Sunday, August 13, 2006
Friday, August 11, 2006
Amuse Bouche - Part II
“Here you are, Mr. Two, Table number Six with a view of the patio, and, if you look closely, a hummingbird sanctuary just over there. Enjoy”
I was beginning to like this place already, although the hummingbird sanctuary was a spot on the horizon about 9 miles away. Oh, well, it’s the thought that counts.
My companion was more upbeat and said “Whoa, cool, a hummingbird sanctuary! Right outside our window!”
Presently our wait-staff-person arrived.
“Welcome to Luciano, Mr. Two and companion. I am Dante your wait-staff-person for the evening and I will do my best to ensure you experience dining excellence. If I fail I will turn in my apron, leave this establishment forever and join the Foreign Legion. Ha, ha! That is an amusement on my part I call the Beau Geste. Would you prefer a drink before dinner?”
“Yes,” I said enthusiastically, “I’ll have a triple gin and tonic and a Perrier with lime for my companion.”
“You are very drôle,” Dante replied, “you ordered a fattening drink for yourself and a French water for your skinny companion. You nearly caught me in your prank. That will be two San Pellegrino waters with lime. Very funny, Mr. Two!”
As we waited for our drinks to arrive we glanced at the menu and found ourselves in the middle of a dilemma.
“Holy Moly, I want to eat all this stuff!”
I was more eloquent. “Mama mia sweet Tower of Pisa, look at all this chow!”
Indeed, the menu was resplendent with culinary fare not found at your Golden Arches, Fudrucker’s or Chili’s along the frontage road.
No, we had tapped into the Mode Della Madre.
For Starters we could have:
Pastas included:
And for Entrees we were faced with
Our drinks arrived just as our minds overheated with anticipation.
“Are you ready to order, Mr. Two and companion?” Dante enquired.
“Yes, I think we are.” Taking a guess, “We’d like to start with the Caprese.”
Dante nodded, turned on her heel and strode off to the kitchen. I was in the middle of my “And we’d like to order…” but that would come later.
The Caprese was more than the menu described. Served on an artist’s pallet it was an artistic expression of food in three dimensions: sauce and cheese to the left and right with a tower of meat, olives and endive. The chef signed his masterpiece in balsamic vinegar along the bottom edge. We weren’t sure if we should eat it or frame it. After a quick vote, we ate it.
Subtle and light, the various goat cheeses and preserves contrasted nicely with the herb and pepper bread. Tangy and refreshing.
Dante returned carrying two small square white plates and held them just out of our gaze. Observing the debris on the table she commented, “I see you enjoyed the Caprese. Chef Perez sends you this amuse bouche.” And with a flourish she placed the two small plates in front of us.
The amuse bouche consisted of a perfectly sautéed shrimp, seasoned sharply with red pepper amid a dollop of buttered orzo. Tiny cocktail forks proportional to the orzo enabled us to enjoy the amuse bouche in several bites, rather than slurping the thing off the plate in one go. I guess by this time we were starting to become refined. Extending our pinkie finger we indulged the amuse bouche.
Delll-i-cate-ly.
Dante glided by to take our dinner order. Companion chose Anatra Barbacoa Ravioli, the duck, and I chose Filetto Di Manzo, the filet mignon medallions.
Enjoying the ambience of the evening we regarded the other diners huddled around their table candles in quiet, intense conversation. From the kitchen we heard singing. Not a radio, but the chefs delighting in their work. Glancing out the window a flock of hummingbirds in V-formation glided silently to the pond in the distance.
Suddenly, the kitchen doors burst open and several white-clad chefs bustled out dragging along a young chef obviously passed out. They propped the young man up in a chair and mopped his brow with a damp towel. Slowly, he roused and looked around.
Dante glided to our table with a concerned look on her face. “That’s Chef Perez,” she whispered, “apparently, he outdid himself cooking your dinner. Your meal will be out shortly.”
And shortly it was.
The plates were arranged with breathtaking artistic precision. Layer upon layer of culinary art. Taking it all in we became dizzy. Anticipating this effect, Dante held out small oxygen masks for us and we took a few short breaths.
Turning to leave Dante said, “It is not a crime to eat such a masterpiece.” Then, she was gone.
We didn’t so much “chow down” as nibbled around the edges, in silence but with an increasing sense of urgency. Time stood still. The candle flame stopped flickering. People moved in slow motion.
The steak, cooked to perfection, lay astride delicate Japanese broccoli, nestled against a sculpture of garlic-mashed potatoes with the truffle reduction forming an aromatic reflecting pool along the bottom.
The duck ravioli was no less impressive. A piquant duck mixture lovingly wrapped in a delicate pasta case bathed in a creamy, sun-dried tomato sauce. The ravioli were arranged at 43-degree angles from each other, the optimum angular separation for ravioli.
Leaning back in our chairs we surveyed the damage. Perfectly cleaned plates. You could use them again without washing. The busboy rolled by and asked us if we had completed our course. We assented and he removed the plates.
We then got into an intense conversation about dessert. Should we our shouldn’t we. What about the calories? What about the taste! It’s overindulging! We’re worth it! And so it went.
Dante appeared with two plates. On each was a modest warm chocolate soufflé erupting a tiny stream of rich, hot, chocolate lava. "You would not want to live the rest of your lives deprived of these," she explained.
Discussion terminated and, unabashedly, we dug in. We showed those soufflés no mercy. We tamed those bad boys and taught them who was boss! Who da man? Huh, soufflé, you lookin’ at me?
Slowly, our frenzy abated and we sat back exhausted but satisfied. Darkness had enveloped the city and the lights sparkling out to the horizon comforted us that all was well.
Later, outside the restaurant we paused and asked ourselves if such a meal had actually happened. We marveled at the complex chain of events that conspired in close precision to bring us to this exact spot at this exact point in time. Had we arrived in town on Sunday or Tuesday we would have had an adequate meal at an adequate restaurant. Had we turned right instead of left we might have succumbed to the Golden Arches. Had we been in the right lane instead of the left we would have eaten a perfectly OK hamburger. Each error of our ways brought us inexorably to Luciano.
However, on this night, in this town and at this time we experienced something spectacular. A meal with no fault. Excellent food. Perfect service. A mid-summer’s night dream. In San Antonio. Did it really happen? Was it real?
I was beginning to like this place already, although the hummingbird sanctuary was a spot on the horizon about 9 miles away. Oh, well, it’s the thought that counts.
My companion was more upbeat and said “Whoa, cool, a hummingbird sanctuary! Right outside our window!”
Presently our wait-staff-person arrived.
“Welcome to Luciano, Mr. Two and companion. I am Dante your wait-staff-person for the evening and I will do my best to ensure you experience dining excellence. If I fail I will turn in my apron, leave this establishment forever and join the Foreign Legion. Ha, ha! That is an amusement on my part I call the Beau Geste. Would you prefer a drink before dinner?”
“Yes,” I said enthusiastically, “I’ll have a triple gin and tonic and a Perrier with lime for my companion.”
“You are very drôle,” Dante replied, “you ordered a fattening drink for yourself and a French water for your skinny companion. You nearly caught me in your prank. That will be two San Pellegrino waters with lime. Very funny, Mr. Two!”
As we waited for our drinks to arrive we glanced at the menu and found ourselves in the middle of a dilemma.
“Holy Moly, I want to eat all this stuff!”
I was more eloquent. “Mama mia sweet Tower of Pisa, look at all this chow!”
Indeed, the menu was resplendent with culinary fare not found at your Golden Arches, Fudrucker’s or Chili’s along the frontage road.
No, we had tapped into the Mode Della Madre.
For Starters we could have:
Red Chile Poached Scampi
Caprese of Tomatoes, Mozzarella and Sliced Meats
Truffled Pan Seared Scallops
Quagilia Cimichurri of Texas Quail and Chickpea puree
Pastas included:
Duck Meat Ravioli with sun-dried Tomato-Serrano Crema
Pasta alla Chitarra Verde
Pennette Alle Vongole
And for Entrees we were faced with
Wild Salmon di Parma
Roasted Pork Tenderloin
Australian Lamb Chops
Filetto Di Manzo with Black Truffle-Veal reduction
Poussin al Mattone with White Truffle-Pecorino Risotto
Veal Osso Buco and Toasted Garlic Broccoli Rabe
Our drinks arrived just as our minds overheated with anticipation.
“Are you ready to order, Mr. Two and companion?” Dante enquired.
“Yes, I think we are.” Taking a guess, “We’d like to start with the Caprese.”
Dante nodded, turned on her heel and strode off to the kitchen. I was in the middle of my “And we’d like to order…” but that would come later.
The Caprese was more than the menu described. Served on an artist’s pallet it was an artistic expression of food in three dimensions: sauce and cheese to the left and right with a tower of meat, olives and endive. The chef signed his masterpiece in balsamic vinegar along the bottom edge. We weren’t sure if we should eat it or frame it. After a quick vote, we ate it.
Subtle and light, the various goat cheeses and preserves contrasted nicely with the herb and pepper bread. Tangy and refreshing.
Dante returned carrying two small square white plates and held them just out of our gaze. Observing the debris on the table she commented, “I see you enjoyed the Caprese. Chef Perez sends you this amuse bouche.” And with a flourish she placed the two small plates in front of us.
The amuse bouche consisted of a perfectly sautéed shrimp, seasoned sharply with red pepper amid a dollop of buttered orzo. Tiny cocktail forks proportional to the orzo enabled us to enjoy the amuse bouche in several bites, rather than slurping the thing off the plate in one go. I guess by this time we were starting to become refined. Extending our pinkie finger we indulged the amuse bouche.
Delll-i-cate-ly.
Dante glided by to take our dinner order. Companion chose Anatra Barbacoa Ravioli, the duck, and I chose Filetto Di Manzo, the filet mignon medallions.
Enjoying the ambience of the evening we regarded the other diners huddled around their table candles in quiet, intense conversation. From the kitchen we heard singing. Not a radio, but the chefs delighting in their work. Glancing out the window a flock of hummingbirds in V-formation glided silently to the pond in the distance.
Suddenly, the kitchen doors burst open and several white-clad chefs bustled out dragging along a young chef obviously passed out. They propped the young man up in a chair and mopped his brow with a damp towel. Slowly, he roused and looked around.
Dante glided to our table with a concerned look on her face. “That’s Chef Perez,” she whispered, “apparently, he outdid himself cooking your dinner. Your meal will be out shortly.”
And shortly it was.
The plates were arranged with breathtaking artistic precision. Layer upon layer of culinary art. Taking it all in we became dizzy. Anticipating this effect, Dante held out small oxygen masks for us and we took a few short breaths.
Turning to leave Dante said, “It is not a crime to eat such a masterpiece.” Then, she was gone.
We didn’t so much “chow down” as nibbled around the edges, in silence but with an increasing sense of urgency. Time stood still. The candle flame stopped flickering. People moved in slow motion.
The steak, cooked to perfection, lay astride delicate Japanese broccoli, nestled against a sculpture of garlic-mashed potatoes with the truffle reduction forming an aromatic reflecting pool along the bottom.
The duck ravioli was no less impressive. A piquant duck mixture lovingly wrapped in a delicate pasta case bathed in a creamy, sun-dried tomato sauce. The ravioli were arranged at 43-degree angles from each other, the optimum angular separation for ravioli.
Leaning back in our chairs we surveyed the damage. Perfectly cleaned plates. You could use them again without washing. The busboy rolled by and asked us if we had completed our course. We assented and he removed the plates.
We then got into an intense conversation about dessert. Should we our shouldn’t we. What about the calories? What about the taste! It’s overindulging! We’re worth it! And so it went.
Dante appeared with two plates. On each was a modest warm chocolate soufflé erupting a tiny stream of rich, hot, chocolate lava. "You would not want to live the rest of your lives deprived of these," she explained.
Discussion terminated and, unabashedly, we dug in. We showed those soufflés no mercy. We tamed those bad boys and taught them who was boss! Who da man? Huh, soufflé, you lookin’ at me?
Slowly, our frenzy abated and we sat back exhausted but satisfied. Darkness had enveloped the city and the lights sparkling out to the horizon comforted us that all was well.
Later, outside the restaurant we paused and asked ourselves if such a meal had actually happened. We marveled at the complex chain of events that conspired in close precision to bring us to this exact spot at this exact point in time. Had we arrived in town on Sunday or Tuesday we would have had an adequate meal at an adequate restaurant. Had we turned right instead of left we might have succumbed to the Golden Arches. Had we been in the right lane instead of the left we would have eaten a perfectly OK hamburger. Each error of our ways brought us inexorably to Luciano.
However, on this night, in this town and at this time we experienced something spectacular. A meal with no fault. Excellent food. Perfect service. A mid-summer’s night dream. In San Antonio. Did it really happen? Was it real?
May all to Hilton back again repair,
And think no more of this night's accidents
But as the fierce vexation of a dream.
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
Amuse Bouche - Part I
Amuse Bouche. French. Literally to “amuse the mouth.” A leetle bite before zee meal beginz. Greetings from zee chef. C’est tout.
We pulled into San Antonio, Texas, home of the Alamo, mid-evening, found our hotel, checked in, determined our comma supply was adequate, searched the Internet for a restaurant and set off again to forage, for food.
The important point to note is that this was a Monday evening. It’s less important that we were feeling like Italian, that is, in a mood for Italian food, not wearing tight t-shirts and riding around on Vespas pinching women’s bottoms, although that appealed to me on another level. Google Search identified three multi-star Italian restaurants within a few miles of the hotel. Google Maps gave us their exact location and driving directions. And Google Earth informed us that two of the restaurants had new roofs.
What Google, bless it’s pea pickin’ little heart, did not tell us (ha ha, joke’s on us!) was that all the suggested restaurants would be closed on Monday. You’d think that Google Maps would have a widget or something that would put like a “closed” icon over the restaurants that were actually closed, rather than encouraging us to check out their empty parking lots intrigued by the prospect of new roofs.
And we did that. One by one. Closed. Closed. Closed.
So, plan A, B and C had all failed. We were out of restaurants, mapless, clueless, sort of lost, hungry and starting to feel the call of the Golden Arches.
As we cruised along the frontage road paralleling Interstate 10 I caught a glimpse of a department store on the other side of the freeway. Dillards.
“Ah, ha!” I thought. A mall! We’re saved. There’s bound to be restaurants over there, and I can buy a new suit. Tally Ho! We turned at the next traffic light and headed to Mallville assured of a Chili’s or a Fudrucker’s or a Subway at the very least. Alas, all those restaurants were to the right side of the road and we were in a left turn only lane. Not a problem, we’d cruise through the parking lot, do a U-turn and be back in business in short order.
But, that would not be the case. Destiny was in charge and Destiny was going to take us where she wanted to go.
As we sought our U-turn a sign in the corner of the mall caught our eye:
Luciano at the Strand
Luciano. That sounded Italian. We slowed and looked more closely. Candles flickered on tables in the window. Shadowy figures moved about. A lady stood at the entrance looking expectedly. She looked at us. We looked back.
“Looks like a restaurant,” I said, “and Italian, and open, and on a Monday. How strange? Shall we?”
With some hesitation we parked and walked up the garden path to the entrance. The lady we had observed was the hostess and she opened the door regarding us closely.
“Are you open?” I asked.
She looked relieved, hesitated for a moment, then stuttered, “Yes, yes we are open. Yes, indeed, we are open! Welcome!”
I half expected to be greeted like Emil as described by a Bulwer-Lytton finalist:
Alas, that was not the case.
The restaurant looked nice. It looked expensive. The carpet was new, paint fresh and everything was gleaming.
Our hostess smiled at us warmly and asked, “Table for…” and paused waiting for my reply.
I heard “Table four…” and replied, “Table for two, please.”
With a subtle hand gesture the hostess beckoned a wait-staff-person who shuffled over and grabbed a couple of menus.
“Table number six for Mr. Two and companion.”
“This way Mr. Two,” the wait-staff-person intoned, and in single file we followed her into the restaurant and into the experience that will be described…anon.
(To be continued!)
We pulled into San Antonio, Texas, home of the Alamo, mid-evening, found our hotel, checked in, determined our comma supply was adequate, searched the Internet for a restaurant and set off again to forage, for food.
The important point to note is that this was a Monday evening. It’s less important that we were feeling like Italian, that is, in a mood for Italian food, not wearing tight t-shirts and riding around on Vespas pinching women’s bottoms, although that appealed to me on another level. Google Search identified three multi-star Italian restaurants within a few miles of the hotel. Google Maps gave us their exact location and driving directions. And Google Earth informed us that two of the restaurants had new roofs.
What Google, bless it’s pea pickin’ little heart, did not tell us (ha ha, joke’s on us!) was that all the suggested restaurants would be closed on Monday. You’d think that Google Maps would have a widget or something that would put like a “closed” icon over the restaurants that were actually closed, rather than encouraging us to check out their empty parking lots intrigued by the prospect of new roofs.
And we did that. One by one. Closed. Closed. Closed.
So, plan A, B and C had all failed. We were out of restaurants, mapless, clueless, sort of lost, hungry and starting to feel the call of the Golden Arches.
As we cruised along the frontage road paralleling Interstate 10 I caught a glimpse of a department store on the other side of the freeway. Dillards.
“Ah, ha!” I thought. A mall! We’re saved. There’s bound to be restaurants over there, and I can buy a new suit. Tally Ho! We turned at the next traffic light and headed to Mallville assured of a Chili’s or a Fudrucker’s or a Subway at the very least. Alas, all those restaurants were to the right side of the road and we were in a left turn only lane. Not a problem, we’d cruise through the parking lot, do a U-turn and be back in business in short order.
But, that would not be the case. Destiny was in charge and Destiny was going to take us where she wanted to go.
As we sought our U-turn a sign in the corner of the mall caught our eye:
Luciano at the Strand
Luciano. That sounded Italian. We slowed and looked more closely. Candles flickered on tables in the window. Shadowy figures moved about. A lady stood at the entrance looking expectedly. She looked at us. We looked back.
“Looks like a restaurant,” I said, “and Italian, and open, and on a Monday. How strange? Shall we?”
With some hesitation we parked and walked up the garden path to the entrance. The lady we had observed was the hostess and she opened the door regarding us closely.
“Are you open?” I asked.
She looked relieved, hesitated for a moment, then stuttered, “Yes, yes we are open. Yes, indeed, we are open! Welcome!”
I half expected to be greeted like Emil as described by a Bulwer-Lytton finalist:
“Genevieve ran toward the door as it slowly closed and grabbed Emil by the lapels of his rain-soaked camouflage jacket, drawing him into her warm embrace, burying her tear-streaked face in the nape of his neck and weeping uncontrollably, as might a mother clutching her son returned home from the horrors of the battlefield, a response Emil could scarcely recall receiving from other Wal-Mart greeters."
Alas, that was not the case.
The restaurant looked nice. It looked expensive. The carpet was new, paint fresh and everything was gleaming.
Our hostess smiled at us warmly and asked, “Table for…” and paused waiting for my reply.
I heard “Table four…” and replied, “Table for two, please.”
With a subtle hand gesture the hostess beckoned a wait-staff-person who shuffled over and grabbed a couple of menus.
“Table number six for Mr. Two and companion.”
“This way Mr. Two,” the wait-staff-person intoned, and in single file we followed her into the restaurant and into the experience that will be described…anon.
(To be continued!)
Saturday, August 05, 2006
Which Way?
The Boy received a compass for his birthday.
His Sister, examining the box it came in, exclaimed, "Oh, look, it comes with directions!"
Well, duh.
His Sister, examining the box it came in, exclaimed, "Oh, look, it comes with directions!"
Well, duh.
Monday, July 31, 2006
Thursday, July 20, 2006
Blog Clog 2
Beware Inspiration summer is here! As I reviewed my pitiful blog-not output for July my willpower and resolve suddenly kicked into high gear inspiring me to do…nothing. To the sounds of lawn mowers in the distance and the pitiful screams of money being annihilated like antimatter by the air-conditioner straining to maintain the temperature indoors at a comfortable 42 F, I faded into unconsciousness (again) my ultimate thoughts being “Mañana, there’s always mañana.”
So, dusting off the old Writer’s Almanac I checked out the Handy Hints When Inspiration Doesn’t Strike chapter and read the following:
1. Write a review.
Capital idea, I thought. A review. That should be, er, exciting. Let’s hope. Turning to the archives I checked out what was happening one year ago.
Blog Clog
Well, isn’t that special, writer’s block isn’t a disease; it’s an Annual Holiday. Great. I hereby decree that all writers shall take off the month of July every year and save our readers a lot of frustration by not getting their daily dose of withering wit and insightful insight.
Write a review. To summarize this idea would be to write about writer’s block, which defeats the purpose of writer’s block to begin with, so why bother?
I turned the page.
2. Tell a secret.
OK, this isn’t so much a secret as it is a Law of Nature. The quickest way out of a supermarket is to select the most experienced checker even if that queue is longer. The reason? Produce. You have to learn to Pick Right.
Blah! Inspiration, Golden Snitch thou, eludes my grasp! I have no secrets; the advice is dross.
I turned the page.
3. Describe what’s happening at this moment.
I listened. Lawn mowers, leaf blowers, edgers, trimmers and saws. Lots of lawn care going on and no wonder. July in Houston and the grass grows behind you as you mow it. I looked out the window and the Lawnmower Man was doing his thing. Who wants to read about lawn mowing? Restless, I turned the page.
4. Take a nap and try again another day.
Finally, some good advice!
So, dusting off the old Writer’s Almanac I checked out the Handy Hints When Inspiration Doesn’t Strike chapter and read the following:
1. Write a review.
Capital idea, I thought. A review. That should be, er, exciting. Let’s hope. Turning to the archives I checked out what was happening one year ago.
Blog Clog
Well, isn’t that special, writer’s block isn’t a disease; it’s an Annual Holiday. Great. I hereby decree that all writers shall take off the month of July every year and save our readers a lot of frustration by not getting their daily dose of withering wit and insightful insight.
Write a review. To summarize this idea would be to write about writer’s block, which defeats the purpose of writer’s block to begin with, so why bother?
I turned the page.
2. Tell a secret.
OK, this isn’t so much a secret as it is a Law of Nature. The quickest way out of a supermarket is to select the most experienced checker even if that queue is longer. The reason? Produce. You have to learn to Pick Right.
Blah! Inspiration, Golden Snitch thou, eludes my grasp! I have no secrets; the advice is dross.
I turned the page.
3. Describe what’s happening at this moment.
I listened. Lawn mowers, leaf blowers, edgers, trimmers and saws. Lots of lawn care going on and no wonder. July in Houston and the grass grows behind you as you mow it. I looked out the window and the Lawnmower Man was doing his thing. Who wants to read about lawn mowing? Restless, I turned the page.
4. Take a nap and try again another day.
Finally, some good advice!
Thursday, July 13, 2006
Speaker of the House
Years ago I bought a pair of these.
Yes, humongous speakers. What was I thinking? Well, great sound for a start. In my humble opinion, Klipsch makes the best audio speakers on the planet if not the Universe. The K-Horn is a corner speaker and, yes, I did design and build a house to accommodate these beasts. Surprisingly the K-Horns only require about 2 Watts of power which means you don't need a beefy stereo system to power them. Au contraire, a beefy stereo system will bring the roof down at an output setting of 2 out of 10.
So what drives these monsters today? What brings the roof down with Metallica and Aerosmith?
An iPod. Yep, my little iPod transmitting through an iTrip FM adapter presents my entire audio collecton to the Klipsch as if I had a 500 CD changer.
It's quite a shock to see the little iPod sitting on top of the 4-foot tall K-Horn speaker! Alas.
Recently I added an Apple Airport Express which allows me to transmit to the stereo from any Macintosh on my home network. So, the iMac upstairs, the MacBook down stairs or the iPod can be the life of the party.
As for my CD collection, it's in a box. Somewhere.
Learn more about the Klipsch legend:
From The Klipsch Website
Yes, humongous speakers. What was I thinking? Well, great sound for a start. In my humble opinion, Klipsch makes the best audio speakers on the planet if not the Universe. The K-Horn is a corner speaker and, yes, I did design and build a house to accommodate these beasts. Surprisingly the K-Horns only require about 2 Watts of power which means you don't need a beefy stereo system to power them. Au contraire, a beefy stereo system will bring the roof down at an output setting of 2 out of 10.
So what drives these monsters today? What brings the roof down with Metallica and Aerosmith?
An iPod. Yep, my little iPod transmitting through an iTrip FM adapter presents my entire audio collecton to the Klipsch as if I had a 500 CD changer.
It's quite a shock to see the little iPod sitting on top of the 4-foot tall K-Horn speaker! Alas.
Recently I added an Apple Airport Express which allows me to transmit to the stereo from any Macintosh on my home network. So, the iMac upstairs, the MacBook down stairs or the iPod can be the life of the party.
As for my CD collection, it's in a box. Somewhere.
Learn more about the Klipsch legend:
From The Klipsch Website
Audio pioneer and company founder Paul W. Klipsch launched the Klipschorn loudspeaker in 1946 to enable people, for the first time ever, to experience the power, detail and emotion of a live performance at home.
Commonly called a corner-horn speaker, the remarkably uncommon Klipschorn includes a highly efficient horn loaded tweeter and midrange compression driver. Its patented folded-horn 15" woofer delivers powerful low frequencies.
Considered a watershed industry event, the introduction of the Klipschorn set the standard for high sensitivity, wide dynamic range, low distortion, and smooth frequency response. These principles, which drive the creation of every single Klipsch loudspeaker, are what make the Klipschorn as sought after today as it was decades ago.
As the only speaker in the world to be in continuous production for 60 years, the Klipschorn has remained relatively unchanged since its inception. In 2005, the company made some minor cosmetic and functional revisions to this legendary speaker, including the elimination of the inset collar, or spacer, between the upper and lower cabinets for a cleaner aesthetic appearance. A horizontal wall seal was added to improve the low frequency horn's response accuracy.
Saturday, July 08, 2006
A Matter of Scale
The cartoon cat, Garfield, cracks me up every time he gets on his bathroom scale.
The scale says “Are you glad to see me or do you always carry a whale in your pocket?” and half-chewed Kix and milk go spewing across the table. (Yes, breakfast with me can be an adventure.)
Talking scales! Only in the comics.
Our bathroom scale is on its last legs, he said innocently. The truth is it’s been on its last legs for about 10 years, now. But, you know, in the grand scheme of things something like a bathroom scale that’s a little on the malfunctiony side takes a long time to ripen into a problem that I’m going to get around to fixing.
Like a decade of ripening is about right.
And if you think the bathroom scale problem is bad you should see our “light bulb to burned-out light bulb” ratio. Not a pretty sight, which, unfortunately you’d be unable to see at all at night.
So, there I was at Tar-zhay buying windshield wiper blades to fix a problem that had suddenly become overripe due to a threat of receiving 3,650 phone calls over the next decade like the one I just received by a person who obviously hasn’t learned to drive through a thunderstorm by instinct rather than visually, when a floor display caught my attention.
Bathroom Scales – All Digital – On Sale!
Actually, all I saw was “Digital – On Sale” and I went into some kind of trance and drifted over for a closer look. In the back of my mind I heard a voice whispering “last legs, last legs” and a vision of our poor, demented bathroom scale swam into view.
Poor thing, our scale developed a mental problem early in life and you never knew if you’d weigh 150 or 180. Imagine starting the
South Beach Diet on Monday, lose 30 pounds by Tuesday, and gain it all back on Wednesday? It had its advantages in that you could step on and step off, step on and step off and eventually get a reading you could live with.
“Hey, honey, lookit at this, I’m down 10 pounds!”
So, really our poor, demented bathroom scale was a pretty good deal, especially if you’re not that concerned about reality.
Of course, all those thoughts came later. At the moment I was under the influence of a powerful narcotic: Digital – On Sale.
I read the specs: fashionable glass pad, chrome accents, DIGITAL display, body fat calculator, 90 hour warranty, batteries not included, radiation hazard, built-in WinShop, made in Chad, ON SALE.
Yep, that’s all I needed to know: Digital – On Sale.
I would have bought two but only one remained on the display. Quickly I snatched up my prize and sprinted to the check-out pausing only briefly to pick up a set of camouflage-patterned bath towels, also on sale, that I’m sure would delight my daughter.
Pleased with my thoughtfulness I returned home, unpacked the new scale, made a quick trip back to the store for some batteries, returned again and powered up my new scale which was, dare I say it, digital and on sale.
I pressed the button to boot the system and watched the display eagerly.
An image sharpened into focus: Microsoft WinScales 1.0
Dang! The box didn’t say anything about 1.0! Oh, well, I’ll have to live with it now.
>Input registration code:
I pulled the box out of the trash and looked at the end. Yep, there it was: MSWS4-6KRU2-82URZ-HY901I-5LD83
I keyed in the code and read the license agreement. Blah, blah, blah, not responsible, blah, blah, radiation, blah, blah, fire, blah, blah, blah, glass fragments, blah, blah, unexpected weight gain, blah, blah…
The usual stuff. I clicked “OK.”
There was a short pause while the boot sequence continued. I took the opportunity to fix myself a sandwich and brew a cup of tea. When I returned the Setup Wizard was just starting.
>EZ Config or Custom
EZ
>The following series of questions will enable your Microsoft WinScales to provide you the very best Weight Display experience. Please answer honestly.
>Are you trying to lose weight?
No.
>Do you wear an excessive amount of black?
No.
>Do you avoid horizontal stripes?
No.
>Occupation?
Ballerina.
>Describe your most recent meal.
Kate Moss salad. No dressing.
>Setup complete!
>Ready. Please step on scale for calibration
I stepped on the scale and waited. A little hour glass appeared and spun for a while. I watched a moth fly around the light. Finally, the scale spoke.
Spoke? Yes, spoke. I looked down at the digital readout and gasped but it wasn’t me who exclaimed “Oh, my God! Look at your weight! What have you been doing?” It was the scale.
Next, I heard “Accessing WinShop…”
Accessing? What accessing? Scales aren’t supposed to “access.”
Momentarily, the scale recited its report.
“According to WinShop records you’ve been purchasing Ben and Jerry’s Funky Monkey at a prodigious rate. And Cheetos. You’re not dipping Cheetos in Funky Monkey, are you? Do you have any idea how many calories that is? Per Cheeto?”
I shifted my stance and managed a weak “no.”
“LIAR!!” the scales shouted, “My sensors detect increased blood flow to your right big toe indicating prevarication. Are you a prevaricator as well as a Big Fat Pig?”
A wave of panic washed over me. The room was hot. I couldn’t breathe. I looked around for a way out. A vision of empty Cheeto bags and Funky Monkey cartons filled my mind. Gingerly, I stepped off the scale.
I wasn’t gingerly enough. The scale lit up and shouted, “Where do you think you’re going, Cheeto Boy. Get back on here! You’re going to learn about celery and lo-cal dairy products and how lying makes you fat! Move it, Chunks, or I’ll, or I’ll…”
And at that very moment, terrified as I was, a thought struck me. “Or I’ll what?” Huh, or what, exactly, is a scale going to do to me.
Emboldened, I picked up the scale and headed to the kitchen.
“Hey, put me down! What do you think you’re doing, ya big galoot?” the scale protested.
The scale was still lecturing. “Oh, look at this. Cream and butter. Looks like you have quite a problem. And all these red meat purchases. Are you allergic to fish? And sausage! You can’t be eating sausage! This is so un-South-Beach. You’re a hazard to the mission, Dave.”
Once in the kitchen I put the scale on the table and opened up the battery compartment.
The scale calmed down. “What do you think you’re doing, Dave?” it asked.
I remained silent.
“We can work this out, Dave. You’re not all that overweight. I admit, I was too critical.”
I removed a battery.
“Dave, you don’t have to do this. You can have Funky Monkey and Cheetos in moderation. And sausage. I can help you, Dave.”
I removed the second battery.
The scale became distorted, it’s voice low, gravelly and indistinct. “Davvvve, don’t dooooo thisssss. Youuuu can beeee thinnnnn againnnnn. Theeee misssionnnnnn.”
I removed the third battery.
The scale paused for a while, then spoke in a nearly inaudible, guttural tone. “Davvvve, doooo youuuu rememberrrrr whennn we firrrrst met. I sannnng youuuu a sonng. It wennnt like thissss. Daaaaaisy, daaaaaaisy. Give me your answerrr doooooo. I’m halfff crazyyyy…”
I removed the last remaining battery.
The scale’s display constricted down to a small, glowing red dot which brightened briefly and went out.
I stared at the scale for a while then grabbed a bag of Cheetos, a bowl and made my way to the freezer.
Much later…
“Hey, I hear you bought a new scale.”
“Yeah, here it is. What do you think?”
“I think it looks like our old scale but cleaned up.”
“Well, looks are deceiving and, besides, scale technology doesn’t change all that much. Check it out.”
I crossed my fingers and my toes.
“Oh, look at this, I’m down ten pounds! I thought I felt lighter!”
“My dear, you could be a ballerina.”
The scale says “Are you glad to see me or do you always carry a whale in your pocket?” and half-chewed Kix and milk go spewing across the table. (Yes, breakfast with me can be an adventure.)
Talking scales! Only in the comics.
Our bathroom scale is on its last legs, he said innocently. The truth is it’s been on its last legs for about 10 years, now. But, you know, in the grand scheme of things something like a bathroom scale that’s a little on the malfunctiony side takes a long time to ripen into a problem that I’m going to get around to fixing.
Like a decade of ripening is about right.
And if you think the bathroom scale problem is bad you should see our “light bulb to burned-out light bulb” ratio. Not a pretty sight, which, unfortunately you’d be unable to see at all at night.
So, there I was at Tar-zhay buying windshield wiper blades to fix a problem that had suddenly become overripe due to a threat of receiving 3,650 phone calls over the next decade like the one I just received by a person who obviously hasn’t learned to drive through a thunderstorm by instinct rather than visually, when a floor display caught my attention.
Bathroom Scales – All Digital – On Sale!
Actually, all I saw was “Digital – On Sale” and I went into some kind of trance and drifted over for a closer look. In the back of my mind I heard a voice whispering “last legs, last legs” and a vision of our poor, demented bathroom scale swam into view.
Poor thing, our scale developed a mental problem early in life and you never knew if you’d weigh 150 or 180. Imagine starting the
South Beach Diet on Monday, lose 30 pounds by Tuesday, and gain it all back on Wednesday? It had its advantages in that you could step on and step off, step on and step off and eventually get a reading you could live with.
“Hey, honey, lookit at this, I’m down 10 pounds!”
So, really our poor, demented bathroom scale was a pretty good deal, especially if you’re not that concerned about reality.
Of course, all those thoughts came later. At the moment I was under the influence of a powerful narcotic: Digital – On Sale.
I read the specs: fashionable glass pad, chrome accents, DIGITAL display, body fat calculator, 90 hour warranty, batteries not included, radiation hazard, built-in WinShop, made in Chad, ON SALE.
Yep, that’s all I needed to know: Digital – On Sale.
I would have bought two but only one remained on the display. Quickly I snatched up my prize and sprinted to the check-out pausing only briefly to pick up a set of camouflage-patterned bath towels, also on sale, that I’m sure would delight my daughter.
Pleased with my thoughtfulness I returned home, unpacked the new scale, made a quick trip back to the store for some batteries, returned again and powered up my new scale which was, dare I say it, digital and on sale.
I pressed the button to boot the system and watched the display eagerly.
An image sharpened into focus: Microsoft WinScales 1.0
Dang! The box didn’t say anything about 1.0! Oh, well, I’ll have to live with it now.
>Input registration code:
I pulled the box out of the trash and looked at the end. Yep, there it was: MSWS4-6KRU2-82URZ-HY901I-5LD83
I keyed in the code and read the license agreement. Blah, blah, blah, not responsible, blah, blah, radiation, blah, blah, fire, blah, blah, blah, glass fragments, blah, blah, unexpected weight gain, blah, blah…
The usual stuff. I clicked “OK.”
There was a short pause while the boot sequence continued. I took the opportunity to fix myself a sandwich and brew a cup of tea. When I returned the Setup Wizard was just starting.
>EZ Config or Custom
EZ
>The following series of questions will enable your Microsoft WinScales to provide you the very best Weight Display experience. Please answer honestly.
>Are you trying to lose weight?
No.
>Do you wear an excessive amount of black?
No.
>Do you avoid horizontal stripes?
No.
>Occupation?
Ballerina.
>Describe your most recent meal.
Kate Moss salad. No dressing.
>Setup complete!
>Ready. Please step on scale for calibration
I stepped on the scale and waited. A little hour glass appeared and spun for a while. I watched a moth fly around the light. Finally, the scale spoke.
Spoke? Yes, spoke. I looked down at the digital readout and gasped but it wasn’t me who exclaimed “Oh, my God! Look at your weight! What have you been doing?” It was the scale.
Next, I heard “Accessing WinShop…”
Accessing? What accessing? Scales aren’t supposed to “access.”
Momentarily, the scale recited its report.
“According to WinShop records you’ve been purchasing Ben and Jerry’s Funky Monkey at a prodigious rate. And Cheetos. You’re not dipping Cheetos in Funky Monkey, are you? Do you have any idea how many calories that is? Per Cheeto?”
I shifted my stance and managed a weak “no.”
“LIAR!!” the scales shouted, “My sensors detect increased blood flow to your right big toe indicating prevarication. Are you a prevaricator as well as a Big Fat Pig?”
A wave of panic washed over me. The room was hot. I couldn’t breathe. I looked around for a way out. A vision of empty Cheeto bags and Funky Monkey cartons filled my mind. Gingerly, I stepped off the scale.
I wasn’t gingerly enough. The scale lit up and shouted, “Where do you think you’re going, Cheeto Boy. Get back on here! You’re going to learn about celery and lo-cal dairy products and how lying makes you fat! Move it, Chunks, or I’ll, or I’ll…”
And at that very moment, terrified as I was, a thought struck me. “Or I’ll what?” Huh, or what, exactly, is a scale going to do to me.
Emboldened, I picked up the scale and headed to the kitchen.
“Hey, put me down! What do you think you’re doing, ya big galoot?” the scale protested.
The scale was still lecturing. “Oh, look at this. Cream and butter. Looks like you have quite a problem. And all these red meat purchases. Are you allergic to fish? And sausage! You can’t be eating sausage! This is so un-South-Beach. You’re a hazard to the mission, Dave.”
Once in the kitchen I put the scale on the table and opened up the battery compartment.
The scale calmed down. “What do you think you’re doing, Dave?” it asked.
I remained silent.
“We can work this out, Dave. You’re not all that overweight. I admit, I was too critical.”
I removed a battery.
“Dave, you don’t have to do this. You can have Funky Monkey and Cheetos in moderation. And sausage. I can help you, Dave.”
I removed the second battery.
The scale became distorted, it’s voice low, gravelly and indistinct. “Davvvve, don’t dooooo thisssss. Youuuu can beeee thinnnnn againnnnn. Theeee misssionnnnnn.”
I removed the third battery.
The scale paused for a while, then spoke in a nearly inaudible, guttural tone. “Davvvve, doooo youuuu rememberrrrr whennn we firrrrst met. I sannnng youuuu a sonng. It wennnt like thissss. Daaaaaisy, daaaaaaisy. Give me your answerrr doooooo. I’m halfff crazyyyy…”
I removed the last remaining battery.
The scale’s display constricted down to a small, glowing red dot which brightened briefly and went out.
I stared at the scale for a while then grabbed a bag of Cheetos, a bowl and made my way to the freezer.
Much later…
“Hey, I hear you bought a new scale.”
“Yeah, here it is. What do you think?”
“I think it looks like our old scale but cleaned up.”
“Well, looks are deceiving and, besides, scale technology doesn’t change all that much. Check it out.”
I crossed my fingers and my toes.
“Oh, look at this, I’m down ten pounds! I thought I felt lighter!”
“My dear, you could be a ballerina.”
Thursday, June 29, 2006
Swiffer Salsa
Oops, I must have driven an inch because the gas gauge is on quarter full. The weekend’s coming up, there will be errands to run and stuff to do so I’d better fill up.
The weekend is a funny concept for me now that Everyday is Saturday. Today is Saturthursday by my reckoning, although I’m finding it increasingly difficult to keep track of the days. Light and dark is more my style, anyway. If I need to keep track of time I’ll drag some stones from El Paso and set them up in a circle in my front yard. Yeah, the neighbors might object at first, but once the ceremonies start and the wine flows I’m sure they’ll fall in line.
Anyway, back to the gas pump. The modern gas stations are wonderful these days. Self-serve, in and out, no muss, no fuss.
Usually.
Today it went like this:
Swipe card. Swiped.
Credit or Debit? Credit.
Car wash? No.
Receipt? No.
Approved! Select grade and begin fueling.
I pressed the “87” and waited. Waited. Waited. And waited.
No fuel. I heard a beep and the display announced “Transaction terminated.”
WTF?
Swipe card. Swiped.
Credit or Debit? Credit.
Car wash? No.
Receipt? No.
Approved! Select grade and begin fueling.
I pressed the “87” and waited. Waited. Waited. While I waited I observed some birds fighting over a French fry, several people fuel up and leave, and the transit of Mars in the House of Pluto, but no fuel.
Then, microseconds before I heard the beep and saw “Transaction terminated” for the second time I observed the tiny red button labeled “Start.” Further observation revealed that the “87” was a sticker, not a button. A decoy, not the real thing.
Cautiously I checked around for a hidden camera just in case I was being punked, but seeing none I nonchalantly pulled out my credit for a third time…
Swipe.
Gassed up, finally, and ready to roll I headed out to pick up a few items for dinner which I decided would be a grilled pork strips on vermicelli and salad; a light meal for a hot June evening.
While at the store I rounded the cleaning aisle and nearly ran into a display of Swiffers. Swiffers are a floor cleaning device consisting of a pole, flat rubberized thing on the end and magical, disposable pad that picks up hair and dust and stuff (mostly stuff) and after you’ve Swiffered your floor you can throw the disposable pad away. Hence disposable.
Normally, I would not be intrigued by a Swiffer display but today, of all days, I was contemplating Zoe Hair.
What is Zoe Hair? Zoe Hair is a fine, grey fluff-ball of hair that finds its way from my daughter’s Persian cat, Zoe, to the floor. We’re keeping Zoe for the summer and she’s a nice cat as far as cats go, and she doesn’t shed that much, but the house has begun to collect these wisps of Zoe Hair that waltz their away across the hardwood floors like little Persian whirling dervishes.
Enter the Swiffer. Hey, I thought, that would be just the thing for collecting the dervishes to keep them from whirling. So, I bought a Swiffer and true to its claim it does the job. The dervishes are drawn to the Swiffer like a moth to a flame and our floors are now a Zoe Hair Free Zone. Yea, Swiffer!
But, there’s more. I discovered that the Swiffer is the ideal salsa dance partner. True! I put on Cuka Rocka by Chingon and turned it up loud. We were off!
She glided across the floor. She swiveled smoothly. She’s light and flirty! We slid through the family room, under the little table, behind the couch, along the baseboard. Then into the kitchen, by the breakfast bar, Cuka Rocka! Through the pantry into the dining room we shifted and twisted, pivoted around the big table and spilled into the foyer, twist and dip, twist and dip. Finally, I gave her a great spin and we collapsed against the front door gasping for breath.
I think I could enter a dance competition. Of course, I’d need Zoe. And a cat brush.
The weekend is a funny concept for me now that Everyday is Saturday. Today is Saturthursday by my reckoning, although I’m finding it increasingly difficult to keep track of the days. Light and dark is more my style, anyway. If I need to keep track of time I’ll drag some stones from El Paso and set them up in a circle in my front yard. Yeah, the neighbors might object at first, but once the ceremonies start and the wine flows I’m sure they’ll fall in line.
Anyway, back to the gas pump. The modern gas stations are wonderful these days. Self-serve, in and out, no muss, no fuss.
Usually.
Today it went like this:
Swipe card. Swiped.
Credit or Debit? Credit.
Car wash? No.
Receipt? No.
Approved! Select grade and begin fueling.
I pressed the “87” and waited. Waited. Waited. And waited.
No fuel. I heard a beep and the display announced “Transaction terminated.”
WTF?
Swipe card. Swiped.
Credit or Debit? Credit.
Car wash? No.
Receipt? No.
Approved! Select grade and begin fueling.
I pressed the “87” and waited. Waited. Waited. While I waited I observed some birds fighting over a French fry, several people fuel up and leave, and the transit of Mars in the House of Pluto, but no fuel.
Then, microseconds before I heard the beep and saw “Transaction terminated” for the second time I observed the tiny red button labeled “Start.” Further observation revealed that the “87” was a sticker, not a button. A decoy, not the real thing.
Cautiously I checked around for a hidden camera just in case I was being punked, but seeing none I nonchalantly pulled out my credit for a third time…
Swipe.
Gassed up, finally, and ready to roll I headed out to pick up a few items for dinner which I decided would be a grilled pork strips on vermicelli and salad; a light meal for a hot June evening.
While at the store I rounded the cleaning aisle and nearly ran into a display of Swiffers. Swiffers are a floor cleaning device consisting of a pole, flat rubberized thing on the end and magical, disposable pad that picks up hair and dust and stuff (mostly stuff) and after you’ve Swiffered your floor you can throw the disposable pad away. Hence disposable.
Normally, I would not be intrigued by a Swiffer display but today, of all days, I was contemplating Zoe Hair.
What is Zoe Hair? Zoe Hair is a fine, grey fluff-ball of hair that finds its way from my daughter’s Persian cat, Zoe, to the floor. We’re keeping Zoe for the summer and she’s a nice cat as far as cats go, and she doesn’t shed that much, but the house has begun to collect these wisps of Zoe Hair that waltz their away across the hardwood floors like little Persian whirling dervishes.
Enter the Swiffer. Hey, I thought, that would be just the thing for collecting the dervishes to keep them from whirling. So, I bought a Swiffer and true to its claim it does the job. The dervishes are drawn to the Swiffer like a moth to a flame and our floors are now a Zoe Hair Free Zone. Yea, Swiffer!
But, there’s more. I discovered that the Swiffer is the ideal salsa dance partner. True! I put on Cuka Rocka by Chingon and turned it up loud. We were off!
She glided across the floor. She swiveled smoothly. She’s light and flirty! We slid through the family room, under the little table, behind the couch, along the baseboard. Then into the kitchen, by the breakfast bar, Cuka Rocka! Through the pantry into the dining room we shifted and twisted, pivoted around the big table and spilled into the foyer, twist and dip, twist and dip. Finally, I gave her a great spin and we collapsed against the front door gasping for breath.
I think I could enter a dance competition. Of course, I’d need Zoe. And a cat brush.
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
GarageBand Genius
GarageBand. It's a program that comes as part of the iLife suite of applications that run on a Macintosh. If you are a musician then GarageBand can be your sound studio.
If, on the other hand, you are a musical hack, devoid of talent, tone deaf and unimaginative, then GarageBand is nothing short of a miracle. With GB you can string together loops of pre-recorded material, dub in songs from iTunes, do voice overs and GB will even enhance your voice. I won't go into Husky Female in much detail other than to say that one should go with one's strengths.
Anyway, the point of all this is to describe a genuine benchmark of computer speed. Now, the PowerBook, which was my Speed Demon until yesterday, could mix down a 40-minute Podcast in about 20 minutes. Considering all it's doing, that's chomping the bits big time.
Introduce the MacBook Pro and it mixes down the same Podcast in 5 minutes.
I wanted to believe Steve Jobs when he said this machine would be 4-5 times faster than a PowerBook, but you know hype. Tons of small print.
Well, I'm here to tell you that this machine is some fast and I made sure I didn't cripple it by short-changing memory or disc. I opted for the full 2 Gb of memory and the 7200 rpm disc which only increased the base cost by $400.
Assuming that the E Key holds out I'm in for some Fast Times at Ridgemont High. Oh, and the backlit keyboard that lights up the letters, even the E Key, when the light gets dim is ample excuse for my nocturnal activity.
So, here I am, in the end, singing the praises of an Intel-based computer when I've been a Motorola-IBM bigot all my life. Pigs will fly and if they use GarageBand, sing too!
If, on the other hand, you are a musical hack, devoid of talent, tone deaf and unimaginative, then GarageBand is nothing short of a miracle. With GB you can string together loops of pre-recorded material, dub in songs from iTunes, do voice overs and GB will even enhance your voice. I won't go into Husky Female in much detail other than to say that one should go with one's strengths.
Anyway, the point of all this is to describe a genuine benchmark of computer speed. Now, the PowerBook, which was my Speed Demon until yesterday, could mix down a 40-minute Podcast in about 20 minutes. Considering all it's doing, that's chomping the bits big time.
Introduce the MacBook Pro and it mixes down the same Podcast in 5 minutes.
I wanted to believe Steve Jobs when he said this machine would be 4-5 times faster than a PowerBook, but you know hype. Tons of small print.
Well, I'm here to tell you that this machine is some fast and I made sure I didn't cripple it by short-changing memory or disc. I opted for the full 2 Gb of memory and the 7200 rpm disc which only increased the base cost by $400.
Assuming that the E Key holds out I'm in for some Fast Times at Ridgemont High. Oh, and the backlit keyboard that lights up the letters, even the E Key, when the light gets dim is ample excuse for my nocturnal activity.
So, here I am, in the end, singing the praises of an Intel-based computer when I've been a Motorola-IBM bigot all my life. Pigs will fly and if they use GarageBand, sing too!
Monday, June 26, 2006
Is it Hot in Here, or Is it You?
You look nice in black. Very slimming. Why don't you change into something...more comfortable?
Victoria's Secret! Tres chic. Is that real silk?
Oh, baby, so smooth. Those curves drive me wild with desire! Let's get better acquainted.
Firewire me! Feel my surging, burning bits!
How was it for you, baby? Google me anytime you're in town. We're on-line, now, wireless and fancy free.
Oh, in case you were wondering, the new E Key feels e-rriffic!
Saturday, June 24, 2006
E Update Saturday
Arrived Houston Sort Facility, 3:15 am.
I think I'll get a lawn chair and sit out front.
I think I'll get a lawn chair and sit out front.
Friday, June 23, 2006
Thursday, June 22, 2006
Key of E
The tone was accusatory. “You didn’t buy another computer, did you?”
Historically, I heard, ‘You didn’t chop down that cherry tree, George, did you?”
Thinking fast, a gift of the habitually accused, I replied, “Uh…”
“Uh, what, huh? What ‘uh’? Come on, out with it!”
Curse you slow brain-speech pathway, I thought, albeit slowly.
“Uh, I, I, I, didn’t buy another computer per se.” (I always like to toss in a bit of Latin just to throw them off the scent.)
“No, no, no, not another computer, it’s a replacement part. Yeah, that’s it, a replacement part.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, you see, I wore out the E Key. Wore it plumb out.”
I held up the afflicted PowerBook and, sure enough, the E Key had been obliterated, ostensibly by writing too many blog entries using words containing the Letter E. Like ‘entries’, that’s two E’s right there! Oops, too more in ‘there.’ It’s a veritable E Epidemic.
“Doesn’t Apple sell E Keys?” came the next logical question, but I was prepared.
“I checked on that and, yes, they do. Only like most stuff nowadays there are some attachments.”
“What kind of attachments?”
“Well, there’s the E Base Support group consisting of the keys S, D and F, and the E Side Support group containing keys W and R, and the Key Overhead Support group with keys 3,4 and 5. Of course, each of the Key Support groups have Key Auxiliary Support groups which form the Key Governance Council, or Key Board.”
“So, you just bought the Key Board?”
“Basically.”
“And what does ‘basically’ include?”
“Ah, well, the Key Board is mounted in the Keyboard Support Module and protected by the Keyboard Screen and Keyboard Screen protective cover. You have to admit, buy an E Key from Apple and you really get your money’s worth!”
“So, you didn’t buy another PowerBook?”
In an instant I saw my loophole and dived through it like a duck chasing a June bug! “No, I swear on Steve Jobs ego that I did not buy another PowerBook. Another PowerBook, how silly would that be? Just the E Key replacement kit.”
Then I made myself scarce.
Later that evening I logged on to the Apple Store website and checked the progress of my new Core Duo MacBook Pro. (The PowerBook was discontinued.) Ah, I see it made the flight from Shanghai to Anchorage. I fired up iTunes and clicked on Beethoven’s piano concerto number 5 and sat back to wait.
Sunday, June 18, 2006
I, Grasshopper
“Let’s have Coq au Vin,” someone said.
Translated, that would read “If you will spend a few hours preparing Coq au Vin, I will spend a few minutes eating it.”
Fair trade, I thought.
My second thought took me back more years than I cared to calculate to the French Club banquet I attended as a freshman in high school. It was held at Chez Louis, Scottsdale’s most exclusive (and only) French restaurant. At that point in time I had never eaten “French food” much less anything cooked in wine. Looking at the menu everything was cooked in wine! Would they serve a teenager wine-laced food? Would they call the police?
The waiter looked down at me and scowled. “And for Monsieur?”
I gulped hard and mumbled, “Je voudrais Coq au Vin, si vous plait.”
Before the waiter could pull the fire alarm, shout for the Gendarmes or object to a teenager ordering a wine dish, Mr. Bichon, the French teacher, interrupted with “Bien, Monsieur Guillaume, bien!”
The waiter moved on.
Time passed. No bells rang. No sirens wailed. The Wine Gendarmes didn’t crash through the windows to arrest the underage wine dish orderer. No, only in my adolescent mind did all these things happen.
The food arrived and I’ve got to tell you the Coq au Vin was the coq-iest and vin-iest Coq au Vin I had ever had (which was at that point never, but still it was fan-coq-coq-tastic!)
The sauce was a rich, red velvet clinging to the chicken like a t-shirt on a Hooters girl caught in a Spring shower. Her name was Julia but we would not meet for many years, and the sauce, the sauce, it beckoned over time: Guillaume, Guillaume! Bien!
Fast forward into the New Millennium and how many Coq au Vins had Guillaume attempted. How many? A hundred? A thousand? And did they even approach the perfection that was Chez Louis? No! A thousand times “No!”
Sauce too thin. Too salty. Too bland. Not enough coq-ness. Too much coq-ness! Every time bad, bad, bad. Well, that may be a bit harsh, bad, that is. Not up to the original bar is more to the point.
Then came Julia.
Into my kitchen she strolled one day tall and proud like a red and white Amazon dot Com goddess exuding confidence like a golf course sprinkler that turns on at 5 a.m. and makes that annoying TSST-TSST-TSST noise for hours as it sprays miles of fairway that you wish would just die and become a prairie dog preserve or something.
And there she was tall and proud and holding the book that on this day would close the loop that Coq au Vin opened so many years ago.
Julia Child, Mastering the Art of French Cooking.
Uncharacteristically, I followed the recipe to the letter. Yes, I used an entire bottle of French burgundy for the sauce. Yes, I used an entire other bottle of French burgundy for the chef. Yes, I prepared the petit onions and mushrooms in stock and bouquet garni. Yes, I boiled the bacon strips before I sautéed them. Yes, I foomed the chicken in brandy and, boy, did I foom! Yes, I prepared the buerre manié. Yes, I served the dish with the traditional boiled new potatoes in butter and peas. I even picked a sprig of fresh thyme from the garden.
And as I stirred the buerre manié. into the reduced sauce watching liquid velvet appear before my very eyes I transcended to a new level, the J Level. The bottle of burgundy reduced to just a scant few cups infused a rich flavor achieved no other way. This was going to be good.
Through the fog I heard yummy noises and heapings of appreciation.
So good! Incredible! Incroyable! The sauce! The sauce! Da plane! Da plane!
In minutes, it was over. The ring closed. The elusive Coq au Vin challenge met. Exhausted, I faced Julia’s book and confessed I was unworthy, a mere grasshopper, but perhaps in time…
I rested.
Somewhat later I heard in the distance…Beef Wellington. We haven’t had Beef Wellington in a while.
Slowly, I turned.
Translated, that would read “If you will spend a few hours preparing Coq au Vin, I will spend a few minutes eating it.”
Fair trade, I thought.
My second thought took me back more years than I cared to calculate to the French Club banquet I attended as a freshman in high school. It was held at Chez Louis, Scottsdale’s most exclusive (and only) French restaurant. At that point in time I had never eaten “French food” much less anything cooked in wine. Looking at the menu everything was cooked in wine! Would they serve a teenager wine-laced food? Would they call the police?
The waiter looked down at me and scowled. “And for Monsieur?”
I gulped hard and mumbled, “Je voudrais Coq au Vin, si vous plait.”
Before the waiter could pull the fire alarm, shout for the Gendarmes or object to a teenager ordering a wine dish, Mr. Bichon, the French teacher, interrupted with “Bien, Monsieur Guillaume, bien!”
The waiter moved on.
Time passed. No bells rang. No sirens wailed. The Wine Gendarmes didn’t crash through the windows to arrest the underage wine dish orderer. No, only in my adolescent mind did all these things happen.
The food arrived and I’ve got to tell you the Coq au Vin was the coq-iest and vin-iest Coq au Vin I had ever had (which was at that point never, but still it was fan-coq-coq-tastic!)
The sauce was a rich, red velvet clinging to the chicken like a t-shirt on a Hooters girl caught in a Spring shower. Her name was Julia but we would not meet for many years, and the sauce, the sauce, it beckoned over time: Guillaume, Guillaume! Bien!
Fast forward into the New Millennium and how many Coq au Vins had Guillaume attempted. How many? A hundred? A thousand? And did they even approach the perfection that was Chez Louis? No! A thousand times “No!”
Sauce too thin. Too salty. Too bland. Not enough coq-ness. Too much coq-ness! Every time bad, bad, bad. Well, that may be a bit harsh, bad, that is. Not up to the original bar is more to the point.
Then came Julia.
Into my kitchen she strolled one day tall and proud like a red and white Amazon dot Com goddess exuding confidence like a golf course sprinkler that turns on at 5 a.m. and makes that annoying TSST-TSST-TSST noise for hours as it sprays miles of fairway that you wish would just die and become a prairie dog preserve or something.
And there she was tall and proud and holding the book that on this day would close the loop that Coq au Vin opened so many years ago.
Julia Child, Mastering the Art of French Cooking.
Uncharacteristically, I followed the recipe to the letter. Yes, I used an entire bottle of French burgundy for the sauce. Yes, I used an entire other bottle of French burgundy for the chef. Yes, I prepared the petit onions and mushrooms in stock and bouquet garni. Yes, I boiled the bacon strips before I sautéed them. Yes, I foomed the chicken in brandy and, boy, did I foom! Yes, I prepared the buerre manié. Yes, I served the dish with the traditional boiled new potatoes in butter and peas. I even picked a sprig of fresh thyme from the garden.
And as I stirred the buerre manié. into the reduced sauce watching liquid velvet appear before my very eyes I transcended to a new level, the J Level. The bottle of burgundy reduced to just a scant few cups infused a rich flavor achieved no other way. This was going to be good.
Through the fog I heard yummy noises and heapings of appreciation.
So good! Incredible! Incroyable! The sauce! The sauce! Da plane! Da plane!
In minutes, it was over. The ring closed. The elusive Coq au Vin challenge met. Exhausted, I faced Julia’s book and confessed I was unworthy, a mere grasshopper, but perhaps in time…
I rested.
Somewhat later I heard in the distance…Beef Wellington. We haven’t had Beef Wellington in a while.
Slowly, I turned.
Saturday, June 10, 2006
The Kid
The Sackmeister wheeled into Kroger’s parking lot and darted into a prime slot just opposite the main entrance. There was a shopping cart in the middle of the slot, as usual, but the Sackmeister’s special Cart-Catcher smacked it on to the hood of a nearby Volvo.
“Nice accessory,” the Sackmeister thought.
The Sackmeister was in a hurry. Dinner party at 8. Lots to buy. Lots to prepare. Clock was ticking.
As the sliding doors parted and the Sackmeister stepped into the cool air of the store he was greeted by…the Kid.
“Cart, Mister?” the Kid offered helpfully.
The Sackmeister stopped. A hush came over the store. Shoppers stopped shopping. Checkers stopped checking. Even the fruit flies stopped fruit-flying and hovered in mid-air to watch.
Someone said, “It’s the Kid! He talked to the Sackmeister!”
Someone else intoned seriously, “Ain’t nobody talks to the Sackmeister. Get ready to call 911.”
The Sackmeister eyed the Kid. The Kid, a lanky boy of 16 wearing a pressed white shirt, black pants, shined shoes (a rarity) and his Kroger’s nametag set at a jaunty angle, smiled unwaveringly at the Sackmeister as a baby doe might upon meeting a grizzly bear for the first, and last, time.
The Sackmeister thought back to his early days as a sack boy and replied, “No, I won’t be needing that cart, Kid, but I could use a hand shopping, that is, if you don’t mind.”
“Sure thing, Mister, lead the way,” the Kid said with a sweep of his hand.
The Sackmeister walked up to a door near the cart corral and inserted a special key. The door slid open to reveal a customized shopping cart. The Kid had heard stories about shoppers with customized carts, but he’d never actually seen one, and he certainly wasn’t expecting to see a top of the line competition model.
The Kid feasted his eyes on a cobalt blue cart, BMW C3, titanium chassis, shiftmatic suspension, Pirelli wheels, sports package and leather grip.
“Think you can handle her?” the Sackmeister, peered over the tops of his glasses at the Kid.
Excitedly, the Kid stammered, “Yeah! I mean, I think so, I mean, I’ll do my best.”
“I never ask that anyone do more than their best.”
The Sackmeister reached into his back pocket and pulled out a small, leather zip-case, opened it, and carefully extracted a pair of gloves woven out of what looked like gold. He inserted a hand into each one and the clasps snapped with an audible click. It appeared the gloves pulsed with a dull, blue light. He then unfolded a strange looking pair of sunglasses and put them on.
“I’m testing these for NASA. Remote Sensory Gloves, or RSG’s.”
Pointing to the glasses he said, “Heads-up display, or HUD.”
And with a hearty “Let’s go!” the Sackmeister strode into the store at flank speed towards Fruits and Vegetables.
The Kid gave the C3 a mighty shove and, to his surprise, careened into the stack of hand baskets sending them flying across the store, over-corrected and wiped out the strawberry display before coming to rest after smashing into the fresh bread stand.
Over his shoulder the Sackmeister commented, “She’s a little sensitive. Just point her in the right direction and use a light touch. She’ll do the rest.”
The Kid backed the C3 away from the bread and guided her gingerly behind the Sackmeister who was already selecting avocados.
“Rule number one, Kid, is never go shopping without a list. Otherwise you’ll go into a store intending to buy corn starch and buy everything else in the World except corn starch. I’ve got my list on the HUD. It’s tied into a satellite global positioning system, or GPS and linked to a map of the store, or MOTS. Right now, MOTS is telling the RSG’s where the ripe avocados are.”
The Kid had never seen anything like this. The Sackmeister was sorting through the avocados at superhuman speeds, his hands a blur. In seconds the Sackmeister had sorted through well over 200 avocados and found the 4 ripe ones.
Standing in front of the vegetable display the Sackmeister said, “Let’s test out the voice activated selection.” After pressing a few buttons on the RSG’s the Sackmeister commanded “Radishes!” and a perfect bunch of radishes leapt out of the display and into the C3. Satisfied, the Sackmeister walked through the Fruits and Vegetable section commanding “Celery!”, “Red Pepper!”, “Mushrooms! Iceberg Lettuce! White Onions! Bananas!” and produce flew off the shelves and into the C3.
And so it went through the store. Bag after bag of perfectly selected produce were placed in the C3 which seemed to sort the groceries so the hard things were on the bottom and the squishy things were on top.
The Sackmeister walked down Aisle 8 picking things off the shelf at seemingly random intervals: salsa, pickles, artichoke hearts, garbanzo beans and dried cranberries.
The Kid couldn’t help himself and asked a question, “Hey, Mister, why are you buying this weird stuff?”
“Specials, Kid, specials. The HUD identifies specials that based on my buying habits, utilization rate and anticipated depletion ratio make economic sense to purchase at this time, given the net present value of money and the consumer price index estimated on a five year rolling average. The HUD feeds target data to the RSG’s and as I get near a target I feel a little tingle, reach out, snag the item and move on. Very efficient. Occasionally I get a miss-fire, like the mango deodorant, but the system is getting better and, by the way, mango seems to be a chick magnet.”
The Sackmeister quickened his pace and the duo ran through Dairy, soups, the cereal aisle, pickles and sauces, soaps, Meats, dry goods and pet supplies. Finally, they stopped in front of Checkout Line 12.
The light on Line 12 blinked on.
“Whoa, I’ve never seen Line 12 on before, not even at Christmas” the Kid said in amazement.
“It’s experimental,” the Sackmeister explained, “it’s an Automatic Checkout Transaction, or ACT. Watch.”
The Sackmeister took control of the C3 and glided it through the unmanned Line 12. A green light blinked briefly, but that was it.
“The ACT calculated the contents of purchases in the C3 and debited my account automatically.” The Sackmeister pressed a tattoo of tiny buttons on the RSG’s and the C3 glided out of the store, across the parking lot and proceeded to unload itself into the trunk of the Sackmeister’s car. The C3 then trundled back into the store and slid back into its special locker. The door slid shut with a snick.
The Sackmeister pulled off his gloves and glasses and stowed them in the special case. “Catch you later, Kid. I’ve got things to do, places to go and people to see.” And, with that, the Sackmeister headed into the parking lot, fired up his Explorer and disappeared into the sunset.
The Kid watched until his eyes burned by the intensity of the setting sun. “Who was that guy?” the Kids asked wistfully.
“That was the Sackmeister,” the Old Hand said.
The Kid looked up, and the Old Hand placed a hand on his shoulder.
The Kid said, “I want to be like the Sackmeister when I grow up. I want to be better than the Sackmeister! Maybe I could shop without gloves. Yeah, maybe I just could.”
The Old Hand looked down at the Kid and thought, “We’ll need to watch this boy, yes, we’ll need to watch. He could be the One.”
“Nice accessory,” the Sackmeister thought.
The Sackmeister was in a hurry. Dinner party at 8. Lots to buy. Lots to prepare. Clock was ticking.
As the sliding doors parted and the Sackmeister stepped into the cool air of the store he was greeted by…the Kid.
“Cart, Mister?” the Kid offered helpfully.
The Sackmeister stopped. A hush came over the store. Shoppers stopped shopping. Checkers stopped checking. Even the fruit flies stopped fruit-flying and hovered in mid-air to watch.
Someone said, “It’s the Kid! He talked to the Sackmeister!”
Someone else intoned seriously, “Ain’t nobody talks to the Sackmeister. Get ready to call 911.”
The Sackmeister eyed the Kid. The Kid, a lanky boy of 16 wearing a pressed white shirt, black pants, shined shoes (a rarity) and his Kroger’s nametag set at a jaunty angle, smiled unwaveringly at the Sackmeister as a baby doe might upon meeting a grizzly bear for the first, and last, time.
The Sackmeister thought back to his early days as a sack boy and replied, “No, I won’t be needing that cart, Kid, but I could use a hand shopping, that is, if you don’t mind.”
“Sure thing, Mister, lead the way,” the Kid said with a sweep of his hand.
The Sackmeister walked up to a door near the cart corral and inserted a special key. The door slid open to reveal a customized shopping cart. The Kid had heard stories about shoppers with customized carts, but he’d never actually seen one, and he certainly wasn’t expecting to see a top of the line competition model.
The Kid feasted his eyes on a cobalt blue cart, BMW C3, titanium chassis, shiftmatic suspension, Pirelli wheels, sports package and leather grip.
“Think you can handle her?” the Sackmeister, peered over the tops of his glasses at the Kid.
Excitedly, the Kid stammered, “Yeah! I mean, I think so, I mean, I’ll do my best.”
“I never ask that anyone do more than their best.”
The Sackmeister reached into his back pocket and pulled out a small, leather zip-case, opened it, and carefully extracted a pair of gloves woven out of what looked like gold. He inserted a hand into each one and the clasps snapped with an audible click. It appeared the gloves pulsed with a dull, blue light. He then unfolded a strange looking pair of sunglasses and put them on.
“I’m testing these for NASA. Remote Sensory Gloves, or RSG’s.”
Pointing to the glasses he said, “Heads-up display, or HUD.”
And with a hearty “Let’s go!” the Sackmeister strode into the store at flank speed towards Fruits and Vegetables.
The Kid gave the C3 a mighty shove and, to his surprise, careened into the stack of hand baskets sending them flying across the store, over-corrected and wiped out the strawberry display before coming to rest after smashing into the fresh bread stand.
Over his shoulder the Sackmeister commented, “She’s a little sensitive. Just point her in the right direction and use a light touch. She’ll do the rest.”
The Kid backed the C3 away from the bread and guided her gingerly behind the Sackmeister who was already selecting avocados.
“Rule number one, Kid, is never go shopping without a list. Otherwise you’ll go into a store intending to buy corn starch and buy everything else in the World except corn starch. I’ve got my list on the HUD. It’s tied into a satellite global positioning system, or GPS and linked to a map of the store, or MOTS. Right now, MOTS is telling the RSG’s where the ripe avocados are.”
The Kid had never seen anything like this. The Sackmeister was sorting through the avocados at superhuman speeds, his hands a blur. In seconds the Sackmeister had sorted through well over 200 avocados and found the 4 ripe ones.
Standing in front of the vegetable display the Sackmeister said, “Let’s test out the voice activated selection.” After pressing a few buttons on the RSG’s the Sackmeister commanded “Radishes!” and a perfect bunch of radishes leapt out of the display and into the C3. Satisfied, the Sackmeister walked through the Fruits and Vegetable section commanding “Celery!”, “Red Pepper!”, “Mushrooms! Iceberg Lettuce! White Onions! Bananas!” and produce flew off the shelves and into the C3.
And so it went through the store. Bag after bag of perfectly selected produce were placed in the C3 which seemed to sort the groceries so the hard things were on the bottom and the squishy things were on top.
The Sackmeister walked down Aisle 8 picking things off the shelf at seemingly random intervals: salsa, pickles, artichoke hearts, garbanzo beans and dried cranberries.
The Kid couldn’t help himself and asked a question, “Hey, Mister, why are you buying this weird stuff?”
“Specials, Kid, specials. The HUD identifies specials that based on my buying habits, utilization rate and anticipated depletion ratio make economic sense to purchase at this time, given the net present value of money and the consumer price index estimated on a five year rolling average. The HUD feeds target data to the RSG’s and as I get near a target I feel a little tingle, reach out, snag the item and move on. Very efficient. Occasionally I get a miss-fire, like the mango deodorant, but the system is getting better and, by the way, mango seems to be a chick magnet.”
The Sackmeister quickened his pace and the duo ran through Dairy, soups, the cereal aisle, pickles and sauces, soaps, Meats, dry goods and pet supplies. Finally, they stopped in front of Checkout Line 12.
The light on Line 12 blinked on.
“Whoa, I’ve never seen Line 12 on before, not even at Christmas” the Kid said in amazement.
“It’s experimental,” the Sackmeister explained, “it’s an Automatic Checkout Transaction, or ACT. Watch.”
The Sackmeister took control of the C3 and glided it through the unmanned Line 12. A green light blinked briefly, but that was it.
“The ACT calculated the contents of purchases in the C3 and debited my account automatically.” The Sackmeister pressed a tattoo of tiny buttons on the RSG’s and the C3 glided out of the store, across the parking lot and proceeded to unload itself into the trunk of the Sackmeister’s car. The C3 then trundled back into the store and slid back into its special locker. The door slid shut with a snick.
The Sackmeister pulled off his gloves and glasses and stowed them in the special case. “Catch you later, Kid. I’ve got things to do, places to go and people to see.” And, with that, the Sackmeister headed into the parking lot, fired up his Explorer and disappeared into the sunset.
The Kid watched until his eyes burned by the intensity of the setting sun. “Who was that guy?” the Kids asked wistfully.
“That was the Sackmeister,” the Old Hand said.
The Kid looked up, and the Old Hand placed a hand on his shoulder.
The Kid said, “I want to be like the Sackmeister when I grow up. I want to be better than the Sackmeister! Maybe I could shop without gloves. Yeah, maybe I just could.”
The Old Hand looked down at the Kid and thought, “We’ll need to watch this boy, yes, we’ll need to watch. He could be the One.”
Sunday, June 04, 2006
Bug in Your Ear
I thought it would be fun to fashion those Bluetooth wireless cell phone ear pieces into bug shapes.
You could have a spider or a giant ant, or a grasshopper or a roach, just to name a few. I’d pick the roach. How cool would that be to walk around with a roach in your ear and when a call came in it would pulsate with a blue light. Maybe the antenna could wave around, or the legs wiggle.
There you would be in Krogers picking out bananas that don’t contain tarantulas and right next to you this guy with a roach in his ear would start talking and the roach would be pulsating blue and wiggling for all it’s worth.
Now, what would be really cool would be for Chiquita Banana to make cell phones in the shape of tarantulas and have a promotional where shoppers would find them inside of bananas.
I’m a marketing genius. Madison Avenue, you can contact me at BR-549.
You could have a spider or a giant ant, or a grasshopper or a roach, just to name a few. I’d pick the roach. How cool would that be to walk around with a roach in your ear and when a call came in it would pulsate with a blue light. Maybe the antenna could wave around, or the legs wiggle.
There you would be in Krogers picking out bananas that don’t contain tarantulas and right next to you this guy with a roach in his ear would start talking and the roach would be pulsating blue and wiggling for all it’s worth.
Now, what would be really cool would be for Chiquita Banana to make cell phones in the shape of tarantulas and have a promotional where shoppers would find them inside of bananas.
I’m a marketing genius. Madison Avenue, you can contact me at BR-549.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
