when will i quit

Such a debate raging: Tres Chicas are playing at Iota tonight and I’ve suddenly become my own devil’s advocate. This is what happens when you get older and less interested in seeing performers more than once. It’s a Thursday night and show time is 9pm with an opener slated. I figure it’ll be 10:15 before the gals hit the stage and suddenly beyond midnight before I get to bed. It all figures to be a five-hour sojourn for a 90-minute show and that’s the rub. I could get two hours of apartment cleaning done, have dinner, wash the dishes, get through an episode of Deadwood, and be in bed by 10pm. I find that fewer and fewer artists can pull me out on weeknights.

I had a blurb written about the Neko Case show a few weeks ago but never published it…gun shy. The gist was that she’s a one-of-a-kind singer, I love her songs, the show was nice, the crowd very good (including the much anticipated calls of love and marriage)…it wasn’t earth-shattering. The Neko crowd would never take anything but praying at her altar as a valid input. Along those lines…
This week’s episode of Musicheads at the Current included weekend DJ Tony Lopez pointing out, quite rightly in my opinion, that any CD running 74 minutes will make him run for the door. No matter how good the music, and it generally doesn’t hold it’s quality throughout, it becomes too much. As is well documented, I have a similar live show parameter – about 100 minutes. Beyond that run I’m thinking about the twenty to thirty minutes of dregs any artist pulls out during live shows that run too long. Suddenly they’re pulling me beyond two hours (two-and-a-half with encores) and my mind keeps wondering why they’ve done it. In my defense, I’ll point out that I’m perfectly happy to let the artist play whatever bevy of songs they choose for the evening – I’m not one that needs to hear everything I’d put on the play list, and it’s that mentality that leads to people getting all roped up in three-hour sets. My question is this: would you rather have 90 minutes of killer performance or 2 ½ hours that alternates between dribs and drabs? There isn’t really a choice because there are few performers that can hold attention for that kind of time – hit me with both barrels and let’s head out. What made me think of this was the dcist.com review of the Neko show that included the fact that the set was 75 minutes. Very nice.

And I’m adding this little online input / discussion with the Washington Post staff writer (J. Freedom du Luc) from the WaPo website – hitting the nail on the head about all crowds at all shows:

Writer:“My question is one of 9:30 Club etiquette...we showed up about half-way through the opening act for the Neko show (too bad, b/c he was really good). We head upstairs and there is room to stand along the railing towards the front of the stage, with folks sitting in that first row of steps. We wander over and stand along the railing, and a guy sitting on the stairs behind us freaks out and tries to convince us that he is sitting there...but is also planning to stand against the railing once Neko comes on. We finally convince him that you can't both sit and stand at the same time and he's gotta give one of his spots up. I always stand downstairs at the 9:30, so the upstairs world is a bit new to me--is this common for 'upstairsers' or is this guy as big a -&%$# as we think?”

J. Freedom du Lac: “I'm with you here. Dude can't do the long-distance ownership thing. If somebody leaves their space along that rail and nobody's holding it for them, then it's fair game.”

My corollary to that discussion is the process at the Birchmere in Alexandria. (I know, you can tune out whenever…) The Birchmere main room is all tables, no standing, and the doors generally open about 60-90 minutes before the show – first come, first serve for seating with each table each seating between 6 and 10 people. For the sold-out shows they hand out numbers to folks as they arrive even earlier than doors opening and start calling numbers as the doors opening – it’s all very orderly. What generally happens is that there might be a group of 8-10 attending the show together but only one nugget shows up early to snag a number and then get seats for the rest of the monkeys. This guy ends up holding an entire table for the rest of the party that prances in about 20 minutes before show time…and it pisses me off. Here’s my rule: you can hold an equal number of seats as those of you currently sitting at the table. Call it my “you’re on a date” rule. If you want to hold eight seats then at least four of you have to be there. Period. If I walk up and decide to sit down at the table that you’re either laying on, or is covered with your purse, your jacket, one or your shoes on two seats, your hat, your effing umbrella, and your socks…I’m sitting down. Tipping the chairs up doesn’t count, nobody holds a seat for someone in the venue by tipping the chair against the table. There, I’ve said it. Stuff it.

This is the most useless entry ever.

expect no quarter

The other day at Trader Joe’s I bought a roll of quarters from the manager/customer service counter – or plank, as they might call it. I grabbed the business card of that store’s manager because I couldn’t pass on this name - Johnny Lawless. If I could change my name to anything it would be Johnny Lawless.

Getting back to work is uneventful after five days of vacation in Vermont. What can you do?

I didn’t get much input from the crowd on the yawning in public disease that’s overrun the city. The details are pretty clear: it seems that covering your massive, gaping maw while yawning on the train or bus is now non grata. I’ve seen some huge caverns and studied a good amount of dental work on display by complete strangers.

We were sitting in a living room semi-circle doing the Sunday NYTimes Puzzle last week and I somehow ended up in the role of reader. In the normal state of affairs the Eleven gets to sit back and simply provide input whilst MC Phil picks-and-chooses the across/down puzzle route. What you don’t want to do when designated control is not spell out all idiosyncratic clues that Will Shortz swings your way. My mistake was my encounter with the clue “Weigh stn. visitor.” I did spell the ‘stn.’ in order to indicate an abbreviation for the answer, well done on my part! Unfortunately, I neglected to spell W-E-I-G-H aloud and the front row on the couches had W-A-Y stuck in their shared DNA headmeat. When I finally almost mumbled over the answer (‘semi’…ah!) as I filled it in at toward the end of the puzzle my beachhead was washed over with refreshing waves of “what?”, “weigh?”, “well, of course…”, “Jesus”, and other variants of “you’re a damn fool”. They will eat the young and newly entribed.

We played golf in miniature on Mountain Road in Stowe one evening. They don’t call it mini-golf up Stowe-way – too left bank. I stink. X is some kind of putt hustler who smiles sweetly while gutting you on the course. I’ve never beat her, not that I need to, but she is ruthless with the short stick. I don’t think she missed any 4-6 foot putts – cold and calculating with a dash of grin and ‘oh my’ mentality.

The first day up North was spent at the Shelburne Museum followed by dinner at A Single Pebble. The Shelburne is site of the Electra Havemeyer Webb Memorial Building that houses an amazing group of impressionist artwork. After wandering around through gardens and exhibits for a number of hours we ended up in this building and were overwhelmed by the paintings on display. I can’t remember all the details but the building contains the innards of a NYC apartment of Electra and the brood – some lineage of the Vanderbilts and sugar kings. The Shelburne is well worth a visit. I must pass along a funny quip; the boys got a little frustrated with each other after a long day together and managed to get involved in child diplomacy. When X stepped in as the intermediary I overheard H. relay this evidentiary tidbit “Why am I always blamed for things I do?” Brilliant.

I’ll let everyone go for the day.

T.

hot potato, cool weather

The heat has died…ding-dong. We’ve had rain over the last two nights and it’s continuing to be cool through the days. This lovely turn of events means two things: I’m not grumpy and I don’t have to water the outside flowers. I lead a simple life.

I was walking to the Ballston Metro this morning, listening to This American Life on the iPod, and suddenly came upon a baked potato on the sidewalk. I’m on a sidewalk near a church that’s nowhere near any gathering of family garbage cans or garbage pick up areas. The complete potato is laying about a foot-and-a-half from the opened sheet of foil, something that all Midwesterners recognize from our evenings of meatloaf and baked potatoes. I think those coastal towns and cities tend to bypass the foil when baking, philistines. The potato was whole and hadn’t yet been considered for toppings; the foil was completed and appeared to have been unrolled, not torn. How did this happen? It clearly hadn’t been thrown from a passing car, who would do that? Of course, it makes little sense for someone walking to drop the potato in disgust. Did someone grab some leftovers from the ‘fridge on the dash out of the house this morning (or last night)? Maybe they were running late and took the first foil wrapped object they came across. Halfway to the Metro they peel back the foil and realize that this solid oval-shaped item is damn baked potato…a baked potato! You can’t eat a plain, dry baked potato while walking – you’d look stupid. Though if you were sneaky you could drive along in your car and munch on a whole potato, especially if you’re hungry and aren’t sitting at a traffic light. That’s why the tossing from the car was eliminated from suspicion. I guess the frustration of a cold, dry, plain baked was too much for them and they couldn’t wait for a garbage can. Damn the potatoes…damn the potatoes.

I’m heading up to Stowe tomorrow morning for five days vacation. Unfortunately, this year’s rental doesn’t have a ping-pong table in the basement and I think X finds this inadequate. I don’t need to spend any more time slaughtering the Goepp clan with my freakish paddling skills. We’ll make due with hiking, swimming, sitting in the hot tub, and surprisingly rousing matches of badminton.

I suspect computer access is limited; you’ll know soon enough.

Love to all.

T.

building to a future

Thomas Friedman’s op-ed in the Sunday NYTimes nailed it concerning the situation in Iraq and the report due next month from Gen. David Petraeus. I’d link to the article but the Times is pay-per-view for columnists online. Anyway, the gist is that if we need someone to explain to us what is happening with the Iraqi government then it’s not working. What we need, and expect, is a very clear signal or action from the parties involved in the Iraqi government: public statements like we will work together as a coalition, we will crack down on militias, insurgents, etc., and we will do it by such and such date. No translation required, merely a forthright statement from the government. He also applies the theory to any number of Middle East peace plans over the last forty years; whenever he had to sit through a briefing and explanation, without any clear action, he wrote off the plan as failed at genesis. Sadat to Israel in 1977? That didn’t need explanation.

The Eleven had a long discussion on Barrack Obama and Hillary Clinton, senators and vice-presidents, and long-view politics. Very lively! The opening idea was that if Hillary Clinton wins the nomination I think she’d be foolish not to bring Obama on as the veep. I’m not sure how she’ll fare in the general election but I think she needs a strong running mate; someone who isn’t an unknown and wholly subservient politico to the world (i.e. former Virginia governor Mark Warner). Obama gives the ticket a ton of pull across the populist spectrum and would probably offset some of her negative numbers. The issue becomes what I think of the vice-presidency, it doesn’t often lead to the presidency through election: only Thomas Jefferson (1797), Martin Van Buren (1833), and George H.W. Bush (1989) made the jump. Nixon eventually became President but that was eight years after he was veep. I think eight became President through the death (and one through resignation) of predecessors. Of course, being a senator doesn’t provide a much better record – only JFK in the 50+ years. So where does Obama go? Back to the Senate or to the Executive Office Building? I don’t know that he’ll ever be more popular than he is right now and I certainly don’t think that after eight more years in the Senate the iron will be hot. Even four more years, and running against an incumbent in 2012, isn’t a grand idea. If we assume that we wouldn’t see him until 2016, and the great hit on his record is his lack of international experience and leadership, than I would prefer to see him serving as a dynamic, aggressive, and very visible V.P.- it would greatly enhance his political clout – but only if he’s dynamic, aggressive, and very visible. I certainly believe that time spent hanging around the First Husband and learning the workings of government and diplomacy would do absolutely no harm. Since I’m sitting here on the left and hoping to build for the future I can’t help but think a Clinton/Obama administration would provide a chance for 16 years of leadership; come 2016 he’d only be 55. Whaddya know?

That’s too much political thinking and whatnot.

T.

loads of stuff

Let’s get back to talking about the Fairfax 401 bus blended together with a little chat about bags…and purses. (I’m going to excuse the WonderTwins as lab rats for my useless observations because they both carry totes in addition to, or in place of, ‘purses’. Smart girls.) Public transit commuters need to carry stuff because we don’t have the benefit of cars and trucks to run to during our smoke break. We need stuff. What I’ve noticed about the busgals is that they tend to want to maintain their designer purse-cute clutch ideal, probably as much for the other gals as for the busboys. I don’t have any issues with girls and large bags so it must be for the other fashionista dames; they do glare at each other-. The deal with men is this, when we finally realize that carrying a bag is a grand idea we are completely overrun with perfecting the bag life. We have no worries about overall size and certainly no need to find a small clutch or cute little lamè bag to impress the girls…we’ve decided, and we’ve got stuff to carry. It used to be that it seemed women carry purses so that we can laugh at them; as if they needed to bring along all that lipstick, powder, brushes, huge wallet, mirrors, and other womanly needs. In fact, the root of the problem, from the man logic jail, is they don’t go big enough and then end up with and an additional carrying platform like a recycled, handled paper shopping bag from Nordstrom or Macy’s so they’ll have shoes and lunch for the day. I guess the fact that the bag has nice rope-like handles and comes from Bebe or l’Occitane makes it fashionable. Guys would never do that, it’s counter-intuitive and we’d end up with a ratty old Subway bag with our ratty old shoes inside. The point of carrying a bag, any bag, is so our hands are free to do things like:

Describing a sweet golf shot from the 17th hole,

Explaining a great passing maneuver from the weekend’s Formula 1 race, or possibly,

Giving an accurate spatial relation demonstration representing how we shot down a Russian MiG, or our watch, on our Cold War video game.

It’s not so we have free hands so we can carry other bags. The great bag life allows us enough room to carry everything needed to survive either the workday or trip around the world, you never know: lunch, clothes, newspaper(s), book, magazines, iPod(s), first aid kit, umbrella, snacks, keys, wallet, sunglasses, water bottle, spare water bottle, day planner, camera, hand soap, maps, and tons of other stuff. We’ve no need to be svelte and overly fashionable; in fact, the more stuff we can pull from the bag the more impressed the crowd. As if a few lipsticks and rouge is enough to get a man through the day.


I’m off to the 9:30 Club to see the flaming redhead tonight. It’ll be my first Neko Case show and the general tenor of most reviews is that the crowd is a bunch of guys swooning over her. I’ll be mature. I think my review will take on the boy:girl ratio along with how mesmerized and full of woo the men were…

T.

86 99 whatever

For those not fortunate enough to have visited the N. Park kibbutz I'll try my best to give you a broad description of the apartments. The Eleven live over in #2 with two kids and two rats; take your pick on which may be which. The Corkat lives across the hall in numero uno with three birds and a cheeky child. Close your eyes for a few moments and just imagine how the floor plans for two apartments across the hall from each other might align...think...shhh....think of something peaceful. Got it? Right, they are exactly the opposite of each other and that's apparently baffling enough for this boy. Now, add in the little nugget that we are constantly back and forth betwixt the abodes; we know them well - they are simply backwards, you know, backwards. Good, now you have the back story.

I'm not sure exactly what chores I have while my beloved is off wandering the Hamptons with the rich and famous. Since I don't care to think about it too much I've decided to just do what I think is required - primarily the watering of plants and whatnot. I came home this afternoon and decided the massive sunflowers and assorted herbs and plants outside needed some H2O. I look here, I look there, I look everywhere, but I can't find the hose we bought last week. (We are sort of sneaking the hose onto our kitchen faucet and watering everything much quicker than before.) I decide to call another special agent to see if she knows where the hose might have gotten to; for the purpose of this story we'll call this special agent, Kt. Here's how it starts, and please review the first paragraph for tips and clues...

Me: "Hey. Do you know where the hose went?"
Kt: "Yes."
[me thinking to myself, "are you going to tell me?]
Me:"Good [sigh], Where is it?"[a divinely phrased interrogative]
Kt: "Do you know where our TV is?"

Now I'm completely lost. Have we slipped into code? Is Alberto listening, illegally? I ponder my responses, and think for just a moment that the answer to this masterly game of chess is something like "the rooster is in the cockpit", for which I'll be given access to the hose I so desire. No no, I think, that's not it. What the hell kind of question is that? Of course I know where your TV is, I think, "I could find your TV in my sleep. The apartments are exactly the same, I've been in there, I know which hidey-hole you keep your TV in." At this point I decide I've got some type of writer's license and decide to condense my response, just in case,

Me: "Yes."
Kt: "It's under the TV."

Phew! Disaster averted.

I'll give you a few words about Black Snake Moan, which I watched on DVD on the huge TV last night. Christina Ricci is basically a tramped-up version of every Reese Witherspoon role; Ricci has always been a much better, and sexier, actress. Samuel L. Jackson is the best cusser in the business - he can rip off a profanity like no other actor. The rest of the movie was fair-to-middling so I'll give it 2 ½ (of 5 stars). How in-depth is that?

Hugs to all.

T

no man

I heard a story on Morning Edition that informed me that Phoenix is an “urban heat island”. It appears that Phoenix, land of concrete, sand, and sun creates its own heat on a daily basis by absorbing the blast furnace-like death rays from the Sun. Even as the Sun sets and night falls upon the peaceful valley the temperature is maintained much higher than it should be throughout the night as heat dissipates from the parking lots and strip malls. When morning comes the temperature is higher than it would be if you weren’t living in an actual parking lot – hence, no relief ever arrives in the summer. Go figure. Physiologists also report that humans adapt after a number of weeks in that type of heat. The body creates greater amounts of something called heat shock protein which is a chemical that prevents your cells from killing each other. I know that when I plan where I’d like to live, if a locale either 1) acts as an actual furnace or, 2) alters the chemical composition of my body so it doesn’t start eating itself, I’m not packing up the wagon and settling down anywhere near there. Seems fair enough, right?

Here’s my wiggle-wave to the nearly departed Karl Rove and his divisive, stinking politics; thanks to the Old Crows and metrolyrics.com

as important as a straw poll

There was very intelligent discussion taking place on our drive to Dulles airport last night. X and the boys are now safely in New England for their annual three-week boondoogle; I’m ‘working’. The intrigue began when X pondered aloud, for reasons unknown, why superheroes wear costumes. In particular, what is the deal with the cape? I understand capes, my mother used to pin a towel around my neck when I was home from school, and have some professional experience: the cape helps you fly. Why wouldn’t it? What other purpose could it serve? As my statement of truth was floating through the air I realized that maybe I only think the cape helps them fly because that’s the impression I’ve been given by the creators - I only think it because they’ve made me think it. X pointed out that having a piece of material flapping around behind you, tugging at your neck while you’re hurtling through the air, probably doesn’t assist in the flying skill. That nay saying attitude never stopped me from jumping around on the stairs in our house or from tree branches back in Minnesota youth…I don’t trust her silliness. The cape was merely a minor problem to open; what about Wonder Woman’s invisible plane? How useful is it, really? The first serious question is whether or not the outline of the plane is provided simply for the cartoon viewer benefit or if it really shows when she’s flying. If the outline is there all the time, in the superhero world, then the invisible trait is pointless – they can all see the plane. If this is all true then the invisible bit is only helpful to ensure that Wonder Woman is following FAA safety requirements: seat belts, shoes, golden wrist bands, etc. If the outline isn’t visible then we’ve got bigger problems, not the least of which is how to find the plane on the parking ramp. We know that Wonder Woman doesn’t have any type of special vision so the possibility of misplacing the plane is quite likely. How would you find the ladder to climb up into the cockpit? I imagine that a truly invisible plane (or truck, or car, or helicopter) parking on a ramp at Midway Airport will probably get run into by fuel trucks, baggage haulers, food service, and myriad other ‘visible’ mechanical machinery. Also, Wonder Woman isn’t invisible so the baddies can see her flying through the air, looking dopey – not so tricksy now, is it? The massive number of fallacies with the invisible plane make it no better than a non-invisible plane. Since it only appears to function as her transport then she should simply get a jet-fighter, visible and all.

We also decided that the bulletproof bracelets are impressive enough, but it’s really the hand-eye coordination that’s key. As X plainly stated, “I can have the all the bulletproof bracelets I want, but I’m not stopping any bullets.” True, double true.

How’s that for serious stuff?

T

$4.30

That's what it will cost you to get from Ballston to RFK on the Metro's Orange Line. I know this because there are signs taped to every ticket machine in Ballston Station. I'll let you in on the reason for the inkjet invasion, but first the back story. The Washington Nationals baseball team, desired and required for thirty years, are averaging about 23,000 fans per game. I wonder about the number - I was there for a Cubs game and the crowd was nowhere near 23,000 in a 46,000 seat stadium, and the Cubs pull. The average attendance for Major League Soccer games, across the league, ranges from 16-23,000 per game. Not tonight...it's a sellout of over 46,000. By the way, there are never signs posted telling Nats fans the price of Metro tickets - but tonight is different, Becks is in town with the LA Galaxy. Beyonce may be runner-up on the list of celebs in D.C. today. I doubt Bonds would have drawn a full house at RFK...as if RFK could pull a full house, what a dump. That's some kind of effect.

I asked X to get me Posh's autograph tonight...I figure she'll be at the Beyonce show instead of RFK.

I saw a sign in a window at the strip mall that read "Help Waned", that killed me.

T.

shimmer shimmer

X is off to the Beyonce show at the Verizon Center this evening (in a luxury box), and as a salute to B. Yonce, I turn to her words…

“To the left, to the left.
To the left, to the left.
Mmmmm
To the left, to the left.
Everything you own in the box to the left
To the left, to the left.
Don't you ever for a second get to thinking
You're irreplaceable?”

I’ve already seen Beyonce during her days as part of the little opening act I’ll call Destiny’s Child. Sarah and I saw them open for Christina Aguilera in Phoenix way back in the 90s (it was her pre-trampy days when she was sponsored by Sears). I’m so hip. I’m taking the evening to relax at home, whip up some leftover pasta, drink a glass of wine, and watch some movie from my August watch list.

“To the left, to the left.
To the left, to the left.
Mmmmm
To the left, to the left.
Everything you own in the box to the left
To the left, to the left.
Don't you ever for a second get to thinking
You're irreplaceable?”

There’s a covey of my co-workers, most in their mid-20s, that have huge “Ron Paul for President” placards displayed above their desks. If I were betting on their political leanings, prior to the sprouting of signs and based on overheard conversations, I would have pegged most of them as young Democrats or centrist Republicans. I think Ron Paul fits well into that area of the Republican Party and I sense that there are many disenchanted young voters that are going to make some noise. Even with Romney, McCain, and Giuliani skipping the Ames Straw Poll, it’s going to make some news. The strong Ron Paul showing is going to shock some voters. Maybe Ron’s campaign slogan should be this…

“To the left, to the left.
To the left, to the left.
Mmmmm
To the left, to the left.
Everything you own in the box to the left
To the left, to the left.
Don't you ever for a second get to thinking
You're irreplaceable?”

A hot and humid hug to all.

T

haircuttin' hot

I know the weather is a silly conversation piece but when it's this hot it's hard to avoid. About 102 today with a heat index between 110 and 115, depending on the source. As I was walking home from the Metro this afternoon there was a woman waiting for the bus...standing in the shadow of a telephone pole. This sliver of relief was about 10 inches wide; what are you gonna do?

I popped over to the Wilson Blvd. Barber Shop (phone answering technique is "Barber Shop") to get my 'do fixed up and my beard trimmed. I'm trying to look wiser so I've let the shaving take a vacation - Habib was duly impressed with the idea of me growing a beard. I'm now well trimmed and nicely aligned in the facial hair department. Farraj (owner-operator) is off on holiday in Isreal so Habib has been extra busy for the last month...I gave him a little more in the tippage.

As an opposition entry to my bitching about bagging last weekend, I'll tell you that the cashier I had today at the store was unflinchingly cheery. So cheery, in fact, that I almost went nuts just waiting for my $1.82 of change. I think I should take it upon myself to sort out my little peeves - it's not you, it's me.

X is in the final days of her Summer Associate Tour 2007 and we'll head in Saturday morning to tote all her goods home. I'm working on a plan that might allow me to swipe some art on the way out the door since she got shafted on the Art Bidding Event 2007. Maybe if I dolled up in a suit and tie the guard would just wave me out with a "howdy do, Sir". I'll pry some art-placement schematics out of X over the next few days so I know what to heist. (Don't tell her.)

Quillen and I have this set kind of conversation most days - I ask him in the afternoon if he had a nap, "I HAD a nap." Then I ask him if it was good nap, "It WAS a good nap". Did he have any good dreams?, "I had GOOD dreams", and so on. Last night about 8pm he wanders into our apartment and immediately says to me "I just had a GOOD nap". Being an adult and all, I sorted out that, much like our affirmations from others ("Oh, your hair looks great!"), it was simply the normal phrase that comes out of his mouth when he sees me. I think I'll try to broaden my inquiries.

I've got a red clam sauce bubbling away. Gotta run.

T

casting couch

This may be my greatest screening yet. I often come across people who look like other people but rarely something of this level. When they film the bio of Hamid Karzai...

Give Ben Kingsley the hat.

t

happy news

I sense that I’ve sounded overly grumpy over the last few entries. Even if untrue, and it is untrue, sometimes railing entries become overbearing.

Remember the waffling discussion? Here’s what it looks like on Sunday morning at the North Park B&B. The first picture signals the imminent beginning; the second is what happens when someone gets hold of the fixin’s.



Here's one of the sunflowers that haa exploded from mere seeds scattered about the garden. I saw a small child climbing the stalks to the clouds.



L. is off in, literally IN, the Grand Canyon this week with her grandmother; a multi-generational vacation of hiking and rafting. She’ll be beat by the time she gets back to Omaha for school.

The comrades from across the hall popped in for dinner last night. Corey has finished his legal, sort of legal, legal deck at his friend’s house after working on it all weekend. My contribution to a project like that would be talking smack and carrying stuff around. Anyway, I’d made a big deep dish white pizza (béchamel sauce, artichoke hearts, red onions, fresh sage, garlic, fresh mozzarella, s&p, and some olive oil) for the commune. As we all sat down I decided that I wasn’t putting forth any more effort than cutting the huge rectangular beast into anything but four large quarter-pan servings: every man and woman for themselves, just hold out your plate. From my peripheral hearing comes this nugget, “that’s too big a piece baby, I can’t eat that much”. Sillier words have never been spoken. I don’t recall any bits left on any plate – strange, isn’t it?

As if “baby” will get you off.

T

i wasn't aware there would be a test

I was driving to Trader Joe's this afternoon and stopped at a light behind a car sporting a bumper sticker that read: 1% of the people have 40% of the wealth. What's your share?" Right. If every person equals one share (I'm making this easy) then all those really rich folk have 40 times more than they should. If the other 99 of us are sharing the dregs remaining, 60%, then I'm only getting $.60 on the dollar...if I were actually contributing an equal amount as that evil 1%. If each unit worked (and hour, a week, a month) is worth some portion of money, and my value is $.60, then I think I'm alright. My actual level of work is more like $.50 so I'm about 20% up on the deal. Not bad. I think that attempts toward socialist and liberal ideals shouldn't necessarily be based directly on some ratio of wealth. Is the system off-balance?, sure. Do I need to spend an hour wondering about formulas and equations? Not buying. Unfortunately, it's the constant path of 'protest' that doesn't hold any real effect.

Speaking of story problems, I've got this one:

How much longer will I stand in line at Trader Joe's because the customers in front of me think that bagging groceries is a spectator sport?

I'd like a full-length wall mirror just behind the register so Doug and Tilly can see how moronic they look while they clutch the debit card and watch the cashier bag six bags of groceries for them. Maybe they are thinking about that memorable time when Dixie at the Safeway managed to bag two carts of groceries in fifteen minutes. There was a day when SuperTodd worked the bags as a courtesy clerk at Albertson's (Omaha, circa 1984). My legendary ability to bag wasn't enough to convince grocery stores to maintain a cadre of highly trained, frozen food aware, heavy contents on the bottom of the bag, customer service gods. I'm guessing it was about 1990 when bagging ceased being a seperate skill set in the grocery...if you are older than 15 you should know all about this latest development. I should not watch you wide-eyed, with bags on the counter in front of you, imagining just how daring the ride will be when the bagging starts. Pick up a bag, put stuff in...it's not hard. Not only will you not look doltish, I might not be standing in line imagining ways to punish you. Oops.

Hey, it's Sunday.

T

the bed and breakfast

(the picture is from Hania's Bed and Breakfast in Truckee, California. If you go...stay. Gorgeous)


A few weeks ago Corey was lurking at the Italian Deli and Buy Me Shop when he discovered something called the Mukka Express by Bialetti. What this little jewel reminds one of is this: there are any number of products and companies in this big old world that don't deserve attention: Starbucks, Ford, People magazine, Crocs, etc. Yet, there are hidden and mysterious gems that excel beyond your wildest dreams: the Danish cheese slicer, my risotto, and Lidia Bastianich's recipes. The cappuccino this little devil turns out is amazing, and it meets X's doctoral thesis on products that are technological wonders that don't require electrical power. I must confess that my ability, or results if you will, have been sketchy since our purchase. Fortunately, I know when I've been less than brilliant and I finally decided to sit down today and watch the DVD that came with the pot. Bingo. Us guys don't even have to read anymore - just watch some TV. The lesson I learned today from the instruction module couldn't have possibly been ascertained by any normal human mind: there's a button involved. Get this, I'm suppose to push the button. Ah ha, j'accuse! I'm sorting through my brain file cabinet and haven't yet come up with a time where not pushing an available button was the right choice. There are buttons for a reason.

The rest of your meal is also drawn from the world of ingenius devices that have somehow slipped through the cracks of society (it's another Corey-found product...big head coming, if it can be bigger). The Eleven and clan have commandeered his classic Vitantonio Belgian Waffler. I believe the product comes from the lineage of Angelo Vitantonio of Cleveland. Angelo patented the first pasta machine in 1906 and probably moved on to start a company that produced other kitchenware. I defy anyone to find this two waffler anywhere...those that have them will never sell; they pass them on to family like season tickets to Nebraska games. Go ahead...google it. Don't be drawn in by the new looking Vitantonio waffle thingys...you'll know the king when (or if?) you ever see it.

Update Update Update. I just found one on eBay (I've looked before) and immediately made my first ever eBay purchase. It was up for a $19.99 'buy it now' price...I bought it now. I'm not waiting 6 days 1 hour and 34 minutes to get in a bidding war. Chaaaaaaa-ching. The seller apparently found it at an estate sale - that is how you get one of these babys, aimlessly wandering estate sales where the progeny are too mentally adrift of their parents to realize it's a Vitantonio. "I want nothing to remind me of them. Waffles every weekend? How wierd is that?" Life is good.

This is the greatest waffle maker I've ever known, and loved. I know from waffle makers...I've had any number of cruddy irons. It's so good that I packed it in my luggage* when we headed to Vermont last month. The evil plan consisted of piles of waffles (pecans and cinnamon baked inside) on the back patio on a Vermont Sunday morning. Some blueberries, blackberries, strawberries, yoghurt, and maple syrup somehow settled in on the big table and it turned into a waffling gorge session. Damn fine. If I can somehow move from the commune with both makers in hand then I'm set for my sweet little hotel in the woods near any city named Portland.

As the first of August settled over America last night...the Cubs were in first place. That's something to write home to Mom.

Love to all.

T

* I know you want to hear the TSA discussion on this one:

TSA agent: We've detected some metal in your bag. Can you please step over here.
Me: Sure.
TSA: We've got a notice out on some items of high interest. Please stand right here.
[Special TSA agent Bruce opens my carpetbag and digs with well-covered hands]
TSA: Ahhhh! [tugging and pulling something clunky from my luggage]
Me: Oh, that. I forgot it was in there [eyeing the waffler in the huge Ziploc freezer bag].
TSA: We've been thinking outside the box and this is definitely outside the box.
Me: What? It's in a clear bag. Do you think my mother would let me pack it in my suitcase if it wasn't seperated from my clothes? My shoes are even wrapped in bags. How about a break here? What could I possibly do with a Belgian Waffler?
TSA: Belgian?!

step away from the car

Right. Being as I’m a fan of just about any type of auto racing I was taken aback at an ad I saw on the inside cover of the latest New Yorker. It was an ad for the new Lexus LS and it took a few seconds to register in mind since I don’t generally read advertisements in any of my pubs. I was already into the table of contents before I flipped back to the ad. I’ll get to what caught my eye in a wee second.

My favorite racing series is Formula 1, followed closely by the World Rally Championship…I know my European is showing, I’ll try to tuck it in. I’ve long liked NASCAR but I’m more an open-wheel lover of American racing circuits. The 70s was much more memorable for watching the Indy 500 than the Daytona 500, at least if you were living in Omaha. If I purge my mind of my trivial NASCAR knowledge that has piled up over the years then I’m only being honest in saying that Richard Petty and David Pearson are the only stockcar drivers I knew in my youth. If we’re talking Indy Cars then I can overflow with names like AJ Foyt (I know, he drove stockcars too. Hell, AJ drove anything with wheels…probably the greatest ever American driver), Al Unser, Bobby Unser, Mario Andretti, Gordon Johncock, Johnny Rutherford, Rick Mears, Emmo Fittipaldi, etc. I think the ultimate test is the phrase that’s passed the lips of millions and millions of Americans riding in cars, “Who do you think you are? Mario Andretti?” I’ve heard that from kids in their teens…even now. I have never heard some punk say, “Who do you think you are? Jeff Gordon?” The next time they smart off from back seat ask them if they know who Mario Andretti is. Eventually, I moved to Bill Elliot and NASCAR but that’s another story.

Here are the basic engine specs on the 2007 engine being run by the defending world champion Renault Formula 1 team:

Capacity - 2400 cc
Architecture - 90° V8
Weight - 95 kg
Max rpm - 19,000 rpm

Do you know how many gears that beast has? 7 (plus a reverse…as if that’s used much). 7. 7. 7. 7. The last two World Championships for drivers and constructors have been won by the Renault team with Fernando Alonso at the wheel. I had a chance to attend a basic race driving school in England and I’ll tell you that hauling ass around Brands Hatch at nearly 100mph in an old open wheel Formula Ford is nerve wrecking enough. The idea of zipping around at 200+ mph in a Formula 1 car is terrifying. Is this too much of a back story? Sorry. My point is this: the new Lexus in the ad has EIGHT gears! if Fernando Alonso only needs seven gears to work his way around tracks from Monaco to China then I’m pretty sure Don of Leesburg, VA can get by on fewer. Exactly why does Don need the killer acceleration and power inherent in an 8-speed? Is he worried about his friction circle slipping outside of parameters as he blasts out of DuPont Circle with a VW Bug trying to pass on the outside? I’m pretty sure Don isn’t even capable of counting to 8 as he shifts at 6mph, 13mph, 25mph, 40mph, 60mph, 75mph, 100mph, and finally a kick at 125mph for the long run into Eau Rouge during his practice runs for qualifying. Who does he think he is, Jeff Gordon?. 8 gears? The dingletrons that are buying the sequential 8-speed are probably the same guys that attempt to downshift on the hard right-hand turn while exiting Key Bridge onto the Whitehurst Freeway (local joke). I can see this yahoo pulling into the local Shell, locking up the brakes into the ‘pit box’, and screaming to no one in particular that his car has understeer (‘tight’ for the NASCAR fans) and he needs less front wing. Didn’t we just move to 6-speeds not long ago? That was quite a reach from the kicking 5-speeds of my youth. You know what this reminds me of? This.

I rest my case.

T.