of spam comments only to find that as soon as it is done, when the comments screen refreshes, there is a whole new host of them.

At least with dishes, you can do ALL of them and not have to worry about them for awhile. And cooking, when you are done, there is the meal. The cooking is finished.

They Get Weirder

The latest funny search engine request was "recipes for damnation oil."

Is this some sort of anti-sacrament? What does it taste like?

Oh, I know the answer to that one: devilled eggs!

Sorry, buddy. You will probably have to go to a voodoo priestess for that one, but that oil can work both ways! Be careful.

Don Camillo

I am very pleased that Julie has enjoyed the Don Camillo stories. She mentions that Peppone, the Communist mayor, is an atheist, which is somewhat correct, in the convoluted dealings of post-war Italian communism. However, Peppone is not really an atheist at all (and his wife votes solidly Christian Democrat). This story, from an excellent Don Camillo site that Julie brought to my attention, best shows the complexity of Peppone's character. It is one of my favorites from Don Camillo's Dilemma.

Cooking Rule #1 (or maybe #2 - #1 might involve knives)

When you are using an aluminum skillet whose handle is part of the same piece of metal as the pan itself, remember that it can get very hot. Especially when you have heated the whole thing almost to glowing.

If you need to stabilize the pan as you use a spatula on it, use a potholder.

This is a basic rule of cooking. Do not violate it. The consequences will be dire.

Violating such a basic rule is something that only rank beginners do.

Aw, shuddup. Go put some aloe on that thing. At least cover it up, so no one has to look at it. Ew.

Seriously, though. In the last two months I have cut myself four times, and have given myself second degree burns twice. I probably am not getting enough sleep, but these things do tend to multiply themselves for a period.

I just can't wait until this one is over.

On the Death of a Monster

I generally frown on humor, seeing mirth and frivolity as nothing more than nervous noise people make when they are trying to deny the fact that after their brief and miserable lives, they are heading straight to Hell, where they will burn and suffer for all eternity. Still laughing, clown boy?

Hee hee hee. I figured you would be. Kick the thermostat up a notch!

However, if I have to watch comedy, then Young Frankenstein is, if not my favorite, then one of my favorites. So, it is with some sadness that I must note the passing of everybody's favorite monster. There wasn't a bad actor in that film, and Mr. Boyle's performance was a stand-out performance.

In the end, what is there but to sing, "Putin' on the Ritz!"?

The Best Search Engine Request Ever

Yes, this:

calm hallucinations with espresso

brought someone to Erik's Rants and Recipes.

The question is whether or not "calm" is a verb or an adjective.

But I Don't Pay Anything For Television!!!

Two nights ago, in the middle of dinner, I got one of those telemarketing calls from India offering me some great deal on dish television. I said, "not interested" and hung up.

Yesterday, the same company called again.

The poor fellow could not understand how I could possibly be happy not paying anything for television, when I could spend $24 a month (for the first year, and $34 after that), AND get all of this free equipment. All those channels!

Ah, yes, but would I also get a couple of extra hours per day to watch that television?

Yes....Mr. Keilholtz if you are not interested, you could just say. I will not be offended.

Anyway, we had a good conversation, but I don't think that he is going to go out and start selling books.

What amazed me was the fact that it baffled him that I thought that my current situation was acceptable. The script was clearly trying to point out that people are spending too much money on television. Someone like me who spends nothing on television simply does not make a lick of sense in this system.

It is much like when people ask me what my cellphone number is, and I tell them that I don't have one (which is technically not true. We have a cell phone, but we don't use it, never have it on, and have no idea what the number is. Prepaid minutes are great, in that you don't have this feeling of "oh no, if I don't use this I am wasting money").

Instead, be content to know that Mr. Keilholtz is in a meeeting.

Or reading a book.

Augusto Pinochet, RIP

At 91, Gen. Pinochet certainly had a good run. He saved his country from Communism, turned her economy around, stabilized her institutions, and peacably restored democracy when it was safe to do so. After his reign he was continually mocked and vilified by the left and the armchair liberals in the United States and Europe.

As I mentioned last week, Pinochet, unlike the very holy Francisco Franco y Bahamonde, was no saint. He cut some corners in the pursuit of justice that should not have been cut. There were probably a few people who should not have been shot, and, certainly, no one should have been denied burial, even Communists and PETA members deserve that basic respect, although barely, since they themselves seem to wish to renounce it. More and more it looks like Pinochet may have had slightly kleptocratic tendencies, as well, and this is too bad.

However, I find myself annoyed less and less with traditional corruption, finding it often more conducive to good government than that of squeaky clean freaks. And, unless you are an idiot or a communist, there is no way to see the government of Pinochet as anything but good government.

In interviews he gave in the last ten years, Pinochet showed the he was a consistent, well-read, thoughtful, and articulate voice on matters Latin American. His understanding of political theory and reality was deep, piercing, and astute.

Last month Augusto Pinochet took full responsibility for everything that happened under his regime, and he received the last rites before his death. Let us hope that his repeated mistreatment at the hands of the Spanish, the Englisch, and his own ungrateful countrymen, as well as his last decade of poor health is accepted as adequate penance for his sins, and that his journey to Heaven is quick and short.

The Monterrey Bay Aquarium

I love the collection, the setting, and the aesthetics of the Monterrey Bay Aquarium. Who but a complete dolt could argue against seeing giant ocean sunfish, torpedo-like tuna, scads of anchovies swimming around a column, giant octopi, and all of that? And what a great way to interest people in learning about science.

Unfortunately, the big opportunity, which is to actually teach people about science, rather than simply to tickle their interest, is completely lost at the Monterrey Bay Aquarium, where the administration has decided to focus almost exclusively on preaching about environmental issues.

Even in the restroom, where we have little signs reminding us that "Paper towels = trees," the visitor is almost constantly assaulted with calls to action. Every exhibit seems to culminate in a "what can you do?" moment, where the visitor is urged, not to learn, but to ACT, and ACT NOW! Congressmen are standing by!

Look, I am all in favor of ocean conservation, especially to protect our fisheries (because to lose some of the exquisite types of fish that can grace our tables would be a tremendous loss to human culture), even to the point of restrictive legislation and fishing season buy-outs, and all of that stuff that sends the free-market fetishists climbing up walls.

However, environmental agitprop is hardly an endangered species. I can hardly turn around without being told that such and such a thing will help the planet (because being simplistic is what it is all about!), that driving such and such a car is going to make the air cleaner, and so forth.

However, I really doubt that anyone who is going to marvel at the beauties of the kelp forest really needs to be convinced that it is important to not foul the oceans like a bunch of vodka-drunk commies on a nuclear-reactor dumping bender.

And if they do, why does it have to be so insistant and to come at the expense of science education?

What do I mean by "at the expense of science education?"

1. Far too many specimens without adequate labeling, including such basic information on some rather strange looking creatures (is it a fish? or what? Who knows? Who cares? If you buy soda, be sure to cut the little can connectors to save turtles).

2. Lack of range information on many specimens - including a few maddening ones that basically say, "its range is shrinking" but giving no clue as to which ocean the thing is found in.

3. Too much presentation of disputed points as scientific consensus.

4. No discussion of scientific method and free inquiry.

Now, this is not to say that I do not love going there. The Outer Bay, the Kelp Forest, the Art of the Jellyfish, these are all fantastic exhibits. The tropical stuff? Well, it is a good exhibit, but it is hard to see it as anything but an attempt to cash in on Finding Nemo, and the insipid synth-calypso music that is looped over and over and over and over again begins to make the visitor crave a 24-7 construction site, which would at least have some variety.

However, the place has slipped further and further into this muck since it opened, and it is not a good direction for a science museum. It is interesting to note that I have not had to pay admission to the place for my last three or four visits. I could see myself being a tad irate if I had.

What brought this on? I haven't been to the aquarium for a couple of months, but looking at YouTube for leaping sharks brought me to a very good video about shark attacks and the Monterrey Bay Aquarium:

I am Having a Little Problem

With the storm on us, the signals that give me my orders are getting a little fuzzy. Or maybe it is because the #$%^$^&& filling fell out.

It has been in my head for less than a year. I never realized how much under the control of the signals I was, until the filling fell out. But, apparently, the signals gave me a feeling of confidence and contentment with my dentist.

Now those signals are gone.

Maybe I can fill it myself, with some other material (marzipan might be nice), and perhaps can pick up different signals, a whole regime change in The Head of Dear Leader! Perhaps they will have more luck keeping the Inner Milhous at bay. Recently, it has been very hard.

Just the other day, when Checkers, I mean, Amalia, woke me up, I bolted upright, raised my two hands with "v's" for "victory," shook my jowls and bellowed "I am not a crook." Since it was five thirty in the morning, the rest of the family was a little alarmed.

So, if I lock onto a new control frequency, perhaps I can keep these incidents down.

Naw. I will give myself a haircut (and, if you ignore the fact that it is uneven, it is pretty good), but I will not perform dental work on myself. Not even after a generous dose of anesthesia (I prefer this kind from London that comes in a pale blue bottle, with a good splash of vermouth). So this means that I need to sandwich a dentist appointment in with everything else.

The little twit better not charge me anything for it, either.

1 am thought of the day...

Why, oh why do I have this urge to open a restaurant called Sal Minela's?

Hi, welcome to Sal Minela's. The lovely Listeria will be your server tonight. Our soup special is a tasty Pumpkin Ptomaine, and the pasta is a boccilli with tomato sauce.

No, The Blog is Not Going to Be All YouTube All the Time

I know. It is like a kid with a new toy. I am like that, but it sometimes takes me decades to get over the new toy.

Since today is one of those days when a Major Feast trumps a Friday, I thought I would post a clip of Dizzy Gillespie doing "Hey Pete, Let's Eat More Meat!" Unfortunately that doesn't seem to exist, at least not on YouTube. But I did find this gem:

Happy Feast Day!

One last You Tube Clip...For Now

Uh-oh. On a lark, rather than doing the sensible thing of going to bed, I did a search for Dino Saluzzi on You Tube.

Enjoy!

It All Started With Russolo

I have been meaning to post this for awhile...

When we were discussion Stockhausen, I was going to link to some version of Edgard Varese's Poeme Electronique, which remains one of my all time favorite pieces of music. In fact, if any one piece can be credited as making me want to become a music major in college, it was this one. It still haunts me, and I listen to it fairly regularly (in fact it is one that has been on regular rotation in the iPod constantly since we got the thing). The film has some interesting moments, and I imagine that these images were spectacular when projected on the Phillips Pavilion, but it is not nearly as exciting as the music itself. The other piece that was played in the Pavilion regularly was Xennakis's Concret pH, but You Tube does not have a film with that on it.

So, take eight minutes out of your day, put on some headphones and enjoy:

And now from the other end of the country...

With St. Ambrose in the North, we have to achieve balance by looking to the South, and, guess what? Today is Louis Prima's 96th birthday. He was of Southern Italian ancestry (who came to the US via Argentina), and he was born and raised in New Orleans, so he is Southern all around.

So, with a Milanese Saint and a Sicilian sinner (isn't that a redundancy?), have a Wopalicious Day!

Enjoy the clips:

Don't miss this one:

And this is just an amazing relic of a past era, when you could smoke, sing, and pray at the dinner table on National TV! From the 1957 Dinah Shore Chevy Show, Prima has a bit part, but when he sings his two lines, you notice:

And, of course, you cannot have a tribute to Louis Prima without this (I would like to slap the editor who cut out most of Butera's solo):

Or this (probably my favorite of all these clips, and not just because of Keely Smith's reaction):

Speaking of Keely's reaction to Louis:

Of course Prima also wrote this:

And, finally, the bit of Primiana that absolutely everyone knows:

A Tale of Two Fathers

On the front page of the Oakland Tribune today there are two stories about fathers and the hardships their respective families have had to deal with recently.

On the one hand we have the all-too-common sort of horrible story, in which a man beat his 3-year old son to death because the boy failed to recite his ABC's correctly. The story goes from there to even worse.

This is one of those cases that begs for the death penalty, something that I am finding my willingness to see used ever increasing (and not just because of Sr. Prejean's wretched book).

Stories like this are tedious because of their combination of idiocy, self-centeredness, and frequency. Every week there seems to be some similar story, and it is just about enough to make you want to give up on humanity.

And then there is the other story, the story of such heroism that it seems almost unreal. James Kim's family tried to take an ill-advised shortcut through Oregon's Coastal Range (something that I could see someone doing, thinking of the snow-less California Coastal Range near the Kim's home in the Bay Area). Their car got stuck, the family remained in the car, and after seven days, Mr. Kim decided that the right thing to do was to strike off through the snow to get help.

Wrong thing to do. I could have told him that, but would I have done differently if it had gotten to day seven, we were out of gas and had burned the tires for warmth, and no rescuers were to be seen or heard? Mr. Kim went eight miles, through horrid conditions. He was gravely underequipped yet undaunted, even swimming through a stream (when the air temperature was 20 degrees).

"It seems superhuman to me that he was able to cover the distance that he had," said the local undersherriff.

The loss of James Kim is tremendous, not only to his family, but to society in general. In an era when families tend to make it in the news because of savagery and butchery, to see an example of such total self-sacrifice shows that there is hope for humanity.

We Are Becoming a Culture of Idiot Savants

We have these "debates" over Intelligent Design that paint a bleak picture of the state of the modern mind.

Scientists, who are very well trained in their fields, look at the ID folks and they see a whole pack of scientific retards. One might seem reasonable, but then his comrade will turn out to be a "scientific creationist," which is thinking at such a low level, that one wonders how these folks remember to breathe. And the smart ones in the ID set look to the scientists and see a whole bunch of metaphysical retards, fundamentalists, if you will.

"Science says it, I believe it, that settles it."

As to why they believe what they do about the material universe, this is about the bottom line. Some of them, like Dawkins, gussie it up a little bit, but this is just about where it all ends.

So, instead of debates, we have dimbulbs shouting past each other. And the wagons get circled, and strange bedfellows have to be chosen. Or not. But it seems politically expedient, so they are chosen.

Then, with the wagons being circled, nothing is left to debate, because in a liberal democracy, everything ultimately is oriented towards the mass media. And you don't win points in the mass media with reasonable debate.

Which brings us to this morning's California Report on the The Bloated Pig of a Public Radio Station. They had on a senior researcher for the Kalifornia Mengele Institutute (or Institute for Regenerative Medicine), who was probably chosen because focus groups thought that her voice reflected authenticity and integrity, was asked, "well, if in ten years there are still no cures, what have the voters of California gotten for their money?"

Fair question, sort of. The interviewer completely ignored issues of the what exactly is the human person and how does this all fit in with how the human person is to be treated, but that is par for the course these days. And, when it comes down to it, it is not unreasonable for pioneering research to take a couple of generations for the pay-off. So, it is a slow pitch right down the middle sort of question.

What was entertaining was this line from the scientist:

"In science, it is the unexpected that surprises us."

Really? I would have thought that it was the predictable that shocks, I mean absolutely shocks! us.

Guess what, California? I will not be surprised when it turns out that we frittered away $6 billion on brutal human experimentation with zero gain beyond what will have already been achieved with licit sources of stem cells.

ACK!

Today is the feast of St. Ambrose, and I have a French menu planned for tonight! Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

I know that Milan is practically France, or Germany or Switzerland, but it is still not quite any of those places.

So, the menu must change.

Here's the deal: we are going to our friends' house tonight, and cooking together, so when I make these sorts of unilateral changes, I have to get consensus.

Osso bucco and risotto alla milanese? Getting consensus for that is going to be hard. Right.

Anyway, to set the mood, we should listen to some Ambrosian chant. Unfortunately I don't have any.

It has been a long time since I have been to Milan. The last time, it was so foggy I thought the plane had mistakenly landed in Sacramento in the middle of winter. Except that the cathedral in Sacramento (which is beautiful) is not quite as cool as the cathedral in Milan. And when it comes to the opera house...forget it. And Sacramento does not have its own Rite.

Now, a traditionalist wag might say, "with the Novus Ordo, every parishioner has his own rite."

To which I would say, "if they veer off from the GIRM and the Missal, that is not a Rite but a Wrong."

Pa-dum pa-dum. I'll be here all week, folks! Try the osso bucco.

Sad News from Jamaica

For anyone who has ever had any interest in ska or reggae, The Harder They Come was a landmark film. Its director died recently.

When I played ska, we were definitely out of the Two Tone School, and that was the stuff that my bandmates were really into. My first love in Ska/Reggae, however, was the Studio One sound, with its more relaxed rhythm, its complex horn lines, its more Latinate percussion, and its rougher edges. The early reggae of The Harder They Come, including the title track, came right out of that great sound.

By the way, if you want a more modern and very fun cop film set in Jamaica, check out Third World Cop. It definitely owes a debt to The Harder They Come. Sort of like Spillane in Jamaica with a Sly and Robbie soundtrack.

Laurie Anderson

The song "O Superman" is one of my all time favorites. The video is just icing on the cake...

And Another Thing...

Go out and buy yourself a sharpening stone and learn to use it.

I used to be pretty good back in Boy Scouts, but in the many years since then, I lost my stone, and thought, "well, I was probably good for a fifth grader with a pocket knife, but my Wusthof knives need the professional treatment."

Once in awhile I would use a coarse stone I still had, and fine grit paper to take care of emergencies (oops, there was a stone in that), and the result was fine, but what a lot of work!

So I would go to my favorite cutlery store four times a year (not enough, but when you are paying for each knife, keeping them in really proper shape is expensive. Of course the injuries that can come from a not-in-proper shape knife are even more expensive) and have to use a backup blade for a week, while the dude was "out sick" for three days, and then needed three more to get caught up (local readers who spend time in North Beach will know who I am talking about). Of course when the knives were done, they were beautiful. But it costs, so I have been determined to get back into taking care of my own knives.

I went to the restaurant supply shop and bought a Norton dual stone and some honing oil, and got my chops back up. I use the back of my belt for stropping, and, for the past few months, have been enjoying razor sharp knives, without having to pay through the nose to keep them there.

It isn't hard. Ideally you should find someone to show you how, but you can teach yourself with a book and some practice.

When I am in other people's kitchens, I am amazed at the high quality, yet poorly maintained knives I encounter. One house I know, where one of the couple likes to cook and is a good cook, boasts a lovely collection of German knives, which probably have not been sharpened since they were made, thirty years ago. Next time I am over there I am going to bring my tools and take care of two of the knives.

But I probably won't be over in your kitchen soon, so get on over to the local restaurant supply store, buy a stone and some oil, and get to honing!

Tonkatsu

I have not posted a recipe for aeons, so here is something simple and satisfying: tonkatsu, which you could call Schwein Schnitzel and I would probably accept, until you put tonkatsu sauce on it, but I am not there yet.

For the proper texture of the crust, you will have to find panko, the Japanese bread flakes, which have a much lighter texture than traditional bread crumbs. I imagine that you could make pannko by drying sweet French bread and gently flaking the crumb (not a bit of crust though).

Anyway, start with a boneless pork chop. Now, I rarely say this, but trim the fat off it. Then put it between two pieces of saran wrap and place it on a sturdy work board. Pound that thing flat with a mallet or a marble rolling pin, or the family dog (you will need to freeze it first, and then the children will cry, and the SPCA will come and throw you in prison forever, so only use the family dog if you can find absolutely nothing else). You want the pork to be about three eights of an inch thin. More or less. The thinner it is, the faster it will cook, and the higher the heat you can use, therefore, the less oil it will absorb.

Put it in a nonreactive bowl and let it marinate with a liberal amount of dry sake.

Meanwhile make your salad: Discard the ends of and peel a cucumber, leaving a few long, thin strips of peel. If your knife skills are good, use a very sharp chef's knife and slice the cucumber into paper thin slices. If your knife skills are not quite up to par, use a mandoline. Chances are you can't slice as finely as a mandoline, so you should go out and get one, if you don't have one. Otherwise, practice, practice, practice. It's probably best to be able to do it with a knife anyway, because it is much easier to clean a knife than a mandoline.

Also it looks cool. Especially if you can rapidly make paper thin slices while making eye contact with someone and having a conversation on a totally different topic. HA! After a martini. HA! HA! And not cut off part of your finger. OOOOOWWWWWWWWWW!

So, when you get back from the hospital (no, I actually did not get wounded last night, in spite of the martini. I just said that to make you feel better about your own knife skills. Practice. Practice. Practice. Then, when you carefully dissect small gamebirds without looking, folks will say "ooooh" to you too), sprinkle the slices of cucumber with black sesame seeds and seasoned rice vinegar.

Put the rice cooker on.

When the rice cooker clicks, heat your pan.

When the pan is hot, pour oil (canola, corn, any of the standard vegetable oils is fine) into it. About half to a whole inch. Let the oil get hot.

Take a pounded pork fillet, dunk it in flour, pat it evenly around in a thin layer. Dunk it in a bowl that has had an egg with some water beaten into it. Then give it a coating of pannko. Fry. Turn over. Make sure the whole thing is a uniform golden brown. Put on a plate with paper towling and do the next one (you can do two or so at a time, so long as they are not crowded). Salt both sides. When they are all done, slice them into bite-sized strips (remember, they should be chopstickable), serve with rice, salad, and tonkatsu sauce (I buy mine. I suppose you could make your own. It would be pretty easy, I think).

We had a chardonnay, because that is what I have (it is not my favorite white varietal, so we seem to have the most of it. I need to stock up on some good, dry Austrian white wine), and it was fine. We could have had beer, but we had already had cocktails, and going from a martini to beer is just wrong.

One of these days...

My favorite time to do some sorts of projects is "one of these days." Unfortunately, it looks like today might be "one of these days."

Grumble.

Never put off for tomorrow what you can put off forever.

Anyway, duty calls.

As a result blogging should be scant today. However, it probably won't be, since what is a better way of dodging tedium than by blogging? We'll see.

Procrastination is a funny thing, but I don't think I trust anyone who doesn't procrastinate to some degree. There is just something sick about people who get everything done well before deadline. What are they racing for? Generally getting your work done early just means more work (the early worm gets eaten and all that).

I really do understand Francophilia, or at least elements of it.

Ah, the 35 hour work week. How amazingly civilized. It also has the benefit of getting the crypto-and-not-so-crypto Puritans all tied up in knots. The thing is, I would bet that the average French worker is just as productive as the average American worker. Much of the energy that I see people spend on the job tends more towards maintaining an appearance of being busy.

Now, certainly the French fritter away time on the job, too. They have the internet, after all. But I would bet that the sort of frittering that goes with the French work ethic means that there are more productive hours in a week than that which goes with the Protestant work ethic.

Less than Three Hours To Fend Off The Return of Prohibition!

I am going to go ahead and count those who do not drink, but do not try to prevent others from drinking, so long as they do some act of solidarity. I am also going to allow wine and beer to count. So, no need to pledge. Just report in the morning!

Your twenty minutes before the official start of Cocktail Hour reminder...

Well, Gregg's household has pledged five! This is a good start, but we are getting close to the official start of Cocktail Hour, and we have to get 62 pledged cocktails or we are at risk of having Prohibition brought back! I suppose I could go down to Pier 23 and count heads at Lou's, but it would be better to have people make the Pledge and offer the aforementioned prayers along with their cocktails.

You think the repeal of Prohibition is a minor event?

I suppose I can count a few in absentias...for instance, if Old Oligarch were blogging, I am sure I could count on him to raise a glass or two for this one.

But keep 'em coming.

73 Martini Day Pledge Break

It is twenty to two and, so far, we only have six cocktails pledged. I know that my readers can do better than that. We have sixty-seven to go. Let's step up to the plate and not let this special observance go by. Next year we will need to get 74 pledged, and, frankly, if we can't get 73 this year, I don't know if we can keep up our end.

If it keeps on...they will even try to bring back Prohibition.

"Old Bill ran for Sheriff
Against the Proh-I-bition Man.
He swore he'd drink the county dry
If the folks would put him in.

It almost tickled the wets to death
When the dries got drunk on Old Bill's breath.

Old Bill Jones was a son of a gun,
When he got a good drink or two."

-Ozark folk song "Bill Jones"

We could always have someone put in a matching grant challenge! Make your pledges here or below.

Ah yes, but I said Stan Getz

Sorry. I went to find some Getz and got distracted by Monk. It happens.

To make amends (warning, the sound level is quite low on this one, so if you turn it up, remember to turn it down later):

But most people, when they hear "Getz" want to hear (remember, turn the volume down if you listened to the last one):

And after that you can be forgiven if you want to just get lost in Brasil...

But now we are clearly off the topic!

Cocktails...and Jazz.

To go with your martinis, might I suggest some Monk?

Or this one...

Ah, but you are feeling blue, perhaps... (I love this recording)

By Order of the Duce!

Whereas, today, December 5, is the 73rd anniversary of the repeal of the darkest era of American politics,

Whereas our society, under the well-intentioned yet plainly evil forces of the Medico-Pharmiceutical Complex, is diving headfirst into a new prohibition,

Whereas the Enemy's tool of Puritanism has taken a nefarious, post-Christian aspect,

Whereas the forces of Good in this world deserve our encouragement, support, and a strong drink,

We duly proclaim today the 73 Martini Day! Our goal is to get pledges for the consumption of 73 martinis (or some suitable substitution cocktail) along with a prayer to deliver us from our foes, to smash Puritanism in all its forms, and for the conversion of the Mormons, Mohammedans and Baptists before midnight tonight.

Mindful that our decree might cause undue hardship on those who do not know a proper martini, we are offering the Duce's Private Reserve Martini Recipe:

Chill a martini glass with ice and water.

In a shaker with cracked ice add two shots of gin (preferably Bombay Sapphire, Plymouth, Van Gogh, or Tanqueray), one quarter to one half a shot of dry white vermouth, and a splash of water from the glass. Shake vigorously. Allow it to stand while you make the preperations for the glass.

Drain the glass of the ice water. Pour a couple of drops of single malt Scotch into the glass and gently swirl to coat the sides as thoroughly as possible.

Give the shaker a final vigorous shake, and strain into the glass. Add a Spanish, anchovy stuffed olive, put some Stan Getz on the turntable, toast the Duce, and enjoy!

Make your pledges to this spiritual bouquet in the comments box.

Remember to Say A Prayer for the Crusader Pinochet

The 91 year old liberator of Chile, His Excellency Augusto Pinochet, is in the hospital where he is recovering from heart surgery after a heart attack last week. He has been given last rites and could use any prayers sent in his direction.

It has long been fashionable among the left, the left liberals as well as their fellow travellers to deride this great man and hero against Communism. Certainly he was no saint, but he was the greatest leader that South America has ever had. From the point when it became clear that the government of the insane Salvador Allende would lead to nothing other than death and misery, to his most recent interviews (see the one in the New Yorker from about seven years ago), this devoted public servant has struggled for the common good of his people.

Were there abuses and some corruption under Pinochet? Certainly. But if you hear the leftists talk, you would think that every third Chilean was shot by mysterious death squads. Instead, when it comes down to it, most of the people who were shot by Pinochet's followers were Communists, even to the point of being paid agents of Moscow. It would have been ideal that they be tried and given a chance for Confession before their executions, but Pinochet had to avoid turmoil.

It is not even clear how much the few abuses that happened were even done with the knowledge of the Liberator. Certainly he gave orders to preserve the orders, but how much was interpretation and how much was micromanaged will never be known. Instead we have the left doing what it does best: clamor for more blood.

While you are praying for the recovery and vindication of the name of this great Chilean, you might want to ask God to convert Fidel Castro, forgive him of his sins, grant him an induldgence, and give him a happy death. Soon.

Saint Francis of Madrid, we ask your intercession in these matters as well as for the conversion of China, Cambridge, and Berkeley!

Oops!

In my mad purge of spam, I accidentally deleted a comment from the Curt Jester (see sidebar), who points out that "I Really Do Hate Bumper Stickers" would make a fine bumper sticker. I agree.

Also, I want to point out that I have nothing against emblems on cars: University affiliations, NRA lifetime member sticker, Falange Yoke with Arrows, Knights of Columbus, etc. There is a problem with the Christian Fish, in that it is so frequently used by Protestants that it can be seen as ambiguous. How about surrounding it with a Rosary? OK. Then I can buy it.

I suppose that I ought to say, "let's reclaim it." Perhaps. But distinctions between us and them have to be made. Separate and unequal, I say.

Speaking of segregation, I have to go do some more segregating, keeping the whites and coloreds apart. Even worse, I am going to dunk the coloreds in cold water! Along the way I encounter a couple of whites that, upon closer examination, reveal that they aren't true whites: into the cold water with them, too.

"Look," they say, "we are as white as snow!"

"I only go by what the label says"

"How can you so callously label us?"

"Calm down, or I will put you in with the 'delicates.'"

"Stop! This is...."

wait.

wait.

wait.

wait.

"Ethnic Cleansing!"

Har har har. Of course, due to the fact that I never check pockets enough, it is also money laundering.

I Really Do Hate Bumper Stickers

After mass today a friend was promoting some sort of "Keep Christ in Christmas" bumper sticker. The things were tastefully designed, and I certainly support the statement. However, I am convinced that even bumper stickers with a good and proper message do more to hurt the common good than to better it.

The bumper sticker is a piss poor way of making an argument. At best it is a harangue, but one that offers no chance of response. I suppose you can go out and affix your own bumper sticker with a rebutal: "Saving the Whales is a Waste of Resources!"

But when it comes down to it, bumper stickers are nothing more than rallying the troops with assurances of their own strength in numbers. Oh well, some people must need that. I am more of a "damn the opposition and full speed ahead" sort. I really don't give two flips if the rest of the world believes some idiocy all the more fervently this year than they did last year. I am not going to be convinced by a slogan on the back of a Honda.

Bumper stickers represent reducing written debate to the level of television political discourse. And that is why I have no problem with the modification of, yes, even others' bumper stickers, provided that those others' bumper stickers are promoting things which are clearly evil.

Fer'instance: Remember when Chevron would print these wordy adds telling about how they were dumping special, high grade oil into pristine waters solely so wildlife could benefit by having shinier coats, and the penultimate line would be "do people care enough about the handsomeness of the Aquatic Wallabee to pour expensive hair treatments into the water?" And then you would get "People Do." Well, this eventually was simplified into just "People Do" which is brilliant.

People do what? Kill other people? Yes. Build ugly buildings? Vote for criminal knuckleheads like Ron Dellums? Yes. No one is claiming anything. People do.

Similarly, the homos used to have a slogan "SILENCE = DEATH" which wasn't quite true, insofar as it was making any real claim whatsoever. But it was a rallying cry. Of course it was, to be proper, done in a particular typeface with a particular color scheme.

Well, that has been reduced to "=". Fine! Wonderful!

All a creative editor would have to do is get some sticker paper and have fun on the computer:

"SODOMY" "DEATH"
"HOMOSEX" "DAMNATION"

etc.

Then he cuts them out, and, next time he sees a parked car, completes the statement for the people.

OF course you are not going to do anything like that. It would be vandalism. And my readers are not a bunch of vandals. Visigoths, maybe, but not vandals.

When it comes right down to it...

There are a whole bunch of wonderful foods out there, and I enjoy eating almost all of them. I have particularly fond memories of a seared foie gras here or a perfect pumpkin soup there, or a certain summer day in Beaune with a pear, a baguette, and a chunk of cheese (and a bottle of burgundy, of course). I can remember, with precision, dishes that I had at the French Laundry or Chez Panisse many years ago.

But, there is nothing that can satisfy me just about any place, any time of day, and as often as once a day for a really long time, as pizza. Now, it can't be cardboard Domino's junk. That doesn't count. But most towns have a few (or more) decent pizza parlors that can put together a pretty tasty pizza. It doesn't have to be breathtaking in its originality, nor perfectly reflect the fruits of the land when properly cared for, nor does it have to be entirely made from fresh, seasonal produce. Pizza offers a certain leniency that few other foods do. Too heavy on the salt? It's why God created beer. A little too bland? Sprinkle on some red chili flakes and dried oregano, and you have a John Phillips Sousa experience going on in your mouth.

We have several local places that we like. LoCoco, Porky's Pizza Palace in San Leandro, Paysano's in Castro Valley, Fellini in Berkeley, Zachary's in Berkeley and Oakland (this one is the disputed one. I really like them. Melanie only likes a couple of their specialties). But, the problem with these places is that none of them deliver.

You see, when I am particularly in the mood for pizza, it is usually because I am too tired to cook (often not because I don't want to cook, but because to do so means a trip to the grocery store first, and that is what I dread when I am exhausted). So, we want our pizza brought to us. And for that, Oakland's Leaning Tower of Pizza is the place to go. We have not actually been there for many years. I hear that it is now a really pleasant place, sort of a neighborhood hangout with good microbrews and all that. It wasn't when we went. It was clean and nicely decorated, but the only other people in there were the cooks, the cashier, and the brief respites the delivery drivers got when they outpaced the kitchen.

Maybe one of these days we will go in and have a pizza there. Meanwhile, they say 40 minutes, generally get it here in 30, and it is always tasty, and that is good enough for me.

I bet that one of my readers is astute enough to guess what I will be eating for breakfast tomorrow, too.

BAM, again!

I went to that exhibit today (well, yesterday, as it is after 1am), and it was all I expected and then some. There were two other great exhibits, one of which, an exhibit of works by Wallace Berman and his circle of friends, included a great photo of a dear departed friend of mine (and, oh, the company he kept! I suppose that would have to include me, too, although I am not nearly as crazy as Bob Kaufman. I think).

Anyway, if you are in the Bay Area and have a chance this weekend, don't miss this show.

More information on the BAM exhibit.

Please forgive me. I forget sometimes. There are these basic Internet (should it really be capitalized, as Mr. Gates seems to think?) protocols, like posting a link to the official information page of cool exhibits, like the one I mentioned yesterday. It is an easy thing to do, but I forget how much easier it makes life for the reader.

Yes, dear reader, this is just another way that I mistreat you, take you for granted, ignore your plight, step on your face with my polished jackboots as I march onward to a brighter future under the watchful gaze of Dear Glorious Leader, etc.

And to think that you still stop by once in awhile!