Ms. Curmudgeonality

Have you ever bowled in a league where they gave out a Ms. Congeniality trophy?  Neither have I.  Their definition of “congeniality” is certainly not the one in Webster’s New Collegiate Dictionary.  There is no mention of curmudgeon, grouch, grump or coot.  Sandra Bullock notwithstanding there is also no glory but a lot of room for irony, sarcasm and hoot-and-holler at the expense of its recipient.

Just let me put a word in here for world peace.

Art: Emerging

It seems like every decision made regarding the new Barclays Center in downtown Brooklyn, from the horribly banal logo of the Nets (the NBA team for whom it was built) to the “artistically” rust-encased building itself, is uncomfortably upsetting or just, to put it more succinctly, wrong.  The latest incarnation of this theme is the new 10,000-pound, 20-foot-tall bronze sculpture by Ursula VonRydingsvard that has been permanently installed on the plaza in front of the Center.  It is inexplicably entitled “Ona” (the Polish word for “she”) but, of course, a variety of alternatives has been coined.  The most fitting being “Turd:  Emerging” and I’m afraid that is now permanently installed in the rust-encased plaza that is my own mind.

Robo reBELLion

Lots of folks in NYC are running for elective office and the primary is this coming Tuesday.  I have a serious question.  What think tank; what defective great mind, has it that electoral robo-calls are effective?  I suppose they are cost-effective but actual positive influence has to be close to nil.  They are disruptive, usually ill-timed and well, hey, basically full-of-(sh)it in content.  They are a negative blight on the already lurid landscape of electioneering.  Even if some politicians forego their use, they are still brushed by the same blight.  I never answer my phone at this time of year because it is so self-defeating and there is no defense because you cannot make a response or request deletion from their list(s).

This weekend is running true to form.  My answering machine covers for me but I still wish there was some attachment, or app, one can buy that monitors the content of a call and, if it is identified as robo, some kind of thunderbolt can be returned through the wires (or ether) that will burn out someone’s calling system, if not their actual brains.
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Update 9/10/13, Election Day:  Just before I went to vote this morning I got a live message on my machine from an "Anybody But Christine Quinn" group which is self explanatory.  WTF?  The voice was female and passionate and it made me wonder what personal vendetta was the basis of her activism in this manner.  And why does this group have my home phone number?  Being the person I am, her call immediately cemented my intent to vote for Quinn.

Further to this Update, I just returned from my polling place and, my exhortation to the sweet, probably fictional, panda in the sky, I had to use a paper ballot!  I new that last years electronic system has been abandoned in favor of the older lever-driven voting booth but, in my precinct at least, these booths were nonfunctioning.  Another WTF is certainly in order.  Hopefully some official outrage will ensue.

Mayo Clinic

It came to my attention over last weekend that the subject of Miracle Whip as opposed to mayonnaise can be as volatile a subject as which faction should the United States bomb in Syria.  I grew up on Miracle Whip and now, to my astonishment, some people think of it as just poor man’s mayo and just too icky to even consider as a sandwich condiment.  And here I always thought MW was a step up from the ordinariness of the crap that Hellman’s manufactures as the spread of choice.  A couple of my friends were quite vociferous; not in defense of mayo, but in their adamant dislike of MW!  I guess it proves, yet again, that one man’s caviar is another man’s barf load.

How much is that hype innuendo?

There are five versions of this 10-foot, mirror-polished, stainless-steel sculpture conceived by Jeff Koons.  Remember, they were “conceived” by Mr. Koons, who didn’t get his hands even a little bit dirty in the actual manufacturing of them.  I think with implied ridicule (at least I like to think how cool that would be) the New York Times listed the owners as Steven A. Cohen (yellow), Eli Broad (blue), Francois Pinault (magenta), Dakis Jonnou (red) and Peter M. Brant (orange).  According to Christie’s they are worth $35 to $55 million and Mr. Brant’s will be on their shopping block in November.  I don’t know about you but that would take most, if not all, of the change I have thrown into my desk drawer (I really do need to bag that up and take it to the bank).
 
I must admit I am sometimes beguiled by whimsy so I guess what I’m complaining about here is that, although the Beanie Baby craze drove me nuts, they were at least affordable.  I always feel ripped-off when I look at Koons’s stuff, even if it is adorable.
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Update Nov. 13, 2013:  It sold for $58.4 million.  Doink!

The Creole Queen

A paddle wheeler on the Mississippi River is a good way to go.  Sitting on a bench on the top deck with ones feet propped up on the railing, enjoying a nice cool breeze (on a hot day) and listening to an informative spiel about the joys of river travel and the fairly recent degradations visited upon the city of New Orleans plus, in the background, a Dixieland jazz trio playing in rhythmic tune with the churning paddlewheel along with the appreciative heart of the tourist we all are or could be if we could just relax and let go of our cares and woes.  Including lunch (featuring an excellent gumbo) the excursion is not too expensive and surely a late morning delight.  A block from Harrah’s Casino and two blocks from a pretty good aquarium and your day could be complete without much effort.  My old feet appreciated the respite.

Gumbo: Mmm Good

I’ve never been a big fan of gumbo.  It always seemed to me to be just so much fish stew.  Or chicken stew.  Or sausage stew mixed with a bunch of rice and spices; mostly Cajun in origin.  It was always too much for my uneducated palate or maybe, conversely, too unsubtle for me to appreciate.  It was always like eating liquid meatloaf.
 

One trip to New Orleans was all it took to open my eyes to gumbo.  Practically every restaurant, large or small, fancy or down-to-earth, has gumbo on its menu.  It seemed like, to varying degrees, they were all really good.  My favorite basic ingredient was shrimp but that’s because, well, I really like shrimp.  Doing a little research I found that there is a tremendous variety of gumbos that lay claim to being gumbo; some chefs/cooks touting their own recipes over others, but most seeming to use a brown roux for thickening.  Okra is also high up on the ingredient scale.
 
Speaking of taste, I think hotdogs sliced thin would be a good substitute for chicken or sausage.  Now there is a low-brow ingredient that might make me successfully roux the day.