When one has spent three years thinking, reading and writing about medieval torture techniques, is there a way to reinsert oneself back into society? Can the thought of the rack and stake ever be entirely banished? Can one join the company of free men and women, enjoy their fresh faces, airkiss their scrubbed cheeks and smile beneath their warm and welcoming gaze, unencumbered by unspoken speculation about their eventual dismemberment? Is there a way, oh lord, is there a way?
Yes, there is a way. Espionage. Secrecy. A mission. Only by feigning involvement in the real world to accomplish an ulterior goal is one able to simulate normalcy and thereby return to civilian life. Call it a stepping-stone, a half-way house, a stairway to sanity.
I got the call last night. Headquarters in Toronto instructed me to procure some valuable matériel unavailable in the socialist hell north of Lake Ontario. I was to get in my car and drive, purchase the items with an unmarked credit card, then, at some later date to be specified, head far, far to the north and somehow sneak the precious cargo of contraband past the vigilance of the Canadian border huskies and their mukluk-shod Mountie masters.
The morning dawned brilliantly sunny, a cold hard day in late winter. Ha, I thought, enjoying the ironies of the cloak-and-dagger. A couple jogged innocently by in the brightness of my rear window, oblivious to the darkness within. I smiled to myself as I turned the key in the ignition, if they only knew…
Business with pleasure, I thought suavely, as I avoided the highway to take a slower, harder-to-tail route. I drove south out of Providence onto Allens Avenue, a.k.a. the Narragansett Bay Corniche, its mixture of tank farms, rusting tugs and mountainous heaps of toxic crud a clever counterpoint to the predictable vista of sea and sky. Then onto bucolic Cranston, a limitless expanse of drugstores and hot dog vendors punctuated by foreclosed clapboard houses and palm-reading shops. When I reached the boarded-up storefront of the place that used to sell week-old grinder rolls and Wonder bread, I knew I had gone too far.
I deftly executed a U-turn and headed to the next stage of my journey: I-95, a ribbon of asphalt stretching from Maine to Florida that is the quasi-mobile home to five million UPS trucks delivering fall-apart goods made in Shenzhen. I merged and soon found myself in familiar company, Massholes passing on the right, Rhode Islanders unfamiliar with the concept of the turn signal, even a few New Jersey plates straining to break the sound barrier, all of the drivers shouting into cellphones and eating something.
I exited at Warwick, Rhode Island, my dread destination Bald Hill Road. Almost immediately it was upon me. Beyond a shivering spinney of leafless trees loomed a sign: Toys R Us.
Yes! There it was… No, wait, it says: Toys R Us Babies R Us. There must be some mistake. I pressed on the accelerator and climbed the bald hill. It had all been too easy, I wasn’t going to be fooled.
Target, Wal-Mart, Chuck E. Cheese, Panera, Best Buy, Barnes & Noble, Ocean State Job Lots, Dollar Tree, Payless, T.J. Maxx, Christmas Tree Shops, Petsmart, Dick’s, Rick’s, Applebee’s, Wendy’s, Republic Tax Returns, Sears, Marshall’s, Yankee Candle… I squinted in the sunlight as I passed the succession of parking lots, around which were artfully arranged the depositories of the I-95 deliveries, dancing up and down the hillside like a winsomely choreographed dog’s breakfast.
But no Toys R Us.
I pulled into Trader Joe’s to get my bearings. I knew the place, it was reassuring, the place where people who don’t like to touch food go to buy food. Lettuce, avocadoes, tomatoes, all hermetically bagged, a cheese section kept close to absolute zero, meat ditto, two aisles of starch wrapped in Trader Joe’s post-apocalyptic unirradiable pouches, then, of course, seven aisles of chips and salsa, ground zero for the organic couch potato.
I felt at home. But still a bit dizzy. I made my way hesitantly to the feeding station. A woman there offered me a viscous dollop of guacamole atop a chipotle-mole-mesquite-low-sodium-jalapeno-infused-free-range tortilla chip. It slid down my gullet and restored me to the lethal acuity necessary to carry out my mission.
“Excuse me,” I said quietly, after looking over my shoulder. “There’s a Toys R Us Babies R Us up the road, but isn’t there just a Toys R Us around here?”
“Nope,” she said. “That’s it.”
Within minutes I was in the store, Toys R Us Babies R Us, expectant, hair-triggered.
“Ma’am?” I whispered to the bent lumbar behind Customer Service. “Ma’am?”
She straightened up. Her red shirt could have said Greatgrandmothers R Us.
But it didn’t.
The time had come for disclosure. At least partial.
“I’m looking for…” she stared at me expectantly… “for four pairs of Justin Bieber 3-D glasses.”
Her face folded into a smile.
“I’ll see, hon.”
The wait seemed interminable. I checked out the cases of Duracell on sale, tried not to think about the consequences.
She returned, emptyhanded.
“We’re all out.”
A bead of sweat pearled on my ashen brow. This could not be.
“Can you call your other stores?”
She looked at me, greatgrandmotherly annoyed.
“We have other 3-D glasses, you know.”
I paused, trembling. How much should I give away?
Then I thought of that colleague bludgeoned to death with a hockey puck in the middle of the night, that other bright young thing brought down with arsenic poutine…
“It’s… it’s for these Canadian… Canadian… people I know,” I began falteringly, then raced on. They can’t get the Bieber glasses up there, they’re not on sale at Toys R Can, though they should be able to get them, shouldn’t they? It’s insulting, pathetic, horrible. “Justin’s Canadian,” I blurted out, desperately.
“No kiddin’?”
I sized up my demographic.
“And so was Monty Hall.”
“Really!”
She seized the phone.
After forty rings, Swansea, Mass. picked up. They had one pair.
“I need four,” I croaked.
Attleboro, Mass. had a few of them left.
I thanked my World War One widow and raced out to the lot. Seconds later I was on I-95 racing north, weaving between UPS, Fedex and Da Pasquale Removals, passing on the right, eating quahog tacos and causing a sonic boom. Warwick, Cranston, Providen –
The traffic slowed, crawled, stopped. It was the storied curve near Thurbers Avenue, where accidents should happen and do. I looked helplessly off to the right, then to the left. We had just passed the classy brown and white sign reading “Historic Providence.” But here, like the Christ the Redeemer overlooking Rio, stood the shed of New England Pest Control, on its roof a gargantuan blue bug, a sort of winged cockroach of mercy, rocking in the wind and blessing the immobilized motorists. I bowed reverently then looked ahead. No movement.
The Jeep Cherokee with Mass plates in front of me had two bumper stickers. One had written on it in large capital letters: YOU JUST GOT PASSED BY A GIRL. The other was black, with a figure in white, a naked, pot-bellied middle-aged man with tousled, thinning hair, pissing against the wind. Below him, a small legend: “Ex-husband.”
I turned on the radio. First, NPR, talking about irrelevant things, like world events. I switched to another AM band. Much better. Obama is a socialist, he verbally said out loud that he doesn’t agree with, y’know, the democracy in this country, he’s against us, he’s a dictator, least that’s what everybody else can’t see…
I let the window slide down. The redeemer bug rocked in a slight breeze. Ex-husband advanced a few yards. The sun shone. Home.
We crept through Providence. Then on to Pawtucket. The first police presence of the day made itself felt, on the entrances to the bridge spanning the Blackstone River. The bridge, like the Interstate, was built in the 1950s, but successive governments had pocketed the money destined to recovering it every other year in anti-oxydizing paint, and now the bridge stood rusting, close to collapse, able only to support car traffic. Any truck that takes it is subject to a $3000 fine; hence the avaricious cops, the poorly marked detours and the promise to rebuild the bridge with toothpicks.
I swept by these inconveniences, readjusted my silk scarf. I switched to FM. A plangent voice spoke of Skinsational Day Spa and laser vaginal rejuvenation.
Onto Massachusetts. The first exit was marked South Attleboro. My car crested a ramp and was deposited in front of a mall. Petsmart, T.J. Maxx, Best Buy…
I returned to Via America, I-95, and cruised another few miles under the pitiless sunshine. If there was a South Attleboro, there had to be a northern sibling, I thought to myself with cosmopolitan panache. Skinsational also offered acne-scar obliteration.
The next exit was disconcerting. Instead of the welcoming embrace of fall-apart warehouses, here there was New England in all its postcard glory, a snow-specked hillock of pilgrim forest framing a nestled Dunkin’ Donuts. I pulled into the lot, admiring the Ye Olde Mobil Mini-Marte across the street.
A woman came out of the shop, cradling a super-Dunk mocha, ready to mount her mini-van, a reassuring, sensible corner-kick mom. I called to her before she speed-dialed.
“Excuse me. Is there a Toys R Us near here?”
“Why yes!” she said, eager to help. “Take 95 south to Boston and get off on the second or third exit. You can’t miss it.”
Her phone rang. I went into the store. You took 95 north to Boston.
“Right out of the lot, then right at the fourth set of lights. Go about a mile and it’s on your right.”
Buzz-cut with the RedSox cap seemed entirely believable. I asked him for an Old Fashioned, and dunked it. I then drove through neighborhoods with signs marked “Thickly Settled.”
The Toys R Us stood apart, on a hill, in a small two-business mall. Dwarfing it in size was a jug-wine superstore, but, as I was on a mission, I did not tarry.
“I’m here for four sets of 3-D glasses. We called from Warwick.”
The Customer Service lady eyed me. “You Steve?”
I glanced around, Bourne-like, then nodded. Gawd, greatgrandmother had been indiscreet.
She reached under the desk and shoved them at me. Four pairs of 3-D Glasses. I looked at them.
“Justin Bieber?” I said fiercely.
“Wha…?”
“You said you had… four… pairs… of Justin Bieber…?”
She looked at me, perhaps glimpsing the collapsing continent before her, the mountain ranges falling foaming into the sea.
“I’ll check.”
I stuttered into my lapel, knowing that no Blackhawk was picking up the signal. A child wailed. I don’t remember the rest…
She returned. Sweet, middle-aged, fresh-faced, New England, flinty.
“We don’t got none.”
My inner scream was soundless.
Just like in the torture chamber.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Clueless Irrelevant Apparatchiks
Let’s take a walk down memory lane:
In the 1950s and 1960s the Quiet Americans sent from Langley were warned by the departing French that there was no way to beat back Vietnamese nationalists. Hah! What do the Frogs know, anyway?
Egg dumpling on the face, anyone?
In the 1970s, the Sages of Virginia knew their toppling of the Mossadegh regime in Iran twenty years earlier and their subsequent supporting of the Shah to be a splendid policy with no possible blowback. The poor man is sick? Let’s invite him to the US for medical treatment.
Can anyone say hostage crisis?
In the 1980s the Geopolitical Geniuses of suburban D.C. warned that the Cold War would stretch on indefinitely and that America must increase its ICBM capability and its missile defense system in Europe -- as well as work on its Star Wars interceptors as part of a cosmic dartboard deterrence aimed at the eternal Soviet Union.
Enter Mr. Gorbachev.
In the 1990s, having concluded that history was over and the US had “won,” the Best and the Brightest kicked back a bit, concentrating only on making contingency war plans for whichever country they happened to be misreading entirely. Really, there was nothing to worry about, the forces of freedom, the beacon of liber –
Downtown New York City.
In the 2000s, the Global Experts on the Potomac now knew the score: Arab=Muslim=Terrorist. Let’s bomb as many of them as we can, and, while we’re at it, let’s subject granny to a strip-search at Tulsa International. She could be hiding an Arab… sorry, a terrorist.
Tunisia, Egypt, Libya…
It’s 1848 in north Africa (and elsewhere in the “Arab street,” as it is called in the “overpaid parking lot” at Langley), and what’s on offer from the bloated nationalo-securitamus-intelligenciatic-espionnagery octopus soaking up billions of bucks? Nothing. They got nothing.
Who knew? When they bought the wife a new SUV so that they can both get stuck in traffic going to their super-duper, smart-as-nails jobs as experts on world affairs, there was no app for Al-Jazeera in the beverage center.
You had to pay extra.
Who knew?
In the 1950s and 1960s the Quiet Americans sent from Langley were warned by the departing French that there was no way to beat back Vietnamese nationalists. Hah! What do the Frogs know, anyway?
Egg dumpling on the face, anyone?
In the 1970s, the Sages of Virginia knew their toppling of the Mossadegh regime in Iran twenty years earlier and their subsequent supporting of the Shah to be a splendid policy with no possible blowback. The poor man is sick? Let’s invite him to the US for medical treatment.
Can anyone say hostage crisis?
In the 1980s the Geopolitical Geniuses of suburban D.C. warned that the Cold War would stretch on indefinitely and that America must increase its ICBM capability and its missile defense system in Europe -- as well as work on its Star Wars interceptors as part of a cosmic dartboard deterrence aimed at the eternal Soviet Union.
Enter Mr. Gorbachev.
In the 1990s, having concluded that history was over and the US had “won,” the Best and the Brightest kicked back a bit, concentrating only on making contingency war plans for whichever country they happened to be misreading entirely. Really, there was nothing to worry about, the forces of freedom, the beacon of liber –
Downtown New York City.
In the 2000s, the Global Experts on the Potomac now knew the score: Arab=Muslim=Terrorist. Let’s bomb as many of them as we can, and, while we’re at it, let’s subject granny to a strip-search at Tulsa International. She could be hiding an Arab… sorry, a terrorist.
Tunisia, Egypt, Libya…
It’s 1848 in north Africa (and elsewhere in the “Arab street,” as it is called in the “overpaid parking lot” at Langley), and what’s on offer from the bloated nationalo-securitamus-intelligenciatic-espionnagery octopus soaking up billions of bucks? Nothing. They got nothing.
Who knew? When they bought the wife a new SUV so that they can both get stuck in traffic going to their super-duper, smart-as-nails jobs as experts on world affairs, there was no app for Al-Jazeera in the beverage center.
You had to pay extra.
Who knew?
Monday, February 28, 2011
Singin' in the Rain
We are drowning in New England today. Whither the slush of yesteryear?
The madman is still at large in Tripoli, the fool hangs on in Madison, the ferret prances in Paris. What to do with such a day?
I give you William, ninth Duke of Aquitaine, the man who put the beat in the twelfth century. Just in case we thought the cosmic funk was our own invention:
Poème sur Pur Néant
Je ferai vers sur pur néant
Ne sera sur moi ni sur autre gent
Ne sera sur amour ni sur jeunesse
Ni sur rien autre ;
Je lai composé en dormant
Sur mon cheval
Ne sais quelle heure fus né
Ne suis allègre ni irrité
Ne suis étranger ni privé
Et n’en puis mais,
Qu’ainsi fus de nuit doté par les féés
Sur un haut puy.
Ne sais quand je suis endormi
Ni quand je veille, si l’on me le dit
À peu ne m’est le cœur parti
D’un deuil poignant
Et n’en fais pas plus cas que d’une souris
Par saint Martial.
Malade suis et me crois mourir
Et rien n’en sais plus que n’en entends dire,
Médecin querrai à mon plaisir
Et ne sais quel
Bon il sera s’il me peut guérir
Mais non si mon mal empire.
J’ai une amie, ne sais qui c’est ;
Jamais ne la vis, sur ma foi
Rien ne m’a fait qui me plaît, ni me pèse
Ni ne m’en chaut,
Que jamais n’y eut Normands ni Français
En mon hôtel.
Jamais ne la vis et je l’aime fort
Jamais ne me fit droit ni me fit tort
Quand je ne la vois, bien en fais mon plaisir
Et ne l’estime pas plus qu’un coq
Car j’en sais une plus belle et plus gentille
Et qui vaut bien plus.
J’ai fait ce poème, ne sais sur quoi
Et le transmettrai à celui
Qui le transmettra à autrui
Là-bas vers l’Anjou,
Qui le transmettra de son côté
À quelqu’un d’autre.
The madman is still at large in Tripoli, the fool hangs on in Madison, the ferret prances in Paris. What to do with such a day?
I give you William, ninth Duke of Aquitaine, the man who put the beat in the twelfth century. Just in case we thought the cosmic funk was our own invention:
Poème sur Pur Néant
Je ferai vers sur pur néant
Ne sera sur moi ni sur autre gent
Ne sera sur amour ni sur jeunesse
Ni sur rien autre ;
Je lai composé en dormant
Sur mon cheval
Ne sais quelle heure fus né
Ne suis allègre ni irrité
Ne suis étranger ni privé
Et n’en puis mais,
Qu’ainsi fus de nuit doté par les féés
Sur un haut puy.
Ne sais quand je suis endormi
Ni quand je veille, si l’on me le dit
À peu ne m’est le cœur parti
D’un deuil poignant
Et n’en fais pas plus cas que d’une souris
Par saint Martial.
Malade suis et me crois mourir
Et rien n’en sais plus que n’en entends dire,
Médecin querrai à mon plaisir
Et ne sais quel
Bon il sera s’il me peut guérir
Mais non si mon mal empire.
J’ai une amie, ne sais qui c’est ;
Jamais ne la vis, sur ma foi
Rien ne m’a fait qui me plaît, ni me pèse
Ni ne m’en chaut,
Que jamais n’y eut Normands ni Français
En mon hôtel.
Jamais ne la vis et je l’aime fort
Jamais ne me fit droit ni me fit tort
Quand je ne la vois, bien en fais mon plaisir
Et ne l’estime pas plus qu’un coq
Car j’en sais une plus belle et plus gentille
Et qui vaut bien plus.
J’ai fait ce poème, ne sais sur quoi
Et le transmettrai à celui
Qui le transmettra à autrui
Là-bas vers l’Anjou,
Qui le transmettra de son côté
À quelqu’un d’autre.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Bouteille à la mer
Hello again, Dollfaceless, it’s been a while. No, I have not been silent so as to make room for Egyptian facebookers, nor have I been struck by involuntary dumbness brought on by teaparty adherence.
No, my prosaic attentions were lavished elsewhere, and the bittersweet moment arrived this morning: I hit Send, and my constant companion in these two years from bottle to throttle zoomed up into the clouds of copyeditors, layout departments, illustrators and bookbinders, my swarm of pixelated termites attacking some sacrificial lumber in the ephemeral conquest of the page, my titanic achievement commanding awestruck indifference from all within my zipcode, my dog’s breakfast of inspiration running in viscous rivulets down toward oceanic dissolution, my playful friend dancing in front of me on those long nights spent in the arms of Lady Cabernet, my garage-sale mountain of narrative tricks offering solace and sorrow, my servant, my master, my King Farouk… me fookin’ book.
“How does it feel, and what will you do now?” ask the many kind but totally imaginary friends in my head. Go back into therapy now that you no longer live in the fourteenth century? Dust off your Norwegian for the awards ceremony? Try to get a job at Border’s? Purchase a wooden spoon and beat the first desirable woman you see? Buy a giga-pack of Rolling Rock?
I have decided to make a lamb couscous instead.
I will put Maria Callas on the kitchen stereo, manhandle vegetables and permit myself a pinch of satisfaction to accompany the cumin. To complete this small pleasure, while cooking I will leaf through a magazine bought recently in a French-language bookstore: a glossy history special issue entitled Scandaleuses princesses.
So, yes, I did buy a wooden spoon.
No, my prosaic attentions were lavished elsewhere, and the bittersweet moment arrived this morning: I hit Send, and my constant companion in these two years from bottle to throttle zoomed up into the clouds of copyeditors, layout departments, illustrators and bookbinders, my swarm of pixelated termites attacking some sacrificial lumber in the ephemeral conquest of the page, my titanic achievement commanding awestruck indifference from all within my zipcode, my dog’s breakfast of inspiration running in viscous rivulets down toward oceanic dissolution, my playful friend dancing in front of me on those long nights spent in the arms of Lady Cabernet, my garage-sale mountain of narrative tricks offering solace and sorrow, my servant, my master, my King Farouk… me fookin’ book.
“How does it feel, and what will you do now?” ask the many kind but totally imaginary friends in my head. Go back into therapy now that you no longer live in the fourteenth century? Dust off your Norwegian for the awards ceremony? Try to get a job at Border’s? Purchase a wooden spoon and beat the first desirable woman you see? Buy a giga-pack of Rolling Rock?
I have decided to make a lamb couscous instead.
I will put Maria Callas on the kitchen stereo, manhandle vegetables and permit myself a pinch of satisfaction to accompany the cumin. To complete this small pleasure, while cooking I will leaf through a magazine bought recently in a French-language bookstore: a glossy history special issue entitled Scandaleuses princesses.
So, yes, I did buy a wooden spoon.
Saturday, January 22, 2011
Tea for One
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.
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.
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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