Intermission
Like a man possessed (by bad judgment) I went outside at 6 this morning to retrieve the vacuum cleaner from the bighouse up the hill. I had dressed hastily and the 13 degree temperature made my head ache as if I had drunk the cheap rum in trying to keep up with Albee's George and Martha.
Oh that sly bastard Mr. BC, sure he knew that I would get down to the cheap rum eventually. It was all part of his master plan and no doubt he has been smirking since that day he tricked me into drinking his 200 dollar bottle of scotch, waiting for my descension. Oh, how did I not see this coming? Well played Mr. BC, well played.
Anyway, I thought I was going to die, that my head was going to split open right there on the sidewalk lugging that 600 dollar vacuum cleaner which if you ask me for that price should never break unless you drop if from a ten story building. I put it in the back seat of the Jeep. Step one completed, or two actually if you're into making a simple task sound a lot harder than it is and by doing so puffing up your imagined worth to an audience that includes one small cat and some geese.
What was step one? Does it really matter?
There was no Pulitzer awarded for drama the year the play came out because Albee's language was too harsh for the times, and to award anyone else the prize I think would have considerably devalued the committee's standing. Two years later a movie version came out and the language was adjusted somewhat so that Martha's frequent attacks on George came out--Goddamn you George, instead of Screw you George. When I was growing up I always thought that screw you was a polite way to say fuck you and as befits my upbringing I tried to stay at a level of politeness. Goddamn though I thought would bring down bolts of wrath from heaven and even to this day I try to avoid the use of that word.
After a couple of large drinks (George has been through several 8 ounce tumblers by this time) it came to me that the actors were probably just drinking colored water. My head was spinning uniquely and I lost my focus on that amazingly well crafted script. I was of the opinion that I should be listening soberly so I paused the movie and where we are now is the intermission.
...more recent posts
Moby Dick
It seemed like two different movies, the one in which Orson Wells climbs a rope ladder to a pulpit mimicking a ship and the one where Richard Basehart says call me Ishmael (which I will if you ask but could you work harder to make me believe that you are).
Although the acting was sufficient to convey the story and the screenplay by Ray Bradbury and (co-writer and director) Huston was well done if by necessity pared down a bit lean, I feel the potential of this being a great movie, while approached, was not reached.
It could be that the expectations raised by Wells as Father Mapple were too high for any project to live up to and it is therefore no fault of Gregory Peck that I kept thinking throughout the movie--Gee, he sure is no Orson Wells.
It was good clean fun though and I'm certainly not regretting that it is what I chose to help me while away yesterday evening.
I could say one great fish story reminds me of another except that whales aren't fish and the story I am reminded of isn't that great, nor does it include that many fish.
I can never seem to escape during periods of deep reflection the Fishorama on the former Lake Lewisville north of Dallas. In fact, as often as not if you see me lost in thought or you ask me what I'm thinking about (and I say nothing) I am probably thinking about the Fishorama. It is where I go to visit my father who has been dead coming up on 15 years. And it was 20 years or more before that that we were at the Fishorama together, which was an enclosed barn-like space jutting out into the water, with walkways around 16 or 20 rectangular "fishing holes" protected by painted tubular railings. And chairs, there were chairs to sit in if you were not as eager as I, leaning over the railing looking at my reflection and the always predictable bream near the surface, swimming lazily beneath that reflection.
My father was no great fisherman nor did he pretend to be or as far as I could tell, aspire to hooking fish. It was relatively late in my adolescence that I realized he wasn't much of a ball player either and I cringe with admiration when remembering the afternoon he suggested, for the first time, that we play catch. I was 15 and he was sixty-something. He couldn't throw worth a damn, or catch that well, and before I was able to do much damage to his person he admitted as much and then disappeared to the other side of the patio gate. I can imagine he went inside and told my mother of his failure. He was a father of six and a veteran of two wars and a journalist and a political consultant for people both crooked and honest, but he couldn't throw or catch a ball. Some people realize it much sooner but I lived a pretty sheltered life I guess and it was the first time I came to see that grownups were fallible. After that of course it was pretty much an open flood gate and as a wizened 15-year-old I arrived at the conclusion that all grownups, to put it mildly, were fallible.
There he is though, back in 1969 or 70, walking up the floating sidewalk to the Fishorama, alongside that little freckled wisp of boy whose brown head glowed red in the afternoon sun. People were always mistaking him for the boy's grandfather. He got a kick out of that is the way he put it. It was one of the things he could pull off convincingly, which is as good as it gets sometimes, regarding this definition of who a man is. I am not a fisherman, I am not a ballplayer, I am this boy's grandfather.
It seemed like two different movies, the one in which Orson Wells climbs a rope ladder to a pulpit mimicking a ship and the one where Richard Basehart says call me Ishmael (which I will if you ask but could you work harder to make me believe that you are).
Although the acting was sufficient to convey the story and the screenplay by Ray Bradbury and (co-writer and director) Huston was well done if by necessity pared down a bit lean, I feel the potential of this being a great movie, while approached, was not reached.
It could be that the expectations raised by Wells as Father Mapple were too high for any project to live up to and it is therefore no fault of Gregory Peck that I kept thinking throughout the movie--Gee, he sure is no Orson Wells.
It was good clean fun though and I'm certainly not regretting that it is what I chose to help me while away yesterday evening.
I could say one great fish story reminds me of another except that whales aren't fish and the story I am reminded of isn't that great, nor does it include that many fish.
I can never seem to escape during periods of deep reflection the Fishorama on the former Lake Lewisville north of Dallas. In fact, as often as not if you see me lost in thought or you ask me what I'm thinking about (and I say nothing) I am probably thinking about the Fishorama. It is where I go to visit my father who has been dead coming up on 15 years. And it was 20 years or more before that that we were at the Fishorama together, which was an enclosed barn-like space jutting out into the water, with walkways around 16 or 20 rectangular "fishing holes" protected by painted tubular railings. And chairs, there were chairs to sit in if you were not as eager as I, leaning over the railing looking at my reflection and the always predictable bream near the surface, swimming lazily beneath that reflection.
My father was no great fisherman nor did he pretend to be or as far as I could tell, aspire to hooking fish. It was relatively late in my adolescence that I realized he wasn't much of a ball player either and I cringe with admiration when remembering the afternoon he suggested, for the first time, that we play catch. I was 15 and he was sixty-something. He couldn't throw worth a damn, or catch that well, and before I was able to do much damage to his person he admitted as much and then disappeared to the other side of the patio gate. I can imagine he went inside and told my mother of his failure. He was a father of six and a veteran of two wars and a journalist and a political consultant for people both crooked and honest, but he couldn't throw or catch a ball. Some people realize it much sooner but I lived a pretty sheltered life I guess and it was the first time I came to see that grownups were fallible. After that of course it was pretty much an open flood gate and as a wizened 15-year-old I arrived at the conclusion that all grownups, to put it mildly, were fallible.
There he is though, back in 1969 or 70, walking up the floating sidewalk to the Fishorama, alongside that little freckled wisp of boy whose brown head glowed red in the afternoon sun. People were always mistaking him for the boy's grandfather. He got a kick out of that is the way he put it. It was one of the things he could pull off convincingly, which is as good as it gets sometimes, regarding this definition of who a man is. I am not a fisherman, I am not a ballplayer, I am this boy's grandfather.
The Future Of Diving
I quote from a 2005 Forbes Magazine travel feature--"There's no way to experience the legendary bread baskets at The Inn at Little Washington outside Washington, D.C.,...without actually going there."
That statement is not entirely true. I am just now chewing on a piece of brown bread heavily encrusted with salt and caraway seeds, infused with raisons and walnuts, which came from the Inn, and yet, I have never been there. Nor am I diving in their dumpster, which now that I say it I have to ask myself, why not? Perhaps that dumpster out behind the Post Office is not theirs exclusively and would also contain fare from the caddy-cornered Country Cafe and that would be reason enough not to dive.
Every morning a young person in Holstein-patterned trousers arrives at the Post Office across the street from the Inn and fills up a large plastic container with the Inn's left over bread from the previous night. Or maybe the night's before as it doesn't always seem just one day old to me. In any case it doesn't last very long and I suspect in the area professional bread mongers. I was lucky though this morning and the container was full and I took a loaf of the best looking sample. A baguette, in approximate dimension if not texture and ingredient.
Bernadette and I have argued over my mistake of referring to the Inn as a five star restaurant because Michelin only awards 3 stars to top restaurants. The problem, in referring to the Inn as a 3 star establishment is that there is just no record of it. Mobil and AAA (5 star raters) and Zagat's have heaped upon the Inn unparalleled accolades and it shows up on ten best in world and ten most expensive lists but Michelin is notably missing from any press regarding the restaurant. I have to believe there is a story behind that, some past conflict or insult or misunderstanding, but I don't know what it is. Or maybe Michelin just doesn't rate restaurants that are also Inn's and it is as simple as that. Or maybe they have rated it, think it sucks, and this fact is understandably not promoted in press releases by the restaurant.
I know this rating of restaurants is heavy stuff, steeped in history and tradition, but to me Michelin means black stinky rubber and a puffy icon, Mobil means black sludge, and AAA means a broken down car. Zagat's only makes me think of food but I'm sure that is just ignorance on my part and that they may be primarily concerned with deforestation of the Amazon.
The bread was good, Ok? I'm just saying don't go telling me there is no way to experience it without paying 160 bucks a person excluding tax gratuity and drink. And don't go telling me I can't dive that dumpster. This bread isn't going to last all day, or, must I say it, man can't live on bread alone. There are times when what man requires is, in dumpster or upon white table cloth:
A Quartet of Island Creek Oyster Slurpees
Three Varieties of Roasted Beets, Beet Mousse with Caviar and Citrus Salsa
Seared Tuna Sashimi with Daikon Radish and Cucumber Sorbet
Carpaccio of Herb Crusted Baby Lamb with Tabouli and Rosemary Mustard
Lobster Maki, Tuna Tartare and Ceviche of New Zealand Sea Bream
Poached Pullet Egg in Oxtail Consomme with Hedgehog Mushrooms and Shaved Black Truffle
Nantucket Bay Scallops with Mushrooms, Peppers and Homemade Italian sausage
Crispy Maryland Crabcakes with a Trio of Sauces: Garden Sorrel, Classic Tatar and Roasted Red Pepper
A Marriage of Hot and Cold Foie Gras with Homemade Quince Preserves
Macaroni and Cheese with Virginia Country Ham and Shaved Black Burgundy Truffle
Truffle Dusted Diver’s Scallop on Cauliflower Puree
Roasted Eggplant Raviolis in a Tomato Basil Butter Sauce with Medallions of Maine Lobster
Pan Roasted Maine Lobster with Baby Spinach, Grapefruit and Citrus Butter Sauce
Pan Seared Pacific Halibut and a Maine Diver's Scallop with Ruby Port Reduction on Rutabaga Puree with Local Baby Turnips
Beef Two Ways: Pecan Crusted Barbeque Short Rib, Paired with a Miniature Filet Mignon Wrapped in Swiss Chard
Veal Parmesan Reincarnated: Prosciutto Wrapped, Pan Roasted Loin of Veal with Spinach Raviolini and Parmesan Broth
Pepper Crusted Tuna Pretending to be a Filet Mignon Capped with Seared Duck Foie Gras on Charred Onions with a Burgundy Butter Sauce
Medallions of Rabbit Loin Wrapped in House Cured Pancetta Surrounding a Lilliputian Rabbit Rib Roast Resting on a Pillow of Rutabaga Purée
Veal Sweetbreads Braised in Ruby Port on Pappardelle Pasta with Huckleberries and Virginia Country Ham
Our Steak and Kidney “Pie” with Veal Kidneys, Tenderloin of Beef, and Button Mushrooms
Parsley-Crusted Elysian Fields Farm Lamb Loin on Braised Lentils Du Puy with Seared Foie Gras
Artichoke Filled Capeletti "Little Pasta Hats" with a Hint of Mint
Napoleon of Forest Mushrooms
Millbrook Farm's Dry Aged Venison Loin with Caramelized Endive, Pickled Cranberries and Chestnut Puree
What? No I'll pass on dessert, thank you.
I quote from a 2005 Forbes Magazine travel feature--"There's no way to experience the legendary bread baskets at The Inn at Little Washington outside Washington, D.C.,...without actually going there."
That statement is not entirely true. I am just now chewing on a piece of brown bread heavily encrusted with salt and caraway seeds, infused with raisons and walnuts, which came from the Inn, and yet, I have never been there. Nor am I diving in their dumpster, which now that I say it I have to ask myself, why not? Perhaps that dumpster out behind the Post Office is not theirs exclusively and would also contain fare from the caddy-cornered Country Cafe and that would be reason enough not to dive.
Every morning a young person in Holstein-patterned trousers arrives at the Post Office across the street from the Inn and fills up a large plastic container with the Inn's left over bread from the previous night. Or maybe the night's before as it doesn't always seem just one day old to me. In any case it doesn't last very long and I suspect in the area professional bread mongers. I was lucky though this morning and the container was full and I took a loaf of the best looking sample. A baguette, in approximate dimension if not texture and ingredient.
Bernadette and I have argued over my mistake of referring to the Inn as a five star restaurant because Michelin only awards 3 stars to top restaurants. The problem, in referring to the Inn as a 3 star establishment is that there is just no record of it. Mobil and AAA (5 star raters) and Zagat's have heaped upon the Inn unparalleled accolades and it shows up on ten best in world and ten most expensive lists but Michelin is notably missing from any press regarding the restaurant. I have to believe there is a story behind that, some past conflict or insult or misunderstanding, but I don't know what it is. Or maybe Michelin just doesn't rate restaurants that are also Inn's and it is as simple as that. Or maybe they have rated it, think it sucks, and this fact is understandably not promoted in press releases by the restaurant.
I know this rating of restaurants is heavy stuff, steeped in history and tradition, but to me Michelin means black stinky rubber and a puffy icon, Mobil means black sludge, and AAA means a broken down car. Zagat's only makes me think of food but I'm sure that is just ignorance on my part and that they may be primarily concerned with deforestation of the Amazon.
The bread was good, Ok? I'm just saying don't go telling me there is no way to experience it without paying 160 bucks a person excluding tax gratuity and drink. And don't go telling me I can't dive that dumpster. This bread isn't going to last all day, or, must I say it, man can't live on bread alone. There are times when what man requires is, in dumpster or upon white table cloth:
A Quartet of Island Creek Oyster Slurpees
Three Varieties of Roasted Beets, Beet Mousse with Caviar and Citrus Salsa
Seared Tuna Sashimi with Daikon Radish and Cucumber Sorbet
Carpaccio of Herb Crusted Baby Lamb with Tabouli and Rosemary Mustard
Lobster Maki, Tuna Tartare and Ceviche of New Zealand Sea Bream
Poached Pullet Egg in Oxtail Consomme with Hedgehog Mushrooms and Shaved Black Truffle
Nantucket Bay Scallops with Mushrooms, Peppers and Homemade Italian sausage
Crispy Maryland Crabcakes with a Trio of Sauces: Garden Sorrel, Classic Tatar and Roasted Red Pepper
A Marriage of Hot and Cold Foie Gras with Homemade Quince Preserves
Macaroni and Cheese with Virginia Country Ham and Shaved Black Burgundy Truffle
Truffle Dusted Diver’s Scallop on Cauliflower Puree
Roasted Eggplant Raviolis in a Tomato Basil Butter Sauce with Medallions of Maine Lobster
Pan Roasted Maine Lobster with Baby Spinach, Grapefruit and Citrus Butter Sauce
Pan Seared Pacific Halibut and a Maine Diver's Scallop with Ruby Port Reduction on Rutabaga Puree with Local Baby Turnips
Beef Two Ways: Pecan Crusted Barbeque Short Rib, Paired with a Miniature Filet Mignon Wrapped in Swiss Chard
Veal Parmesan Reincarnated: Prosciutto Wrapped, Pan Roasted Loin of Veal with Spinach Raviolini and Parmesan Broth
Pepper Crusted Tuna Pretending to be a Filet Mignon Capped with Seared Duck Foie Gras on Charred Onions with a Burgundy Butter Sauce
Medallions of Rabbit Loin Wrapped in House Cured Pancetta Surrounding a Lilliputian Rabbit Rib Roast Resting on a Pillow of Rutabaga Purée
Veal Sweetbreads Braised in Ruby Port on Pappardelle Pasta with Huckleberries and Virginia Country Ham
Our Steak and Kidney “Pie” with Veal Kidneys, Tenderloin of Beef, and Button Mushrooms
Parsley-Crusted Elysian Fields Farm Lamb Loin on Braised Lentils Du Puy with Seared Foie Gras
Artichoke Filled Capeletti "Little Pasta Hats" with a Hint of Mint
Napoleon of Forest Mushrooms
Millbrook Farm's Dry Aged Venison Loin with Caramelized Endive, Pickled Cranberries and Chestnut Puree
What? No I'll pass on dessert, thank you.
400 Choices
There is a little restaurant in the Essex St. Market that has without great exaggeration about 400 items on the menu, but only four tables. Today a table was missing but the owner was sitting in one of the chairs which were grouped where the table used to be. Bernadette and I took a table for two next to the only other free table which although not dirty was not exactly clean either. It had two menus sitting next to a used straw and I grabbed them while staring at the straw as if it offended me.. The owner's son was bitching about steroid abuse in baseball. He was very upset, not about the abuse but about Roger Clemens' legal strategy. He brought us ice water at the same time he took his finger from the dike which up until then had clearly been holding back a veritable ocean containing the word fuck. I am against overuse of the word so I am searching for another one to replace it. It is harder than you might think. I am about to give up on it. Instead of giving up though, I will use the word diarrhea. You can argue with me all you want about how that isn't going to work and why in your opinion diarrhea is just wrong as a substitution for fuck. Or better yet, write your own restaurant review.
Some of the menu items have cute names like South Pork which is an egg and grits sandwich smothered with sausage gravy. We were here once before and that is what I ordered and it looks a lot worse than it tastes. I guess that is not a solid recommendation. Bernadette ordered one of the cute items but I can't remember what. I ordered something I am familiar with--huevos rancheros. It seemed like there was only the son and the dad working today and as the dad was sitting down and the son was mostly just being upset about Roger Clemens--who he is convinced will go to jail for his lying ways--I didn't think I would actually be getting any food.
Diarrhea dad, get off your lazy ass and make the huevos. Bernadette asked me had I ever talked to my dad that way and I said not ever.
A reserved middle aged couple like who am I calling middle aged sat down next to us and from the kitchen the diarrhea started flowing. What the diarrhea dad? Oh go diarrhea yourself son. Diarrhea this, diarrhea that, diarrhea, diarrhea, diarrhea.
The son served our food and the father came out of the kitchen and sat in the empty chair at the other couple's table to take their order while his son slung diarrhea at his back. The father tossed a couple of choice bits of diarrhea back over his shoulder and then asked the couple what they would be having, calming down measurably and affecting a most respectful manner such that I had to glance over to make sure it was the same man that had just moments earlier been in all out mortal diarrhea combat with his son.
The food was a bit challenging for me, not exactly what I had in mind, but there are 400 choices.
There is a little restaurant in the Essex St. Market that has without great exaggeration about 400 items on the menu, but only four tables. Today a table was missing but the owner was sitting in one of the chairs which were grouped where the table used to be. Bernadette and I took a table for two next to the only other free table which although not dirty was not exactly clean either. It had two menus sitting next to a used straw and I grabbed them while staring at the straw as if it offended me.. The owner's son was bitching about steroid abuse in baseball. He was very upset, not about the abuse but about Roger Clemens' legal strategy. He brought us ice water at the same time he took his finger from the dike which up until then had clearly been holding back a veritable ocean containing the word fuck. I am against overuse of the word so I am searching for another one to replace it. It is harder than you might think. I am about to give up on it. Instead of giving up though, I will use the word diarrhea. You can argue with me all you want about how that isn't going to work and why in your opinion diarrhea is just wrong as a substitution for fuck. Or better yet, write your own restaurant review.
Some of the menu items have cute names like South Pork which is an egg and grits sandwich smothered with sausage gravy. We were here once before and that is what I ordered and it looks a lot worse than it tastes. I guess that is not a solid recommendation. Bernadette ordered one of the cute items but I can't remember what. I ordered something I am familiar with--huevos rancheros. It seemed like there was only the son and the dad working today and as the dad was sitting down and the son was mostly just being upset about Roger Clemens--who he is convinced will go to jail for his lying ways--I didn't think I would actually be getting any food.
Diarrhea dad, get off your lazy ass and make the huevos. Bernadette asked me had I ever talked to my dad that way and I said not ever.
A reserved middle aged couple like who am I calling middle aged sat down next to us and from the kitchen the diarrhea started flowing. What the diarrhea dad? Oh go diarrhea yourself son. Diarrhea this, diarrhea that, diarrhea, diarrhea, diarrhea.
The son served our food and the father came out of the kitchen and sat in the empty chair at the other couple's table to take their order while his son slung diarrhea at his back. The father tossed a couple of choice bits of diarrhea back over his shoulder and then asked the couple what they would be having, calming down measurably and affecting a most respectful manner such that I had to glance over to make sure it was the same man that had just moments earlier been in all out mortal diarrhea combat with his son.
The food was a bit challenging for me, not exactly what I had in mind, but there are 400 choices.
Liverpool
Last year I massacred this wisteria growing five stories up the back fire escape and while quietly applauded by one or two for the increased chances I added to their ability to escape a fire, the owner of the vine and the person who ask me to trim the vine (oh, you said trim?) were a little upset with me. I did not know that the brief yearly flowering and the godly wafting scent would take precedent over the logical consideration of safety and I bantered back a bit in a futile attempt at healing my slightly wounded pride, because I had initially thought the job was quite well done, and had been quite satisfied with it.
So when yesterday the two offended parties asked me to trim the tree out front I said I would be glad to. If they would come out and point to each and every limb they wanted removed.
Jimson Creed walked up and seeing the two supervisors and the one worker bee commented that we had all the makings of a government road crew. I am not a proponent of micro-managing but I had to mutely disagree with Jimson regarding his assertion that this two to one supervisor to worker ratio looked like trouble. My healing process requires a stricture against disagreement regarding all things in the realm of pruning, and in any case all he said was it looked like trouble and I think I must respect his opinion, based as it would be on years of experience with the two supervisors. And now, picturing myself standing back as he was, taking in the scene, I might even go as far as to wholeheartedly agree that yes it could to the naked eye, unrestrained by a pruned pride or desire not to make the same mistake twice in one year, look like trouble.
But in the end the selective limb removal was an astounding success and other than the small gash on my index finger there was no one wounded.
As I cut up the limbs into pieces small enough to fit in a garbage bag an old woman from the Bronx stopped to talk to me about things that grow and die and rats who eat peppers growing in window boxes. She asked me was I Jewish and I said no. I wanted however to project a little more ethnicity than my WASP upbringing allows so I told her I was half Lebanese. She evidently did not understand that and kept guessing what I may have meant, and possibly I meant Liverpool because she starting singing yeah, yeah, yeah to some tune that to me meant the Beatles and I said, Oh yeah, the Beatles. She nodded happily and we were grooving on the same page until I said, no, I'm American, which is nothing to be ashamed of and really she didn't seem to hold it against me. At some point in our conversation she equated me with the good people of the earth, she had said some people are bad not like me, and wanting to remain for awhile longer puffed up with accomplishment I did not mention my last years slaughtering of the wisteria.
Last year I massacred this wisteria growing five stories up the back fire escape and while quietly applauded by one or two for the increased chances I added to their ability to escape a fire, the owner of the vine and the person who ask me to trim the vine (oh, you said trim?) were a little upset with me. I did not know that the brief yearly flowering and the godly wafting scent would take precedent over the logical consideration of safety and I bantered back a bit in a futile attempt at healing my slightly wounded pride, because I had initially thought the job was quite well done, and had been quite satisfied with it.
So when yesterday the two offended parties asked me to trim the tree out front I said I would be glad to. If they would come out and point to each and every limb they wanted removed.
Jimson Creed walked up and seeing the two supervisors and the one worker bee commented that we had all the makings of a government road crew. I am not a proponent of micro-managing but I had to mutely disagree with Jimson regarding his assertion that this two to one supervisor to worker ratio looked like trouble. My healing process requires a stricture against disagreement regarding all things in the realm of pruning, and in any case all he said was it looked like trouble and I think I must respect his opinion, based as it would be on years of experience with the two supervisors. And now, picturing myself standing back as he was, taking in the scene, I might even go as far as to wholeheartedly agree that yes it could to the naked eye, unrestrained by a pruned pride or desire not to make the same mistake twice in one year, look like trouble.
But in the end the selective limb removal was an astounding success and other than the small gash on my index finger there was no one wounded.
As I cut up the limbs into pieces small enough to fit in a garbage bag an old woman from the Bronx stopped to talk to me about things that grow and die and rats who eat peppers growing in window boxes. She asked me was I Jewish and I said no. I wanted however to project a little more ethnicity than my WASP upbringing allows so I told her I was half Lebanese. She evidently did not understand that and kept guessing what I may have meant, and possibly I meant Liverpool because she starting singing yeah, yeah, yeah to some tune that to me meant the Beatles and I said, Oh yeah, the Beatles. She nodded happily and we were grooving on the same page until I said, no, I'm American, which is nothing to be ashamed of and really she didn't seem to hold it against me. At some point in our conversation she equated me with the good people of the earth, she had said some people are bad not like me, and wanting to remain for awhile longer puffed up with accomplishment I did not mention my last years slaughtering of the wisteria.
Big Store
Solomon, Kahlil and Bernadette walk into a Cabellas. Don't forget to look at the fish Kahlil says to Solomon. Solomon says, I'm not forgetting you just told me that 20 minutes ago. Bernadette suggests that no one get lost before hurrying off to find the best deal on camouflage clothing and is soon marveling over a full length moss covered suit. Solomon makes a perfunctory pass through the fish room but is underwhelmed by the differences between the small mouth bass, the sac-au-lait and the northern pike. As if guided by a fuzzy radar he finds the fleece section and chooses a red pullover. Bernadette, unaware that deer season is over, is disappointed by the lack of fluorescent orange winter wear. Kahlil is determined to find parts of the store missed on previous visits and walks hurriedly past the various dioramas, only glancing at the elephant, the cougar, and the crocodile eating the gazelle. He is not moved by the bighorn sheep or the many black beers or the brown bear standing ten feet erect.
Back in the bargain room he is like on every other visit unable to find a truly great bargain to fit his ambiguous needs. He moves on to the footwear section but only lingers there long enough to caress a twenty dollar pair of socks.
Bernadette has moved on to the deer room and is enjoying the irregular antlers from various regions of the United States.
Solomon has headed upstairs to the restaurant. He is gladdened by the sight of so many diners and imagines himself correcting Kahlil about his earlier statement that Cabellas restaurant was unlikely taking many customers from the nearby Cracker Barrel. I think you are wrong about that he will say to Kahlil when they are back in the car driving away.
But Kahlil just a moment earlier passed that way himself and has already realized his gross underestimation of the restaurant's popularity. I must apologize to Solomon for my incorrectness he utters while a clomping tow-headed toddler in too-stiff hiking boots eyes him suspiciously.
A green winter jacket made in Vietnam composed of various polyesters catches Bernadette's eye and she feels a lessening of her earlier disappointment over the dearth of bright orange camo-gear. She selects a medium tall size and sets off to find Solomon and Kahlil. Kahlil sees her from across the store and sets himself on a path that will connect with hers. Bernadette is just passing under a giant elk's head when Kahlil calls out to her. Bernadette is concerned about the missing Solomon but Kahlil is not. She looks along the walls as if expecting to see his head mounted over a gold name plate with black letters that say--a New York Jew. Kahlil tells Bernadette not to worry, that Solomon can take care of himself, and they agree to meet in the front of the store after looking around for him.
Kahlil passes an aisle with various expensive binoculars attached to security cables and tries out each one, focusing them on mounted animal heads up high 200 yards across the store. Bernadette picks up a bag of red licorice and forgets all about Solomon.
Kahlil picks up two on sale t-shirts that promise to fade.
Solomon looks at boots.
Solomon, Kahlil and Bernadette walk into a Cabellas. Don't forget to look at the fish Kahlil says to Solomon. Solomon says, I'm not forgetting you just told me that 20 minutes ago. Bernadette suggests that no one get lost before hurrying off to find the best deal on camouflage clothing and is soon marveling over a full length moss covered suit. Solomon makes a perfunctory pass through the fish room but is underwhelmed by the differences between the small mouth bass, the sac-au-lait and the northern pike. As if guided by a fuzzy radar he finds the fleece section and chooses a red pullover. Bernadette, unaware that deer season is over, is disappointed by the lack of fluorescent orange winter wear. Kahlil is determined to find parts of the store missed on previous visits and walks hurriedly past the various dioramas, only glancing at the elephant, the cougar, and the crocodile eating the gazelle. He is not moved by the bighorn sheep or the many black beers or the brown bear standing ten feet erect.
Back in the bargain room he is like on every other visit unable to find a truly great bargain to fit his ambiguous needs. He moves on to the footwear section but only lingers there long enough to caress a twenty dollar pair of socks.
Bernadette has moved on to the deer room and is enjoying the irregular antlers from various regions of the United States.
Solomon has headed upstairs to the restaurant. He is gladdened by the sight of so many diners and imagines himself correcting Kahlil about his earlier statement that Cabellas restaurant was unlikely taking many customers from the nearby Cracker Barrel. I think you are wrong about that he will say to Kahlil when they are back in the car driving away.
But Kahlil just a moment earlier passed that way himself and has already realized his gross underestimation of the restaurant's popularity. I must apologize to Solomon for my incorrectness he utters while a clomping tow-headed toddler in too-stiff hiking boots eyes him suspiciously.
A green winter jacket made in Vietnam composed of various polyesters catches Bernadette's eye and she feels a lessening of her earlier disappointment over the dearth of bright orange camo-gear. She selects a medium tall size and sets off to find Solomon and Kahlil. Kahlil sees her from across the store and sets himself on a path that will connect with hers. Bernadette is just passing under a giant elk's head when Kahlil calls out to her. Bernadette is concerned about the missing Solomon but Kahlil is not. She looks along the walls as if expecting to see his head mounted over a gold name plate with black letters that say--a New York Jew. Kahlil tells Bernadette not to worry, that Solomon can take care of himself, and they agree to meet in the front of the store after looking around for him.
Kahlil passes an aisle with various expensive binoculars attached to security cables and tries out each one, focusing them on mounted animal heads up high 200 yards across the store. Bernadette picks up a bag of red licorice and forgets all about Solomon.
Kahlil picks up two on sale t-shirts that promise to fade.
Solomon looks at boots.
One Boxer Tag
Like a dog I am starting to know the location of every fire hydrant in the neighborhood. It used to be my heart would leap at the spying of an empty space a block ahead but now I just grunt knowingly, to myself, and accelerate before I reach them, not at all tempted anymore by their taunt as an answer to my prayers--a place to park in NYC.
Seeing the street sweeper pass at precisely 9 a.m. I circle the block one more time and pull into a space within site of a door that could be called home. The signs however inform me that I must commit to the residency of my vehicle for another hour and thirty minutes.
And the longer I sit here the more I get to envying the canines on leashes who at least can go to the bathroom, and right on the street no less. I start to worry that my health may suffer, that my evacuation system may become irrevocably plugged if I don't get to a bathroom soon. I see another dog pass, a mutt with a nose cowl on and I call out to him--hey dog, are you counting your blessings?
At 9:43 the sweeper comes rumbling up the street again. I think this second passing is unnecessary. I circle the block and park, three spaces behind where I just was. As the minutes pass the competition will get fierce. If the sweeper comes again it is conceivable that in the time it takes to make another go around the block the professional parkers will drop from the sky into every remaining space. I see a white boxer with mascara running down its eyes. It pauses to piss on a piece of junk in the middle of the sidewalk, a square purple device with a white electrical cord coming out of it. There are black and grey graffiti tags on every side of it and now, at least this one boxer tag.
It is starting to rain a little bit. I call Bill Macy and tell him my problems. He is only interested in making jokes about Sybil Shepard. Seventeen minutes to go.
I wonder if I should take up knitting and if I did would I be any good at it?
I haven't seen a dog in a good while. I expect they are all up on their master's couches, snoozing or watching TV.
How is it possible that only three minutes have passed?
It warms my heart to realize how law abiding we all are, manning our vehicles until exactly 10:30 a.m. I'm going to unplug my devices now and pack up. I am going to exit my vehicle at 10:29. I am a rebel.
Like a dog I am starting to know the location of every fire hydrant in the neighborhood. It used to be my heart would leap at the spying of an empty space a block ahead but now I just grunt knowingly, to myself, and accelerate before I reach them, not at all tempted anymore by their taunt as an answer to my prayers--a place to park in NYC.
Seeing the street sweeper pass at precisely 9 a.m. I circle the block one more time and pull into a space within site of a door that could be called home. The signs however inform me that I must commit to the residency of my vehicle for another hour and thirty minutes.
And the longer I sit here the more I get to envying the canines on leashes who at least can go to the bathroom, and right on the street no less. I start to worry that my health may suffer, that my evacuation system may become irrevocably plugged if I don't get to a bathroom soon. I see another dog pass, a mutt with a nose cowl on and I call out to him--hey dog, are you counting your blessings?
At 9:43 the sweeper comes rumbling up the street again. I think this second passing is unnecessary. I circle the block and park, three spaces behind where I just was. As the minutes pass the competition will get fierce. If the sweeper comes again it is conceivable that in the time it takes to make another go around the block the professional parkers will drop from the sky into every remaining space. I see a white boxer with mascara running down its eyes. It pauses to piss on a piece of junk in the middle of the sidewalk, a square purple device with a white electrical cord coming out of it. There are black and grey graffiti tags on every side of it and now, at least this one boxer tag.
It is starting to rain a little bit. I call Bill Macy and tell him my problems. He is only interested in making jokes about Sybil Shepard. Seventeen minutes to go.
I wonder if I should take up knitting and if I did would I be any good at it?
I haven't seen a dog in a good while. I expect they are all up on their master's couches, snoozing or watching TV.
How is it possible that only three minutes have passed?
It warms my heart to realize how law abiding we all are, manning our vehicles until exactly 10:30 a.m. I'm going to unplug my devices now and pack up. I am going to exit my vehicle at 10:29. I am a rebel.