HOW TO DINE LIKE THE GAMELAN PLAYER IN AN INDIE ROCK BAND. OR A PENNILESS WINE SHOP CLERK.

Times are tough. Companies are scaling back on holiday gifts, families are struggling to make ends meet, and for my sexworker needs I've downgraded to toothless fifty-something Puerto Rican hookers with names like Consuela and Graciela. But just because you have to fuck like a pauper doesn't mean you can't dine like a prince! Over the years, the combination of solo living, indigency, and an appetite to rival that of a stoned whale have forced me to develop a number of strategies for eating out on the cheap. Follow my helpful hints for stretching your food dollar, and soon you'll have scads of extra cash to spend on rent and important household items like electronic nosehair clippers and eight-balls of cocaine.


1. Got... Thai?

This is hardly a secret, but Thai food is perhaps the last great deal in good eats. On this front, authenticity is important, but not necessarily for reasons of cultural fealty. As Thai and other once-exotic cuisines have burgeoned in popularity, enterprising restauranteurs have developed trendy and needlessly expensive restaurants serving artful but often homogenized versions of classic endemic dishes. Not only are the prices at these nouveau joints markedly higher, but portion sizes shrink and the ratio of garnish to food increases drastically. Avoid restaurants of this type like the plague. Fortunately for our purposes they tend to be easily identified by their minimalist color schemes and decor, backlit signage, and expensive, unobtrusive stereo equipment invariably broadcasting trip-hop and lounge music. Usually the vocalist will be singing in Portuguese despite the fact that this bears no relation to the cuisine on offer. Also remember that if a Thai restaurant has a martini menu, it's a bad sign. Ditto black leather couches and water installations. On the plus side, if you see a dry-erase board announcing "Today's Special" in a squiggly, illegible language, or spot old Asian women puttering around in the kitchen, these are indicators that you are in the right place. Finally, run, don't walk out of any ethnic restaurant that boasts go-go dancers or where you have to slip the hostess a twenty (pre-rolled for use as a coke straw) in order to secure a table.


2. Second Day Is Twice As Nice; Or, Doggy Bags Are Your Friend

Rule two for economical out-dining: whenever possible, leave something for a future meal. A byword of restaurant-going for most people, this has become a revelation for me of late, the possibility of which I attribute to a general slowing of my metabolism and diminution of my appetite. Just as important as having leftovers, however, is knowing which leftovers are worth preserving in the first place. It is crucial during the meal to strategize your attack and consume fully those items that will not happily live in the icebox in the days that follow, allowing you both to achieve satiation and also hoard a portion of hardier foodstuffs for the lean times ahead. To this end, here are some rough and ready guidelines. While at table devour without mercy all mollusks, fish, and other seafood bounty, as these culinary hothouse orchids are the first victims of spoilage and will play merry hell with your digestive system if not treated with the utmost respect. The same regrettably goes for sushi which, delicious and costly though it may be, can turn on you like a dyspeptic cobra and make you rue the day you became proficient with chopsticks. Besides, sushi is too expensive for our borderline-welfare lifestyle, so I will assume that if you are seated in front of an expanse of sushi, someone else is picking up the tab. To paraphrase the popular expression, "eat 'em if you got 'em." Dressed salads are also prime full-consumption candidates: few things in life are as sorry and unappetizing as an archipelago of wilted lettuce leaves adrift in a sea of thousand-island dressing. As mama used to say, "eat your greens." Same thing goes for sliced raw fruits and fresh berries. You need them, especially if like me your diet revolves around the potato and is therefore woefully undersupplied with nutrients and roughage.

Excellent candidates for caching are starchy vegetables and their offspring (with the notable exception of french fries); the cooked flesh of birds, pigs, and ungulates; grains, pilafs, and pulses; sandwiches, excepting those that contain the dreaded term 'salad' in their name; soups of all manner; omelets and other egg-driven vehicles; and non-frozen desserts and cheese courses. With few exceptions, all these items can live for days in the fridge and pose minimal risk of causing grievous gastrointestinal damage when finally pressed into meal service. And speaking of service, don't think that doggy bags are de rigeur only if you're dining in. Whenever possible, order takeout from lunch buffets. Almost never will you encounter a buffet that charges by weight, so take that styrofoam container and load it as full as its structural integrity (and your chutzpah) will permit. After having helped yourself to an obscene quantity of food, quickly encase said container in the provided plastic bag to prevent spillage should the six pounds of chicken korma and aloo gobi breach their styrofoam hull and create what we in the food industry call a "situation." Avoid making eye-contact with the owners as you depart with your spoils, and if you frequent the same establishment with any regularity consider periodically changing your appearance and possibly your name as well.


3. Learn to Live Off the Land

Since the 1960's when natural-food advocate Euell Gibbons and his seminal tome Stalking the Wild Asparagus popularized the notion of harvesting the bounty of nature, Americans have endulged their penchant for rugged individualism by venturing into the woods and gathering wild edibles that at best taste like an unwashed rectum and at worst will leave you dead and bloated as a septic hippo. You rural kids no doubt are already attuned to the wisdom of the land and have honed your instincts to such a degree that you can create a meth lab out of little more than a hollow log, some cattails, and the restricted access section of the local pharmacy. But here's a news flash for you city slickers: you too can reduce your dependency on grocery stores and foreign oil by exploiting those pockets of wildness that persist in even the most developed of cities. For instance, as you may know snowshoe hares were one of the staple foodstuffs for mountain men and voyageurs in the era before the West was conquered by 24-hour convenience stores and Paris Hilton. Yet despair not, for the bounty of the trapline can be yours as well. I am speaking, of course, of that delectable, underutilized urban quarry, the rat. Now, stop protesting - you think people started eating whale blubber and sea cucumbers because they looked appetizing? Rats are plentiful, easy to trap, and in my ward, fat and juicy thanks to their diet of Wiener's Circle refuse and unconsumed chorizo burritos. If you're still not convinced, think of rats as very small, disgusting, and disease-riddled cows - after all, they're practically domesticated given how dependent they are on humans to sustain their enormous populations and prodigious size. (Seriously, I saw this thing the other night that from across the street looked like a Labrador, until I got closer and saw the naked pink tail... shudder. But I digress.) Anyhoo, these critters have essentially no predators in the city, and the only way we're gonna keep their numbers under control is if we all strap on our boots, swallow the vomit rising in our throats, and get those rat traplines working for us. Remember, if you're not part of the solution, you're part of the problem.


4. Whole Foods Can Suck Me Til I Shoot Muesli From My Meatus

In the 1990's you may have noticed the emergence and burgeoning popularity of that great foe of discount dining, the natural foods grocery store. Disguised as a "greener," more socially-conscious way to feed one's self than those soulless Safeways and Jewels, these institutions are instead a devious marketing ploy meant to soften the blow of having to shell out $17.50 per pound for wild rice pilaf and convert T-bills to pay for steaks from sashimi grade, humanely euthanized tunas. Proponents blather on about these companies' superlative foodstuffs and eco-responsible best practices from top to bottom. Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to put it to you in less rarefied terms: Whole Foods and its ilk are the grocery equivalent of strip mines, and their sole objective is the separation of you from your hard-earned greenbacks. Now, if you have a numbered Swiss bank account, count as relatives people with names like Windsor and Walton, or live in places like Monaco or Dubai, go ahead and blow your paycheck (not to mention your gustatory load) at Whole Foods on artisanal free-range Spam and Montessori-educated radicchio. But if you're like me, contemplating a future filled with pork 'n beans and government cheese, then look away as you pass these dens of iniquity as if they were Erik Estrada's Playgirl spread.


5. When All Else Fails...

So you've reached the end of your tether: your resources have dwindled to the point where even local panhandlers are crossing the street to avoid you, and the idea of a big night out is extra fire sauce at - oh god, the horror! - Taco Bell. If this worst-case scenario sounds like you, then you may have to resort to desperate workplace tactics in order to keep yourself fed. I am speaking, of course, of the office refrigerator.

I know I've lost some of you with this one. "Goddamit, Aaron," you say to yourself, "I won't do it; I won't stoop that low." Well, nobody said it would be pretty, this business of survival. It's not a long-term strategy, but in dire circumstances other people's lunches can provide essential sustenance over the course of a busy workday. Remember that it's a zero-sum game out there, and every turkey pastrami sandwich that Ted from Accounting eats is one less turkey pastrami sandwich that you could have noshed on scott-free. There are obvious pitfalls with this tactic, so in order to keep a low profile and avoid the installation of kitchen surveillance cameras be sure to take items in such small quantities as to be almost undetectable. Chips, popcorn, and other loose comestibles are excellent quarry, as are cut vegetables, soups, tupperware-bound leftovers, and the like. Also, be sure to feast mightily on office party platters, celebratory donut holes, and birthday cakes, taking care not to be the first one to slice into the cake or remove a sector of the party sub. Once that sub has been breached, however, think of it as the proverbial dead whale upon which sharks gorge themselves until they literally can't swim; that's the kind of effort I want to see. In spite of my earlier example, do not - I repeat, do not - consume a homemade sandwich, as this theft will almost certainly be discovered and heighten vigilance amongs the other brown-baggers. Food that has been abandoned in the kitchen or dining area is, of course, another matter entirely: jump on that good action while it's still fit for human consumption. Anecdotally, while working for a former employer I once noted a plastic bag of ham on the kitchen counter that had been sitting out overnight and was slimy and opaque from condensation. Fighting back the impulse to retch I wondered at its loathesome appearance but then left the kitchen and gave the bag no further thought - that is, until I returned some thirty minutes later and noted that the bag was now missing its dank contents, which I can only surmise means somebody actually ate the ham. But these are not thoughts I wish to dwell on. The point is, just because one of my former colleagues was desperate as a homeless crack addict doesn't mean that you have to be, even if their incomes and yours are practically commensurate.

Thus concludes this lecture on how to live through these tough financial times without going on the dole or moving back in with your parents who, despite their reassurances, are not anxious to have you back in the warm bosom of the family home, raiding the fridge at all hours and basically being a complete load. By following my instructions and keeping your eyes open and your pride low, you can hold the wolf at bay and eat three squares a day even if you were a performance art major in college. As a final announcement, please note that I've got a great recipe for rat cacciatore available upon request. Oh, and FYI, after calling on the services of Graciela in Humboldt Park last weekend I developed a really nasty rash and it burns now when I pee, so, as they say, caveat emptor.

LET'S DO THE TIME WARP AGAIN

This is what I mean by recapitulating a sense of tragic glory in pop music. All you electro fans out there will no doubt roll your eyes at me for posting this now - how passé can I possibly be? - but even two years after its release this is still completely au courant and at the same time hearkens back twenty years. Think Prince or New Order on a meth bender. This is from French techno phenoms Gaspard Augé and Xavier de Rosnay, better known of course as Justice. Here's Part I and II of 'Phantom.'

Part I

And Part II

Sure, it's music to dance all night to, but isn't there also an intrinsic sadness, a desperation here too? A despair of mortality? The guitar riff at the end of Part II - doesn't it just break your heart into a million tiny pieces?

BIZARRE GENIUS FROM 1987

The Pet Shop Boys cover Elvis Presley with a little help from Joss Ackland, who played to perfection the evil South African Ambassador from Lethal Weapon II. Weird, wonderful, and of an era. And such a great tune.

These guys perfected fin de siècle. Inexplicably the Gen-Xers of the 1990's forgot it, and now we're just catching onto the exquisite anticipatory sense of loss they created. Truly everything old is new.

ON RECALLING ANGST FROM DAYS GONE BY

"Alright Aaron," you say, "you've posted several works by some of America's greatest poetic voices. How's about some poetry of your own?" It's a fair cop, made even more so by the fact that I haven't written a poem in a month of Sundays. But if you're in the mood for some puerile, lovesick maudlin verse, here's a poem I wrote in February of 2004. I can make no suitable apology for it other than the fact that I was a young, foolish man of 23 when I wrote this. I hope it's not too cringe-worthy.


If only you knew what I think about
You might not ever look at me that way again.
Sometimes I wish that you would just figure it out
on your own, because I don't want to go about explaining.
It's not that my thoughts are bad; after all, there is no good or bad
but thinking makes it makes it makes it so it wakes me up
in the middle of the night
And I can't sleep. Then I turn and look and there you are
Lying in bed beside me. And it's just fine you're naked now, but do you want to
Know that I undressed you in my mind the very first time we met?
Does the fact that I just told you make me more a demon or a saint?
And when we fucked - this time again, for the very first time - is it best that I not say
Just how many others came before, and that I couldn't quite remember
what your name was that next day?
Maybe this is best, because I've tried to tell the truth before
To some who thought they knew what I would say;
I always wound up disappointing them and me.
But surely you know, don't you? that everyone is thinking
Just like me, it's only that I need to tell somebody else.
But only if they're special are you special?
Only if they're brave are you that brave?
Only if they're human are you human?
Maybe I'll find out tomorrow, when you wake.


Actually, even today I kind of like it. Just don't ask me to post anything from my teenaged years.

ON THE ONTOLOGICAL SHIFT IN SONGS PREDICATED ON SEXUAL FRUSTRATION

Is this age of immediate gratification, first-date fucks, and instantaneous communiques between interested parties, is there still room in the modern idiom for such paeans to erotic deferral as 'Tired of Waiting' by The Kinks or Chuck Berry's 'No Particular Place to Go'?

YES I AM ONE LAZY SUMBITCH

But I did want to let you know that I WILL be updating the blog soon, so all two of you who continue to read this will soon have something new for your troubles. Be patient and, as the old dude in the Bartles and James commercial used to say, thank you for your support.

SOME DISTURBING LOCAL DEVELOPMENTS IN DISSOCIATIVE BEHAVIOR

Ilene has graced us with some new insights into her philosophy towards life vis à vis aesthetics, the performing arts, and interpersonal ethics. To wit:

On the television program Arrested Development:

"I love this show more than I love anyone in real life."

On her reason for loving Arrested Development more than any actual human being:

"There's nothing these characters can do to hurt me."

On her new Vizio flatscreen television:

"Anyone who wants to spend time with me is gonna have to compete with this baby."

On her general attitude towards the human race:

"I hate everyone."

Wise beyond her years, this one. When she speaks, you know what I do? I listen.

THE IDEA OF ORDER AT KEY WEST

She sang beyond the genius of the sea.
The water never formed to mind or voice,
Like a body wholly body, fluttering
Its empty sleeves; and yet its mimic motion
Made constant cry, caused constantly a cry,
That was not ours although we understood,
Inhuman, of the veritable ocean.

The sea was not a mask. No more was she.
The song and water were not medleyed sound
Even if what she sang was what she heard.
Since what she sang was uttered word by word.
It may be that in all her phrases stirred
The grinding water and the gasping wind;
But it was she and not the sea we heard.

For she was the maker of the song she sang.
The ever-hooded, tragic-gestured sea
Was merely a place by which she walked to sing.
Whose spirit is this? we said, because we knew
It was the spirit that we sought and knew
That we should ask this often as she sang.

If it was only the dark voice of the sea
That rose, or even colored by many waves;
If it was only the outer voice of sky
And cloud, of the sunken coral water-walled,
However clear, it would have been deep air,
The heaving speech of air, a summer sound
Repeated in a summer without end
And sound alone. But it was more than that,
More even than her voice, and ours, among
The meaningless plungings of water and the wind,
Theatrical distances, bronze shadows heaped
On high horizons, mountainous atmospheres
Of sky and sea.
It was her voice that made
The sky acutest at its vanishing.
She measured to the hour its solitude.
She was the single artificer of the world
In which she sang. And when she sang, the sea,
Whatever self it had, became the self
That was her song, for she was the maker. Then we,
As we beheld her striding there alone,
Knew that there never was a world for her
Except the one she sang and, singing, made.

Ramon Fernandez, tell me, if you know,
Why, when the singing ended and we turned
Toward the town, tell why the glassy lights,
The lights in the fishing boats at anchor there,
As night descended, tilting in the air,
Mastered the night and portioned out the sea,
Fixing emblazoned zones and fiery poles,
Arranging, deepening, enchanting night.
Oh! Blessed rage for order, pale Ramon,
The maker's rage to order words of the sea,
Words of the fragrant portals, dimly-starred,
And of ourselves and of our origins,
In ghostlier demarcations, keener sounds.

—Wallace Stevens, 1934

Utter, absolute genius.

BIG NEWS IN APARTMENT 515

Quote Ilene: "I'm itching for a gangbang."

This declaration, seemingly à propos of nothing, naturally elicited my curiosity. At first I suspected that perhaps Ilene was conflating the gangbang with the more-popular orgy. However when I offered her the choice between on one hand a gangbang involving, say, 30 men and herself, and on the other a garden-variety orgy involving a more even number of men and women, Ilene was unequivocal: she wants the gangbang.

Gentlemen, start your engines! Because when push comes to shove and tickle comes to poke, I doubt she'll be terribly picky.

HARLEM

What happens to a dream deferred?


Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore—
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over—
like a syrupy sweet?


Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.


Or does it explode?


—Langston Hughes, 1951

IN WHICH I COME DANGEROUSLY CLOSE TO SOUNDING LIKE A TALK RADIO HOST. AND I'M NOT TALKING ABOUT AIR AMERICA.

I have come to well and truly detest NPR. Oh, the news programs are decent enough, I suppose, but of course the bread and butter of public radio is the commentary, the "soft" programs. On the Chicago NPR affiliate WBEZ, this programming runs the gamut from just tolerable to excruciating. Leo Tolstoy wrote in the epilogue to Anna Karenina, "All happy families are alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way." So too, every one of these commentary shows annoys me, but each does so in its own unique manner. One noisome element that unifies them, though, is the presumptuous tone they adopt by suggesting that listeners are shirking their duty to save the world. Whether the host's pet obsession happens to be climate change, human rights, the eradication of poverty, or some other melange of bien pensant concerns, there's this intimation that listeners ought to take it upon themselves to do whatever is necessary to improve the situation - even if this is completely unfeasible and would dramatically worsen their quality of life.

Now, I'm all for finding a cause that you believe in and supporting it, but that support ought never to result from having been guilted and bullyragged into taking action by a bunch of talking heads. A prime example of this type of manipulation was recently broadcast on the show To The Best of Our Knowledge, wherein they interviewed a university professor who had quit his tenured teaching job to live off the grid as a gleaner in Fort Worth, Texas. Now, some might view this as an invaluable opportunity to glimpse life outside the circuit of consumerism from the perspective of a highly intelligent, formerly privileged individual. Me, I think it's just bizarre. Someone who would give up a professional position that required so many years of commitment and effort and not just change course, but essentially elect to live off of the streets, does not seem to me like someone whose opinion is worth taking very seriously. I wouldn't engage the megaphone-wielding derelict on the street corner in a debate on religion for much the same reason: namely, you can kind of guess how that conversation's going to go without actually having to participate in it. Obviously it is possible to survive solely off the refuse of modern society; obviously people are wasteful; obviously there are vast discrepancies in wealth and consumption in America. These aren't exactly brave or shocking statements. But in this interview it was accompanied by the thinly veiled accusation that I the listener, a complete stranger to everyone on this show, was guilty of wasteful, apathetic consumerism. This is just patently false. I'll bet my meager savings that the effete douchebags hosting this radio show have far more excess "stuff" than I do, and yet they feel entitled to tell me how I can reduce my carbon footprint? I, who don't own a pair of shoes or jeans that's less than three years old, who'll drive his 1996 Honda Accord until the motor gives out, who lives in a modest 25 x 30 foot apartment with a roommate in a high-density metropolitan environment and who eats every scrap of food that he purchases - I need to be told how to reduce my impact? You know what, sui generis of NPR? Fuck you. Fuck you and fuck your BMW station wagons and fuck your Mephisto walking shoes and your soy milk lattes and your comfortable homes in White Plains and Swarthmore and Forest Park and Cambridge. Fact is assholes, everyone wants what you have, so if the deal is that we all have to give something up, how about you pony up a half-dozen of your luxuries and then maybe - maybe - I'll follow suit with one of my own. Until then you can just eat shit, which amounts to about the same thing as your high-minded tsk-tsking at the awful mindless consumerism of your fellow Americans. Most people I know buy stuff when they need it, for entirely satisfactory reasons. If they can't buy the things they need, that's a problem for them, but it's not my fault and it's not the fault of the guy who has more rooms in his house than he can count. If he can afford to heat and light all those rooms, then bully for him; if not, then he'll just have to move out and seek more modest accomodations.

My point is that almost everyone not on the brink of starvation could make do with less. But for most of us who lead fairly spartan lives, it's not a matter of cutting back from wretched excess. And for those who do live in a state of wretched excess, then the snippy declamations of a bunch of aging liberal arts majors on Sunday night public radio isn't going to amount to a pound of eco-friendly organic horseshit.

Oh, and don't worry about Jeff Ferrell, the erstwhile professor who thought he'd make some bold gesture by living on other people's trash. He's back in the academy as Professor of Criminology at Texas Christian University. I guess living on month-old bread and week-old milk got tiresome after awhile. He wrote a book, no doubt bolstering his credentials in the process, and got back to where he knows he belongs: amongst other tweedy mandarins, with whom he can cluck at the deficiencies of all the plebeians running around trying to make a dime as plumbers or insurance salesmen or any of the other thousand mundane jobs that make modern society function. My apologies if I'm starting to sound like Rush Limbaugh, but this widespread attitude among the professorial class is a hypocrisy that just stinks to high heaven and gives intellectualism a bad name to boot. God help me, if I ever get to be an academic, I swear I will be endlessly thankful for the opportunity and never try to piss on other people from the heights of my ivory tower.

Hey, a man can dream...

THE WILD DREAM

Given the ubiquity and frankness of sex in the public sphere at this point in history, it's tempting to consider the past uniformly repressed and hidebound in its attitudes. But of course even in the most puritanical eras people found the strength to carry on doing the nasty. And sometimes they managed to be far more clever and lyrical in their celebration of the flesh than we are today - though to be fair, it takes little effort to out-class the likes of Girls Gone Wild.

The work that follows here is a personal favorite of mine that I've shamelessly taken from The Norton Anthology of World Masterpieces, 7th Edition. It's a lyric poem from late 12th century France of the type known as a fabliau, and it serves as an artful celebration of eroticism while taking a remarkably modern approach to the challenge of keeping the sex hot in a long-term relationship. Plus it's just pretty damn funny. If the translation is generally faithful to the original French, then Ned Dubin did a bang-up job of maintaining the sassy, informal tone of the troubador's form. Here it is.

The Wild Dream

I'll tell as briefly as I can

about a woman and a man

and what befell them, if I may.

I heard about it in Douay.

I do not know his or her name,

but I can affirm all the same

what fine, upstanding folk they were

and that she loved him, and he her.

The good man had to leave one day

and go on business far away,

and thus for three full months he stayed

in foreign parts engaged in trade,

and he was so successful there

that he returned walking on air

to Douay on a Thursday evening.

Don't think that his wife felt like grieving

to have her husband back again;

the fuss she made over him then

gave proof of her wifely devotion

and of the strength of her emotion.

When she had hugged, kissed and embraced

him, so he could relax, she placed

a low-slung, comfortable chair

near her and then went to prepare

their meal. All in good time they ate

seated on cushions by the gate,

where a fire crackled warm and bright,

without smoke, but with lots of light.

They'd fish and meat, good, hearty fare,

and wine from Soissons and Auxerre,

white linen, and fresh, healthful meat.

It pleased his wife to see him eat;

she saw that he got all the fine,

choice morsels, and, with each bite, wine.

Eager to please her man, the lady

was more than willing, more than ready

to satisfy his every whim,

expecting in return from him

the welcome for which she was aching,

but it turned out she was mistaken

in plying him with all that drink,

for wine made his libido shrink,

and afterwards, when the man got in

their bed, that pleasure was forgotten.

Not by his wife - it filled her head

when she climbed next to him in bed,

nor would he have needed to ask,

for she was ready for the task.

He had no thought for his poor spouse,

who would have liked them to carouse

and stay awake a while still.

Don't think the lady just sits still

while her husband sleeps like a stone:

"Ha!" she protests, "he sure has shown

himself a stinking, oafish creep!

He should be up, but he's asleep!

My happy hopes have turned to pain.

Three months have passed since we have lain

together, and yet, sure enough,

the devil makes the man doze off.

Well, he can take him, if he will!"

She lies there quietly and still;

what's on her mind remains unspoken -

she doesn't wake him up or poke him,

though in her mind she sorely vexed,

lest he should think her oversexed.

This reason makes her disregard her

thoughts of love-making and ardor

which she has entertained tonight.

She turns in, feeling wrath and spite.

She dreamt a dream while she was lying

there fast asleep - don't think I'm lying! -

that she'd gone up to a yearly fair,

the likes of which you have to hear,

for every stall and shop display

there, every house and place to stay,

every exchange and table was

not selling bolts of cloth or furs

or linen, wool, or silks of price,

it seemed to her, or dyes, or spice,

or goods, or pharmaceuticals -

just penises and testicles

in wild profusion, for the sellers

had filled their houses, rooms and cellars

with the commodity, and porters

came toting them across the borders

upon their backs, while down the road

they rolled in by the wagonload.

Despite the massive inventory,

the merchants had no need to worry

of not exhausting their supplies.

The thirty-shilling merchandise

was awesome, good ones cost a pound,

and for the poor folk could be found

some smaller ones, which still could sate

a girl for ten or nine or eight.

They sold in gross and in detail.

The best and biggest ones for sale

were closely watched and very dear.

The wife went looking everywhere

and put much effort in her quest

till at one stall she came to rest

on seeing one so long and wide, it

just had to be hers, she decided.

The shaft was large and well-endowed

with a big head, cocky and proud,

and, if you want to hear the whole

truth, you could toss into the hole

with ease a round, ripe cherry, and it

would go on falling till it landed

down in the scrotum, which was made

like the shovel-end of a spade.

No man has ever seen its like.

The wife decided she would strike

a bargain, and she asked how much.

"If you were my own sister, such

as this would cost two marks of silver.

This penis is no scrawny sliver,

but of the finest Loheringian

stock, both testicles and engine,

a worthy wand for a magician.

You would do well to take possession

of it. Do come give it a feel."

"Friend, why should we drag out the deal?

I'll buy it from you, if you're willing

to part with it for fifty shillings.

You won't get so much for it any-

where, and I'll throw in a penny

for God, that it may bring me bliss."

"A giveaway, that's what it is,

but I'm won over, and so suit your-

self, and I hope in the future

you'll try it out and praise the vendor.

I think from now on you'll remember

me when you pray or sing a psalm."

The woman lifted up her palm

to give him high five, well-disposed

on account of the deal she'd closed...

... and hits her husband in the jaw

with so much force , she feels her sore

hand turn bright red, tingle and burn,

and one can easily discern

the finger marks from chin to ear,

and he wakes up in startled fear

and sits bolt upright upon waking

and his wife also wakens, shaking,

who'd sooner sleep on till tomorrow,

since now her joy has turned to sorrow.

She has no way to go on keeping

the joy she bought herself while sleeping,

so she'd prefer to stay asleep.

"Wife," the man says, "pray do not keep

from me the dream that made you go

just now and strike me such a blow.

Were you asleep then or awake?"

"Don't say such things, for goodness sake,"

she tells him, "sir. Hit you? Who, me?"

"In affection and harmony,

by the strenght of your marriage vow,

what were you thinking of just now?

Don't keep it back for any cause."

I'll have you know, without a pause

the woman launched into her tale,

like it or not, and didn't fail

to lay all of the details bare

of her dream of the penis fair,

how some were good and some were bad,

and she bought the largest they had,

by far more impressive than any,

for fifty shillings and a penny.

"Sir," she explains, "here's what occurred.

To close the deal, I gave my word

and went to shake hands with good grace,

hitting you squarely in the face,

but only did it in my sleep.

For God's sake, dearest husband, keep

your temper, for as I admit

my error and sincere regret,

I beg your pardon for the blow."

"In faith, sweet wife," he says, "you know

I pardon you, and so should God!"

He embraces and hugs her hard

and kisses her sweet mouth as well,

and his penis begins to swell,

for she charms him and turns him on.

He lays his penis in her palm

as soon as he feels that it's ready,

and asks, "By your love for me, lady,

as God may keep you free from sin,

at that fair, what would it bring in,

the one you're holding on to now?"

"As I hope to survive, I vow

that someone selling a full coffer

of them would find no one who'd offer

a speck of money for the lot.
Why, even those the paupers bought

were such that one of them with ease

would equal at least two of these

the way it is now. Look here, sire!

There it would never find a buyer

who'd ask to see the thing up close."

"So what?" he says. "That's how it goes.

Take this one - the other ones don't matter! -

until you think you can do better."

(And so she did, if I am right).

Together they thus passed the night,

but I think his judgment unsound,

for the next day he spread it round

till a rhymer of fabliaux,

Jean Bodel, also came to know

of it, and for its merits he

put it in his anthology

neither embellished nor extended

which means the lady's dream has ended.

Ok, so it's not Penthouse Forum, but still, not bad for an era when people were burned at the stake for heresy and witchcraft. Not that I'd want to trade places with a bunch of Medieval troubadors, for a whole host of reasons. One is cleanliness, which leads me to my next point.

Take-home question for readers: was sex during the seventeenth century (or really, any time prior to the 20th century) ontologically dirtier than today's sex, simply because people were so physically filthy back then? Regardless of your opinion, think how strong the desire to couple must necessarily have been to compel two people to fuck, given how repulsively dirty their bodies no doubt were. This was long before the era of municipal waterworks and indoor plumbing, let alone antibacterial soap, thrice-daily tooth brushing, brazilian wax jobs, sanitary pads, compulsory bathing practices, etc. In fact, I'm willing to wager that most individuals' reproductive organs were coated - nay - encrusted with filth, so meager and delimited were sanitation... alright, there may be more sensitive readers perusing this thread, so I think I'll leave to the imagination how nasty your typical coital romp must have been. Probably made it a lot easier to heed the injunctions of the Church against extramarital sex, at least for anyone who wasn't already too kinky to care. Perhaps we should rethink a bit our judgment of early modern Europeans from obsessively puritanical, to simply grossed out at the thought of getting busy with their effluent-smeared neighbors. Speaking of kink, the following quote is attributed to that dirty bird Napoleon Bonaparte in a letter he sent while on campaign to his wife Josephine: "J'arrive. Ne te lave pas." Translation: "I'll be home soon. Don't wash."

As Rachel Ray would say, "Yumm-oh!" Guess that means both Napoleon and I would have been in that group the Church gave up on. At least with him as my wingman I'd look like a center for the NBA.

DR. FREUD, PAGING DR. FREUD!

Right now Ilene is watching a little television show called The Girls Next Door. I'll sidestep all the obvious, choice things I could say right here, and pose a question: I know that 'Elektra Complex' is the psychoanalytic term for a woman's wanting to have sex with her father. But tell me, gentle readers, what is the proper technical description for a woman's wanting to have sex with her great-grandfather?

I mean, besides "Ewww!!!"

THREE LITTLE PINOTS

Just a quick note on some damn good wines I tasted recently with a friend from the ol' distro job. There are days when I really miss working as a sales rep, mostly because it afforded me the opportunity to drink shit like the following:

Domaine Hubert de Montille 2006 Pommard 1er Cru "Les Pezerolles"
This came to me via the former sommelier at Charlie Trotter's. The bottle'd been open for about 18 hours prior to tasting. Limpid, pale red color. Reticent nose of strawberry tart and freshly snapped dry twigs. Fine-grained tannins unobtrusive on palate, kirsch, rainwater, and oolong tea notes flesh out to an intriguing, pronounced blood and raw red meat component. Tightens up markedly on finish, tannins finally kick in as meatiness subsides, beautifully balanced and very persistent. Just lasts forever on the finish - like having to watch a Friends marathon, but in a good way. Silky and seductive like a Volnay, or better yet like that smokin' hot friend-of-a-friend of yours, the one who flirts with you mercilessly because she's dating an NBA power-forward and knows she can get away with just about anything.

Nalle 2005 Pinot Noir, Dry Creek Valley
Much more aromatically assertive than the de Montille. Smells of rose petal and crushed geranium. As pale but more purple than the Pommard. Light and lithe on the palate, boisterous acidity and then a wash of purple fruit, boysenberry and blackberry. Rose water and delicate berry mid-palate, finely etched and effortless, no sweetness or oakiness anywhere to be found. More primary than the Burgundy, without the umami dimension, still a lovely American pinot. Big ups to Doug Nalle, he and Andrew make some remarkably subtle wine from the Golden State. Opened probably 8 hours before I got to it.

J.K. Carriere 2005 Pinot Noir Willamette Valley
Much darker and more opaque than previous two wines. Dark garnet red tending towards purple. Dark, brooding fruit and bosky notes on nose. Palate more rigid and shows a touch of herbaceousness along with black fruits. Whispered "Cabernet" for a moment, it did. Also, think tar dusted with dark potting soil. Never goes over the edge, though, alcohol's low and acidity's almost off the charts. Hits both the low A and the high C all at once. A bigger mouthful than either of the other wines. Softer on second pass, and far prettier. At one point my friend asked rhetorically, "Is this the best domestic Pinot producer in our portfolio?" Considering the wines he reps, that's high praise indeed. Too different from the Nalle to make a direct comparison; despite its virtues takes second billing to the Pommard. Opened at same time as the Nalle.

One fringe benefit of working in this industry is that even the most mundane event can provide the opportunity to taste great wine. We drank these while watching a Pittsburgh Penguins - Philadelphia Flyers hockey game. God, I'll be having dreams about that de Montille Pommard for days. Literally one of the greatest estates in all of Burgundy, and by extension, the world. I didn't get to taste it until Day 2 and it was still easily one of the finest wines I've tasted all year. I'd like to remind everyone reading this that Christmas is right around the corner. Shouldn't be much more than $100 a bottle. Not that I'm dropping hints or anything, I'm just... saying. Buy me some.

BOOBS ARE FOOL'S GOLD. THE ASS IS WHERE IT'S AT.

I read with interest the report here in the journal Insider Higher Ed that for the second time this year - hell, for the second time in four months - a professor at the University of Iowa has killed himself after being charged with sexual harassment.

Now, the details of these affairs are always pretty sad and morbid, which is of course why I love to pore over them. There's not much to glean from the article on the most recent incident. However, the particulars of the former case are pretty damn juicy: "In August, Arthur H. Miller was arrested on bribery charges and accused of telling female students that he would give them higher grades if they let him fondle their breasts."

OK, I'm sorry. I love the breast. I'm very "pro" breast. If it comes down to breasts in one hand and almost anything else in the other, then I'm deciding in favor of breasts more than nine times out of ten. However, breasts aren't so good that it's worth throwing away your career (and in this schmuck's case, your life) just to get a handful of nubile, perky young sweater cow. I mean, if you really need to feel something like a breast, you could do just as well with a beanbag or a ball of bread dough with a gummy bear glued to one side.

You see, I'm a reasonable man. An ass man. And I'm here to tell you, if you're going to ruin your life by making ludicrously inappropriate propositions to women half your age, it should at least be for something that can't be easily duplicated with a lump of gluten and a soft bear-shaped candy. On the other hand, it's damn hard to cobble together a halfway decent proxy for a firm, callipygous Jennifer Lopez-style booty. God knows I've tried.

Oh, and just between you and me nothing, and I mean nothing, feels like the anus of an 18-year old coed. You can't just manufacture that shit out of play-doh. God knows I've... well, you know where this is going.

HABEMUS... SALVATUM?

It is funny, though - and I say this as a supporter of the brilliant but inexperienced man now on his way to Washington - how The New York Times simply cannot wait for this Obama presidency to get underway. In fact, they've paved such a shining path for the incipient leader of the free world that I think they've fairly convinced themselves he's already taken up residence in the White House, issuing executive orders right and left (well, mostly left.) A glance at the front page of their online edition today shows an entire column devoted to "The 44th President." This new section, now in its fourth straight day, promises to be a fixture on the site until the moment, though not far in the offing still too distant for the masthead at 620 Eighth Avenue, when the scourge of the George W. Bush Administration will be no more, and peace and prosperity shall rain down upon the land like manna from a beneficent heaven.

Don't get me wrong: I happily voted for Obama. I'm extremely pleased that Obama won, and proud of the country not just for electing an African American to its highest office but also for holding its leaders to some measure of accountability. The Republicans have done more than their share of damage over the past eight years, and shitcanning them was sweet indeed. It gives me pause, though, to see so many people pin so much of themselves to the slim shoulders of the man now about to occupy the White House, and I fear a mass disillusionment when the changes they pine for are either slow in coming, or fail to come at all. Do I think Obama's presidency will cleave far from the policies of the Bush Administration? Yes, but don't give the Executive Branch too much credit, or assume that this election represents a "mandate." Tell me, did you feel that George W's reelection was similarly a "mandate," as he claimed? Contrary to the beliefs of the doe-eyed true believers, the Republicans aren't holding a nation hostage from policy changes it universally craves. The country's still incredibly divided on a whole host of issues, and no amount of presidential star power is going to change that; there will be no Deus Ex Hyde Park.

The most salient support of my point exists in the fact that when I so much as question whether Obama will be able to bring about an alchemical change in the American body politic, my skepticism has most often been received with paranoid surmise and outright scorn, rather than reasoned consideration. Apparently one must not only support a repudiation of Bush and the Republicans, but also drink of the Kool-Aid, and drink deeply.

Let me just say this: Folks, please don't lay all your hopes and dreams at Obama's feet. Rejoice in the achievement, luxuriate in the victory, but resist the urge to feel that from this point forth (or at least from January 20, 2009 forth) The World Will Be Made Whole. Obama's election indeed represents an enlightenment of American politics. Therefore heed the following koan:

Before Enlightenment: Chop wood, carry water.

After Enlightenment: Chop wood, carry water.

Don't let this get away from you.

THE END OF AN ERA, UNHERALDED

I have always loved to drive. When I was a teenager living in the suburbs with my parents, I would often take long solitary drives to nowhere in particular. Without exception these took place in the evening, often on a Thursday or Friday night, and when I say I had no destination in mind I mean I would get in the car, head in some random direction, and continue as long as I had some idea of where I was. Often I would take Lake Cook Road east towards Lake Michigan, or sometimes I'd hop on the Kennedy and drive downtown, exit at say Irving Park Road, cut over to Southport, drive past the Music Box Theater and all the shops and bars along that street, then head back along Belmont to the highway, and home. Today, with gas at 4-something per gallon and the causes célèbres of climate change and energy independence this seems quite irresponsible. Even at the time I felt somewhat sheepish about spending an hour or more just driving aimlessly instead of chasing skirts or passing the time at friends' houses. But often driving felt essential, felt like escape from the banalities of my hometown, even if only to experience the novel banalities of another.

Sometimes my late-night wanderings had a destination. There once was a little coffee shop in Rogers Park at 1439 West Jarvis called Don's Coffee Club, owned by a slightly gruff Swedish guy named Don. How can I describe Don's Coffee Club to you? Would it help if I described it as the anti-Starbucks, as inimical to that corporation's gleaming, homogeneous outposts as matter is to antimatter? Don's was dimly lit even on a bright summer afternoon; at night, when I was usually there, it was so dark you could barely read a book. The walls came together at oblique angles and the white stucco ceiling was dingy and discolored; the entire space seemed so outré to me at the time, coming as I did from a town where every nice home was new and clean and sparkling. My family and I didn't live in one of those homes; we lived in a cramped ranch with a sunken living room and crabbed, untidy bedrooms. The fact that some of my friends lived in houses so vast they had to use intercom systems to know whether other family members were home constantly amazed me. It also struck in me a defensive chord, knowing how much more modest were my family's means, and sparked a bit of plebian self-righteousness as well. Perhaps because of this Don's felt right to me, this place that was older and grubbier even than my family's shabby little house and yet was filled with cozy, high-backed upholstered chairs and low, iron and glass art deco coffee tables. Dark though it was I read a whole host of books in those chairs: Slaughterhouse-Five and Cat's Cradle by Kurt Vonnegut; Catch-22 by Joseph Heller; A History of God by Karen Armstrong; and most of Dostoevsky's masterpiece The Brothers Karamazov, which to this day remains the most important book I've ever read. (As an aside, my senior English teacher Dale Griffith told us in class before beginning The Brothers Karamazov that "no one can claim to be an educated adult without having read this book." At the time I thought that claim presumptuous and a bit absurd. After finishing the book I thought it profoundly wise.)

Getting to Don's was something of an adventure. At the time (and even today, in some areas) Rogers Park could be a dicey neighborhood. As a practical matter, any precinct in Chicago is more diverse than my hometown, and compared with the torpor and complacency of the suburbs the city seems to pulsate with energy. The shop was tucked right into a residential neighborhood just off Sheridan, surrounded by apartment buildings, and only distinguishable by its glass storefront and dilapidated shopfront door. You couldn't get a soy latte or an Americano at Don's; he served regular and decaf coffee, hot or iced - maybe cafe au lait and cappucino, but nothing more exotic than that. You could also get a donut or bagel, and I believe sometimes soup was also available. Nothing was served "half-caf" or "ristretto" or with any fanfare or pretense. Sometimes it was Don who helped you, sometimes a mousey but cheerful Loyola coed. You sat as long as you wished and nobody said a word to you unless you wanted them to. The shop didn't close on the weekends until 3 am. On more than one occasion I closed it down.

When developing a pattern of behavior, propinquity is crucial: if something is too distant, too remote, it won't become part of the common currency of your life. So it was for me with Don's. Rogers Park is a long, long way to drive from Barrington in order to get a cup of coffee and read a book - 31.45 miles, by Mapquest's reckoning. I went away to college and when I returned Don's, like so many fixtures of my adolescent life, had lost its romantic allure. I rented apartments further south and frequented other coffee shops. Years passed and I had literally almost forgotten that Don's existed until a few weeks ago while driving up Sheridan Road to Evanston to see my sister at college. Something flashed in my mind at the chiasm of adolescence and academia, some nostalgic trigger, and when I saw Jarvis I thought instantly and longingly of Don's. Longingly, because as soon as I remembered the place I recalled having read that Don had sold the shop not long after I left for college, and that the new owner had forsaken it soon after. The present tenant is a theater company called The Side Project. Change has come not just to 1439 West Jarvis, but to the entire street: an Italian restaurant, a bagel sandwich shop, and an upscale cafe have moved into the block just across the intersection from where Don's shabby little emporium used to be. Gentrification has arrived, which for a neighborhood of Rogers Park's charm is nothing to be wondered at.

Maudlin sentimentality is not my object. All things come into our consciousness and later pass from it, as do we ultimately pass from consciousness ourselves. No, what I miss is not so much a place, or a picture of what once was that exists in my head. What I miss is the feeling of potentiality, of unfettered possibility that swarmed in my mind and body at the time I was a customer at Don's. Everything extraordinary still lay ahead of me; college, career, casual love affairs, commitment, a family, a home of my own - all lay before me in a splendid but ill-defined tableau, and nothing disappointed because nothing had firm contours, no paths were closed off. Surely I knew that a career as, say, a professional athlete was not in the cards, but that never held appeal for me so the deprivation dealt no sting. But beyond that, any and all good things were surely at my disposal. At seventeen, no dream is small, and no sentiment modest. There's a reason punk rock concerts allow minors, or at least always should: the force of feeling at that age is only reflected adequately in the efforts of the greatest auteurs of that genre. In a way, punk is a superfluous stimulant for a teenager; I remember getting worked up listening to Handel. Jump forward a decade, and now, even in my moments of greatest sadness or elation, I know I feel only half as strongly as ever I did at seventeen.

As I was saying, I love to drive. Lately I have taken to the same sorts of long, solo drives to nowhere that I indulged in years ago. I set out with no destination in mind, no itinerary, only the knowledge that what I am doing feels important to me, important enough to squander fuel that now costs $4.50 a gallon. I look into the windows of other cars as they pass me, much as I did in my teenaged years. I wonder at my fellow motorists, what they might be like as people, whether they entice or bore me, and in a flash they are gone. At some point I turn the car around and head for home. When I reach Lincoln Park I find yet again that nothing has changed, that I have learned nothing new. But there's another road to nowhere tomorrow. And somewhere, I hope, another Don's.

HERE IT IS... YOUR MOMENT OF ZEN

Rockstar. Forget the images, although some of them are pretty breathtaking. The music, people! Karita Mattila nails it out of the park here, ably assisted by the great Sir Neville Marriner and the Academy of St. Martin in the Fields.

Listen to this and then tell me your day didn't just get better. You're welcome.

TROUBLE IN PARADISE

Ilene is on strike from showering. She claims it's because she's afraid it will "make her too cold." I think it's because she's worried I may be masturbating in the bathtub. Hey, some fears in life are completely reasonable!

No, seriously, I would tell her if I were doing such things. Even though she would almost certainly demand that I scour the tub using a combination of a toothbrush and my tongue. What's more, I would have to pretend to enjoy it. I'm not prepared to do either of these things.

Now, all I have to do is come up with a believable explanation for all those laminated copies of Hustler scattered throughout the bathroom...

TALENT? WE DON'T NEED NO STINKIN' TALENT!!!

Overheard at MK Restaurant today during the Terry Thiesse grower Champagne tasting:

"I have just a terrible palate - can't taste for shit. I've gotta be the worst sommelier in the city of Chicago."

I turned quickly to see who dropped this bombshell. It was a tall, fey guy with a shaved head in a suit - almost certainly hotel management material. I didn't recognize him. Kinda wish I did, but then again if I knew how much money he makes it'd probably just depress me.

Hey! Talentless, no palate? I know a wine shop where he'd fit right in!!

Le Weekend

This was one of those eventful weekends where nothing much happened. Plenty of small moments of interest to distract one's self from the overarching directionlessness of the days. Time passed, I slept and woke and went about my business, and had some fun in the offing. Just two more days I'll never have again, but in retrospect wouldn't have spent them any other way.

Enjoyed some delicious food and drink tonight at the house of my friend Josefa, formerly of Maverick Wines. We were wining and dining to celebrate the 37th birthday of Steven, the often-despondent guy I mentioned in my last post. He was actually in decent spirits given how depressing birthdays can sometimes be, flush with happiness in his new relationship with a very decent guy named Frank. Started with a Robert Weil 2004 Riesling Kabinett Halbtrocken, which was open in the fridge when I arrived with my good friend and fellow Maverick alum Dan. This was a delicious way to kick off the festivities, a taut, mineral-driven Riesling that was more trocken (dry) than its "half-dry" designation would lead one to believe. This is a great style of wine for spicy food, as the austerity and acidity are in dynamic conflict with a touch of residual sweetness and searing minerality. Tough wines to pigeon-hole, they keep calling you back for another taste-test, and before long the bottle's gone.

Next was my contribution to the par-tay, a Riesling from Nahe in Southern Germany, the 2004 Schlossgut Diel Dorsheimer Burgberg Riesling Kabinett. Yes, I know the Germans seem borderline retarded to give their wines names this long. Thing is, quite apart from the language barrier, vineyard location and wine style are paramount to describing German wines, and they include all that information right in the name. To break it down, 'Schlossgut Diel' means "Diel Winery," 'Dorsheim' is the name of the village, 'Burgberg' is the name of the vineyard in the village of Dorsheim where the grapes were grown, 'Riesling' is the grape variety, and 'Kabinett' refers to the level of ripeness of the grapes at harvest. Granted, it's a mouthful. So was the wine, rich and unctuous with frank tropical fruit notes, especially of pineapple. Fortunately, plenty of minerality and some petrol notes to back up the fruit as well. Think of gasonline-soaked pineapples, and you have some idea of how the wine smelled. No really, it's a good thing, I swear!! Weighty on the palate, not as filigreed as the Rieslings of the Mosel or even some from the Rheingau. Got this bottle at my favorite Chicago wine shop. I think this is Howard's preferred style of German Riesling, but I must admit I'm partial to the rapier-sharpness of the wines from further north.

We drank the Rieslings with mussels that were perfectly cooked and served with an herbed cream sauce that was essentially a vehicle for delivering cholesterol and saturated fat into the body. It was almost ludicrously delicious. This was followed by a soup of garlicky cured Russian sausage that had the texture of Vienna beef, as well as heirloom beans, chard greens, and tomato. I'm trying to think of an adjective for this soup more original than "hearty," and am failing miserably. Fuck it, the soup was most definitely "hearty." And again, delicious. With it we had quite the treat: 2003 Saumur-Champigny "Le Bourg" from cult producer Clos Rougeard. This is a wine that every Michelin-starred restaurant in France fights over, and while it's very rare in the U.S. it's virtually impossible to find in France. Made from Cabernet Franc, Cabernet Sauvignon's little brother, this is the greatest red wine made in the Loire Valley and one of the finest in the country. 2003 wasn't France's greatest vintage, but even coming from this hot year the wine was nimble and elegant, like a Brioni suit or a Maserati. In truth, in addition to its beguiling graphite and dark brooding fruit the wine showed a bit too much oak, an indicator (at least in wines of this quality) that it hadn't fully integrated yet. We probably shouldn't have opened such a recent vintage, but nonetheless it was a very nice birthday gesture on Josefa's part.

Last wine, I promise you, and it was a great one: Mas de Daumas Gassac 1997 Rouge from this Rolls Royce of Languedoc producers. Holy sheep balls, this was delicious. Velvety in the mouth but with a firmness that reminded you it wasn't fucking around. Every five minutes the wine showed something new, from herbs to cedar to cherry to dark mineral to cloves et cetera. Just outstanding. I kept taking tastes and trying to imprint the precise sensory impressions into my olfactory bulb and frontal cortex, repeating to myself: "this is what a truly great wine tastes like. This is what a truly great wine tastes like. This is what..."

Oh, and then we had cake. I was happy. It's true what they say: the simplest pleasures in life are the best.

...............................................................................

One more bit of weekend ephemera to relate. Spent Friday night in the company of the redoubtable Nathan Tumulty and Tressa Taylor, intellectual power-couple of the West Loop and all-around awesome people. We caught the last third or so of Flash Gordon, a movie I hadn't seen in something like 15 years. You could say that the years have not been kind to this movie, but then you would instantly qualify yourself as a humorless, obnoxious scold and I wouldn't hang around long enough to see what other absurd opinions you held. This was pure campy joy in film format. Brian Blessed plays hooky from his usual role of lusty Shakespearian enforcer (see Henry V and Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves) to star as Prince Vultan, one seriously goofy-looking dude wearing brass wings that somehow allow him to fly in atmosphere-challenged deep space. He's got a mouth that could kick-start a Harley and a deep resonant voice that at one time would have been described as 'fruity,' before that word came to mean something else entirely. Timothy Dalton as dashing, morally-ambiguous Prince Barin makes some small penance for later inflicting The Living Daylights and License to Kill on an innocent world. Even Topol quits fiddling on rooves long enough to get involved with the shenanigans as Dr. Hans Zharkov. Then there are the two main characters, Flash Gordon himself and female lead/love-interest Melody Anderson, who are admittedly a come-down from the razor-sharp supporting cast. I will say this for Flash: his hair is so blond, it's almost frightening. Anyway, this unlikely group of allies finds itself pitted against the forces of one Emperor Ming (played by Max von Sydow... Jesus H., this movie's got everybody, no?), who's hell-bent on destroying Earth. Deadly, earnest space combat ensues, which since this movie came out in 1980 basically means hilariously disjointed fight sequences and supremely cheesy special effects. Speaking of cheesy, guess who did the soundtrack. Give up? Queen. Freddie Mercury-era Queen, natch. Oh yes, people, this one's a thing of beauty. This is why they invented Betamax, Blockbuster, Netflix - hell, this is why they invented cinema in the first place. Or at least, that's my pet favorite rationale. Move over, Jean Renoir.

SOMETIMES EXISTENCE BITES. HARD.

Or, as I put it in a text message the other day, "Some days it feels like life is fucking you in the ass with a lawn dart."

Just for a kick, let's do an old-timey blog entry intro, fashioned after the delightfully obsolete livejournal.com

Current Music: 'Moya' by Godspeed You! Black Emperor.

Mood: Hide the razor blades.

Or to put it another way: I was at a rock show last night with a friend of mine from my former company Maverick Wines, who's one of the more misanthropic and morose people I know. He couched it perfectly:

"I don't love anything. There are just some things in life that I hate marginally less than everything else."

Bingo.

Some things I hate marginally less than others:

Achewood

M83

Vittorio Zecchin

Wallace Stevens's The Idea of Order at Key West

The Cocteau Twins' 'Lorelei'

Aphex Twin's video for 'Windowlicker'

Barolos from Giuseppe Mascarello and Giacomo Conterno

Burgundy from Jacques-Frederic Mugnier and Armand Rousseau

Riesling from Robert Weil and F.X. Pichler

The schmaltz and sentimentality of Nuovo Cinema Paradiso

The spare brutality of Le Samourai

The Foie Dog and Duck Fat French Fries at Hot Doug's

See now, I feel better already! And I've only just started...