Five Year Old Kamikazes...

I just realized that when five year olds attack, they ought to say "Dora! Dora! Dora!"

Or is it just the Benadryl speaking?

Back to bed.

Happy Army Day!

In California we celebrate Army Day today (at least that is what it is in San Francisco - in Sacramento it is Plaza Day). You see, Army Street in San Francisco has a very peculiar spelling: "c-e-s-a-r-space-c-h-a-v-e-z", yet everyone knows that it is Army Street. Same with Plaza Park in Sacramento. A tricky thing, this language.

So, we have Army Day off, and are at the secret hideaway in Sacramento, where spring has sprung with glee. Ah-choo!

Seriously, though, I don't know enough about Cesar Chavez to be fer or agin. I certainly admire anyone who would stand up for the migrant workers, but I have heard that he was also into animal rights, vegetarianism, and whether or not he was a Marxist or a Catholic concerned with the social teachings, I am not sure. One thing that turned me off to him was when, back towards the end of his life, he renewed the grape boycott, even though he conceded that they were a lot better. "We need a symbolic statement to keep the movement going," he said.

If I were a grape farmer I would have probably told him to stick his symbol where the...never mind. Anyway, I think the impact on table grape sales was minimal. In high school there was a girl who was activist spawn, and she made a point of letting everyone know that she did not eat grapes. Naturally, I made a point of eating double the grapes I would have. Then I realized that I don't really like the tasteless, watery table grapes out there, so I stopped doing that. Especially when I could get good, organic grapes with loads of flavor from my grandparents' backyard.

So, no comment on Chavez for now. My mind is just not made up on him.

The Daily Post

I have been trying hard to post something, even a little something, every day. I have been mostly successful this month. However, today was busy, I am dead tired, and this will have to do. A dreaded placeholder post. Sorry. Better luck tomorrow.

Multi-tasking

I never cease to be amused at the multitude of inanities that are accepted hook, line and sinker. This morning I heard a fellow on the radio (on the NPR affiliate's little section which is sort of public access, where folks come on and blissfully demonstrate their inexpertise at one topic or another) make three statements of "scientific fact" that are, at very best, widely spread assumptions that have no basis in any actual scientific methodology.

While this sort of garbage is fairly typical, I almost threw something at the radio when he was announced as "a science writer." Good Lord, I can only guess what sort of publications would have this guy writing about science. Probably any daily newspaper.

We are no different from our ancestors in our inability, as a mass, to grasp complex scientific ideas. We tend to want answers, and they had better be general answers. Science often raises more questions, and the answers it gives are almost always specific. Excrutiatingly specific. So, we get chattering folks to scan the studies and come up with little generalities that can be repeated until they are so familiar that they must be true.

The difference between our Dark Age and prior Dark Ages (and I consider the vast part of the human experience since the Fall to be one Dark Age after another, differently disabled, yet united in their belief that NOW, unlike in those prior dim times, we are no longer in a Dark Age) is that we have had electronic media to saturate our culture with these silly and false generalities almost instantly. And, unlike the situation fifty years ago, we have become virtuosi in manipulating said media.

Take your pick of complex open-ended topics that have nowhere near a valid scientific conclusion: the causes of global warming, human sexuality, the link between various deviant behaviors and genetics, environmental toxicology, etc., and with a week's reading of any major newspaper, you will know the commonly held "scientific consensus." Of course it will be no more or less valid than whatever view the loafer on the courthouse steps held last Tuesday, but it will have incredibly pressing currency among the Chattering Classes.

I have decided to get into the scientific fact business myself. Now, sometimes I think that the sexes are equally disposed to getting carried away with faddish inanities, and other times I think that the fairer sex has such balderdash hard-wired into its DNA. So, in the spirit of the age, I have done a study. It was a scientific study. I am a writer. I have authority. There is no need to talk about my methodology in any depth, just suffice to say that I interviewed people.

Women are more disposed to this claptrap than men.

One of the beliefs that women love to talk about is "multi-tasking," usually followed by some ignorant discourse on human anthropology, often with outrageous assumptions as to the social organization and habitat of early hominids. Women believe that they are better "multi-taskers" by which what they really mean is that they are more apt to multi-task.

Today, driving back from Berkeley, I was at a stop light. The woman in front of me was putting on her makeup. The woman to my left was putting on her makeup. Behind me the woman was fumbling around in an oversized bag. I was basically watching my surroundings, staying alert for possible hazards when the light changed, which it did, apparently only to my knowledge. After a gentle tap on the horn, one of the amateur cosmetologists put aside her beauty tasks to give me an obscene gesture before finally getting to the primary task at hand: piloting a half ton of steel down a busy road. As we drove on, the site of the rummager grew smaller and smaller in my rearview mirror.

I have long suspected that these proud "multitaskers" of both sexes, are essentially robbing Peter to pay Paul who is being robbed to pay Emily who is being robbed to pay... I know that when I am reading and talking on the phone, the reading is the real task at hand. The talking on the phone becomes the distraction, usually indicated by slightly innapropriate responses:

"and then the cat was skewered by the drug addicted thug."
"ah, cat's. They are fun."
"Uh-huh. Are you paying attention to what I am saying?"
"Usually 'at ease' comes after 'attention'"
"Look, I'll call you back when you have time to talk."
"Oh, yeah. No hurry. Talk to you next month."

Certainly I am shortchanging one of the tasks, but in this case it is the intentional effect.

Cooking a multi-course meal is multi-tasking, and it takes considerable planning and practice, for both men and women. To go into a multi-course meal without the requisite planning and practice is necessarily to fail or to survive by Grace or dumb luck even.

So, I was particularly amused to find this article. Is it true? Who cares, but it will probably be the next accepted thing.

So, you make-up applying, cell-phone jabbering, book-reading while driving ditzes out there be warned: the tide is turning against you.

Ouch! What is this all about?

First, while eating lunch (leftover spaghetti, very good stuff), I bit the inside of my mouth twice in the same spot. Hard (I do tend to eat at about the same pace as a bull shark in a frenzy). So, naturally there is a little bit of swelling. Enough swelling that the same spot offered an easy target to my voracious inhaling of a d'Angou pear (a very delicious pear, but the way). Three times. In the same place. On the same day.

It was just one of those days.

Oh, don't ask: computer problems, the need to move stuff that turned out to be heavier than one person can move (which I found out the hard way), cooking that seemed like it was happening through a vat of Jell-O (although the final product, a risotto of grilled chicken and radicchio, was tasty), a paint layer taking longer than calculated to dry... nothing major, but adding up to a feeling of blah, and compounded by the very good things to make me feel like an ingrate.

I mean, really, who can complain about an hour wasted on software conflicts when an excited five-year old tells you, breathlessly, of the splosions that they got to make in science class. "Two splosions!"

I think the last splosion I made was when making mole. It took an hour to clean the ceiling (think of the little volcanoes that happen with polenta, magnify their force by four, magnify their duration by ten, and make them out of staining chili oil). Oh, it was good mole, but the ceiling (and backsplash and floor...). I have not had an espresso machine splosion for quite a while (remove the portafilter when there is residual pressure - POP! and coffee grounds all over the place), so I guess Amalia has to keep up the splosion thing in the family. Mentos and diet Coke, anyone? We will do that this summer.

She is also learning about acids and bases, so a vinegar and baking soda rocket will be on the agenda too. Or a vinegar and baking soda volcano. Right now she is wanting to test the pH of things around the house. I am trying to think of something that will really set the extremes going (pretty colors, too!), but that we can use safely (with adult supervision, of course). I have some etching acid in the studio somewhere, but I need a strong alkaline. Lye is good, but I can't think of another good high pH thing around the house. If anyone has any good ideas, please let me know.

I remember science classes and how much I loved them. It is fun to see that enthusiasm all over, but from a different perspective. I should probably find that old microscope, wherever it is.

Harry Partch on being seduced by carpentry...

Harry Partch once notably remarked that he was a "composer seduced into carpentry," refering to his need to invent and build the instruments he needed to realize his musical vision. It is rare in music to find composers of note who also built their instruments (although there is a good Elipsis Arts CD on the subject). In the twentieth century the advent of electronics increased the amount of people who were working this way.

The interesting thing is that in visual arts, it has been the opposite: until the mid-19th century, artists often had to make many of their own materials. Today I know very few people who grind their own paint. I have been thinking about this, because I have become the artist seduced into chemistry.

As I mentioned earlier, I am using a beeswax and synthetic resin medium, and I am finding it hard to resist the temptation to fiddle with the formula, working to increase this or that aspect of the stuff.

I was talking to a friend about what I was doing and he mentioned the problems that honeybees are having. Perhaps I had best go hoard some beeswax. Then again, if it turns out to be a temporary thing, I will then have to take up encaustic, which looks like a lot of trouble (although it looks like the sort of "a lot of trouble" that could be quite fun).

Musical Confession

You know something... I have not been excited by a new record in a long time. Perhaps by a track here and there, but usually it is just a little bit: a particular passage, a particular way of phrasing, etc. Generally, when I hear a new release I am just not all that moved to dig any deeper into it.

Perhaps it is me, but I don't think so. I think that we are seeing the record industry tightening its belts at the expense of its product, resulting in every shrinking sales, causing them to tighten their belts...

I heard that the Recording Industry Association of America is bullying college students who are sharing music online. Now, they are standing on the objective moral high ground: if these college students like the music enough to listen to it, to go to the trouble of downloading it, they ought to pay the copyright owners. And, subjectively, I object to almost nothing when it comes to harsh punishments for college students, particularly the long-haired (or the fellows with those silly collegiate flip-de-do haircuts, where it is stringy and kind of flips out at the bottom, often under a baseball cap).

I realized when I was in college that I did not much like college students, and once proposed, as the Chairman of the Student Senate, that the University adopt mandatory haircuts and pre-dawn excercise in the quad. No one agreed, although I was able to get the Senate to adopt a resolution in favor of the administration against some rabble rousers who were arrested at a protest (they were protesting the building of a new music building, so they came strongly in my crosshairs).

But I digress.

Even with Justice on their side, and my own particular loathing of college students, I have to say to the RIAA, "are you people serious?!?" Mark down a whopping big negative on the PR ledger here. This looks exactly like what it is: a desperate move to stop the bleeding of a nine-year record business slump (or six or seven or eleven year slump, depending on who you talk to).

Now, part of my own boredom with current releases is undoubtedly due to the fact that I don't spend as much on music and I don't do as many record reviews, so I am less likely to hear the great new thing as I was when I worked in the record business, reviewed records, and took advantage of insider's prices to get lots of new stuff (and I do have a new Cajun release to review that looks promising). Also, there is the fact that many of my favorite recordings did not grip me immediately (I should do a post on that: why critics are worth reading and listening to. I can think of many records that I bought on the recommendation of a favorite jazz critic, and how I at first thought, "oh, this is just hype the critic has succumbed to," only to go back to the disc later and find that there really was something there), so perhaps some of the new jazz releases will sound better when I go back to them (I do hear most of the new jazz releases because of KCSM, our fantastic jazz station).

Since we are seeing a prolonged slump in the industry, and it isn't really all tied to the internet, my guess is that I am not alone in being completely unmoved by most musical offerings these days. Only the movie business can rival the stupidity of the general recording industry (remember when they decided that the best way to deal with falling ticket sales was...to raise the price?).

What These People Need is Portuguese Imperialism

The problem with the end of imperialism is that so many of the people "liberated" from it could really benefit from its return.

I think this will be a new Quixotic cause of mine: return all of Portugal's former colonies to Portugal, for the sake of the folks living in them. Now, I realize that Portuguese rule was, shall we say, less than ideal, but has life really improved in Angola or Ceilao? Also, when they take a beautiful name like Bom Bahia, even in its Anglo-Corrupt form of Bombay (which is a great gin, by the way), and turn it into Mumble, that is just an insult to the West that should be punished.

Of course I could never wish the Englisch on anyone (besides, perhaps the Belgians or French), so why not do the right thing and turn India over to Portugal? All Goa, All the Time!

Wolfgang Puck and Foie Gras

First, anyone who has read this space for any period of time knows that I utterly detest that charlatan Wolfgang Puck. There is nothing Californian, nothing "gourmet", nothing genuine about any aspect of his approach to food. Just about the only other person I can think of who has had a worse impact on food has been Jeremiah Towers.

So, it came as no surprise that Puck has jumped on the anti-foie gras bandwagon. My first response was, "gee, I didn't realize that he was using the stuff on his frozen pizzas or canned soups."

Then, I had one of those "ah-hah!" moments.

I have been wanting to make a point of using the word "faggot" at least once a week, just in solidarity with those who are facing blacklisting for using it. The problem is, I could never really think of who to use it on. As an epithet for homosexuals, it is pointless. After all, we must be careful to distinguish between the person who suffers from same-sex attraction disorder and someone who acts on it. And even the person who acts on it, we must remember their humanity and that they, too, were created in the image of Christ.

But there is a good use of "faggot," as I have mentioned before, and it has nothing to do with homosexualism, but rather goes back to the good old playground insult for someone who is not a Mensch. And when I think of a poster boy for this sort of faggot, Wolfgang Puck comes immediately to mind: the sort of person who publicly pats himself on the back for taking a moral position that is so far off his table anyway as to be irrelevant. Surely the Southern Californians who make up the bulk of his restaurant audience don't eat foie gras (or much of anything good: honestly, El Ay is a dining wasteland, especially considering its wealth and diverse population). He has never put the stuff on a frozen item, nor in a canned item. This is silly posturing and nothing more. Faggot.

For the Record:

Erik's Rants and Recipes firmly supports General Pace.

If we were so inclined to use bumper stickers or sloganed tee shirts, we would be promoting this through those media. However, we believe that both of those media are detrimental to public discourse, so this notice will have to do for now.

The Artist and the Taxman

If a collector were to donate a painting to a museum, he could deduct the fair market value of that painting on his taxes. If the artist donated the same painting, he could only deduct the cost basis of the work: essentially his materials. This is not how it has always been. In 1969 this law went into effect with disastrous results for museums, especially the Library of Congress. Now, there is a bipartisan movement to go back to the pre-1969 law.

You can read about it here.

And That Being Said...

I do have a couple of recipes in the hopper, both with photos. If I am kept awake by the medicine I will take later, both of those might happen. Last night I awoke at 1am and did not do the sensible thing, which is to get up and get something done. Instead I tossed and turned. Useless.

Sinus Headaches Are the Worst.

If not the worst, then in that class that seems like it is the worst until something really awful comes along (my record is a tie between a tooth squeeze, where an air pocket under a filling acts as a piston on the nerve of your tooth when scuba diving - imagine being underwater and feeling like your jaw exploded - and the first time I tried to get up after they sewed a Gore-Tex patch under the skin of my belly).

Now, obviously a sinus headache is nothing near that, but I do not have to deal with either of those right now, just the sinus headache.

So, please excuse the paucity of posts these last couple of days.

I would blame Amalia, but the onset of symptoms is too close - we have the same culprit to blame.

Fine Art Friday postponed in these parts.

Due to this silly cold, and having to take care of Amalia all day yesterday, and editing tasks this morning, I have not finished the painting I had hoped to post today. Hopefully tomorrow. We'll see.

Schadenfreude

Last night at Lectura Dantis we were discussing the Terrace of the Envious in Purgatorio and the conversation went to Schadenfreude (oh, how appropriate that we keep that word in German). Now, I know Schadenfreude is bad.

But...

This doesn't exactly break my heart. You know, poor guy wouldn't have been so plastered if he had been eating foie gras.

And, yes, I consider his Oakland A's days the darkest days of the team. I would rather have had Pete Rose here.

Sick Ward Chez Keilholtz

Amalia is home sick from school. Fever. Sneezing.

Ah-choo!
Ah-choo!
Ah-choo!

Coughing.

Cack! Cack!
Cack! Cack!

I have a burning felling in my nose, which is running. I also have burning eyes (since I have chronic dry-eye, this is not uncommon, but definitely hits in spring). I don't have fever, and no cough whatsoever. Do I have a cold? Do I have hayfever?

I don't know. I am taking precautionary measures just the same. Since I get hayfever every spring (I still love all the blossoms, even though they wreck havoc with my sinuses and eyes), it is probable that if there is no fever, I have something in parallel with Amalia, but not the same thing, as I don't get sick nearly as often as anyone else I know. We shall see. We shall see.

Anyway, this might be a record day of blogging if I have to stay in all day. Pull up a chair, fluff some cushions, and be prepared for way too much verbiage in this space. Or not. We'll see how the day goes.

And One Last Thing...

Julie reminds us that today is the birthday of none other than Johann Sebastian Bach.

I have some great memories of Bach, one of which I will share here. It happened at night, when Bach really is best listened to.

There were only two harpsichord students at UCSC, so we had plenty of practice time in the early keyboard room. Because of the delicacy of the instruments, the janitors were not allowed in. Since the janitors cleared the practice rooms at the end of the night, if I wanted to practice late, I would just stay quiet for fifteen minutes, until I heard the last door click. Then I could go back to practicing.

One evening, very late, I was working on the Bach three-voice sinfonias, particularly the f minor, a twisty, strange and moody little work that is a lot of fun to play. It was a warm evening, so I did the forbidden: I opened a window. I would not have done this in winter, mind you (I was not about to risk ruin to the instruments, but sometimes rules are a bit overkill). There was a gentle breeze and absolutely no other sound but me and the harpsichord -- and J.S. Bach filling the air.

Bach was one of the great ones. Not an innovator, but a master at a style that was already considered old fashioned. He made his share of errors (as anyone who has analyzed the chorales can attest to), but the feat of just copying by hand all that he wrote would be daunting for most people in their lifetimes. Add to this his duties as organist, teacher, and father of 24 children, and you will get a good picture of what a giant J.S. Bach really was.

If you really want the experience today, go listen to the whole Musical Offering during the day and, at night, pour yourself a glass of a good red and listen to the Goldberg Variations (on harpsichord, please - no pianos!).

Watch Out For That Pizza Man

Of course we don't have any details, but Fr. Fessio was not just asked to resign from Ave Maria but to "leave the campus immediately?" I am guessing that he and Pizza Boy (if you call that pizza, but hey, if you call that a university or call that architecture...) got into a tiff. Morte d'Urban anyone?

Speaking of Art...

It is an odd numbered year.

Going to Venice this summer/fall?

I can't help it...next thing you know, I will be invading Poland

It is a German thing. Wax. Synthetic Resin. Earthtones. No felt or fat, so far, but I can't say that I can hold out too much longer.

It started with a little bit of beeswax medium in my latest abstract canvas. And, boy (Beuy?) did I like the luminosity of it. Well, that led to a little more. And a little more. And now there is a thick impasto, with many layers of earthtones coming through a honey-cream fog.

I am now letting the surface harden (!) before I can add another layer. I have never had to think about a surface hardening. Becoming touch-dry, yes, but this is a totally different reality.

And it is a reality I like. A lot. Even though, yes, it makes me a bit of a stereotype (and as a conservative, it fits that I would be falling into a German stereotype of forty years ago. In twenty years look out for the series of large, color photographs). I have always liked this stuff, but never really thought about doing it, until recently.

I am hoping to have this canvas done in time to post it on Friday, although I am not sure how well it will photograph, with all those semi-transparent layers.

Chinese Food and the Naderites

Consider this adequate warning: any affiliation with any of Ralph Nader's Public Interest organizations will be considered justifiable grounds for all sorts of pestering, including hard labor, in the Keilholtz Dictatorship. Here it is published in full view of the world, so no whining that you did not know any better.

Here, for instance, we are treated to a story about one of the Center for Science (sic) in the Public Interest's (sic, sick) periodic naggings. It is one of their regular finger wagging reports indicting whole cuisines, this time Chinese ( they had already done this one, so perhaps they are at the end of their creativity?). Too much sodium, too large portions, etc.

Not just at the Gao Si Canton Gardens in West Peoria, but "Chinese restaurant food." Everywhere. Also, they warn, Mexican and Italian is bad, too.

Now, perhaps the report is not as badly done as it sounds, you will never know from reading in the press, because most reporters, in fact, nearly all of them, are incapable of reading and understanding a scientific paper. They rarely check the numbers, they don't even bother, in most cases, to report as to whether or not the study was primary or secondary research. They simply interview a few people and print what they hear. The more they hear the same thing, the truer it is (see smoke, secondhand). Instead of evaluating the data and the interpretation thereof, they fawn over the credentials of the scientist doing the report, and consider that they have "dug deep into it" if they figure out who financed the report (because, in the little brain of a typical reporter, money always corrupts, and nothing else ever corrupts).

Gin

I have been asked in my comments box what kind of gin I like.

The answer is: good gin. Although with enough vermouth or tonic, even bad gin can be made tolerable.

The main distinction between gin is between sweet and dry gin, with the original Dutch stuff being sweet and the English (London) gin being dry. However, even the Dutch stuff has gotten drier.

My normal standby is a London Dry Gin: Bombay Sapphire. It is loaded with botanicals, all subtly added to create a delicate complexity. The juniper is ever-present, but it is not allowed to take over completely. Regular Bombay is fine, too, even though it is not as complex, layered or nuanced. It is, however, a finely balanced gin and makes for a good martini.

Now, if I can splurge, there are some gins that top my list:

First and foremost is Van Gogh Gin (not to be confused with Van Gogh Vodka, which is easy to find - the gin is not as common), a flaovorful, super complex Holland gin which is really a treat. After that, I am quite fond of Plymouth gin, another very complex and fun way to spend the cocktail hour.

Now, on the other end of my list, the cheap-o, let's-save-money gin, is Trader Joe's Admiral Joseph's Gin. I don't know who makes it, although I suspect Beefeater. It is not as well-balanced as Bombay, certainly not as complex, but with a generous amount of vermouth, it does fine in a martini. In fact I prefer it over Tanqueray, which, while being interesting, is too citrus-dominated for my tastes.

Don't get me wrong, I won't turn down a martini made with Tanqueray, but I don't buy the stuff unless there are no other choices. And Tanqueray 10 or whatver it is called, is really not worth the money, although I have yet to try it in a gin fizz. Maybe that is where it comes into its own.

Of course this leaves the question of what should go into a martini and in what proportions?

In the shaker goes:

1. 2 shots of Gin. Not vodka.
2. Vermouth. Generally people make a martini with dry vermouth, but sweet vermouth adds an interesting twist, although you will want to also add a dash of bitters if you do that.
3. A splash of ice water. Gin is bottled too strong.
4. Ice. Gin is best chilled very cold.

Now, if I am using Van Gogh, then the vermouth will always be dry, and will only be added by the drop, about three drops or so. If I am using Bombay Sapphire, I will add a quarter to a half a shot, depending on my mood. If a lower gin, then a half shot. If it is a terrible gin, a whole shot. If I am doing a sweet martini, I will add a half shot of red vermouth and a dash of bitters.

Shake? Stir? I like to shake mine, because it creates those floating ice crystals and makes it cloudy. If you like yours clear and want to minimize dilution (although dilution releases a lot of the subtle flavors of the gin), stir.

And strain into a glass that has had the following treatment:

1. While you are mixing the drink, fill the glass with ice and ice water. Let sit.
2. Use some of that water in the martini.
3. Shake (or stir), and let the shaker rest.
4. Pour out ice and water.
5. If you like your martini burned, add a couple of drops of malty (not peaty) single malt Scotch and swirl around.
6. The glass is ready.

Remember:

Garnish with an olive or a twist for a martini, with a pickled onion for a gibson. If you are using Tanqueray you might want to garnish with a twist. I highly recommend using anchovy-stuffed olives from Spain. They are great in a martini.

Ahhh. Easter is coming.

Happy Feast of St. Joseph!

The advantage of having two days between the Feast of St. Patrick and the Feast of St. Joseph is that you have a couple of days to recover from the corned beef and cabbage before you have to (it's required in Canon Law, folks) chow down on yummy pasta and fruit fritters fried in olive oil.

We have less time because our parish had its St. Pat's dinner last night. It was fun, and the food was tolerable in a sort of once-a-year way. The corned beef seemed a bit closer to pastrami, and the cabbage was quite tasty. Boiled potatoes, on the other hand... well, if they are waxy potatoes and are boiled in stock, that is one thing, but a boiled russet is another matter. Even the former don't do all that much for me. Melanie loves potatoes, but I could take them or leave them.

So, have a happy feast of St. Joseph!

Wrong Season, but still Lovely

Messiaen's "Les Bergers" from "La Nativite du Seigneur" played by Marie-Claire Alain, with a little interview at the beginning:

Stabat Mater by Pergolesi

Soprano Katia Ricciarelli and Contralto Lucia Valentini sing the first movement of Pergolesi's Stabat Mater.

Chorus and Orchestra of La Scala, Conductor: Claudio Abbado. 1979

Lahar in New Zealand

Major, dramatic volcanism in New Zealand. This is the best kind: exciting example of the power of geology with no risk to human life.

Check it out!

And Now My Annual Moratorium on Making Fun of the Irish

Well, Happy St. Patrick's Day, all you Irishers!

Green beer! Corned Beef! Cabbage! Potatoes! Yippee!

What is the expression that you people say today? Is it "pogue mahone?" I can never remember.

Anyway, have a very good pogue mahone and don't overcook the shamrocks!

Sheesh. No one has told them that they are celebrating the feast day of an English-born Italian. Pass them another Guiness and they won't even care.

Tee hee hee. Ducking from flying Irish fists.

Just so long as they don't play that sappy music.

I just heard of a cocktail called an Irish car bomb: Guiness, Jameson's and Bailey's. It sounds so awful it might just be good, but always beware of drinks that have destruction in their names: Hurricanes, Kamikazes, etc. They usually are tasty and sugar-laden, thus giving you the worst hangover you can imagine.

If I indulge tomorrow, it will be with gin. I like Jameson's just fine, but if I get a day to have a real cocktail, I am going to opt for gin. There really isn't much difference between the Irish and the English anyway. Also, I am grilling some grass fed beef, and will want a good red wine with it, so you don't want to overload on cocktails anyway.

Into the Great Silence

Go see Into the Great Silence when it comes to a theater near you. Around here it is only running for a week, which is probably about par for the course, so you may have to act fast. It is a gorgeous film, although the dialog is a little slow (ha ha ha, it is about life in a Carthusian monestary where the monks speak very little).

Excellent, fascinating, very beautiful film.

Not for those who think that story must dominate everything, and that a good film must be a two-act thriller working solely towards catharsis.

Fine Art Friday

I think that this might be the first time that a painting was posted on a Fine Art Friday that was finished being created on that particular Friday. Hot off the easel, folks!

Composition 3.1
2007
Oil on Canvas
Copyright 2007 by Erik Keilholtz

Now, you have all seen the cartoons where the gallery worker hangs an abstract painting upside down and nobody notices? Well, part of my last check to see if a painting is complete is to look at it upside down, so that I get a fresh look at the thing (something that is difficult to do when you have been spending hours working on the thing). This time I turned it upside down and liked it better.

So, later this weekend I will post the record of stages of this painting, the first time I have ever recorded my procedure in photographs, and you will see that from drawing to final, the whole thing was painted the other way. Hopefully you will see why I inverted it, too.

Linguistic Rants

First, I have recently come to the conclusion that after years of food writing, I hate the word "nourish." It is a perversion and an abomination in that it is passive.

Nothing nourishes me. I eat, devour, bite, extract, digest, chew, savour, etc. My food just sits there, awaiting my fork or chopstick to carry it to my mouth where I do the business of converting it into useful components. It doesn't nourish me.

When the word is used in the context of art or education or something like that, it particularly sends me into fits of annoyance.

Good people, people who say what they mean and mean what they say, do not use "nourish." They do not nourish the body whole. They do not nourish the spirit. The word itself is even hideous, visually. I see the "nou" and I expect the "gat." But no, I get "nourish" which means that I am dealing with a speaker I will not want to spend time with who uses words that might work in some near Eastern language, but are preposterous in English.

Nourish! Indeed!

Ah yes...

The main thing I was going to talk about on the prior entry was to note the date. Today is the International Holiday called the Day of Nostalgia and Melancholia. Today is the day that we recognize that zealous do-gooders will lynch a strong leader simply because he is a strong leader, and that they will almost inevitably end up with something worse.

Julius Caesar was the great proto-Fascist, a man who saw the impending chaos of a crumbling Republic, and did what he had to do, including some dirty work, to preserve the Common Good. Julius Caesar was the great prototype of a range of political actors, ranging from the Saintly: Francisco Franco or Antonio Salazar, to the diabolical Adolf Hitler. In between, representing a generous mingling of the good, the bad and the ugly were Mussolini, Saddam, Pinochet, Tito, Lincoln, Peron and de Gaulle. These middle characters, the deeply flawed heroes, are probably most in the mold of Julius Caesar.

In many ways I have always emulated certain traits of Caesar: for instance, I never joke about politics, although I might present political ideas in the manner of a joke. In this I look at how Caesar dealt with the pirates who kidnapped him. I recognize that the most arrogant people, the most megalomaniac, the Ralph Nader's, will do almost anything to put on a disguise of humility, something that Caesar never did. He was a general who became dictator, not because of his own ambition, although he was certainly human, but because Rome needed a dictator at the time.

The dirt punks of his day, the sort of people who fill the ranks of Indymedia, the Green Party, Code Pink, the Red Brigades and countless other anarchistic cells (not to mention neocons), killed him in the hope of bringing about some glorious democracy. In the end they got civil war and empire.

We will always have dirt punks like Brutus and Casca: pierced and wolfish looking, with lean and hungry looks, an inhuman zeal in their eyes, tatooed, ready with truncheon and dagger to join the next tittilating cause, and they will always destroy the order for the sake of whatever utopian vision they have bought from whatever Nader or Moore who has sold it to him.

So, what could be more proper on this Day of Nostalgia and Melancholia, but to quote from the Bard on this great proto-Fascist leader?

O pardon me, thou bleeding piece of earth,
That I am meek and gentle with these butchers.
Thou are the ruins of the noblest man
That ever lived in the tide of times.
Woe to the hand that shed this costly blood!
Over thy wounds now do I prophesy --
Which like dumb mouths do ope their ruby lips
To beg the voice and utterance of my tongue--
A curse shall light upon the limbs of men;
Domestic fury and fierce civil strife
Shall cumber all the parts of Italy;
Blood and destruction shall be so in use,
And dreadful obects so familiar,
That mothers shall but smile when they behold
Their infants quartered with the hands of war,
That this fould deed shall smell above the earth
With carrion men, groaning for burial.

This is the reality of revolution and the madness of frenzied democracy: blood and destruction, domestic fury and fierce civil strife. This is the payment demanded of those who think they can bring about utopia on earth by their disorder and misbehavior.

Certainly we should not stand in blind admiration of the great dictators, and we may even find huge aspects of the rule of many of them repulsive. And while we cannot condone evil, especially when it is done for the sake of good order, the riotous evil that stirs men's hearts to base action should be doubly condemned. Again we turn to the Bard to help us understand how to evaluate men like Caesar and Pinochet:

Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend my your ears.
I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.
The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their bones.
So let it be with Caesar. The noble Brutus
Hath told you Caesar was ambitious.
If it were so, it was a grievous fault,
And grievously hath Caesar answered it.
Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest --
For Brutus is an honorable man,
So are they all, all honorable men --
Come I to speak at Caesar's funeral.
He was my friend, faithful and just to me.
But Brutus says he was ambitious,
And Brutus is an honorable man.
He hath brought many captives home to Rome,
Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill.
Did this in Caesar seem ambitious?
When the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept.
Ambition should be made of sterner stuff.
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious,
And Brutus is an honorable man.
You all did see that on the Lupercal
I thrice presented him a kingly crown,
Which he did thrice refuse. Was this ambition?
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious,
And sure he is an honorable man.
I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke,
But here I am to speak what I do know.
You all did love him once, not without cause.
What cause withholds you then to mourn for him?
O judgement, thou art fled to brutish beasts,
And men have lost their reason!

Bear with me.
My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar,
And I must pause till it comes back to me.

Now, this is obviously well-known as a piece of "crowd-swaying" oratory, and it is. However, there is another dimension at work here, and that is the awakening of the crowd from a mass-hysteria, a blood thirst that chanted the word "ambition" and could only be quenched with the blood of the great leader. The point isn't that Antony moved the crowds, but that the crowds were moved first by such a clumsy speaker as Brutus, who was armed only with a sentimental attachment to a failing democracy and a couple of loaded words, with which to stir the envy that smolders in the heart of every mediocre man: every future Sandinista, every potential Red Brigade member, every PIRG activist, every Liberation Theologian, every DNC faithful.

Brutus is the clumsy fool, so smitten with his half-baked democratic ideology that he encourages the mob to befoul their own living rooms. So it is with modern man, and so it shall be until the end of time.

So, on this day, the Day of Nostalgia and Melancholia, say a prayer for a fallen dictator, a flawed hero. Some may have gone on to their deaths unrepentant, unbaptized, hostile to the Church, in the clutches of a False Religion, but we can never know, so go ahead, pray for Saddam. Some may have died in a state of Grace (Pinochet was attended to by priests in his last days - go ahead, pray for Pinochet. If you spring him from Purgatory you will have one eternally grateful soul in Heaven on your side). But do take a moment to pray for the soul of a deceased dictator today.

Castro and Garcia Marquez

I found this story a bit heartwarming. Now, I certainly admit that Castro is a bastard. But when it comes down to it, I still like the guy, mostly for two reasons: One is that anyone who is an enemy of the Kennedy's is a friend of mine. Two is that I admired his earlier AIDS and homosexual policies. It all makes me nostalgic for a day when the left was red and not pink. I also admire the fact that Castro has outlasted the Soviet Union, in the face of the absurd embargo. Finally, Castro's bastardly side has resulted in the enrichment of American culture tremendously. In Sacramento there are two families of Cuban American cigar rollers who make superb cigars.

Will Cuba be better off without him? Probably, although when I am in a pessimistic mood I doubt that the difference would really be all that much. Would Cuba have been better off without Castro? Again, probably, but here I am less certain.

But what really makes me smile in this story is not the fact that Castro is doing better, although I certainly wish him the best, but the loyalty of Gabriel Garcia Marquez to his friend. I have friends on the Left, and they know that in the Keilholtz Dictatorship they might end up in a reeducation center, but they know that Beloved Leader will still visit on their birthdays.

Of course watching the end of the Castro era is also sad, because it shows how Saddam should have ended his days. Here is a case where no one can deny that Iraq was better off with Saddam than without, even though Saddam was a first class turd. Saddam should have grown old in office, eventually going into the hospital and leaving the propoganda ministry to earn their keep.

Las Vegas

I have never been to Las Vegas, nor have I had the slightest interest in going there. However, I will be there in late May, and am mildly curious. The thing is, Las Vegas of the 1950's really interests me: the Vegas of Sinatra, Martin, and so forth.

Last night another piece of that Las Vegas was destroyed: the Stardust was imploded (and with a very impressive fireworks show). Too bad, but that is the constant flux that is Las Vegas. I guess. Like I said, I have never been there.

Don't worry, I will bring my camera, and will treat my readers to a peculiar view of Keilholtz's Las Vegas, which I have no idea what it will be. I don't like gambling very much, and have little interest in fake Paris, fake New York, fake Venice, etc. Perhaps I will take camera and sketchbook out to the dessert.

Ah yes, Canadians...

Now, I was going to mention, after brutalizing the Canadian language, that I am finally going to link to Kathy Shaidle. I opened the door a crack when I linked to Meg Quinn, so I should link to other tolerable Canadians. Even though Shaidle somehow thinks that Reagan was the real deal (a lot of folks tend to be under that delusion, but since it was on the heels of the Carter days, I can understand, a little bit), she is sufficiently opposed to the inanities that make Canada Canada (or, in "First Nation" lingo: Big Frozen Waste in North that Thinks it is Berkeley), so she gets a pass.

Indians

I could listen to Indians talking all day, particularly when the speaker is British educated. Of all the accents and dialects of the English language, English as spoken in India might just be my favorite.

After that, there are some southern American dialects that I find particularly enjoyable, and it is hard not to enjoy hearing a Scotsman talk. And I will always have a soft spot for the way South Africans speak the Anglo-Saxon tongue.

The dialect I absolutely can't stand, the one that is like nails on a chalkboard, is Canadian. Sorry (and don't you dare pronounce it with a long "o"), but it is all the flat and ugly of Southern Californian with just enough quaintness to be nearly unlistenable. How did the Canadians get such an atrocious accent and the Australians get such an amusing one?

Ah, the mystery.

And Another Thing...

I have never hid my deep dislike of Screaming Bill Donahue of the Catholic League. At best, he is an embarassment. He represents the entirely wrong way of engaging the culture: that of borrowing the whine and entitlement tactics of the left. Waaaaah! They are being mean to us! Make them say they are sorry. I would talk about him more, but I hear they make you go into rehab... har har har.

And here, obviously I am not saying that Mr. Donahue is a rump ranger, or light in the loafers in any way. What I am saying is that he is the sort of person who would have been tagged as a "fag" back in elementary school. Hell, we didn't even know about all that disgusting stuff. Fag was what you called someone who was being less than a Mensch.

But that is a side issue (of course if we are to oppose blacklists, we must say "fag" in solidarity with the general - I don't oppose all blacklists, but when they come from people who get teary over Pete Seeger getting blacklisted, I find them very hard to accept). The real issue is this nonsense with Mr. Hannity.

Who cares?

Why are "serious Catholics" wasting time watching this trash? Is it because, deep down, we still think there is something left of the magic between us and the GOP (and its mouthpieces)? Are we serious?

Let me spell it out for you:

The GOP is not a pro-life party, and I am not talking about any "seamless garment" nonsense. I am talking about doing nothing to get a partial-birth abortion ban passed with a majority of both houses AND the presidency.

The GOP is a sort-of free market and corporate welfare party, and nothing else. Any nod towards traditions and morality are nothing more than a sentimental gushiness, easily set aside if a dollar is to be made.

Let me spell it out even clearer (I wish I could remember where I read this, if you are the author, please holler): the only GOP candidate to have only been married once is the friggin' Mormon.

And you wouldn't vote for a Mormon, would you? I mean, if the choice were between Mitt Romney and Hitler, I would expect you to have to think about it for a few minutes, before voting for...nevermind. You get the point. Putting a Mormon in any position above, perhaps dogcatcher (and even then...Hitler, Romney, Hitler, Romney. Bow Wow! Woof woof!) is like pinning a "Smite Me" sign on the back of the country.

The dream is over. We have lost the round that began with our false victory (Kennedy, '60). It is time to try something else.

Now, I am aware the Nancy Pelosi (oh, what a cute little Italian grandmother, if you can imagine a cute little Italian grandmother in favor of sodomy and baby murder. Sorry, I can't. Maybe wopping you over the head for mistreating the pasta, but not that crap) must be stopped, but constantly picking the GOP to do the task is a mistake, unless we can force the GOP into something else, and that will not happen unless they have to work for it.

Rick Santorum and his ilk will not do.

iTunes Random Shuffle Time

Well, I am glad that this time Don has nothing on his list that is played on obscenely inappropriate instruments. In fact, upon scrutinizing his list, I am satisfied that the piano track is indeed a piano track and not some gorgeous harpsichord piece taken out and defiled on a cast-iron frame monstrocity (an instrument of torture when it comes to the baroque repertoire). Anyway, in celebration of his recovery, or at least the recovery of his random shuffle, here is my current random 10 from my iTunes Library:

1. "El rey por muncha madruga (Traditional)" performed by La Rondinella
2. "Mr. Fool" by George Jones
3. "As Rosas do Meu Caminho" by Amália Rodrigues
4. "Musica Proibita" sung by Mario Lanza
5. "La Statue" by Jacques Brel
6. "Canti Illuminati" by Alvin Curran
7. "Tombeau pour M. de Sainte Colombe" by Marin Marais, performed by Jordi Savall
8. "Grey" by Ken Nordine
9. Turandot - "Nessun Dorma" by Puccini, sung by Luciano Pavarotti
10. "What's He Building in There?" by Tom Waits

Now, speaking of random shuffle lists, the man who was the motivation behind me starting to do these things, Fr. Tucker has not posted in a long time, without any notice. I hope he is simply busy and has not been kidnapped by Martians or anything like that.

The Sunshine and Beach I Told You About

Everyone knows that the San Francisco Bay is cold. Miserably cold. At high tide, frigid Pacific water rushes in to put a nice chill on everything. Well, almost everything. You see, there is a strange part of Alameda, where a shallow shelf extends quite far from the beach, so that on a hot day, the water heats up beautifully, particularly at low tide, when the flow of water is going out to sea.

This is what it looks like:

You might be tempted to walk to San Francisco, but it doesn't stay shallow quite that far.

However, you can stay on the Alameda side and watch plenty of shore birds:

Who make great tracks in the mud:

Whether or not you will find intelligent life is a mystery, but we did spot a mermaid sunning herself:

And, later, floating on her back:

We also found canals, perhaps dug by some aliens:

And, sure enough, we found the Corps of Engineers that the Alien Race has to dig these canals:

And, hey, the fishing is great! Look at this keeper (and that's a pretty good fishie she caught, too):

Memory of Cafe do Brasil in Santa Cruz

One beautiful spring/summer day in Santa Cruz (many years ago), we decided to go to the Cafe do Brasil for lunch. It is a good place, which I highly recommend if you are in the area.

On the door was a sign saying, "Closed. The day is just too beautiful. Sorry."

I should probably hang a sign like that on the blog when weather is like it has been.

We spent the afternoon yesterday at the beach. Melanie got to rest, and Amalia and I got to explore and wade in the warm shallow water of Alameda's Crown Beach.

On the upside for blog content, I took lots of pictures, so I will post those this afternoon.

And, yes, that illustrated recipe for enchiladas will be coming, too.

Happy Weekend!

Of course I have mixed feelings about daylight savings time.

On the one hand, who can argue with an extra hour of sunlight in the evenings? On the other hand, why tinker around with noon? I want the sun to be at the highest point at noon.

And then there is the pesky question of my hour of sleep that is so cruelly taken away from me (so, Keilholtz, what are you doing staying up past your normal bedtime when you know what it coming?).

Salsa Verde or The Formula for any Salsa de Molcajete

I am showing how to make a salsa with tomatillos, roasted garlic, and chipotles. You could use the same formula, and use roasted tomatoes for the tomatillos, haban~eros for the chipotles, just fresh garlic instead of roasted garlic, etc. Use your imagination, as the Purple Lizard says. Just keep in mind that if you use tomatoes, you may need to add some lime juice to boost the acidity.

Proportions are to taste, because the intensity of flavor varies so much depending on where the thing was grown, when it was grown, how much water it had, etc.

1. The first step is to roast the tomatillos. First peel off the papery husks, and wash the sticky goo off of them. Put them, along with the unpeeled garlic cloves, in a pan and stick it into a 375 degree oven. If you are using fresh chilies, roast them, too. If you are using dried chilis, toast them, then rehydrate them, but generally dried cilies go into fried salsas, so we will discuss their handling in the upcoming entry for enchilada sauce:

2. Grind up a couple of cloves of fresh garlic with some salt in your molcajete. Now, you might think that you can do this in any order, but any Mexican cook will tell you that you must do things in this order (if you are substituting ingredients, just substitute the ingredient in the proper place). If you have never used your molcajete, you will need to season it by grinding up some dry rice in it and throwing it out and repeating until there are no more little bits of rock and black sand in it:

3. As the tomatillos soften (you want them to be mushy), remove them from the oven:

4. Now, grind up your chilis, in this case chipotles (with a little splash of the adobo they were packed in):

5. Add the roasted tomatillos and grind them up with the rest:

6. Taste, correct for salt, fire, acidity (you will probably have no problems with enough acidity using tomatillos). Ready for chips!

Of course, this is the salsa I use to simmer chicharrones in. Just heat up a small pan of this, add pork rinds and a little splash of chicken stock and cook until the rinds are soft. Serve on hot corn tortillas with freshly chopped onion and cilantro. Accompany with ice cold beer and some conjunto music!

Hey, Keilholtz! Where Are those Recipes You Promised?

Sorry. I know that I was supposed to have had recipes with photographs up. I was planning on doing that tonight, but got busy painting. Getting busy painting means getting busy cleaning brushes afterwards, and, there goes the night. Anyway, organizing the photos, writing the recipes, etc. will be a good Friday penance.

Reading them will be an even better Friday penance.

It is like finding out a friend's dirty little secret.

I like Don of Mixolydian Mode. I have never met him in person, but from his writing he has always seemed like a reasonable, cultured, intelligent guy.

So imagine my shock and horror when I see that he listens to Scarlatti performed on piano. It is something like finding out that your local pharmacist is the head of the Klan, or something like that.

Repeat, over and over, as a mantra:

Scarlatti should be played on harspichord, or, at the very least, on wood-framed fortepiano, guitar, or accordion.
Scarlatti should be played on harspichord, or, at the very least, on wood-framed fortepiano, guitar, or accordion.
Scarlatti should be played on harspichord, or, at the very least, on wood-framed fortepiano, guitar, or accordion.
Scarlatti should be played on harspichord, or, at the very least, on wood-framed fortepiano, guitar, or accordion.
Scarlatti should be played on harspichord, or, at the very least, on wood-framed fortepiano, guitar, or accordion.
Scarlatti should be played on harspichord, or, at the very least, on wood-framed fortepiano, guitar, or accordion.
Scarlatti should be played on harspichord, or, at the very least, on wood-framed fortepiano, guitar, or accordion.
Scarlatti should be played on harspichord, or, at the very least, on wood-framed fortepiano, guitar, or accordion.

I'll pray for you, Don.

To Ponder...

Does a poem exist? If so, where does it exist? What is its material cause?

Does all literature basically reduce to a code?

What is Dante talking about when he speaks of words being made visible in Canto 10 of Purgatorio?

Did Dante have, or know anyone with, Synesthesia?

These questions came up at the North Beach Lectura Dantis last night. You can offer your suggestions in the Combox, or you can show up at The National Shrine of St. Francis of Assisi in North Beach (having read through Canto 12 of the Purgatorio), and join the fray there next Wednesday at 7:30pm.

On This, The Occasion of The Beginning of My Second Term

It just dawned on us that this month marks the beginning of our second term as BlogDuce. It was four years ago that we started Erik's Rants and Recipes with the idea of throwing a variety of seeds on the ground and seeing which one flourished. As it happened, the ones that we most expected to flourish whithered away almost immediately: for instance, we have still not posted much at all on the aesthetics of bullfighting in relationship to music and painting, a project that we keep meaning to start. Someday.

Sure, we post on bullfighting and painting, and even some on music, but the idea of using the blog as a sounding board for rough drafts of larger works now doesn't strike me as all that interesting.

One thing that happened, and pleased us, was the online Music Theory course and analysis of selected works. If it didn't take so much time, we would like to continue it. Maybe some night with insomnia... we will see.

The Theology of Art. This was supposed to be a major part of the blog. We would write long entries for it, and never post them, because they needed to be carefully edited and thought about, because one shouldn't play with Theology carelessly. But, if we are going to put that much time into it, we better work it into longer works. So, go re-read Gilson.

Richard Nixon. Yes, Richard Nixon does have a sometimes home on this blog. We don't quite know how he gets in, but we do our best to shoo him out whenever he does.

Friday Afternoon Sermons. This is what started it all. We like a martini or two on Friday evenings. The Mohammedans sermonize on Friday afternoons. It was during Lent. No martinis during Lent, particularly on Fridays. So, why not have a Friday Afternoon Sermon, and email it to a bunch of friends, so that they could have their penance, too?

We created a scene for the sermons: a piazza on a slightly muggy afternoon, where our audience would be seated at tables, but facing us, with posters of our face behind us. They would be drinking Campari and Vermouth and Cynar. Before and after our sermons the sounds of fado and rembetika and other slightly mournful and nostalgic music would be heard.

Those who treated the sermons in less-than-respectful ways, or who said less-than-reverent things about Dear Leader would find that the fellow at the next table, the slightly overdressed man with the moustache, would lean over and say, "it is a shame how the old ladies like to gossip and chatter in the town square." He would give them a meaningful look, perhaps he would even draw his finger accross his throat.

Perhaps repeat offenders would be asked to come to the police station later, just to "have a chat with the Colonel." At the interview, the Colonel would talk about fishing, about his grandchildren, about the joys of freshly-baked bread. And then he would lean in and say very calmly, "now what was this that I heard about you muttering? You seem like a very reasonable man. Surely you weren't really muttering, were you? I would like to chalk it all up to a big misunderstanding."

You see, the Keilholtz Dictatorship is a slightly ham-fisted authoritarian regime, but it is a benevolent one, one that sees its citizens more as wayward children who need gentle, yet firm correction, rather than harsh and painful punishments.

And what did my good friends say to us? Did they thank us? Did they acknowledge the free gift of our wisdom? No, they suggested that we cut the pills in half. One of them said, "you need a blog" and she went out and designed one for us.

So, Erik's Rants and Recipes was born. It started out rather polite. It had Friday Afternoon Sermons (and an audience, with strangers, some of whom kept coming back and were no longer strangers), it had recipes, it had rants a-plenty.

One priest friend of ours said, "there are a lot of rants, but where are the recipes?" He was neither the first nor the last to point that out.

A milestone was reached this year, at the end of Our First Term, in that we added photographs.

We have, over the years, managed to scare off plenty of readers, bore others to tears, offend the rest, and yet, some of you still link to us, and, even more amazingly, keep coming back, even as there have been dry spells (what with traipsing around Northern California and all - although now that we post photographs the next traipsings should be much more interesting for the readers).

We thank you, even as we are still mystified by you, dear reader. Why, for instance, do you give nearly zero comments to carefully thought-out posts on matters of great importance, like art and music, and then try to set records on posts about Pink Popcorn? Why is it that you like to read us during working hours? Should we be worried about productivity in the modern American workplace? Are you people suckers for spam, and, if not, why do so many spammers seem to think that you are all in the market for whatever it is they are selling?

Anyway, keep coming back for more (for instance, those friggin' recipes I keep promising - what is the deal with that? Ah, yes, the pictures came out, but I spent too much time on editing something else, as well as waxing nostalgic here, so the recipe will have to wait until tomorrow. The enchiladas were very good, by the way. I ought to know, as I ate too many of them), and know that your comments are appreciated, especially if they are indignant. Nothing gets me going better than having some teenage girl whine about how "unfair" it is for me to say those, like, horrible, OMG things about Mohammedans, and if only I got to know some Mohammedans, I would understand how wrong I am!

So, what can I promise you on the Second Term? Hah! Whatever I feel like. I will continue to shoot for blogging six days a week, plus or minus, depending on events. I will continue to shoot for a mix of stuff. I will try to post more recipes (and the next step is going to be photographs of the steps). But I ain't promisin' nuttin'!

Thanks for continuing to read, and thank you for the vote (100% with 100% of all precincts reporting) for my second term.

What electoral corruption? It really is a shame how the old ladies gossip and chatter in the town square these days, no?

The Left and Books

This post has some interesting stuff on cultural attitudes, but the money line is the last sentence. I have long noticed that "Leftists talk about books, but they don't buy books" as well as the fact that they are the first to point that Republicans don't support the arts, when they are the last to do so as well, at least with their own money.

Take NPR, for instance. I love NPR. It offers a lot of great programming, news and culture talk as well as some decent arts broadcasting. However, more and more NPR stations, primarily with affluent liberal audiences who pride themselves in their culture and wit, are totally abandoning any music programming. In the Bay Area, one of the more cultured areas in the nation, we do not have a decent classical radio station. We have a commercial "dentist's office" station (no vocal, nothing too difficult, no complete works (just movements), narrow range of programming, etc.). Yet if you listen to some Volvo driver with a KQED sticker jabber on, you would think that the GOP is solely out to destroy public access to the arts.

Watching the music/policy talk ratio on Pacifica is even more depressing.

The thing is, the left has, for the most part, the exact same attitude towards the arts as the right. They just pretend otherwise. The right wing at least admits that they don't think that the Good and the True are always linked to the Beautiful.

Now, this is painting with a broad brush, but it is fairly accurate, and it goes back to the Puritan influence on our culture. For the Puritans, the Beautiful was the deceptive, when Puritanism was secularized, anything outside of a market framework became the irrelevant. For leftists, anything outside of policy is irrelevant.

So, when it comes down to it, the left would rather rebroadcast the same newscast four times, than devote one part of that time to interesting cultural programming. They just have the indecency to sneer at the right for doing the same thing.

Recipe update...

I did not cook anything last night, rather I heated leftovers. So. No recipe. No photos.

Tonight, however, we will be having enchiladas. I should document this.

Stromboli!

You didn't think that I was going to let the recent activity on Stromboli pass without at least pointing it out, did you?

An eruption from three vents! Exciting stuff.

Irish und Englisch

One of the great joys in pointing out to one of the British Islanders that there is really no difference between the Englisch and the Irish. Both sides feel insulted and neither gets that the joke is on both of them.

Well, now, here we have science! to the rescue. Turns out that the genetic stuff is, well, the same for both (and the Scots, who will really be insulted by this finding).

Now, I am inclined to believe this science, but if they say that Italians are somehow related to these people, then forget about it.

Recipes Up and Coming

You know something? It has been ages since I last posted any recipes on Erik's Rants and "Recipes". Lots of Rants, No Recipes. Sorry. I should make it up to you, and, it being Lent, I should give you some fishies. However, I live in a mostly fish-phobic household. Melanie will tolerate fish so long as they aren't fishy fish (no oily fish). Amalia thinks they are all disgusting, and the only thing from the sea that she will eat are clams and squid.

So, I am going to give you other recipes, probably as I make them this week. It is a pretty good menu, so it should be fun. I will take pictures and will post them if they come out OK.

Speaking of recipes, if any of you know of a good recipe for bread with flaxseed meal that is not too toothy (Amalia grumps if her bread has too much tooth), let me know. I want that flavor, and I don't want to have to make multiple loaves.

Brasil?

Today was a balmy, lovely day. Not quite tropical, but 73 degrees in early March might as well be, and there was enough moisture in the air to kind of feel like it. At least that is what I was thinking this afternoon.

When I went to the grocery store today, I thought that an afternoon espresso would be nice, being that it is Sunday and all, so I stopped at Peet's. I was sitting outside on the row of benches they have, and there was a fellow there playing guitar and singing - bassa nova. "Corcovado", "Desafinado", and a few other standards. I guess it wasn't just me who thought that it felt more like Rio than it usually does.

If Melanie had her normal appetite, I would have suggested making feijoada, but since she only started back on real food last night, we are taking it easy. Black beans, sausage, onions, salsa, manioc, and greens are probably not the ideal food for someone whose last good meal was on Tuesday.

So, speaking of the patient, she is doing great, and we are very happy to have her home.

Conservative Credentials Officially Revoked!

McCain, Giuliani, and Romney (phhht! sppppt.) have all come out blustering away at Ann Coulter's comment, therefore showing that their conservatism is about a half inch deep at best.

Of course Mitt "Windsock" (or should we just call him "Kolob Boy") Romney of Massachussetts would fall into that (he is, after all, the ONLY candidate who I would probably vote for Hillary over. Hell, if he ran against Hitler himself, I would have to think about it).

I like "Kolob Boy". It is a good term for him. I have been calling the mayor of Oakland "The Cadaver" recently, and it might make a good tag team: Kolob Boy and The Cadaver. Mitt Romney and Ron Dellums. Hmmm.

Now, there is part of me that wishes that our Free Speech Hero (tee hee hee) was someone other than Ann Coulter, who I find tedious. But she will do in a pinch. After all, who is most likely to call a straight man "a faggot" anyway? Although I did coin the term "straight fag" for the long-haired, vegetarian, neo-tonal music loving, overly sensitive sorts who used their utter wimpiness to pick up the wrong sort of girls. I don't think Edwards is either a fag or a straight fag. A sleezeball trial lawyer, sure. A filthy Democrat, undoubtedly. He might be a straigt fag, but most trial lawyers I know are really macho sorts. They are into the whole knight in shining armor thing.

So, yes, it was the wrong sort of childish remark for Ann Coulter to make. She should have called him something else. Testa di cazzo, anyone?

Solidarity - John Edwards a Faggot?

I have mentioned before the need to stand with those who are being proposed for blacklisting by the left, even though we may disagree with their stridency. I mean, if it was such an odious thing for some slimeball like Paul Robeson to not make millions on his hammy acting and minstrel singing because he thought Stalin was swell, then it is equally odious for all Republicans to have to recite some formula for distancing and apology because one writer of theirs says something a little crass (although if the left were squawking that she was falsely accusing Lawyer Edwards of engaging in disgusting behavior, they would have a point. However, their offense is at the word itself, because it will not do for these people to call this by any name but the most glowing).

So, say it with me, in solidarity:

Faggot!
Faggot!
Faggot!

Oooooh. Aren't we being transgressive?

Faggot!
Faggot!
Faggot!

Once again, Keilholtz bravely challenges another taboo!

Faggot!
Faggot!
Faggot!

And, no, he is not drunk while writing this (he has yet to have his morning espresso), and will not go into rehab.

Faggot!
Faggot!
Faggot!

Isn't this fun? Is it making you want to go pointing at the next poofter sashaying down the lane while yelling "Faggot! Faggot! Faggot!" so that he may be correctly identified by the police?

Faggot!
Faggot!
Faggot!

OMG isn't that, like, a hate crime or something?

Faggot!
Faggot!
Faggot!

It has a nice rythm to it, doesn't it?

Earthquakes and tornadoes

The topic came up last night when Amalia and I were at friends' house for dinner: which is worse to go through, a tornado or an earthquake.

It is an interesting question, and we have different perspectives on it, because one of the party is a native of Iowa and the rest of us grew up in seismicly active country. Tornadoes, while we get them once in a great while (I think the last one in the Bay Area was a waterspout near Richmond about nine years ago), are mostly the stuff of legend: horrifying air dragons that descend out of nowhere to utterly destroy anything they touch.

Earthquakes, on the other hand, are mostly harmless (we have had a few in the last couple of days). Sure, you get that instant knot in your stomach, the "uh-oh, is this the big one?" knot, but you generally can read it pretty quickly.

The worst earthquake experience I had was one that hit when I was in the shower at my inlaws' house. It was a good sized one that damaged the local supermarket, and I had this quick moment of wondering whether I needed to find better cover or not (I opted for staying in the shower). I have been in bigger earthquakes (I lived in Santa Cruz right after the Loma Prieta earthquake), but this was the worst personal situation in one.

The closest I have ever been to a tornado was when a funnel cloud passed over Sacramento and fizzled out before it almost touched down near Stockton. But to see something like that in the sky is a bit nerve-wracking.

Of course as a kid, it was tsunamis that always captured my morbid curiosity (or sneaker waves on a more practical matter - anomalous large waves that are a regular feature of the Pacific Coast near us). The idea of the sea just reaching in farther than usual often haunted my dreams and imagination (usually not in a scary way, though).

The long and short of it is this: nature is dangerous.

Be careful out there.

Orders from the Leader

Well, not the Dear Beloved Leader, our Duce, our Emperor, the Protector of Daly City and King of the Islas Malvinas and Gibraltar, but the other one. The Leader who rules not with an iron fist in a velvet glove, but rather with big brown eyes and plaintive cries of "Babbo, pllllleeeeeeeeaaaaaaaase."

Anyway, she gave me my orders today:

"Babbo. I am going to go to bed in your bed (this was after first asking very politely if she could sleep in my bed), but you are going to stay up and work for a little bit, so I can get to sleep and your snoring won't bother me. Then, when you come to bed, I can snuggle with you and keep toasty warm."

How can I possibly disobey a command like that?

I will say this: Amalia has been quite a trooper this last week, with the disruption and the strict orders (very difficult for a big, active, pouncing little Portugee) that she is to be gentle with Mamma for a few weeks after Mamma gets back from the hospital (it is looking like Sunday, by the way). I have not had to as much as raise my voice with her once, at least not seriously (only one brief time to express urgency, not anger, as she was playfully tearing my finger off - did I mention that she is big, active and pouncing?).

No offence to my female readers, or their little girls, but right now, I think Amalia is the sweetest girl in the world (she gets it from her Mamma, no doubt. Folks call Italians and Germans lots of things, but sweet is rarely one of them).

Update

Melanie came through the surgery quite well. It took an hour and a half, and the tissue samples were benign. She was in good spirits when we got to see her, and should be home this weekend. Amalia is handling it pretty well, too, although there was one time she said, "what was all that art in the museum (the hospital has quite a good art gallery in it)?"

"You mean in the hospital?"

"Don't say that, Babbo. It makes me sad."

Awww. Right now she is snoring away in our bed, sleeping soundly after a hot dog at her favorite pub, a chapter of Charlotte's Web, and trading rounds of "the Sunshine Song" (known to the rest of the world as "You are my Sunshine"). If you want cute, have a five year old girl sing that to you.

So, all is well, and Deo Gratias prayers are definitely in order.