Having ranked sixth in this year’s top ten list of The Most Influential Beings in the Milky Way (the only other earthling, coming in at #2, was Tonya Harding), I am often asked by friends and admirers – if they can be differentiated – whether I resent not being invited to the White House for state dinners. For the most recent banquet there with the leader of China, for example, neither Tonya nor I was contacted.
I have to say that for all my galactic importance I do not feel the smallest twinge of resentment at such neglect.
The truth is, China does not exist, as I am not there. Neither does New York City, unless I am visiting it, which of course I never will. To those willing to drink deep at my wisdom well, I use the example of the refrigerator. Does the light go out when you close the fridge door? Yes? No?... I see you’re beginning to understand. In the same way, when I am asleep the universe ceases to exist.
In uncharacteristic moments of weakness, I sometimes wish that I could find confirmation of this axiomatic truth from Professor Einstein. Unfortunately, he had the weakness of being mortal. But in all other respects we are similar: hair coloring, personal hygiene and genius.
So, will China eventually matter?
It depends on my mood.
I have so many other things to think about. For example, greasing the semiautomatic that my daughter is bringing to her prom. The Second Amendment is Number One on her dance card. As for the wholly unnecessary verbiage surrounding it, called the Constitution, I will concede that it is the most amazing thing ever produced in the galaxy about the greatest country ever to exist past, present and future and in every dimension up until beyond the infinite. Yet, yet… activist judges have argued that it applies to Mexicans. Whereas, to use one of the Founders’ funny, scrolly words, it was written principally to abolish government.
I have to remember that, aside from myself, perfection is elusive.
Okay, okay, I will admit that sometimes I lose patience. But then I realize I just have to fall asleep to make it go away. Or daydream, back to the days when I played pitch-and-catch with Spikey, my pet stegosaurus.
Do I care about women, you ask? Yes, of course, those wonderful, wonderful helpmeets. Other men my age may think about young women’s vaginas, but I think about their wombs, which are public property. It’s a difficult burden to bear.
Even more troublesome are the brown people. Exactly how much should we bomb them when they’re not there in the first place? As a galactic figure, I have to put it into perspective. And as a free man, unfettered by government, history and perspective, I sometimes wonder if we really need to pay for more armaments.
But then I realize as a one-man militia it is my duty to put the whole country in uniform and attack places I’ve never heard about and therefore don’t exist.
Funny that, no? Lordy, it’s fascinating, this push-me-pull-you world in which we live.
On the one hand, there’s nothing. On the other, there’s me.
Saturday, January 22, 2011
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Football for Foodies
Tonight the heavily favored New England Patriots lost their playoff game to the New York Jets. Aside from the feeling some empathy for football fans here in Providence, I am especially upset that my free January feasts have come to an end.
Let me explain.
When the Patriots remain in the playoffs, two of my local bars become the answer to cooking at home.
This afternoon I started at a social club – a drinking club, really – run by the Portuguese of the neighborhood. You have to be Portuguese or Cape Verdean to be a member, but you can be anyone to go and drink there. The members, as far as I can tell, are all men – cops, firemen, contractors, electricians, carpenters and a reliably deranged contingent of house painters. The lighting is naked fluorescent, the décor non-existent. These guys have grown up together, so it’s not unusual to hear shouted conversations like this:
“Hey, remember where Joey’s wife is buried?”
“Yeah.”
“Well yesterday Billy was buried just two graves over.”
“No fuckin’ kiddin’!”
Where there is a women present, which is very rare, there is a sort of unspoken chivalrous agreement to tone it down. Tonight there was a sweet redhead there, maybe thirty, which is a rarity of a rarity, so when Tom Brady threw an interception, the tall vociferous, Viking-gone-to-seed house painter who seems to live at the bar stood up and shouted, “Asshole! Douchebag!” Everyone was impressed that he had the presence of mind to leave out the normal adjective such occasions call for and remain polite.
But I digress… As this is a fraternal Portuguese place, and as this is a Patriots playoff game, there is always good food prepared by one or two of the members. Tonight there was a Mediterranean chile, lots of olives and some squid, and a light, not overcreamy seafood chowder.
I took two small bowls then watched the first half. The chowder was sublime. I considered going back for seconds, indeed was encouraged to, but I had other plans.
At half-time I left and went for a walk through the silent, snowy streets. Everyone was inside watching the game. I had to work off my first course.
Just a few blocks away is another communal bar. About twenty years ago, it had to be closed down because the building it occupied was condemned. About 40 guys from the neighborhood – called Fox Point – chipped in and bought the building around the corner. The bar was christened Around the Corner.
Fox Point is a working-class neighborhood of African-Americans, Cape Verdeans, Italians and Portuguese. In front of the bar is a parking lot that can accommodate perhaps six cars. On game days, there are usually eight black Cadillac Escalades jammed into the space.
That is because much of the clientele are big, and I mean big, black guys. They all seem to have PhD’s in football. The always shouted conversations run something like this:
“Look, the man is limpin’! That’s from that hit he took in third year at Tulane!”
“That was fourth year, brother.”
Pause.
“Yeah, right.”
There are black women present, lots of them, dressed to kill. And a lot of slobby white people. Everybody knows everybody. The bartender is a sixty-something bottle blonde shaped like a chest of drawers. She’s very friendly.
And during Patriots playoff games, there is serious cooking going on. Tonight was a choice of Philly cheese steaks or seared pork tenderloin, with baked beans, okra and a crispy salad.
I dug in at the start of the fourth quarter. Delicious.
I am so annoyed that the Patriots are out of the playoffs.
Douchebags.
Let me explain.
When the Patriots remain in the playoffs, two of my local bars become the answer to cooking at home.
This afternoon I started at a social club – a drinking club, really – run by the Portuguese of the neighborhood. You have to be Portuguese or Cape Verdean to be a member, but you can be anyone to go and drink there. The members, as far as I can tell, are all men – cops, firemen, contractors, electricians, carpenters and a reliably deranged contingent of house painters. The lighting is naked fluorescent, the décor non-existent. These guys have grown up together, so it’s not unusual to hear shouted conversations like this:
“Hey, remember where Joey’s wife is buried?”
“Yeah.”
“Well yesterday Billy was buried just two graves over.”
“No fuckin’ kiddin’!”
Where there is a women present, which is very rare, there is a sort of unspoken chivalrous agreement to tone it down. Tonight there was a sweet redhead there, maybe thirty, which is a rarity of a rarity, so when Tom Brady threw an interception, the tall vociferous, Viking-gone-to-seed house painter who seems to live at the bar stood up and shouted, “Asshole! Douchebag!” Everyone was impressed that he had the presence of mind to leave out the normal adjective such occasions call for and remain polite.
But I digress… As this is a fraternal Portuguese place, and as this is a Patriots playoff game, there is always good food prepared by one or two of the members. Tonight there was a Mediterranean chile, lots of olives and some squid, and a light, not overcreamy seafood chowder.
I took two small bowls then watched the first half. The chowder was sublime. I considered going back for seconds, indeed was encouraged to, but I had other plans.
At half-time I left and went for a walk through the silent, snowy streets. Everyone was inside watching the game. I had to work off my first course.
Just a few blocks away is another communal bar. About twenty years ago, it had to be closed down because the building it occupied was condemned. About 40 guys from the neighborhood – called Fox Point – chipped in and bought the building around the corner. The bar was christened Around the Corner.
Fox Point is a working-class neighborhood of African-Americans, Cape Verdeans, Italians and Portuguese. In front of the bar is a parking lot that can accommodate perhaps six cars. On game days, there are usually eight black Cadillac Escalades jammed into the space.
That is because much of the clientele are big, and I mean big, black guys. They all seem to have PhD’s in football. The always shouted conversations run something like this:
“Look, the man is limpin’! That’s from that hit he took in third year at Tulane!”
“That was fourth year, brother.”
Pause.
“Yeah, right.”
There are black women present, lots of them, dressed to kill. And a lot of slobby white people. Everybody knows everybody. The bartender is a sixty-something bottle blonde shaped like a chest of drawers. She’s very friendly.
And during Patriots playoff games, there is serious cooking going on. Tonight was a choice of Philly cheese steaks or seared pork tenderloin, with baked beans, okra and a crispy salad.
I dug in at the start of the fourth quarter. Delicious.
I am so annoyed that the Patriots are out of the playoffs.
Douchebags.
Monday, January 10, 2011
Shut yer pie-hole, Sarah
Happy New Year.
Just had a discussion with a teabagger acquaintance who defended everyone’s right to free speech. Then I asked him this question:
If John Boehner had been shot in the head, after having his district adorned with a gun sight on a map of the United States displayed prominently for months on Howard Dean’s website, would his reaction be any different?
He said no.
Then I said I was the Queen of England.
Just had a discussion with a teabagger acquaintance who defended everyone’s right to free speech. Then I asked him this question:
If John Boehner had been shot in the head, after having his district adorned with a gun sight on a map of the United States displayed prominently for months on Howard Dean’s website, would his reaction be any different?
He said no.
Then I said I was the Queen of England.
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