FLAVOR OF THE WEEK

A few weeks ago, I was up in Alpharetta enroute to a shiva minyan. I had allowed plenty of time for the (usually horrendous) traffic, so I ended up a few blocks from my destination with time to kill. That’s when I noticed that there was a Carvel ice cream store conveniently located nearby.

Those of us who grew up in the Northeast are familiar with Carvel, the ne plus ultra soft-serve ice cream. The company was founded by one Tom Carvel (né Thomas A. Carvelas), a Greek-American who sold ice cream from a truck in Hartsdale, New York back in 1929. One day, the truck broke down and he simply set up shop in the parking lot where he had been stranded. Sales were better when he stayed in one spot, so he put down his first roots right there.

Carvel specialized in soft-serve ice cream. Back in my Snot-Nose Days, Carvel stands offered a choice of vanilla, chocolate, and a Flavor of the Week – all soft-serve. Going out to “get a Carvel” was a real treat. Screw Dairy Queen or Mister Softee (another New York-area fave) – Carvel ruled. Eventually, Carvel began copying the Baskin-Robbins model, offering a large assortment of hard-pack flavors - but to us old-school Carvel fans, it’s the soft-serve that made Carvel special...and still does.

Carvel offered several novelties at his stores, including the “Flying Saucer,” a round ice-cream sandwich – but it was his imaginative approach to ice cream cakes that made him stand out. Tom was a believer in economy, and so it was that he took one or two molds and used them to make a variety of cakes simply by changing their decoration and orientation. Cake designs such as “Fudgie the Whale” (pictured at left), the Easter Bunny, “Cookie Puss,” and the seasonal “Cookie O’Puss” (done up in green for St. Patty’s Day) were not only big sellers, they were all produced using the same stupid molds.

Maybe the best thing about Carvel was his insistence on being the Official Spokesman for his own products. Tom had absolutely no acting ability, but he really believed in his product. You could hear it in his gravelly voice as he introduced his latest franchisee to the radio audience:

“This is Tom Carvel, and I’m here with Rajneesh Gupta, who operates a new Carvel ice cream store at 1115 Grand Concourse. What do you think makes Carvel so special, Rajneesh?”

“Oh, Mister Carvel, I am telling you that we are having the thirty-one flavors, and we are having the Fudgie the Whale, and the Cookie Puss, and they are 100 per cent fresh, and certified kosher! Oh, my ghosht!”

You can’t make this shit up, Esteemed Readers.

Along with Tom Carvel, one of the great unsung heroes of Ice Cream Technology has to be the person who invented Vanilla Fudge.

Vanilla Fudge is insidious. You have a tub of nice, bland vanilla ice cream, shot through with dark, fudgy veins. (In the better ice creams, you can actually taste the fudge.) As you scoop the ice cream out of the tub (or – let’s be honest here, shall we? – excavate your way though the tub with your spoon), every time you hit a vein of fudge, you tend to want to dig it all out. Like copper mining, but without the heavy metals. And there’s always another vein lurking beneath the one you just finished off. The result: you consume far more ice cream than you had originally planned to. Marketing genius!

If you really want Ice Cream Imagination, though, you have to look to Ben and Jerry.

I’m generally a fan of simple ice cream flavors. I don’t like lumpy shit like nuts or chunks of fruit in my ice cream: smooth is what works for me. But Ben and Jerry are the past masters at creating Really Good Ice Cream Flavors with Lots of Chunky Crap In ’Em.

I remember the first time I saw Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough ice cream. Here I was in a check-out line at our local Randall’s in Houston, when the lady in front of me set a couple of pints of Ben & Jerry’s on the conveyor belt.

Holy. Fucking. Shit. Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough Ice Cream?!!?

Leave it to Ben and Jerry, I remember thinking at the time. These are guys who obviously know how to tap into Fatbody Consciousness. For only the True Fatbodies among us will look at a bowl of raw chocolate chip cookie dough and think, “Hey, why even bother to bake this? I’m gonna eat it with a spoon, right out of the frickin’ bowl!” From there, it’s not too huge an intuitive leap to, “Let’s mix this shit into vanilla ice cream. Bet it’ll taste great!”

Thanks to guys like Ben and Jerry, for me, a trip down the ice cream aisle of the Stoopid-Market is fraught with danger...kind of like a trip through the beer aisle with Rob Smith back in his Bad Old Days. It’s only the knowledge that yielding to temptation means Certain Doom that keeps me from cleaning out 80% of the Ben & Jerry’s and Häagen-Dazs section. These bastards with their Mayan Chocolate (H-D), New York Super Fudge Chunk (B&J), Dublin Mudslide (B&J), and Gawd knows what other flavors tempt me sorely...but I do not give in. Most of the time.

Ahh, but Carvel. You can find their dopey-looking cakes in the Stoopid-Market freezer section, but it’s not the same, no, no. But give me a simple, uncomplicated sugar cone or cup loaded with Carvel’s plain ol’ soft-serve chocolate, and I’m a kid again.

RETENTIVE RED: A 100-WORD STORY

Red was a man who believed in an orderly life.

Perhaps it was his military background, but for whatever reason, it was “a place for everything, and everything in its place.”

His gun cabinet was carefully arranged, weapons sorted by type and caliber. You could eat off the floor of his garage...provided you cleaned up afterwards.

And his butt-plugs? Meticulously shelved by size.

To those who questioned his orderly outlook, Red would always say, “There’s nothing wrong with being a little anal.”

To those who questioned his personal proclivities, Red would always say, “There’s nothing wrong with a little anal.”

[This post is a collaborative effort between Yours Truly and the lovely (and only slightly perverse) Lisa W. of Lemons and Lollipops. You can listen to the podcast at Laurence Simon’s 100 Word Story Podcast site.]

POETIC LICENSE

Every once in a while, I break loose from my conventional, Middle-American suburban existence and do something completely unexpected. It’s the only way to keep the adrenaline flowing.

That’s why I took action today, an action without precedent - at least, in my recent experience. I renewed my Georgia driver’s license a full two weeks before it expired. Woo-Hoo!

Georgia driver’s licenses formerly were issued for four-year terms, with the expiration date on the holder’s birthday. That actually makes sense - a rarity amongst licensing regulations - because it means that the flow of people seeking renewals is fairly steady. You can imagine what the rush at the tag offices was like in the bad old days when all vehicle registrations in the state expired on the same day. Now your vehicle registrations and your DL expire on your birthday, which means that (1) you’ll be more likely to remember when to renew, and (2) there’s less likely to be a line of frustrated wanna-be motorists a quarter-mile long. And with Georgia’s ad valorem taxes on vehicles (which make the annual registration renewal an expensive ordeal), it’s like getting a birthday present in reverse…

“Say, it’s my birthday. Here’s a check for $250. Can my license plate read ‘GO FCK URSLF’?”

But back to the Driver’s License. We’ve been back in the greater Atlanta area for a little over eight years, which means this is the second time I’ve had to renew. It’s ridiculously easy - in fact, it can be done over the Internet, no eye test required, as long as there’s no change of address. And now, you can renew for a term of five years ($20) or ten years ($35) - your choice.

I decided to brave the crowds and go in to the Driver’s Services office to renew. My rationale? The photograph on my license is already eight years old. If I renew for ten years, the photo will be eighteen years old when the new license expires in 2016.

The old photo is OK, but it shows a bearded Elisson. This year’s model is clean-shaven and wears, thanks to the depredations of age, a pair of eyeglasses with progressive lenses. (Progressive used to refer to a kind of politics - or jazz - but these days, it’s the non-bifocal bifocal.) Having a more recent photograph will help me avoid some of the stupider questions that pass for small talk these days:

Dumb Fuck Behind Counter: “Shaved the beard, huh?”

Me: “Yeah. What gave it away?”

Fortunately, the wait for my new license was downright reasonable. I answered a few useless questions, plunked down my $35, and smiled for the camera in my usual tight-lipped semi-serious Official Documents way. And no, I did not wear my Panama hat.

Ten years. That’s an awfully long time until the next renewal. Like a frickin’ passport. Wonder what I’ll look like for the next one? I guess anything that doesn’t involve the descriptive terms “skeletal remains” or “moldering, necrotic flesh” will be plenty good.

Oh, I suppose you’re expecting a poem, too, eh? OK, here ya go:

Elisson went to the office,
To renew there his License to Drive.
The damn thing is good for a decade -
When it runs out, will El be alive?

There’s a lot that can happen in ten years:
Disasters, diseases, and such.
It seems like a bit of a gamble,
Staying ’way from the Grim Reapist’s touch.

But it’s thirty-five bucks, not a hundred,
So Elisson says, “What the fuck?
Who cares if it’s risky? Just bring me some whiskey.
For once, let’s try pressing my luck!”

Update: Ask and ye shall receive...

The New Driver’s License d’Elisson.

CAT BURGLAR: A 100-WORD STORY

Cold wind rattled the bushes as Pak Rhee plastered himself against the side of the building, making himself invisible.

The street was empty. It was time for him to make his move.

He hoisted himself up and slid the pry-bar under the window’s edge. Ten seconds later, he was inside the elderly lady’s apartment. Working quickly, padding from room to room in complete silence, he filled his sack.

It was a good haul. Fifteen of ’em. Crazy old woman.

The manager of Korea House handed Rhee a fat envelope. “Dinner?”

Rhee declined politely. He had never cared for Seoul food.

A QUESTION FOR MERYL

Meryl Yourish may be able to help me with this one.

Today I took a day-trip to Richmond, there to meet one of my Corporate Colleagues and visit a customer on behalf of the Great Corporate Salt Mine. During the course of the day’s journeys, my colleague and I found ourselves driving on the Powhite Parkway, west-southwest of downtown.

And I found myself wondering: What do they call the detritus that piles up alongside that particular highway?

Powhite trash?

(groannnn....)

THE MARCHING IDIOCRATS

I can’t wait to see Mike Judge’s latest filmic effort, Idiocracy.

Unfortunately, that might not be easy to do. For some bizarre reason, the film - which was completed two years ago - has been released (“dumped” is more like it) in only six markets, completely without benefit of reviews and publicity. And markets like New York and San Francisco, where Judge’s style of humor is well-appreciated, are not even on the short list. What were they thinking?

The L.A. Times (among many others) gives it a favorable review:

Judge has a gift for delivering brutal satire in the trappings of low comedy and for making heroes out of ordinary people whose humanity makes them suspect in a world where every inch of space, including mental, is mediated. The movie would be worth seeing for its skewering of the health system alone...even if its opening thesis on the moment in history (roughly now) that evolution tipped into devolution weren’t so clear-eyed.

But it’s not a pile of glowing critiques that makes me want to see this film. It’s the story.

The movie begins with a comparison of two family trees. A high-IQ couple waits for the perfect time to have a child, a decision they don’t take lightly, while elsewhere, in the trailer park, the dim bulbs breed like rabbits. The high-IQ couple waits too long, the husband dies of stress during fertility treatments, and their line stops there. Meanwhile, the moron population explodes.

And the Onion’s A.V. Club weighs in:

Idiocracy’s dumb-ass dystopia suggests a world designed by Britney Spears and Kevin Federline, a world where the entire populace skirts the fine line separating mildly retarded from really fucking stupid, and where anyone displaying any sign of intelligence is derided as a fag.

Sound familiar? It does to anyone who is acquainted with the work of the late, great science fiction writer Cyril M. Kornbluth, whose classic short story “The Marching Morons” was first published in Galaxy magazine in March 1951.

Strangely, not a single review I’ve read for Idiocracy - with the exception of an excellent post by billmon at his blog Whiskey Bar - has picked up on the Marching Morons connection. And yet it’s clear from every plot summary I’ve seen that Kornbluth’s story had to have been the direct inspiration for Mike Judge’s screenplay.

Cyril Kornbluth died young of a hypertension-driven heart attack, but it could just as easily have been his poisonous worldview that killed him. A more cynical, misanthropic writer this side of Jonathan Swift would be hard to find. In his short story, a modern-day real estate salesman is accidentally thrown into suspended animation, waking up in a dystopian world hundreds of years hence in which intelligence has been bred out of 99.9% of humanity, leaving the hyper-intelligent 0.1% remnant covertly running things - and killing themselves with overwork. The protagonist helpfully suggests a Final Solution to the problem...

Reading “The Marching Morons” today, 55 years after it was written, is actually a little bit scary. The story seems almost perversely prescient, written as it was before reality television, videogames, and Paris Hilton. (Before The Beverly Hillbillies, for that matter.)

From what I understand, the most extremely bitter and cynical elements of Kornbluth’s story have been jettisoned from the movie’s plotline. Even so, that leaves ample opportunity to skewer pretty much everything in modern, vintage-2006 society. I’ve got to see it...if I can find it playing anywhere near here. Otherwise, it’ll be “wait for the DVD” time again.

ARRRH

Tomorrow, September 19, is International Talk Like A Pirate Day, for those of my Esteemed Readers who keep up with such things.

It’s a perfect day to spend in Arrrh-kansas, eating Harrrh-vard beets, smoking cigarrrhs, drinking in barrrhs, and driving fast carrrhs. [The Oldsmobile Cutlass, unfarrrh-tunately now discontinued, comes to mind.]

It’s a good day to watch television, a medium famously characterized by the late FCC chairman Newton Minow as “Avast Wasteland.”

And it’s a good time for me to end this post, before I take things too farrrh.

Update: Commenters David and Nell* have been kind enough to remind me that Newton Minow is, in fact, very much alive. I am glad to hear it, even though his presence in this post is merely for the sake of advancing a stupid pun.

*Who oughta be in a position to know.

FREE PARKING

It may look like a pillow to you and me, but to Matata it’s Free Parking.

“Move along, now. Daddy wants to get some sleep, and your fat ass is in the way.”

THE JIG IS UP

Long live the jig.

Update: This keeps getting better and better.

THE TOMATO WAR

Friday evenings, She Who Must Be Obeyed is generally beat from a week of dealing with Teaching Responsibilities - so this past Friday I volunteered to cook dinner for us and for our friends Laura Belle and Don, just returned from a wedding trip to the Northeast.

At the local Fresh Market, some nice fillets of wild Alaska sockeye salmon were calling my name. The flesh was an impressive dark orange-red.

Once home, SWMBO seasoned the fillets with a liberal coating of Potlatch Seasoning. We grilled them over medium-high heat on a cedar plank that had soaked in water for about an hour. The result was indescribable, a blend of spice and smoke that complemented the fish perfectly.

To accompany the fish, I prepared a Carrot-Parsnip Mash. I peeled six carrots and three good-sized parsnips and cut ’em into chunks. These went into a pot of boiling salted water for 45 minutes, along with a handful of Italian (flat-leaf) parsley stems. Once the root vegetables were tender, I drained them and removed the parsley stems, then ran them through a potato ricer. [If you don’t have a ricer, a quick spin in the food processor works about as well.]

To the resulting mash, I added a liberal handful of chopped parsley leaves and 2 tbsp of butter. Salt and fresh-ground black pepper to taste, and Bob’s yer uncle. Yummy!

I sliced up a handful of red, ripe tomatoes and dressed them with sea salt, a little pepper, a scattering of parsley, and some basil-infused olive oil. Alongside the tomatoes I placed a small dish with chunks of Roquefort cheese, for those who wanted something with which to doctor up their tomatoes.

A nice 2001 Merlot to wash everything down, and we had a delightful Friday evening meal.



After dinner, it seems that a solitary tomato had remained untouched...and whether it was grateful for my having spared it, or whether it was contemptuously thumbing its Tomatoey Nose at me, it started showing up in the damndest places when I least expected it.

Of course, it was the ever-playful SWMBO who had started a Tomato War. It became a game between us - to see where the tomato would next appear. In my cereal bowl. On SWMBO's bathroom counter. On my pillow.

This morning, as I went to get a clean pair of untervesch out of the drawer, I discerned a strange weightiness in the pouch area. Sure enough, there was the tomato.

I resisted the urge to laugh out loud. Instead, I quietly buried it in SWMBO’s carton of Twat-Plugs, went downstairs, kissed SWMBO goodbye, and nonchalantly headed off to my committee meeting.

During the meeting, my phone beeped in a text message:

“The Tomato Surrenders.”

HALF MEASURES

The Kennedy half-dollar. [click to embiggen]

Lisa W. commented on a previous post that she had “never heard of a ‘Kennedy half-dollar.’ Cool...”

That’s not too surprising, given that Lisa is Canadian, and considerably younger than Yours Truly. The Kennedy half - and half-dollar coins in general - are virtually unknown outside the World o’ Coin Collectors these days. And, in large measure, that is the fault of the Kennedy half.

Let’s hop on the Wayback Machine and travel to 1964.

In the wake of the assassination of John F. Kennedy, a clamor arose for his memorialization on a circulating coin. Strangely, instead of selecting the Washington quarter, which had been around since 1932, the Franklin half - in circulation only since 1948 - was targeted for replacement by the new coin. And thus it was that the Kennedy half-dollar coin was created.

Half-dollars had been around since the earliest days of the Republic. Larger in diameter than the quarter-dollar (because they contained more precious metal content), halves were, at the time, made of .900 fine coinage silver: 90% silver, 10% copper. Dimes and quarters were also made of coinage silver, and their sizes reflected their relative value.

1964 was a tumultuous year for coins, which were in short supply due to a strong economy, increased use of vending machines, and (to a lesser extent) an exploding collectors’ market. Simultaneously, the price of silver was rising, to the point where the intrinsic value of the coins due to their precious metal content threatened to move above their face value.

Today, in the era of U.S. Mint webmarketing, Statehood Quarters, and seventy-’leven kinds of commemorative coins, it’s hard to imagine the adversarial relationship that existed between the Mint and the numismatic hobby in 1964. But back then, the Mint blamed the collectors for having created the coin shortage - a shortage that was exacerbated by the popularity of the Kennedy half. People salted away every Kennedy half they could get their hands on - it was an attractive coin with a bold portrait of a slain young President, and people kept them rather than spending them.

And that’s when the Treasury Department stepped in and decided to pull the silver out of circulating coins.

Henceforth, dimes and quarters would be made of a “clad” composition - a copper core, bonded to outer layers of 75% copper/25% nickel - with no silver; halves would also be “clad,” but with a silver content of 40%. (A few years later, halves moved to the same silver-free construction as the dime and quarter.) At the same time, the Mint announced that it would pull mintmarks from the coins produced in Denver, a direct slap in the face of collectors. Not only that, they announced that the sale of proof coins - specimen coins with a brilliant mirror finish, produced especially for collectors - was to be suspended indefinitely.

To make the 1964 coins even less attractive to collectors, the Mint continued to produce coins dated 1964 for a goodly part of 1965 - a break with tradition. And then they phased in the silverless coins of 1965.

Gresham’s Law states that “bad money drives out good,” and it operated with a vengeance starting in 1965. With no new silver coins being produced, people began hoarding the old ones almost immediately, and they disappeared from circulation. Soon, old friends like the familiar Liberty-Head (“Mercury”) dime and the Walking Liberty half were but memories.

Between the sentiment-driven collecting of Kennedy halves and the general hoarding of all silver coins, half-dollars vanished. Kennedy, Walking Liberty, Franklin - the design didn’t matter. Gone. And after a few years had passed, people found that they did not miss these large coins - slightly larger in diameter than a Toonie, to give a point of reference to our Canadian friends. Why use a big half-dollar when two quarters worked just as well?

The vending machine and tollbooth manufacturers seem to have agreed. You can’t use halves anymore...not in anything with a slot or change basket. Strangely, though, the Mint still cranks ’em out.

And so it is no surprise that Lisa has never heard of - or seen - a Kennedy half-dollar. The same is true for many Americans today. And - to me, at least - it is a shame.

ARACHNOPHILIA

It’s mid-September, and Fall is in the air.

Oh, we still will have our share of warm - nay, torrid - days in the weeks to come. But now, the night-time temperatures are beginning to dip into the low 60’s, even the upper 50’s. Just like spring in Saint John - but without the incessant drizzle.

It’s too early for frost to be appearing on the pumpkin, but one of the signs of the season is the sudden appearance of spiders. Big ones, too.

Yesterday evening, I noticed that there were two - two! - huge webs in the ivy at the side of our driveway. These were Orb Spider webs, with the classic round “spiderweb” shape - and a honkin’ humongous spider sitting comfortably in the center of each one. I dubbed them Boris and Boris II.

The light of the setting sun caught those diaphanous webs just right, so I ran to get my camera. After all, if Dax Montana can collect Buggy Photographs, so can I.







The Missus wanted to knock the webs down, but I dissuaded her. First, these spiders serve a valuable function, eating pestiferous Small Insects, mosquitoes, and the occasional wayward poodle. Second, they were, located as they were at the side of the driveway, not in anybody’s way. And third, as long as the webs were up, I knew where these big guys were.

Fast forward to later in the evening, as our friends Laura Belle and Don were getting ready to depart after having dinner. Upon opening the front door, they were greeted by a huge web that another Orb Spider had constructed - sometime after their arrival only three hours before.



Jebus! The last thing you want to do is to walk out your front door and get a face full of spiderweb - especially with a nice, big, excited spider in the middle of it. Yeef!

Borisovich - for so I named him - had to go. His fatal mistake was one the Spider Realtors could have drilled into him: Location, Location, Location. I was mercifully quick...but I was ruthless. Eric would understand.

But this morning, I went to get the paper and Borises I and II were still fat and happy, their webs glistening with droplets of dew. SWMBO was kind enough to lend a hand so you could see how big these bad boys are.



That’s not a quarter in SWMBO’s hand, Esteemed Readers - it’s a Kennedy half-dollar.

PUNCH IN THE NOSE

Turd in a punchbowl
(Resurrecting a meme)
Turd in a punchbowl
Giving off steam.

Turd in a punchbowl
At the yellin’ in Helen -
Turd in a punchbowl
Is that what I’m smellin’?

Turd in a punchbowl
Eric’s not amused.
Turd in a punchbowl
Lucky Scotch is his booze.

Turd in a punchbowl
To tell you the truth -
Turd in a punchbowl
It’s a Baby Ruth.

[Tip o’ th’ Elisson fedora to Yabu for the image]

IRONY

A diet rich in irony will keep you young.

This morning, Pill-Pushin’ Barney - one of my regular Breakfast-Compadres - was describing the latest pile of stuff he had sold on eBay.

Barney, it should be explained, is a pharmacist. In his spare time, however, he earns a little extra coin by trading antiques and other crap. With all the old junk and miscellany he buys and sells, I’m tempted to start calling him “Rubble Barney.” Lately, he has also become something of an eBay hound.

So here he is, telling us of his latest electronic Fire Sale.

Freeze-dried food. More freeze-dried food. Yet more freeze-dried food. An electric still for purifying water. Survival gear.

All of this stuff, it seems, had belonged to a survivalist, one of those whackos who squirrels away a huge Hoard o’ Necessities in the event the Apocalypse descends upon us. Barney snarfed it all up in an estate sale. The survivalist had not, as it were, survived.

Irony! It’s what’s for breakfast!

FRIDAY RANDOM TEN

This week has seemingly flown by.

Monday, life got back to normal after an Exceptionally Bloggy Weekend in Helen, Georgia. I took Lisa to the airport that morning, fully expecting to see the usual Monday Mob o’ Frantic Travelers - but Hartsfield-Jackson was a ghost town. Were people avoiding travel on 9/11? Surely not everybody in the greater Atlanta area was suffering from the aftereffects of a surfeit of Chatham Artillery Punch!

No matter. With Lisa on her way safely, it was back to the Great Corporate Salt Mine and its daily drill instructions. Next week, I’ll be spending a day in Richmond - Yourish-land! - and then it’ll be back home to get ready for the rapidly approaching High Holidays.

So: What Miscellaneous Magic does Elisson’s Little White Choon-Box have for us today? Let’s check it out:

1. Stand Up Comedy - Mitch Hedberg
   
2. I Want A New Duck - Weird Al Yancovic
   
3. Whaling Stories - Procol Harum
   
   Pailing well after sixteen days,
   A mammoth task was set
   Sack the town, and rob the tower,
   And steal the alphabet
   Close the door and bar the gate,
   But keep the windows clean
   God’s alive inside a movie!
   Watch the silver screen!
   Rum was served to all the traitors;
   Pygmies held themselves in check
   Bloodhounds nosed around the houses,
   Down dark alleys sailors crept
   Six bells struck, the pot was boiling -
   Soup spilled out on passers-by
   Angels mumbled incantations,
   Closely watched by God on high
   Lightning struck out - fire and brimstone!
   Boiling oil and shrieking steam!
   Darkness struck with molten fury,
   Flashbulbs glorified the scene
   Not a man who had a finger,
   Not a man who could be seen
   Nothing called (not name nor number) -
   Echo stormed its final scream
   
   Daybreak washed with sands of gladness,
   Rotting all it rotted clean
   Windows peeped out on their neighbors,
   Inside fireside bedsides gleam
   SHALIMAR, the trumpets chorused,
   Angels wholly all shall take
   Those alive will meet the prophets,
   Those at peace shall see their wake
   
   
4. Inside Out - Paul Cantelon, Everything Is Illuminated soundtrack
   
5. I Looked Away - Derek and the Dominos
   
6. Russian Sher - The Klezmer Conservatory Band
   
7. Carey - Joni Mitchell
   
8. Bodhisattva - Steely Dan
   
9. Underture (Entr’acte) - Tommy, Original Broadway Cast
   
10. Allison Krause - The Stills
    

It’s Friday. What are you listening to?

FUZZY FRIDAY

Here it is Friday again, and Miss Matata is here to remind us that it’s time to board the Friday Ark. This week, Voyage 104 sets sail from the Modulator’s fine port facility.

Don’t forget to check in with Justin’s Random Thoughts this Sunday evening when the 130th Carnival of the Cats will be posted.

[Tip o’ th’ Elisson fedora to Lisa of Lemons and Lollipops for the photo of Matata!]

HELEN 2006 - TALKIN’ DIRNDL AGAIN

More pics to come, but these will give my Esteemed Readers a taste of the Jollity and Madness that is Helen, Georgia when the Blown-Eyeds come to town.


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[Note: If you want to get a better look at any of the images, click on the slideshow picture - this will take you to the RockYou slideshow page. When the page finishes loading, you’ll see the slideshow on the left side of the page, with thumbnails of the individual pictures below it. Click on the thumbnail to jump the slideshow to that image; click on “View Pic” to see the full-size image.]

BLOGGA-WATHA

By the shore of Chatta-Hoochee,
By the shining River-Water,
At the doorway of his cabin,
In the warm late Summer evening,
Elisson stood there and waited.

All the air was full of freshness,
All the earth was bright and joyous,
And before him, through the sunshine,
Westward from the Chalet Kristy
Passed in drunken swarms the Blodgers,
Passed the Blown-Eyed Jawja Blodgers,
Stumbling, singing in the sunshine.

Bright above him shone the heavens,
River spread like glass before him;
On its bosom floated tubers,
Dodging rocks from warlike V-Man;
[Wait a minute; that was last year.]
On its bosom floated tubers,
This year floating unmolested,
Floating past the Chalet Kristy.

On the river bank the Blodgers
Sat there drinking punch and whisky,
Sat there swapping tales of bullshit,
Getting up to play half-rubber
On the field beside the Kristy
Redneck trying to catch the pitches
Flung by Eric, noble White Guy.

Denny came, the Grouchy Cripple,
Bringing fancy car and Git-Box,
So he could regale the Blodgers,
Singing of the Brokeback Cowboys.

Rick was there, with lovely Georgia,
Driving from South Carolina,
There to keep the old tradition
Of not missing any blogmeets.
Hair cut short, you’d hardly know him -
Cleans up real good, Recondo.

Shadowscope and Holder sat there,
Newly welcomed to this conclave,
Holder wearing a tiara
As befits a science teacher.

Dax was standing in the river,
Vainly trying to find a nugget,
Just one little golden nugget -
(Georgia found a toy Buzz Lightyear
Floating down the selfsame river
Floating down the Chatta-Hoochee.)
V-Man, meanwhile, found a mushroom:
Big white sucker, like a penis -
Like a huge albino penis -
With it V-man had amusement,
To the horror of his sister.

Lisa came there, joined by SWMBO,
Joined by SWMBO and by Leslie.
They had traipsed through downtown Helen,
Getting tats upon their titties.
(OK, not on Leslie’s titty.
She had got hers on her ankle.)
Lisa came from far New Brunswick
Leaving Hubby with the harvest -
Harvest of the sweet blue-berries.
Rode with Leslie in a rent-car,
(Actually, she drove the rent-car)
Thanks to her connection’s lateness.

Kelly came there, from the Restroom,
Came there with her husband Richard,
There to join the Jawja Blodgers,
And to share the Revelations
She had found inside the Restroom.

RSM paid them a visit:
When the smoke cleared, he could find them
Camped beside the Chatta-Hoochee.
He had just run down the mountain,
Just to find the Jawja Blodgers.
He cleaned up in Zonker’s cabin.

Yabu came there, bringing Barbie -
Bringing with him beauteous Barbie
Proving he is not a nutjob.
Late at night he lit the skies up,
Lit the skies up with his rockets.
Then, when the constabulary
Showed up on the Kristy’s doorstep,
All the other bloggers scattered,
Leaving him to face the music.
Getting busted? Bad, Bad Juju!

Kelley came up from Atlanta,
Came up from Suburban Blight-Land
Leaving Pete to tend the baby,
New arrival Saruman Dooku,
So she could hang out with Blodgers.

Zonker was the organizer -
Organizer of the Blogmeet.
Made the deal with Chalet Kristy,
Blocking out the rooms and cabins.
Zonker brought a bunch of whisky,
Cigarettes, and case of sparkling
Wine to throw into the punchbowl.

Dash and Shoe came out from Texas -
All the way from sunny Texas
There to join the happy party.
Shoe had made a bet with Redneck,
Bet with Redneck on the football,
That the one whose team did poorly
Had to turn the Blog-Keys over
To the winner of the contest.
Texas lost, so ’Neck’s the winner
Letting him post any horseshit
That he wants to on her blogsite.
(Redneck, please, spare us the Goatse.)

Dash had driven up with SWMBO,
Elisson and lovely SWMBO.
On the way they mixed the Chatham
Punch that made the bloggers drunken.
Carefully they stirred the mixture,
Lest they slosh it in the kitchen,
Slosh it on the kitchen floorboards,
There to strip off all the varnish.

Key Monroe came up to visit -
All too briefly, came to visit -
And to give her arm a tattoo,
Leaving untouched her left titty.
(There’s a girl that’s got some Issues.)

Dax Montana’s wife Priscilla
Brought with her the brand-new baby,
Little Dax Montana Junior,
And their other lovely children.
To the Troll they went at lunchtime,
Place beloved of the Blodgers.

Late that night, at Yabu’s cabin,
All descended on the punchbowl,
To their horror finding that a
Turd was floating in the Punchbowl.
“Elisson, you nasty bastard!
Did you place that dookie in there?”
[It was really not a Turd-Chunk,
Just a piece of choc’late candy.]
Eric did avoid the punchbowl,
Drinking, instead, Scottish whisky.
Blessèd, turd-free Scottish whisky.

Sunday morning came too quickly,
Far too quickly for the Blodgers,
Scattering in all directions
At the ending of the Blogmeet.
Ave atque vale, Blodgers!
It was great, as I expected.
Note to self: Come next September,
Book a room at Chalet Kristy,
Kristy on the Chatta-Hoochee
Blogmeet-Home for ever after!

BACKGROUND CHECK

One of the things they teach budding photographers is to compose pictures carefully. Not a single detail can be overlooked if one is to be successful at capturing the “perfect” image.

The relationship of foreground to background is critical. Generally, the foreground compositional elements are the most important. Lighting and positioning these elements properly draws the eye to the desired portions of the photograph.

This is not to say that backgrounds are unimportant. Woody Allen, in particular, has practically made a career out of directing scenes that have - for example - two characters in the foreground having a conversation, while unrelated (and extremely humorous) action takes place in the background. In these scenes, it’s the background that is really the intended focus of attention.

But in most cases, the background elements of a photograph are not the most important. All we really want is for the background to enhance the composition without distracting from the appeal of the foreground subject. How many of us have taken what we thought were great pictures, only to have a potted plant appear to be sprouting from Uncle Herman’s head?

The solution?

Pay close attention to the entire image - not just the subject - as you frame your shot.

Here’s an example of how easy it is to go astray.


Elder Daughter with SWMBO’s Dad and Mom - 1979.

A lovely snapshot of the grandparents holding the new baby...or is it?

Careful examination shows the presence of an unwanted Background Distraction.



As you look at the photograph, you cannot help but think, “What is that? Why...is that a dog? Be damned if it isn’t! Damned if it isn’t a dog copping a squat! Son of a bitch!”

This is not what you want your blue-haired Aunt Tillie to be thinking as you pass around the baby pictures, no, no.

Another example: Here’s a pleasant enough candid photograph of a well-known Online Journalist.



However, careful examination reveals the presence of a distracting visual element in the background.



What is Aunt Tillie going to be thinking as she looks at this otherwise fine photograph? “Oh, what a charming young man! Such a thoughtful, intelligent expression! But...but...what’s that behind him? Why...why...it looks like...it is!...an Albino’s Pego, apparently forcibly removed! Left to languish on the muddy banks of the Chattahoochee! How horrible! Why, I do believe this photograph has given me the vapors!”

After having seen this picture, it wouldn’t be a bit surprising if Aunt Tillie disowned your sorry ass. She does not care for the vapors and resents you giving them to her.



Damn! It does look like an albino’s Cock ’n’ Balls, though, doesn’t it?

Where were we? Oh, yes. Pay attention to the background when you take a picture!

THE MAYOR OF GILGO BEACH

Lt. Geoffrey Guja worked as part of the New York Fire Department’s 43rd Battalion as a floater between different stations. He had been a New York City firefighter for fifteen years.

Lt. Guja was on light duty at a Brooklyn headquarters on September 11, 2001. He had injured himself recently at a fire and was therefore not required to respond...but when he saw the first plane hit the tower from across the water in Brooklyn, he responded anyway, hopping in a subway car with another lieutenant and dressing up in somebody else’s gear at a firehouse in lower Manhattan. Guja was killed when the towers crumbled. He was 47 years old.

“Everybody had to communicate back and forth with upper authorities,” said his wife Debbie. “But he didn’t have anybody to respond to. He just went over. A lot of guys just went over. It’s their nature.”

Guja had been a registered nurse for about four years, working on a per diem basis at Mercy Hospital in Rockville Centre on the south shore of Long Island. A big, burly, boisterous man, he didn’t look the part of a nurse. He occasionally even poked fun at his image, Debbie said, like the time he stitched half a nurse’s uniform to half a fireman’s uniform for Halloween - even shaving off half his mustache.

Guja would spend summers surfing at Gilgo Beach, one of the many beaches on the thin barrier island that separated the Atlantic Ocean from the Great South Bay. They called him the Mayor of Gilgo Beach, such was his popularity. He kept a 43-foot houseboat there at Gilgo, and every July 4 he would take his wife and stepdaughters, Kelly and Jamie, on a cruise to the Statue of Liberty. He would don a chicken costume for special occasions, such as his daughter’s Sweet 16 party - one month prior to September 11. You had to laugh at the sight of this big guy crammed into a chicken suit, festooned with yellow feathers.

Born in Brooklyn, Geoff grew up in Massapequa with brothers Gary and Howard and sisters Patty and Judy. After graduation from Berner High School, he enrolled at the State University at Binghamton. A resident of Lindenhurst, he worked for LILCO - the Long Island Lighting Company - for fifteen years before becoming a firefighter and got his nurse training while on the job.

His headstone reads, “WHAT A WONDERFUL WORLD.”

Unlike many of my fellow bloggers, I did not sign up for Project 2996, the goal of which was to have each of the 2,996 victims of 9/11 memorialized by at least one Online Journalist...for I did not want to write about a Randomly-Assigned Individual. I chose, instead, to write a memorial to Lt. Geoffrey Guja - because of all the people who lost their lives that evil day, he is (thank God) the only one with whom I have a personal connection.

No, I never knew Geoff. I can’t recall ever meeting him...yet his loss brought the events of 9/11 very close to me, because we had Childhood Geography in common. Geoff and I both lived on Pocahontas Street: our end of the street was on the west side of the local nine-hole golf course, his on the east side. We attended the same high school. His older sister Patty was in my class, and I shared many a schoolroom with his cousin Art, from elementary on up through high school.

And when I read about his life - his achievements, his personality, his courage - I feel a real sense of loss. Not just because he is gone, but because I never got to know him.

Geoff, may your memory be a blessing and comfort to your family. You are one of the true heroes of 9/11.



Visit these sites for more information:

The Long Goodbye

Nurseweek.com

Newsday

Bravest Memorial.com

HELEN A HANDBASKET, ONCE AGAIN

This afternoon, She Who Must Be Obeyed and I will head up to the little faux-kitschy mountain town of Helen, Georgia, for the Fall Classic - the Yellin’ in Helen - the Southeast Writers’ Conference, Tea Party and Ice Cream Social - the Blown-Eyed Blodgemeet - whatever the hell you want to call it.

I’ll be picking Dash and Lisa up at the Hartfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport with the Honkin’ Long Name, after which we’ll gather up SWMBO and make the trek up into the hills. We may even get to wave at Dax as we drive by.

Update: Slight change in plans. Lisa’s connection from Halifax (!) to Toronto got biffed because of the ubiquitous Maritime Fog, so she’ll be arriving on a later flight that will get her to Atlanta at 4:00 - just in time for the Friday-Peeyem Traffic Clusterfuck. Since Leslie - the Omnibus Driver - will be coming in a little beforehand, we’ve arranged it so that Leslie will rent a car and drive with Lisa up to Helen.

Before embarking on a major trip, it’s generally good policy to make a checklist, so as not to forget Important Provisions ’n’ Such. Lessee:

• Zombie-proof undershorts. Check.
  
• Semi-Official “Talk Dirndl To Me” leisurewear. Check.
  
• Camera, for documenting the occasional indiscretion all the fun. Check.
  
• Cell phone and charger. Check.
  
• Vat of Chatham Artillery Punch. Check.
  
• Hats: Red Cowboy for SWMBO, Panama for me. Check.
  
• Bail money. Check.
  
• Miscellaneous gew-gaws, gimcracks, doo-dads, and fuckmonkeys. Check.

See you on the other side, Esteemed Readers. This should be a gas!

FUZZY FRIDAY RANDOM TEN

Friday!

It’s Fuzzy Friday!

Fridays are fuzzy days, and not just because I wake up with the usual overnight growth of face-stubble. No, it’s because Friday is the day the aptly-named Friday Ark sets sail each week at the Modulator. This week marks the 103rd sailing - be sure to go over and pay a visit to our Animal Friends.

As long as we’re on the subject of Animal Companions, don’t forget Carnival of the Cats, the 129th edition of which will be posted Sunday evening at Begin Each Day As If It Were On Purpose, the home of Orloff and Pushkin.

[Update: CotC #129 is up.]

Back to the topic at hand: Friday. Friday is also Random Ten day, the day on which I post the usual motley selection culled randomly from the iPod d’Elisson. So without further ado, let’s have a listen...

1. The Pipe - Mitch Hedberg
   
2. Dona Dona - Moishe Oysher and Sholom Secunda
   
3. Woman In The Garden - The Judybats
   
4. Little Green - Joni Mitchell
   
5. Hulk Hogan (live) - Skankin’ Pickle
   
6. Friday On My Mind - Easybeats
   
7. Buddy Holly - Weezer
   
8. Venus In Furs - The Velvet Underground
   
9. You Won’t Succeed On Broadway - Monty Python’s Spamalot
   
   Arthur:
   Have you heard of this “Broadway”?
   
   Robin:
   Yes, sire...and we don’t stand a chance there.
   
   Arthur:
   Why not?
   
   Robin:
   Because...Broadway is a very special place,
   filled with very special people,
   people who can sing and dance, often at the same time!
   They are a different people, a multi-talented people,
   a people...who need people...and who are, in many ways, the
   luckiest people in...the world. I’m sorry, sire, but we don’t have a chance.
   
   Arthur:
   But why?
   
   Robin:
   Well...let me put it like this.
   
   In any great adventure,
   if you don’t want to lose,
   victory depends upon the people that you choose.
   So, listen, Arthur darling, closely to this news:
   We won’t succeed on Broadway,
   If we don’t have any Jews.
   
   You may have the finest sets,
   Fill the stage with Penthouse pets,
   You may have the loveliest costumes and best shoes.
   You may dance and you may sing,
   But I am sorry, Arthur King,
   You’ll hear no cheers,
   Just lots and lots of boos.
   
   Ensemble:
   Boo.
   
   Robin:
   You may have have butch men by the score
   Whom the audience adore,
   You may even have some animals from zoos,
   Though you’ve Poles and krauts instead,
   You may have unleavened bread,
   But I tell you, you are dead,
   If you don’t have any Jews.
   
   They won’t care if it’s witty,
   or everything looks pretty,
   They’ll simply say it’s shitty and refuse.
   Nobody will go, sir,
   If it’s not kosher then no show, sir,
   Even Goyim won’t be dim enough to choose!
   Put on shows that make men stare,
   With lots of girls in underwear,
   You may even have the finest of reviews.
   
   Critic:
   You’re doing great!
   
   Robin:
   The audiences won’t care, sir
   As long as you don’t dare, sir,
   To open up on Broadway
   If you don’t have any Jews.
   
   You may have dramatic lighting,
   Or lots of horrid fighting,
   You may even have some white men sing the blues!
   Your knights may be nice boys,
   But sadly, we’re all goys,
   And that noise that you call singing you must lose.
   
   So, despite your pretty lights,
   and naughty girls in nasty tights,
   and the most impressive scenery you use...
   You may have dancing man-a-mano,
   You may bring on a piano,
   But they will not give a damn-o
   If you don’t have any Jews!
   
   You may fill your plays with gays,
   Have Nigerian girls in stays,
   
   Girls:
   You may even have some shiksas making stews!
   
   Robin:
   You haven’t got a clue,
   If you don’t have a Jew,
   All of your investments you are going to lose!
   
   There’s a very small percentile,
   Who enjoys a dancing gentile,
   I’m sad to be the one with this bad news!
   But never mind your swordplay,
   You just won’t succeed on Broadway,
   You just won’t succeed on Broadway,
   If you don’t have any Jews!
   
   Arthur, can you hear me?
   
   To get along on Broadway,
   To sing a song on Broadway,
   To hit the top on Broadway and not lose,
   I tell you, Arthur King,
   There is one essential thing...
   There simply must be, simply must be Jews.
   
   There simply must be,
   Arthur trust me,
   Simply must be Jews!
   
   
10. The Caves Of Altamira - Steely Dan
    
    I recall when I was small
    How I spent my days alone
    The busy world was not for me
    So I went and found my own
    I would climb the garden wall
    With a candle in my hand
    I’d hide inside a hall of rock and sand
    
    On the stone an ancient hand
    In a faded yellow-green
    Made alive a worldly wonder
    Often told but never seen
    Now and ever bound to labor
    On the sea and in the sky
    Every man and beast appeared
    A friend as real as I
    
    CHORUS:
    Before the fall when they wrote it on the wall
    When there wasn’t even any Hollywood
    They heard the call
    And they wrote it on the wall
    For you and me we understood
    
    Can it be this sad design
    Could be the very same
    A wooly man without a face
    And a beast without a name
    Nothin’ here but history
    Can you see what has been done
    Memory rush over me
    Now I step into the sun

It’s Friday. What are you listening to?

MORE SHAMELESS BABY-PIMPAGE

More pictures featuring our brand-new baby niece and family.


Mother and daughter spend a quiet moment.


Hey, what about me?

Meanwhile, Daddy gets to hang out in the Hospital-Issue Hazmat Suit.

ENOUGH, ALREADY

This blogging business is clearly out of control.

[Tip o’ th’ Elisson fedora to Zeldie for the photo.]

REBEL WITHOUT A CAUSALITY: A 100-WORD STORY

The biggest risk of time travel, George told his project managers, is that it may create causal singularities.

Explain, they said.

You travel into the past. Now, you can’t go back and shoot your grandfather, because then you would never be born to travel into the past. The classic paradox.

OK, they said.

But you might inadvertently change something - even something trivial - that could trigger big displacements in the worldline. And we would never know it!

No problem, they said.

George’s time probe materialized in the late Devonian, squashing a trilobite.

Nargh shoggoth, they said, engulfing their dinner.

THE ELUSIVE AND MYSTERIOUS PUFFBALL

For a few summers in the early 1960’s, my brother and I suffered the indignity of having to go to Day Camp.

Looking back on it, I can understand the ’Rents wanting us to be out from underfoot. Our father spent long days in the office, and our mother, if left to her own devices, would much rather be free to swat the dimpled ball around one of the courses at Bethpage State Park than to ride herd on a couple of obstreperous prepubescent boys.

And thus it was that we would be picked up by The Guy in the Van every morning, to be schlepped the ten miles east to Captree Day Camp.

Truth be told, Day Camp really wasn’t all that bad. The counselors were reasonable, by which I mean they were not complete assholes, and there were plenty of activities to keep us busy in a Day Campy sort of way.

We did Arts and Crafts. This included useless activities like the Obligatory Fashioning of Lanyards out of Braided Gimp, but there were other projects that I found fascinating. We learned how to make enamelware by creating a design on copper using colored glass powder, then melting it down in a white-hot kiln. [There’s something about the phrase “white-hot” anything that is irresistibly fascinating to young boys.] We learned how to make mosaic tile coasters, and it is there that I first became exposed to the Miracle of Grout. It’s knowledge that, to this day, could be turned to good purpose if I were to get off my lazy ass and redo the shower stall in our master bath.

We learned how to shoot. Okay, our weaponry consisted of mere CO₂ pellet rifles shot from the prone position, but we learned about gun safety...and I was, surprisingly, a reasonably adept marksman. And there was archery, too. You developed a lot of respect for the medieval-era footsoldier when you realized just how difficult (and painful) shooting arrows could be.

We played baseball. Not wimpy-assed softball, but hardball, played in the hot, green fields of a Long Island summer.

I discovered by observation that if you ate a whole mess of spaghetti for lunch and then threw up, the spaghetti retained its original squiggly form. Horrifying, yet fascinating.

And I discovered the Elusive Puffball.

There is a kind of fungus that grows wild in the Long Island climate, a fungus that, when mature, consists of a little brown leathery bag about the size and shape of a golf ball. We would take great delight in plucking these from the earth and then running around squeezing them, which would cause them to emit a smoke-like puff of spore-dust. I have no idea why we found these little Wonders o’ Nature so entertaining, but I suspect it was because we were pre-Gameboy-Era kids.

It’s almost forty-five years later, and there are times I miss those Day Camp Days. Something to think about as we get ready to head off to a weekend at Camp Bloggy Drinkalot.

NEW ARRIVAL!

Please join me in welcoming our new niece, Madison Ann, to Planet Earth.

Clocking in at 7 pounds 7 ounces and 18 inches, Madison is the daughter of SWMBO’s brother Morris William, whose name you may see in the comments here from time to time, and his lovely wife Rebecca. She joins her big brother William (who turns four in a few weeks) as part of the North Texas Branch of the SWMBO-Elisson Consortium.

Mazeltov to Rebecca (whew!) and Morris William on the Blessèd Event!

GOOD DAY ATLANTA

This morning’s post-Minyan breakfast at the Local Bagel and Smoked Fish Emporium was a little out of the ordinary.

Somehow, one of the local Fox station’s reporters discovered this little treasure trove of Fishy Breakfast Goodness in the hinterlands of East Cobb County, and thus it was that this morning, snippets of our breakfast were broadcast live across the metropolitan Atlanta area on Good Day Atlanta. Intrepid TV Reporter, cameraman, satellite truck, the whole works, all feeding the MSM maw.

It was quite a scene, the cameras rolling as a passel of platters was delivered to our table, each heaped high with Smoked Fish. Nova Scotia smoked salmon. Baked salmon. Sable. Whitefish. Tuna salad. Whitefish salad. Bagels, with the requisite cream cheese schmear. Sliced tomatoes and onions. We had a group of perhaps a dozen, but there was food enough to feed twice that number...and all on the house. Schweet!

But we earned our tucker, I’ll say that much. While the camera was rolling, we were Model Citizens, refraining from dropping the usual F-bombs and making the usual snarky comments about the Emporium’s loathsome coffee. No, we lavished fulsome praise upon the fish...praise which, to be honest, was well-deserved. For there is no other place in the Atlanta area with the variety and high quality of the Smoked Fish Offerings at the Emporium.

Regrettably, there was no advance warning that would have allowed me to set up my TiVo. And thus, the exclusive WAGA Fox 5 interview with Elisson, in which I compare the Emporium’s fish to the appetizing treats of my misspent youth, is but an ephemeral memory to those Lucky Few who were watching Channel 5 in Atlanta between 8:00 and 8:45 a.m. today.

Update: Here’s a link to one of the segments of the show - alas, not the segment featuring the Minyan Boyz.

I wonder if I’m the first person to use the expression “Snot-Nose Days” on camera...

PUFFIES AND KITTIES

It’s no fun when you don’t have anything to write about.

Some people can squeeze, turnip-bloodlike, a post out of virtual thin air, but not me. And this is a time when I think back to an autograph from my mother’s sixth-grade graduation:

Can’t think
Born dumb
Inspiration won’t come
Bad ink
Worse pen
Congratulations!
Amen.

But just when I thought there was no Post-Worthy Material this evening, here comes Richard, Mr. Shadowscope his ownself, with a link to a post that practically had me pissing myself with the Convulsive Chuckles.

Come, read what Erin O’Brien has to say about Puffies, Chubbies, and Fluffy Little Kitties. And then take a handkercief and clean the spittle off your monitor.

CLAIRVOYANCE?

Another Figure Study pulled out of the Basement d’Elisson.

As I looked at this 36-year-old drawing, it looked strangely familiar. It was almost as if, back in 1972, I had captured a glimpse of a future vision, the kind of fleeting image that one sees in the corner of one’s eye for the briefest of moments. What could it have been? Who could it have been?

Could it have been a premonition...a clairvoyant peek at a future in which I would meet this guy?



Naaaah.

ASSISTED LIVING

As we get older, many of us find that we need a little assistance with the daily tasks of living.

She Who Must Be Obeyed is not at that stage of Mortal Existence - not yet, anyway, not by a long shot - and yet nevertheless, the trusty Matata feels honor-bound to provide that little bit of help...


Sure you don’t need a little help with that meatloaf?


Say, this looks pretty good...


Here, let me steady you while you take a bite. Oh, is that your boob?


What? Did I say something wrong?

THIS IS LAMENTABLE

She Who Must Be Obeyed and I do not normally attend Sunday evening services, but this being Labor Day weekend and all, we wanted to be sure that a minyan - the required quorum of ten Jewish adults - was present so that mourners could recite the Kaddish.

As we were on our way to the synagogue, SWMBO spotted a brand-new Escalade in the right lane.

We speculated, just between the two of us, on the ethnicity of the driver. Escalades, after all, are the Conspicuous Consumption Purchase of Choice among many of our African-American brethren. But since this one was without the requisite Chrome Spinners, I suspected that the driver was just as likely to be an East Cobb White-Bread Teenager.

As the Escalade sped off, we noticed something disturbing: the left taillight was out.

Shit!

Think of it. Here was someone driving a Huge-Ass American Vehicle, a monster chunk of automotive iron, packing avoirdupois that would not have been out of place in Detroit’s glory days...a vehicle that probably cost at least fifty large...and the fucking taillight was out before the cardboard dealer plate had expired!

What ever happened to quality? Are American automakers so thoroughly debased? Are they not capable of shame?

It’s...it’s...downright lamentable, I tells ya!

WORDS OF WISDOM FROM MR. DEBONAIR

“Picking your nose with a tissue is like making love while wearing a condom.”

MORE FOUND ART

In this case, it’s Art I Found In The Basement.

Our basement is a giant-economy-size version of Fibber McGee’s closet, and all kinds of miscellany lurk there. Furniture. Hundreds of LP’s. Thousands of books. Teaching supplies. Old Mad magazines. Old National Lampoons. Stuffed animals from our kids’ Snot-Nose Days.

And a sketch pad containing figure studies I did back in 1972, when I took a drawing class in college.

Most of the stuff in there is absolute shite - I tend toward the cartoonish in both my drawing and my thinking - but there are a few half-decent pieces. Here’s one I liked.



What I really want to find is the pile of cartoony sketches I did back in junior high and high school. Now there’s some Fine Art. Snarf.

FOUND ART

Art is where you find it, they say. Or at least, I say.

Whether you consider the sometimes appalling, always delectable writings of Velociman to be High Art (I do), there are other, more visually-based nuggets that can be mined in the rich fields and dank tunnels of Velociworld.

A recent post by the Velocidaddy his ownself included what, to the casual observer, might appear to be a throwaway link. But not so.

I followed that link to a Treasure Trove of Chi-Com propaganda art.

There’s nothing that rivals Chinese Communist propaganda artwork. Even Joe Stalin’s boys were amateurs compared to the Great Chinese People’s Amalgamated Propaganda and Kitschy Artwork Factory back in the day.

Since I am not above turning Art to Nefarious Purposes - or at least, purposes different from, and more nefarious than, even its originators envisioned - I submit the following for your delectation and amusement...




[Click to embiggen.]

TORONTO TIME-LAPSE

©2006 Sam Javanrouh

This remarkable photograph was taken by one Sam Javanrouh, who published it on his daily dose of imagery site.

It’s a time-lapse image of the Toronto skyline, with each successive slice taken two hours after the one to the left of it.

Go to Sam’s site, and you can see the image in its original context, along with a gorgeous Flash animation of the entire panorama: as you move your mouse over the image from left to right, the hours zip by, the sun goes down, and the city lights begin to illuminate the scene.

After looking at a few of Sam’s photographs, I’ve awarded him a place on the Blogroll. Every day, there’s a new image to admire.

A Tip o’ th’ Elisson Fedora for finding this gem goes to Brandon Hoover, an American expat in Indonesia whose own considerable photographic skills are showcased at javajive. Brandon has been on my sidebar for a long time; his photographs of Indonesian life and scenery are unsurpassed. Terima kasih!

FAKE RECOGNITION, PART TWO

SWMBO’s turn in the barrel. Somehow, I think she comes out of this smelling like a rose. Miranda Otto? Well, why the hell not?

FAKE RECOGNITION

This “Celebrity Collage” thing has been floating about the ’Sphere for the past couple of weeks. I first saw it at Lisa’s site; more recently, I noticed it at The Atheist Jew’s place. It supposedly uses sooper-scientific Face Recognition Technology to generate a list of celebrities with whom you share more than a passing resemblance.

Just for shits and grins, I decided to give it a try.



This is just plain wrong, people.

Since my High School days, the standard Celebrity Reference for my phiz has been Dustin Hoffman. Now I find that friends and family have been using the wrong Hoffman all these years? WTF?

Philip Seymour fucking Hoffman?!!?

OK, the guy has Oscar cred, and all, but still...Philip Seymour Hoffman?

I’m fine with Joe Montana.

I’m fine with Michael Caine.

And I’m fine with Dean Cain. Princeton connection, and all.

Philip Seymour Hoffman?

Fuck.

THE BOOKIE

This Book Meme has been circulating throughout what Agent Bedhead calls the blogidohexidone for the past year, or so it seems. Most recently, Lisa of Lemons and Lollipops decided to play, and since I’m a booky kind of guy, I might as well play too. So here goes:

A book that changed my life:
There is no single book that changed my life; my worldview and my interests are partly the product of hundreds of different books. Could it be the Merck Manual, or the Compton’s Pictured Encyclopedia I used to read as a little kid? Or perhaps The Time Machine, by H. G. Wells, which helped open my eyes to a world of imagination. Who the hell knows?

A book I’ve read more than once:
Childhood’s End by Arthur C. Clarke comes to mind. Of all the books I’ve read over and over, that one tops the list simply because I’ve probably read it more times than any other. Still waiting for the movie version, which I will hate.

A book I would take with me if I were stuck on a desert island:
The Fireside Book of Humorous Poetry, edited by William Cole. It’s a humongous 1959-vintage anthology containing the finest assortment of Funny Poems I’ve seen anywhere, and I’ve loved it ever since my Snot-Nose Days. If I had to be stuck on an island somewhere, I would want something to help me laugh.

A book that made me laugh:
A Dirty Job, by Christopher Moore. I mention it here because it’s the latest in a long series of books that have made me laugh. Anything by P. J. O’Rourke will do just fine in that regard.

A book that made me cry:
Lost Boys, by Orson Scott Card. I won’t spoil it for you, but if you can read the last chapter without getting misty, you have a heart of stone and a complete lack of human emotion.

A book that I wish had been written:
Brothers in Abraham: How the New Islam Learned to Live in Peace with the People of the Book, by Ahvnot bin Bornyet.

A book I wish had never been written:
The obvious choice would be The Protocols of the Elders of Zion, but in terms of lives lost, I’d go with Adolf Hitler’s Mein Kampf. A thoroughly honest piece of writing, it is at the same time thoroughly evil and thoroughly deluded.

I’m currently reading:
Reading Lolita in Tehran, by Azar Nafisi. I haven’t decided if it’s too “girly” yet.

A book I’ve been meaning to read:
The Forever War, by Joe Haldeman.

What turned me onto fiction?
My parents were both voracious readers, back in the day, and it’s hard to imagine my not following their example. Even today, the shelves of my Dad’s house are filled with books - Heritage Club editions, many of ’em - and plenty of classics among them. In terms of what I read, I seem to have inherited my mother’s love of science fiction...but not her love of the Mystery Novel.

This meme has been doing a fine job of propagating itself without the hateful necessity of my “tagging” anyone. Nevertheless, I would be fascinated to see what Eric and V-Man - two literary Bloggy Giants - have to say on the matter. This does not constitute a tag, merely an expression of curiosity...play if you wish, any and all.

INTO LEATHER

There’s a great scene near the beginning of Woody Allen’s magnum opus Annie Hall in which the grown-up Alvy Singer - played by Woody Allen - flashes back to his elementary school classroom, source of at least a few of his neuroses.

TEACHER
(With young Alvy still at her side)

Why couldn’t you have been more like Donald?

The camera pans over to Donald, sitting up tall in his seat, then back to the teacher.

Now, there was a model boy!

ALVY (AS CHILD)
(Still standing next to the teacher)

Tell the folks where you are today, Donald.

DONALD
I run a profitable dress company.

ALVY’S VOICE
Right. Sometimes I wonder
where my classmates are today.
The camera shows the full classroom, the students sitting behind their desks, the teacher standing in the front of the room. One at a time, the young students rise up from their desks and speak.
1ST BOY
I’m president of the Pincus Plumbing Company.

2ND BOY
I sell tallises.

3RD BOY
I used to be a heroin addict.
Now I’m a methadone addict.

2ND GIRL
I’m into leather.
Well, guess who else is into leather...



...and pretty much anything else she can park her furry carcass on?

EXPOSED: A 100-WORD STORY

When it came to running his company’s booth at the triennial Trade Show and Exposition, Morty was the master.

He would arrange for all of the supplies and equipment to be delivered. Everything showed up in the right place at the right time, nothing gone missing.

He staffed the booth with the most knowledgeable salespeople and filled the reception area with beautiful models to attract passersby.

Sales of his company’s Clothing for Clergymen would always spike as a result of his efforts...and yet, Morty never got Promotion One.

His own fault. The title on his business card read, “Chief Exhibitionist.”

[The theme of Weekly Challenge #20 at the 100 Word Stories Podcast is exposition.]

FRIDAY RANDOM TEN

Once again, Friday has come around, bringing with it the promise of a Glorious Weekend that includes a Monday holiday. Can you say “Three-Day Loaf-Fest”? [By Loaf-Fest, I refer to the act of loafing, i.e., being supremely lazy. Only those that know me all too well the filthiest minds among us would assume that I am talking about a three-day orgy of defecation...]

In the United States, nobody seems to find it ironic that the contributions of the Labor Movement to our country are commemmorated by setting aside a day on which we refrain from labor. Meh.

Yes, it will be three days of indolence, marking the semi-official end to the summer season. Never mind that summer still has about three weeks to run by the astromomers’ calculations, and that the weather in Georgia will not be cooling off any time soon.

This weekend is a mere prelude to next weekend’s complete and utter debauch Southeast Writers’ Conference, an opportunity to drink oneself silly meet new faces in the community of Online Journalists and renew acquaintances with familiar ones. And half the fun is seeing what accoutrements of destruction the participants will bring. Sixteen-foot bullwhips, cymbal-clanging monkeys, Blown Rectum Spidum lavalières (if you don’t know, mebbe you don’t wanna ask), and a variety and quantity of Adult Beverages that you won’t see in many places outside of Harry’s Bar.

But that is then, and this is now. It’s time to check out Elisson’s Little White Choon-Box to see what Random Assortment of Moozik it has come up with this week:

1. Women We Haven’t Met - Minus The Bear
   
2. Incognito - The Judybats
   
3. I Don’t Want To Spoil The Party - The Beatles
   
4. Yellow Submarine - The Beatles
   
5. Harlem Swing - Django Reinhardt
   
6. The Last Laugh (featuring Van Morrison) - Mark Knopfler
   
7. Ain’t No Woman Like The One I’ve Got - The Four Tops
   
8. Daylight - The Judybats
   
9. Boxing - Ben Folds Five
   
10. John Barleycorn - Traffic
    
    There were three men came out of the west
    Their fortunes for to try,
    And these three men made a solemn vow
    John Barleycorn must die.
    
    They’ve ploughed, they’ve sown, they’ve harrowed him in
    Threw clods upon his head,
    And these three men made a solemn vow
    John Barleycorn was dead.
    
    They let him lie for a very long time
    Till the rains from Heaven did fall,
    And little Sir John sprung up his head
    And so amazed them all.
    
    They’ve let him stand till Midsummer’s day,
    Till he looked both pale and wan.
    And little Sir John’s grown a long, long beard
    And so become a man.
    
    They’ve hired men with the scythes so sharp,
    To cut him off at the knee,
    They’ve rolled him and tied him by the waist,
    Serving him most barbarously.
    
    They’ve hired men with the sharp pitchforks,
    Who pricked him through the heart
    And the loader, he has served him worse than that,
    For he’s bound him to the cart.
    
    They’ve wheeled him around and around a field,
    Till they came unto a barn,
    And there they made a solemn oath
    On poor John Barleycorn.
    
    They’ve hired men with the crab-tree sticks,
    To cut him skin from bone,
    And the miller, he has served him worse than that,
    For he’s ground him between two stones.
    
    And little Sir John and the nut brown bowl
    And his brandy in the glass
    And little Sir John and the nut brown bowl
    Proved the strongest man at last.
    
    The huntsman, he can’t hunt the fox
    Nor so loudly to blow his horn,
    And the tinker, he can’t mend kettle nor pots
    without a little barley corn.

It’s Friday. What are you listening to?

FUZZY FRIDAY

No, not hangover-related fuzziness. Kitties!

The Friday Ark appears today in its 102nd incarnation at the Modulator, where Steve is playing catch-up after a (well-deserved) bit of vacation last week.

And, of course, let us not forget Carnival of the Cats, the 128th of which will be hosted Sunday evening at Watermark. If you don’t get your fill of fuzziness on Friday, satisfy your skritch obsession on Sunday.

Update: Carnival of the Cats #128 is up.