Chili Guilt

This falls into the “guilty pleasure” category and I know I should be ashamed of this but, what the hell, a pleasure is a pleasure is a pleasure (I think Alice B. Toklas was the first to say that when Gertrude complimented her for her various cannabis concoctions). I am perfectly capable of making a good pot of chili from scratch. I’ve proven this many times and my recipe has been tested by some fairly finicky gourmands. However, when I’m home alone with no witnesses to what I’m up to, I open a can of Hormel Hot* Chili with Beans. I put an asterisk next to the *Hot because, after all, a commercial canned chili isn’t going to go overboard with red pepper or chili powder. In fact, my homemade stuff is probably hotter and spicier than Hormel’s but that’s not the point here. I know this meal doesn’t sound like much of a guilty pleasure but here’s what I do to it: While heating it up I add two cut-up hot dogs (Hebrew National is my preferred brand). Once hot I pour the bubbling brew over a bed of crunched up saltines and then sprinkle the whole works with diced onion and crumbled cheddar cheese. Then I stir it all together so the cheese melts and the chili juice soaks up the crackers. Then I scarf it down in large heaping spoonfuls, grunting and groaning in satisfaction, while it’s still steaming. I do not accessorize this dinner with a salad or anything else healthy. My wine of choice to accompany this delicacy is currently Diet Lime Pepsi Cola, although that has changed over the years. Mmm, baby, it’s all good; it’s wasp soul food; it’s kosher (check out the brand of the dogs) and it puts me into a satisfied comfort zone. You should probably watch the SciFi Channel while you’re eating (preferably some schlocky thing with computer generated pterodactyls or angry mythological creatures), since your brain will explode if you tune into a PBS fund raiser. Oh, I also like macaroni and cheese. But that’s a different guilt and a different pleasure for another time. Hint: it comes in a box!

Urinal Smoothie

I have always thought it would be cool to have a urinal at home. Yes, because it would be convenient for the stand-up community but also because I have always been annoyed by the “splash factor” of the common toilet and the attendant need for constant clean up. Although, like most single men I think, I’m not all that great at keeping up on the housework and why should I burden myself with yet one more piece of porcelain to scrub up? I have a couple of friends who have them in their homes but they are “normal” types (the urinals, not the men) that you find anywhere, although my bud Paul’s is black (to match the rest of his fixtures).

The House & Home section of yesterday’s NY Times (Jan. 25) featured an article regarding this very thing. But the Times (being the Times) focused on, pardon the expression, high-end urinals and if you want, and can afford it, you can buy all kinds of urinals made of all kinds of materials. Yet another niche product for a niche consumer.

The three here are designed by a guy named Clark Sorensen and he’s even had an exhibit (called “Flush”) of his stuff in San Francisco (where else). The orchid urinal looks like it’s right out of Little Shop of Horrors but I wouldn’t mind gilding that lily on a daily basis. The seashell is cool too but it’s seems a desecration to urinate into a chambered nautilus. There are many designs but the ones that caught my eye, of course, are the colorful florals, even though I’m not sure I want to entrust my own personal willie to a receptacle that looks like it might bite back.

One Shocked Monkey...

I ran across this photo yesterday and realized I had seen this expression before. I went to a wedding recently and this perfectly conveys the expression of the mother of the groom when he appeared at the altar wearing a kilt.

El Laberinto del Fauno

Pan’s Labyrinth is one fine film, subtitles be damned. It is, however, one of the most chilling feel-bad movies I’ve seen in a long time. It’s dark, gory and violent. It’s beautiful, phantasmagoric and incredibly imaginative. Sometimes the line between reality and fantasy is drawn very thin and somehow the dream world has a direct impact on what’s happening in the “here-and-now.” None of the characters are very sympathetic, including the young girl who is central to the existence of the two realms. If the fantasy is her own dream, why does she willfully screw it up by disobeying the careful rules set for her? In her fantasy she is able to gain access to hidden rooms by drawing a door on the wall with chalk. Under duress she is then able to do it in real life. Anyway, listen to me and be warned, as beautiful as this film is, it is horrifying in its brutality and the final dénouement will give you a headache. The film is a metaphor for what was happening in Spain during and after their civil war (1936-1939); after which Europe was overwhelmed in the blackness of World War II. It takes place in 1944 when scattered rebel bands of Loyalists are still fighting their hopeless cause. Obviously, since that reality ended badly and subsequently segued into another 35 years of Franco’s fascist dictatorship; the movie also had to end badly too. It’s a wonderful film but rest assured we didn’t dance out of the theater snapping our fingers and the cheeseburger at Johnny Rocket’s didn’t quite get the bad taste out of our throats. Although the onion rings were tasty.

See's 10; Godiva 0

What can I say about chocolate that thousands of people haven’t said before; and better. It’s God’s gift to mankind? Well, if there is a God that about sums it up for me too. I’ve traveled far afield in my lifetime, tasting various incarnations of this heavenly sweetness. In the beginning it was the wholesome wonder of See’s Candies, first sampled in San Francisco in about 1906 (or so it seems because it sure set off an earthquake in my taste buds). And now, I realize, I should never have left home because See’s is, to this day, a favorite…my more-than-brief sojourn into Godiva territory be damned. Over the years See’s has branched out into various other offerings (which I do appreciate--have a sucker) but their basic two selections are the ones I dream about. The truffles and the nuts&chews. Hit me with a box of either one of those and I’m a friend for life. I realized this just last weekend during a rendezvous in Quincy, Mass. with my sister, who lives in San Francisco. She kindly picked up a half pound of See’s at the Oakland airport and added it to her carry-on luggage and presented it to me, with a minor flourish, in room 323 at an obscure little Best Western motel overlooking an ice-fringed lagoon. I have subsequently rationed them out to myself over the next four days; just finishing the last two pieces this morning. I will always love my sister for various reasons but See’s could be the foundation on which our friendship is based. Being a chocolate maven herself I know how difficult it is for her to part with it, even in half-pound sizes, so it is always much appreciated. Perhaps you are aware that Valentine’s Day is just around the corner.

Gutter Attitude

I guess I’ve got to say it since no once else is likely to include it in their blog. I kicked butt at the Ft. Lauderdale Invitational Regional Bowling Tournament. My low average and my high handicap brought home the bacon meaning, in this case, a nice Mark Spitz-ish medal, a free bowling ball and some good $$$. The problem with this kind of tournament is that you have to bowl a LOT of games (singles, doubles and team, plus a special scratch tournament) and if you’re not in some sort of good shape you’re in trouble. Yes, as you correctly surmise, I was in deep trouble. After umpteen games over a two-day period I was doing well and, with about three games to go, I began to think, “Hey, wait a minute, I CAN WIN THIS THING!” So I stopped trying to have fun; stopped the kidding around; stopped giving high-fives to my competitors and went into a private bubble of concentration, not only to stay calm but to attempt to REST. My right arm was killing me from the elbow to the tips of my fingers. My left leg was almost shivering with fatigue. And then, dear hearts, I won the Scratch Masters tournament (Division A; the lowest averaged people), and I have this medal to prove it. I can barely believe it myself. Of course my right arm had to be amputated at the elbow and my left calf has a permanent charley horse but that’s the price one pays for glory. Overall this tournament again proves my favorite theory: Age and treachery will always overcome youth and skill.

Girls Who Dream

I saw Dreamgirls (the movie) a couple of weeks ago. I saw Dreamgirls (the Broadway musical) decades ago. My memory of the Broadway version is one of my prime pleasures; to recall the drama and the shear theatricality of it still makes me smile. The movie version only made me smile intermittently and I can’t quite put my finger on why. I had the uncomfortable feeling that I might have dredged up some inner-racism, or something, that I hadn’t been aware of before. I mulled and I mulled and have concluded that I’m not in the least racist; I’m just an old coot living in the past. As I recall Dreamgirls on Broadway was all about ambition and sacrifice and a “What I did for love” type of transcendence. Yes, a Chorus Line for black Americans…but also a universal storyline we could all relate to. The movie version, although harking back to the glory days of Motown, has a 21st Century snappishness to it that seems, to me, an anachronism. What I didn’t like was the attitudinal sameness of all the women. The insouciance of the performances was right out of WB African-American sitcoms…and I suppose that’s where my semi-racism shows up. That head bobbing, finger waving, don’t-fuck-with-me-bitch schtick that is so common in the last few years with black women has become a cliché and that’s what puzzled me and why I felt uncomfortable.

It’s a good movie and it will win some Academy Awards (I hope) but it’s not the movie I anticipated and wanted to see made from what is, of course, only a memory. Jennifer Hudson does her best and deserves the hype being showered upon her, but I can never, ever, forget Jennifer Holiday and her transcendent performance, oh, those many years ago. That’s the problem, of course, reality never does live up to expectations. FYI, I’ve never been an Eddie Murphy fan and his performance in Dreamgirls did nothing to change that.

Chihuly @ Fairchild (warning: purple prose alert)

On Tuesday I had the pleasure of strolling around the Fairchild Tropical Botanic Garden in Coral Gables, Florida. It was a beautiful day; not too hot and not too crowded (‘cause it was a Tuesday) and lots of stuff was in bloom including the cheeks of my ruddy buddy Earl who also popped for the cost of admission (steep). I normally like touring around botanic gardens anyway, and can often be found wandering the winding paths of the Brooklyn Botanic Gardens; a mere stone’s throw (a hefty stone) from my home. I am also a big fan of Dale Chihuly who is, as they say, world-renowned in his field which is, of course, works of art in glass. And art glass with a vengeance; this man doesn’t make your mother’s pottery; he creates monuments of glittering artistry that dazzle and amaze. Debatably he’s a genius and I tend to lean toward agreeing with that assessment. You’ve got to be a coldhearted snob not to think so…so there…you cold hearted snob!
I hope someone in the administration of the Fairchild Gardens got a really nice Christmas bonus for convincing the board of directors and Mr. Chihuly to join forces in a gorgeously dynamic presentation of his work at the Gardens. The sculptures are scattered throughout the acreage; both inside the conservatories and in hidden glades and are sometimes almost hidden along winding overgrown paths under canopies of rain forest-like growth. The more spectacular pieces are placed more obviously on plinths and precipices and in the center of ponds and waterways. Glass onion-shapes are floated in lakes and bird-like shapes emerge from glens of tropical fern and reed. I have no idea the number of works of art, but it must be in the hundreds. It is a truly spectacular…well, spectacle. The individual works are mostly site-specific and reflect the natural flora around each piece and, sometimes, come with a nice surprise of discovery as you make a sudden turn into another labyrinth of greenery.
I guess you can tell I was mightily impressed by the whole shebang. It’s an environment of beautiful trees and plants, beautifully placed and preserved, with spectacular gleaming glass sculpture to both complement and counterpoint the natural element. It’s Mother Nature and artistic technology partnered to enhance one another. It's beautiful to behold and food for thought. And I'm one hungry dude.

In a Red State with Blue Balls

I know this might be hard to believe but this even grosses ME out. I had occasion to spend a few days in the deep south recently and my friend Earl pointed this phenomenon out to me along a minor byway of a major highway in Broward County, Florida. I like to think I’m not above a bit of redneck humor but, to me, the motivation behind putting one of these devices on your truck goes beyond humor. I’m sure it’s meant to be macho and is motivated by a look-at-me (and, by the way, fuck-you) attitude, but a pair of testicles hanging from the back of a vehicle goes beyond gross. Of course they are selling like hotcakes in the south and the fad is probably spreading to other red states as we speak. But, damn, it’s just so damn disrespectful and, I think, misogynistic. Don’t these dudes have grandmothers?

Time Flits

Tempus do fugit, do it not? I tentatively started this blog last January and here we are still (that would be the royal we), 12 months later, chugging along in relative quiet, albeit occasionally hollering at daily headlines. I suppose I should try to conjure up some new thoughts (and inspirational material) and not hark back to the old ones of ’06. Old thoughts are like the leftovers in my fridge…forgotten but not gone.

Most of my attention of late has been directed toward Ismael, a best bud in Quincy, MA, who is currently taking the high road against the dreaded big C, including a daily blog iterating his progress. His blog has certainly trumped mine, big time, but I understand it is serving a higher purpose; that is, it relieves him of having to convey the same current events a hundredfold. This man captured my heart many years ago and he never let go and, as he says, well, get over it…blah blah blah.

Don’t tell him I said so but I love him and would gladly rent one of my own lungs to him if we could work out a deal that would benefit us both. He’s a lusty Puerto Rican dude so maybe we could trade a lung for a testicle. If he threw in a home-knitted sweater and maybe a hat (I know socks are out of the question) it’s something I might consider.

Global What?

This is the un-winter of my discontent. NYC has not had a December without snow since 1877; which was (as all of the newscasts seem to say) during the Rutherford B. Hayes administration. No, kind hearts, I was not there to witness that one. It now looks like this period of relative warmth might extend through January and what sort-of frosts my old, cold heart is that my long planned “escape” from the frigid northeastern weather next week won’t be an escape at all. I will not be able to wave blithely to my shivering friends as I board my magic carpet at LGA and journey above the icy clouds to a land of warmth, tank tops and the occasional Speedo.

It’s all about the jealously. I’m where you’re not and I’m warm and need air conditioning to sleep. Maybe part of it is that I’m no longer suffering at the hands of a long automobile commute (40 miles each way) on a daily basis. I freed myself of that last year and each subsequent rush hour when the winds and rains and crises on the roads-of-agony made me all the more thankful for the luxury of going back to bed.

But heed me not…bask in a winter of mercy and mildness and count your winter coats as mere unrequited companions on the road to a dutiful spring.

It's a Long Way To...

Ever tried growing a topiary? I’m only asking because I’m starting over with mine, having pretty much decided the one I’ve had for ten years is now biting the dust. It was horribly pot-bound and would have needed a lot of work to get it back up to snuff, so I took the path of least resistance and dumped it. Fortunately, because of our recent unseasonable weather I’ve been able to take innumerable decent clippings from the ivy I have growing madly in the backyard; also for a decade. The cuttings are now in a water-filled vase and as they take root I will transfer them to the freshly prepared pot in my front window. The empty topiary trellis itself is sort of a décor statement and its starkness adds a pleasing touch amid the flourishing flora I already have at that end of my living room. The only reason I’m bringing up this subject actually is that my yard full of ivy was originally propagated from clippings taken from this topiary. In one of my darkest spaces I’m thinking this is a tad incestuous; but that’s just me.