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!

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

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.

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.”

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.

Skrat

If ever there was a reason to take up PEZ, this is it.

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!

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!

The FedEx Man Rings Once

Ain't Got Time for a Fast Train

Jun 26, 2006 7:42 AM

On FedEx vehicle for delivery

HOUSTON, TX

E Update Saturday

Arrived Houston Sort Facility, 3:15 am.

I think I'll get a lawn chair and sit out front.

E Update

Departed Memphis, 3:08 pm, Central Time.

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.

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.

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.”

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.

Lunch with Katie

I had lunch with Katie Couric today.

Well, sort of.

She was in New York and I was in Houston, but we coordinated things through space and time.

I hope her lunch was as good as mine.

Los Cucos has transformed its menu to a seafood theme and I must say successfully.

I had a Rollo Mariscos which is a piece of white fish wrapped around a seafood stuffing of shrimp, crab and scallops, baked and served with a white sauce with rice.

The Rollo wasn’t the only thing stuffed.

Katie and I both changed jobs today. Katie went to a new day job at a major news network, and I went to a new day job at the pool out back.

Yes, I have slipped my chains and am no longer working for the Man. It turns out that my Have Enough and Had Enough curves crossed, a bell rang, and it was time to go.

Poor Katie. She’ll be reading the news, aloud, and I’ll be reading the news on my laptop by the pool. Katie, baby, you checked the wrong box!

Tomorrow is June 1, and Day 1 for me. A new beginning. What can possibly happen? I had a dream that every day was Saturday. I woke up and it was.

Let’s go out and play!

Fresh

“Oh, lookie here! Strawberry pancakes! My favorite.”

“Can I take you’re order, Hon?”

“Yeah. About the strawberry pancakes, are the strawberries fresh?”

“Sure are, Hon.”

“Great. I’ll have the strawberry pancakes, but don’t put anything else on them like whipping cream or powdered sugar or strawberry syrup, as some places do.”

“Well, Hon, that’s the way they come, with the syrup juice that is.”

“I thought you said the strawberries were fresh.”

“They are, Hon, fresh froze. Thawed ‘em out this mornin’ jus’ for you.”

“Ah. I see. On second thought, Ranch Breakfast Number Two looks good.”

“Good choice, Hon, we only use the freshest eggs.”

Internetless in Missouri

I have found a place without a connection to the Internet.

Hard. To. Breathe...

I'm. In. Misery-ouri. Send. Help.

Great Caesar’s Salad!

This salad was originally created in 1924 by Caesar Cardini at his restaurant in Tijuana, Mexico and was prepared and served right at the table.

I decided for Mother’s Day to prepare an Original Caesar’s salad and therein lay the rub.

What was the Original Caesar’s Salad?

Most schools of thought point to the following ingredients: romaine lettuce, olive oil, lemon juice, Worcestershire sauce, croutons, parmesan cheese, garlic, egg and fresh ground pepper.

The proportions go along the lines of:

5 tablespoons olive oil
2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice
½ cup parmesan cheese
2 garlic cloves
1 head of lettuce
shake of Worcestershire
1 egg

Variations include a can of anchovies (my favorite!).

Further variations include avocado, tomato, cashews, chicken and other things, perhaps a bowling ball. Who knows?

All cockfloppery aside, my Mother’s Day Great Caesar’s Salad turned out splendiferous and I’ll share the blueprint here.

First, I baked, not fried, the croutons in the oven by brushing slices of La Madeline bread with olive oil, sprinkling some salt, pepper and garlic powder and baking at 350 for about 10 minutes.

Next, I broke up a head of romaine lettuce into half-inch pieces. Into separate small bowls I prepared the olive oil, anchovies minced with two cloves of garlic, parmesan cheese, and fresh lemon juice.

Next, I coddled the egg by dropping a room temperature egg into boiling water for 45 seconds, then dumping the egg into iced water.

To prepare the salad I dumped in the olive oil, lemon juice, anchovies/garlic and parmesan cheese, croutons and tossed with great panache. Then I cracked the coddled egg over the salad and tossed until it was incorporated. Finished with fresh black pepper per serving.

Two words:

Rave. Review.

I don’t know if it was the preparation of the salad at the table, or the fact that all the ingredients were fresh or that the croutons were baked or that the parmesan was Italian.

Who knows?

The combination was fantastic, the anchovies added some salt and the fresh lemon juice provided just the right snap.

I think I’ll try this again with some variations and I’ll check out using Worcestershire sauce instead of anchovies just for grins.

Personally, though, I love those little salty, oily fishes!

Death of a Blogger

The Blogoverse is a strange place filled with the thoughts, musings, lives, hopes, frustrations and most of all words of millions of nameless people, most of whom are just trying to get from A to B.

Occasionally, a voice surfaces above the babble to speak loudly, strongly and with the kind of clarity we all hope we could achieve.

Such was the voice of CancerBaby who wrote about her battle with ovarian cancer.

We all pulled for CancerBaby as her treatments yinned and yanged. Her hold on life was strong and her outlook totally positive. CancerBaby’s gift for writing was a beacon of optimism. Such clarity is rare and she was clear and strong and purposeful and…

Right up to the end.

CancerBaby, whose name we are told was Jessica, died today at age 33.

I don’t know why her death has affected me as it has, other than as a fellow blogger there is a form of kinship that results from reading blogs, commenting on blogs and receiving feedback. The Blogosphere is mostly a fun place. Although I never received an acknowledgement from CancerBaby, I nevertheless poured in my support and wished her well.

CancerBaby, Jessica, is a total stranger to me, but I feel a profound sadness at her loss. It also causes me to reflect on the social phenomenon that is blogging and how it might affect the relationships between people in the future. It can only help.

Rest in peace, Jessica.

Inez

Inez. I think that’s Spanish for “sphinx.” Inez the indestructible. Inez the indecipherable. Inez the unattainable.

Inez is the consummate checker: quick, efficient, impassionate, professional. A perfect employee. Inez the Magnificent.

I, on the other hand, am the oddball customer, although I’d prefer to be called “extraordinary.” I like to joke around, tell tall tales and play the fool. (play?)

Inez has no time for me. She’s like checkcheckcheckcheck…sign here…thankyouandpleasereturnsoon.

“And, don’t let the door hit you on the way out,” is implied.

Don’t get me wrong, Inez is an excellent employee; fast and efficient, remember. But, I want something more in a checker. I want that special relationship.

So, yesterday as I was waiting in Inez’s line I hatched a plan.

As I was checking out I started a conversation with the sacker.

“You know, I’ve been a customer here for years and years.”

“Uh huh.”

“Yep, and I know all the staff. There’s Mel the store manager, and Carlos the floor supervisor (ah, Carlos we shall meet again!), and AJ in vegetables, and Evan in meats and Bud in the pharmacy.”

“Uh huh.”

I could tell Inez was listening.

“But my favorite employee in the entire store is…” I paused for dramatic effect,

“Inez.”

“Uh huh.”

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Inez hesitate momentarily. It was just a brief pause in her scanning rhythm that tipped me off that she was listening. Her dark eyes narrowed slightly and her lips pursed. To the casual observer she would have been impassive, but I knew. I knew.

As the last item was scanned and the total rang up I knew there would be The Question.

“Is that all?” Inez asked, looking up, casting her Sphinx-like expression on me.

I was ready.

“No, that’s not all. I have something else.”

Inez looked impassive. The sacker looked up sensing something was about to happen.

“I’ve been coming here quite a while, haven’t I?” I didn’t wait for a response.

“I’ve checked out in your lane maybe a hundred times, wouldn’t you say?”

No response.

“I’ve been your customer for quite some time, wouldn’t you say? Several years, possibly. A long time without doubt. We know each other.”

Inez gave an infinitesimal nod.

The sacker looked up sensing something different was in the air. He looked around for support, but none was there.

I looked into Inez’s eyes, leaned close and whispered, “Knock, knock.”

Inez’s eyes narrowed. She gazed at me intently. Her hands came up from her sides and gripped the side of the counter. She turned her head slightly not taking her eyes off me.

She swallowed hard and her eyes darted from me to the sacker and back again. She licked her lips, drew a deep breath, leaned forward towards me and whispered back

“Who’s there?”

It was the first time Inez had ever spoken to me and I was nearly derailed from my plan. Her breath was like a Gulf breeze across a morning stretch of sand. “Who’s there?” almost hypnotized me, but I recovered quickly and pressed on with the script.

“Oh, Inez,” I whined in my best whiney voice, “you’ve forgotten me already?”

Silence descended on the store. A lone ceiling fan somewhere over the deli creaked out a cricket’s love song. The sacker watched intently. Shoppers, checkers and sackers throughout the store stopped and wondered what was going on.

Inez looked at me.

I looked at Inez.

Then, slowly as a Spring dawn unfolding over a sheep-ridden meadow the corners of Inez’s mouth started to quiver and rise up across her cheeks as she broke out into an ear-splitting grin.

Her eyes sparkled and she began to inhale all the air in the store, and when she had done that she let loose with the heartiest guffaw known to Krogerdom. Tears sprung from her eyes as she grabbed her ribs and fell to the floor in uncontrollable mirth. She was giggling uncontrollably, kicking her heels on the floor.

As Inez pounded the floor in an attempt to gain control, I signed my ticket and quietly slipped out the door.

In the parking lot the Old Hand was collecting shopping carts near my truck.

As I approached, he turned to look at the store and back at me. I loaded my shopping into the truck and the Old Hand approached.

“Lots of laughing going on in there,” the Old Hand said.

“Yep,” I replied.

“If I had to guess, it would be the old reverse knock-knock joke. Just a guess,” the Old Hand said.

“Yep,” I said, “I figured that Inez was just ripe enough. Just ripe enough.”

“Ah, so, Sackmeister,” the Old Hand mused, “you are wise beyond your years.”

“Knock, knock,” I said.

Stab Me with an Icicle

I have a weakness for bar-b-que.

That is not to say that I am a connoisseur of bar-b-que or that I even like it. In fact, as far as I’m concerned, and by stating this I run the risk of losing my Texas citizenship, bar-b-que is OK.

That’s it. Just OK. Not great or wonderful or “to die for”. Just OK as in if there’s something else going like, say, squid eye soup, I’ll take the soup.

So, my weakness for bar-b-que is that I’m not proficient at cooking it. Like my lust for bar-b-que I’m OK.

To my rescue came Shane of The Backyard Series and a serious bar-b-quer who sent me a collection of “dry rubs” and sauces.

Following Shane’s instructions to a T-bone I applied the rubs, granted the ribs the correct amount of season time, cooked them with loving care and basted them regularly.

I must say that Shane’s Ribs came out better than anything I had ever attempted in the past, including the:

Night of the Black Ribs

Unfortunate Class 9 Too-Spicy-to-Eat Ribs

Bone Dry Ribs

What’s That Smell? Ribs

and the classic You’ve Got to Be Kidding! Ribs.

Shane’s Ribs became the Yummy Let’s Do This Again Ribs.

And, with all that in mind came tonight’s conversation at Kroger’s. Let’s listen in:

“Oh, look, ribs are on sale. Let’s have ribs tonight!”

“Yes, let’s!” (I’m thinking, OK, dry rub, sit for an hour and wet mop with Shane’s sauce every 10 minutes for 2 hours. Dinner at 8:30. Yes, can do.)

(upon arriving home)

“Be a sweetie and put the grill on, please.”

“Well, hang on, I need to get the dry rub on the ribs and all that stuff before I fire up the grill.”

“Uh, dry rub?” Wrinkles nose.

“Yeah, like I did last time, dry rub, mopping, ribs. You know.”

“Ah, yes. I do know. Tell you what, I’ll do the ribs tonight.”

“But, but, but remember the last time? You said they were the best ribs you had ever eaten? What about that?”

“What I said was they were the best ribs you had ever cooked. They were hardly the best ribs I have ever eaten.”

Ouch! Take that icicle and shove it right in my heart why don’t you. Just hammer it in. Doesn’t hurt a bit. Nope. Just whack, whack, whack.

Shane! Come back, Shane!

I spent the rest of the evening looking up recipes for squid eye soup.

Turkish Adventure

My eldest daughter spent the summer of 2005 working at Space Camp in Izmir, Turkey. (see Links in the left-hand sidebar) One of the gifts she brought home was a Turkish cookbook: 77 traditional recipes with pictures.

I like pictures. Saves writing a thousand words.

The first thing I did was to lose the cookbook for nearly a year. It simply grew legs and walked off. Good-bye ezme, good-bye imam bayildi.

Until this weekend when like Jason in Haloween 45 it surfaced in my closet and screamed “Cook me!”

That brings me to the subject of lamb and my first question is this:

When did lamb replace gold as the standard for our currency? Hmmm?

I have heard of lamb bullion but this is ridiculous. Currently, or should I say currency, lamb is more costly than filet mignon.

That. Is. Just. Wrong.

Beef should be King of the Meats, not laaaamb. I mean we’re talking about great thundering herds of cattle on the hoof, Rawhide, get along little doggie and what made the West and why men were men and the Blazing Saddles campfire scene all that versus what?

A goat? Baaaaa.

No wonder there were range wars, I’m ready to take on a shepherd right now! Bring it on, wool-boy!

But, really, $17 a pound for “lamb?” Something is wrong in the Universe.

The very wise (I bow down at the mention of her name, I am so unworthy) Julia Child said the same thing about artichokes.

Bear with me on this.

A classic way to prepare the artichoke is to top the tail and end, trim the leaves around the fat bit near the stalk, and, eventually, discard the top leaves and the choke leaving a small disc of very tasty artichoke meat. Julia notes that preparing the artichoke in this manner assumes you can buy them for literally a dime a dozen, not $3.79 EACH.

Getting back to lamb it’s clearly a case of supply and demand. With the nation producing one goat per year it’s no wonder his stringy little carcass goes for top dollar.

And all that, believe it or not, brings us to tonight’s recipe: braised lamb with mushrooms Turkish style.

Except I substituted butterfly pork chops for the lamb. I think I made my case and, besides, pork is the new lamb. Think “baaaaaaaoink” and you’re there. Of course, in doing so I've offended all the Muslims and Jews of the world, roughly a billiion people, to whom I say "Can't you do something about the price of lamb in America?" We need to work together on this. I'm serious.

Here’s the blueprint:

2 large butterfly pork chops cut into 1 inch cubes
1 large onion, chopped very coarsely
4 cloves garlic, smashed
bunch of mushrooms, quartered
3-4 cherry tomatoes, quartered
2 jalapeno peppers, halved, seedless

Season the pork with salt, pepper and a dredge of ground cinnamon.

Saute the pork in some butter, add the onions and garlic, sauté some more, add the mushrooms.

Meanwhile, heat the oven to 375 F and prepare some chicken stock or vegetable stock or any stock you have. About 1 ½ cups.

When the pork is browned transfer to an ovenproof dish, add the stock, toss in the jalapenos and tomatoes and place in the oven.

Cook until liquid is reduced and contents are brown, about an hour or 90 minutes.

Here’s the blueprint for rice and chickpeas:

1 cup uncooked rice
knob of butter
can of chickpeas (garbanzo beans)
stick of cinnamon
2 cups stock
sliced tomatoes
farmers cheese (optional)

Cook the rice in butter until lightly browned. Add the stock carefully as it will boil instantly and splatter everywhere. Add chickpeas, cover and cook normally for rice.

Prior to serving, transfer the rice mixture to an oven proof dish, garnish with some sliced tomatoes and grated cheese (if desired) and broil until heated through.

I’ve got some Mexican farmers cheese that I’m going to try.

Here’s the blueprint for an invention I’m going to try:

1 bag spinach
1 handful salted almonds, chopped
farmers cheese

Cook the spinach in a tablespoon of water (more steam than boil) being very careful not to scorch. Add the almonds and cheese. Toss and serve. This might go well with some chopped red bell pepper or pimentos.

And that’s it for Turkish Adventure night. Too bad about the lamb. The pork will benefit from the braising treatment.

Braise or broil, what’s up with that?

Broiling involves placing the meat on a pan or skewer and holding it right over the heat. Birds and fatty meats broil best because they provide a lot of intrinsic moisture and, if you’re careful, won’t dry out. However, if drying happens there’s always the magic of gravy.

Braising involves submerging the meat half-way in a liquid and cooking at a moderately high temperature. Pot roast, for example is best braised because it’s a tough cut of meat and benefits from the moisture of braising.

Postscript:

After dinner I asked the loaded question: How was it?

"Very nice and different!" came the replies, "...but..."

"But, what?"

"Well, the pork was nicely done, but I have this nagging feeling it would have been better with lamb."

Slowly I turned...

Mango, please.

Son: “We have to do a video for English.”

Voice: “Oh? What on?”

“We’re doing Pygmalion.”

“Ohhhhh, My Fair Lady! My favorite!”

“We’re doing it in accents. I’ve been practicing.”

“What kind of accent?”

“Chutney.”

“Chutney? Are you doing it Bollywood-style?”

“What?”

“Bollywood-style, you know, it’s all the rage.”

“No, we’re doing it normal style. Like London. London accents.”

Pause.

“Earlier, when you said ‘Chutney’ did you mean to say ‘Cockney?’ “

“Yeah, thas it, gov! Cockn’y stoile. Whad’you fink oy said? You deaf or sumpin’?”

Blogethics Question

What kind of ill-mannered scoundrel would leave a derogatory comment on a blog using someone else's e-mail address and name as a cover?

Words that come to mind are unethical, cowardly, anti-social, small-minded, inconsiderate, selfish, base, shallow, insecure, uncreative, felonious...

Thanks to L for bringing this assault to my attention.

Simple as ABC

The ABC meme. Are we having fun yet?

Accent: Depends on where I am. In Arizona I do a mean Arizonian. In the UK I do a mean Londoner. In Texas I do a mean Texan. So, I guess, it’s “mean.”

Booze: Gin and Tonic. What else?

Chore I Hate: Laundry, but the alternative isn’t great, either.

Dog or Cat: Cat. It’s the licking thing.

Essential Electronics: Macintosh Powerbook.

Favorite Cologne: Eau de Summer Camp.

Gold or Silver: Gold!

Hometown: Scottsdale, Arizona.

Insomnia: Not after B.

Job Title: Job?

Kids: Three.

Living arrangements: Married with children.

Most admirable traits: Sense of humor. (You’re mileage may vary.)

Not going to cop to: Not going to cop to.

Overnight hospital stays: Enough.

Phobias: Spiders, but I’m working on it. Spiders are nice. Spidersare nice! Spidersarenice, spidersarenice! Ewwwwww.

Quote: If we don’t change direction we’ll end up exactly where we’re going.

Religion: Big fan of Christmas.

Siblings: One sister.

Time I wake up: 5:15 am soon to change to 8:00 am! Yea, me!

Unusual talent or skill: Being unusual.

Vegetable I love: Brussels sprouts! With chestnuts.

Worst habit: Procrastination.

X-rays: Teeth, lungs, kidneys.

Yummy foods I make: Texas chili.

Zodiac sign: Capricorn.

Around the World in 80 Hours

I haven’t been blogging much because I’ve been traveling.

A lot.

Here’s the report.

First, I did some domestic traveling visiting the places I’ve lived. I went to Scottdsdale to visit the family home, then up to Flagstaff where I went to college. Then, I cruised down Highway 40 past Meteor Crater, through New Mexico, past the Arch in St. Louis and up to West Lafayette, Indiana, the home of Purdue University.

Then I headed south to Louisiana where I was born and raised as a child. I found my childhood home and the elementary school where I spent my first six years, and its first six years, too. The school was new when I entered the first grade and I and a few friends were the first class to attend all six grades. The first graduating class, as it were. I wonder where those guys are now?

I headed south through Mexico City on my way to the Panama Canal. I had no idea that the canal was in pieces, linking a bunch of lakes. I followed some ships through the Canal before heading to Peru.

In Peru I visited Machu Pichu, the Inca capital high in the Andes. Man, is it remote! Heading south I followed the coast of South America right to the tip at the Straits of Magellan. I confess great admiration to that sea captain who braved those stormy straits over 500 years ago.

From South America I headed west through the South Pacific to China where I followed the Great Wall from Beijing through Mongolia. From western China I followed part of the Silk Road to Nepal and across Mount Everest to Katmandu. Once in Nepal I sang the Bob Seger song at the top of my voice and hoisted a prayer flag for future adventurers.

Descending Nepal I went through India, picked up the Silk Road again and traipsed through Iran, Iraq and into Turkey. I was getting a little tired by this point so decided to skip to the highlights. I flew to Athens and took in the Parthenon, zipped down to Cairo for the pyramids and up to Rome for the Coliseum. I decided to skip most of Europe but couldn’t pass up Paris where I scaled the Eiffel Tower then crossed the Channel to London where I spent the night in Trafalgar Square.

After touring London I headed straight for New York and traveled around the east coast taking in Philadelphia, Niagra Falls and parts of Canada.

Finally, on a whim, I scooted over to Seattle and took the Inner Passage up to Alaska, and down to San Francisco, Los Angeles and San Diego before flying home via the Grand Canyon.

Whew! I’m exhausted.

And, I whole-heartedly recommend Goggle Earth to anyone who has an itch to travel but doesn’t want to be bothered by all the airlines, boats, cars, luggage and hassle.

I’m done traveling for the year. I hope the rest of the family understands!

Perfecto

Z Tejas in Austin, Texas, may have created the perfect enchilada:

Santa Fe Chicken Enchiladas– Layered with smoked chicken, corn tortillas, Jack cheese and New Mexico chili sauce, with Tejas rice and black beans.

Cooked to perfection.

I had a dream, and in the dream there was a word, and the word was

enchilada

Word

Her heart beats against mine.

I am enraptured by her heat.

I am intoxicated by the smell of her hair; the flow of it across my brow is mesmerizing.

Smooth sweaty hot.

The pulse quickens.

Her breath upon my ear is hurried.

I am one with her word:

Enchilada!

Dutch Treat

I had the privilege of judging a Dutch Oven Cook-Off this weekend and I have to tell you that if you’ve never cooked with a Dutch Oven you’re missing quite a treat.

Dutch Oven cooking is an adventure. First, you have to understand that anything you can cook in a regular oven can be cooked in a Dutch Oven. The only challenge is how.

This weekend I tasted the following:

Pork ribs
Beef stew
Chicken stew
Lasagna
Texas chili
Fajitas
Lemon cake
Peach cobbler
Apple cobbler
And baked bread

All cooked in a Dutch Oven.

For those of you not familiar with this cast iron marvel let me say that the Dutch Oven can serve as both stew pot and oven. You an apply heat both above and below.

The Dutch Oven is a cast iron pot on legs with a lipped top. The legs allow the oven to be placed on a bed of coals and the lipped top allows coals to be placed on top. In general, a Dutch Oven will maintain an internal temperature of 350 degrees F (Mark 4) with coals placed above and below.

Why would anyone cook in a Dutch Oven? Well, for a start you do this outdoors. If you’re not an outdoors person then there’s no point! Cook indoors and enjoy! But, if you’re the outdoors type and enjoy camping then the Dutch Oven is the cook’s tool of choice for any recipe.

So, which recipes won the competition?

Standing Pork Ribs with Mango Sauce
Fresh Bread with melted butter
Apple cobbler with cinnamon crunch topping

And

Beef stew with dumplings
Cucumber and tomato salad
Lemon cake with raspberry glaze

I’ve already signed up for next year as Head Judge. Can you blame me?

Le Bump

Have you ever wondered why speed bumps in parking lots are painted yellow? I researched the subject and discovered that speed bump paint is specially formulated to chemically neutralize any desire by drivers to race through parking lots.

Yes, it’s true. The paint is designed to emit hydro-moronic vapors which temporarily paralyzes a driver’s higher order functions turning him or her, in an instant and for a moment, into a moron.

The symptoms include a heightened fear of speed typified by slowing down to 0.001 miles per decade, a sudden fear of heights as one climbs the steep flank of the speed bump and uncontrolled anxiety that one’s front end alignment will suddenly shift 90-degrees.

Apparently, the effects are magnified by orders of magnitude and long lasting if one drives a Volvo.

So, last week there I was in a Major Hurry. Somehow time got away from me and the day was ripening fast; almost too ripe, even for a professional procrastinator like me. As I sped towards Kroger’s to pick up a couple of bags of ice I got passed by a pick-up truck, obviously in a hurry, too, as I was boogying along at a ticketable speed.

Instinctively, I pulled in behind the truck. “Plow the road, baby!” I yelled, “I got your back!” And we flew down the highway, swerved into the turn lane and bounced into the parking lot.

The ensuing collision that would have happened next was prevented only by my mongoose-like reflexes. Unexpectedly, the driver of the truck was overcome by hydro-moronic vapors, braked hard and nearly stopped in front of a tiny, itty bitty, little speed bump that I normally take at flank speed.

Ever. So. Slowly. The driver crept. Over. The. Bump.

(There was a total eclipse of the sun.)

All the time I had gained in our mad dash to the parking lot was lost, and then some, in our glacial creep through the parking lot.

What was wrong with that guy? Why did he stop? I couldn’t believe it. In a truck no less! Talk about adding insult to injury.

Then I noticed a bumper sticker that read:

I brake for poodles.

That explained it! I should have known he’d stop for speed bumps.

He was driving a Ford F One-Fifi.

Memo

Memo

To Chefs everwhere:

Do not put jalapenos in Corned Beef and Cabbage soup.

Ever.

Thank you for your attention.

Sucat, his eyes uncovered!

You know, that puts the bow on the package.

Too right, I’m on it like a duck on a June bug.

Naw, that dog won’t hunt! We need to ripen that avocado.

That’s only because he’s all hat and no cattle.

He’s not playing with a full deck ‘cause he’s one can short of a six pack.

I agree, it’s like herding cats.

OK, let’s put that idea in the parking lot and check the expiration date in a few weeks.

Meeting adjourned!

What meeting? Did something go on here I missed? Ducks and cats and dogs and June bugs? What kind of meeting was that, Future Farmers of America? How come I didn’t get the memo? I didn’t even have my boots on.

I started listening to what people actually say recently and I’m amazed at how much we rely on metaphors. The Star Trek – Next Generation episode, “Darmok”, in which the Tamarians communicated entirely in metaphors, illustrated the most extreme example of that.

Why was that so difficult to figure out?

Temba, his arms wide.

Iron Cactus - Again!?

There's something about the Iron Cactus in Austin that brings out the flamingo in me, much to my contributor Amy's dismay.

The fish tacos were taco-y and the margaritas were a blur, er, blue. I couldn't resist a Dooce Redux photo shoot outside the restaurant after dinner.

Write Right

Ironically, I’m reading Stephen King’s “On Writing.” I should say “reading” because what I actually do is pick up the book, read a few pages and then let it sit on a shelf for a few weeks. At this rate I should be able to finish it during the winter of 2031.

Asked if he wrote every day Stephen observed that when he was writing he wrote every day, and when he wasn’t writing he didn’t write at all. It’s not work, he said, it’s where he goes to play. Not writing is work.

I puzzled over that for a while, realizing that I have been in the “off” position for a week or so, and concluded not to fret about it.

Tonight it’s back to Austin for a day or so and another dinner at the Iron Cactus. I envy myself.

Winding Down?

Carlos’ hands moved like lightning, a blur of scanning skill; consummate professional. He took a customer’s payment with his left hand while moving the next customer’s cart into position with his right.

Terminator of the Till.

I glanced nervously at my watch. 2:59:55. Five seconds, three, one. Now!

Looking up I could see that Carlos, precisely at the end of his shift, had finished checking out a customer. Perfect timing. Deftly, he removed the cash drawer, pivoted smartly and strode purposely towards the office to check out.

I moved my cart to Check Out Line Number 8 just as the Old Hand keyed in his code.

“I thought I’d see you here today.” The Old Hand greeted me warmly, and then glanced into my cart. “Going camping, I see,” he surmised taking in the contents.

“Yep, it’s been a big week for me and I’m taking a few days off.”

The Old Hand started scanning the items in my cart in no particular hurry. We both had time for some conversation.

“Backpacking, I’d say,” said the Old Hand as he rang up the third package of Raman Noodles. Then, he got to the oatmeal and squeeze cheese, looked up into the distance and became quiet for a moment.

“Judging from the weight, texture and selection, I’d guess you’re going into the Hill Country. Somewhere around Bandera.” He paused. “Near Tarpley Pass.”

“Not bad,” I observed, but not quite impressed. “Which side of Tarpley Pass?”

The Old Hand narrowed his eyes and placed his left hand gently on a package of Raman Noodles. After a moment he turned and said, “South side. Turkey Creek Canyon, near the Cyprus trees.”

I was thinking about that campsite by the spring, near the end of the canyon, which was more like a gulch but as canyoney as I was going to get.

“Spot on, Old Hand,” I smiled with admiration, “I knew you’d come through.”

“So,” the Old Hand observed as he handed me the credit card receipt to sign, “your meeting with the rock star went OK I take it?”

“Yes, it did.” I returned the receipt and pen. “An inspiring experience. You’d think at this point in my life I’d be winding down but I find I’m winding up. That’s why I’m going camping. To unwind.”

“Well, have fun and don’t unwind too much.” The Old Hand waved. “Oh, one other thing. The Red Trail just past the water tower is choked with branches that blew down during the storm a few weeks ago. You might want to consider taking the White Trail around that spot. Unless, of course, you’re interested in a service project.”

“Service is good,” I replied and made a mental note to check out the Red Trail.

Yep, this weekend was starting to look just ripe enough. Let’s go!

My Dinner with Andre Dooce

Writer and photographer Heather Armstrong of Dooce was in Austin as a keynote speaker at the South by Southwest Conference and agreed to have dinner with me and Helen. Heather and her web designer/photographer husband, Jon, joined us at the hip Austin restaurant, the Iron Cactus, for an evening of great food and blogversation.

Yes, we had fish tacos. And for you, m'am? Fish tacos? A fine choice, my favorite. And you, sir? The same? Yes, they're our specialty. Sorry, kidguins are not allowed.

Actually, the evening went quite a bit better than that! Jon is a great conversationalist and regaled us with stories of their adventures traveling and in the trials and tribulations of professional blogging, which, I gather, is a lot like professional skateboarding but without all the contusions and broken bones.

I'm sure the Number One question you're thinking right at this very moment is "What's Dooce like? Really."

My abbreviated answer would be to pick a superlative and it would apply. I'll try a few just to get things going: charming, witty, engaging, direct, knowledgable, fun and delightful. I guess that makes me a member of her fan club, don't it?

Was there something about Heather that I found surprising? Yes. She's tall. In the blogosphere we are all dimensionless. We have no height or mass (which is playing into my new diet strategy, by the way). It's always a surprise to meet people you've only talked or corresponded with.

"I'm wearing heels," she explained.

"So am I," I replied, "and you're still tall!"

Heather and Jon are pioneers in the Blog World having both quit their day jobs to blog professionally. It's a bold move and not for the faint of heart, but the Armstrong's are anything but faint. They have a vision and a business plan, they have talent and if anyone can succeed blogging in the Brave New Internet World, they will.

Dooce has been an inspiration to me to continue writing and, you know, there's something about my day job that's starting to bug me.

Thanks, Heather and Jon, for spending some time with us in Austin, and for blazing the trail for those who are bound to follow.

Anticipation

“The way you’re squeezing that avocado, maybe I should go down to aisle 4 and get some chips.”

I looked up to see the Old Hand smiling at me. The Old hand was decked out in his black Kroger’s apron, khaki hat and white shirt festooned with a tasteful number of spirit buttons and pins. In his hand he held a customized Kroger’s coffee cup steaming with bubbling black java perfection.

“Yo, Old Hand, you’re looking pretty relaxed, there. Are you on break?”

“I’ve never been on break my whole life, but I try to look relaxed,” he replied.

I pondered that for a few moments, massaging the avocado into a slimy, green pulp.

“Better get some chips,” I scoffed and gave the Old Hand a wry look.

“So, Sackmeister, my intuition tells me that you are somewhat disturbed, that is, more than usual. Flummoxed. Perplexed. Distracted. And, in other words, at a loss. What’s up?”

I looked up at the Old Hand. Where does this guy come from, I wondered? Always there when you need him; least expected.

The Old Hand took a pull on his coffee and let out a satisfied sigh.

Father, forgive me for I have sinned…

“I may be over my head,” I confessed. “You see, I arranged this meeting mostly on bravado and show and now, well, it’s really happening. It’s special, well, to me. And…”

I trailed off. And what? And maybe I oversold the situation? Maybe I’m not good enough? Maybe I’ll fall short and be a disappointment? I didn’t know. Yes, no, yes, no! Such anticipation!

I picked up another avocado and subjected it to the Grip of Death.

The Old Hand looked relaxed and sipped his coffee.

I asked, “Have you ever had doubts? You know, a customer shows up at the check out with some strange fruit and the charge code has fallen off and you can’t tell if it’s a Star Fruit or an Office 12 Fruit, but you have to make the call. What do you do?”

The Old Hand pursed his lips and stared at the avocado I was torturing in my hand. Finally, he spoke.

“Yes,” he said in a low voice, “I’ve had doubts. I’ve been in that situation where I can’t recall if it’s a South American Dog Chili or a South African Dog Chili. All I know is that it’s a chili and it’s from the South, so I split the difference. But, I do it fast and I do it with confidence.”

“But, what if you don’t get it right,” I pressed, “doesn’t that matter?”

The Old Hand smiled and I perceived a golden halo forming around his brow.

“Not really. What matters is the connection with the customer. If the customer is delighted, and when you’re a checker fast is good, then you’ve succeeded. Connection. You got close, and you got the customer on his way and everybody is happy.”

“What about expectations? Disappointment is such a harsh mistress.”

The Old Hand drained his cup, stared at the dripping green mass of squashed avocado in my hand and lost himself in thought.

He looked up after a moment or two and said “You know, the great philosopher Popeye said it best:

I yam what I yam and that’s all that I yam.

“It’s trite but the best course of action is to be yourself because that’s who you are. You’re not Robin Williams. You’re not Flip Wilson. You’re not Bill Cosby. You’re the Sackmeister.”

The Old Hand walked to the back of the store stopping short of the swinging doors labeled “Employees Only.”

He turned around, looked me in the eye and said “Be all that you can be, but be yourself.” The doors swung shut behind him.

“Be yourself,” I thought. I was hoping for something easier.

I looked at the remains of the avocado in my hand. Not ripe enough, I thought, not nearly ripe enough. It was all I had.

Addiction - Part Deux

Amy: So, what can I put you down for?

Me: Four?

What?

Four. Monty Python. Never mind. How about four?

Four boxes? You are so cheap!

I meant cases, Dale Carnegie, but if you insist, four boxes.

You're going to break a little girl's heart because you chose today to go cold-ass turkey, or toll-house cookie, as the case may be.

There you go with the case, again. OK, put me down for a case.

Really?

Uh, I think my pen's going to run out of ink in three seconds, two, one...

OK, OK! One double case. You're locked in.

What's a "double case?"

What you just bought. You won the auction! Such a lucky person.

How many cases are in a double case? No, no, wait...let me guess.

I'm confident you'll guess first time.

Four?

See? All your Monty Python watching finally paid off.

This is going to be hard to explain.

Don't worry. Everybody loves Thin Mints.

Addiction

I can stop any time I like.

No, you can’t.

Yes, I can.

No, you can’t. You stopped for a while last year but here you are at it again. Stopping is stopping, like, forever.

I can control it.

That’s what they all say.

No, really, I can. This time I can. I just have to taper off.

“Taper off.” Ha, refuge of a scoundrel. You won’t “taper off.” You’ll hide your addiction and sneak a little here, a little there. You think I don’t notice, but I do. You leave a trail of evidence.

Evidence? No way! What evidence? I’m clean. Well, mostly. I mean, it’s not a Big Addiction. It’s more like a hobby.

Hobby, ha! A hobby is something you do because you want to. An addiction is something you do because you have to.

I don’t have to, you know.

Oh, yeah?

Yeah!

How about this evening? How about today just a few hours ago? How about that?

After a pause, uh, you know, the temptation is all around. Especially at this time of year. It’s hard to stay clean.

I’m not asking you to stay clean. I’m asking you to exercise some restraint. Rule it, don’t let it rule you. That’s all I ask.

OK.

So, how many boxes did you buy this time?

Six. Two Thin Mint and four of the new Café.

Six boxes of Girl Scout cookies! I already took to work the 10 boxes you bought last week. Please, promise me, no more Thin Mints. OK? Promise?

I dunno. I like Thin Mints.

Everybody likes Thin Mints.

The Argument

If I picked on you half as much as you picked on me you wouldn’t like it very much.

How could you pick on me? I’m perfect.

Two Ball in the Corner Pocket

“Hey, what’s all the yelling and screaming about? Somebody wreck on the downhill?”

“No, we’re watching curling and it’s really exciting!”

“Curling, huh?” I watched for a few minutes. Rocks sliding on ice. No cheerleaders.

“It would be better with cheerleaders,” I observed.

“It’s all tactics,” the resident Curling Expert declared.

“I dunno. It looks like rocks sliding on ice and no cheerleaders.”

“No, no, no you’ve got it all wrong! It’s fascinating! It’s all angles and spin and geometry and calculus and cosmology. It’s just like playing pool.”

“Pool?”

“Yeah, just like playing pool. Same thing.”

“Oh, I get it. It’s just like pool but without cue sticks or balls or a table or pockets or chalk or racks, and with different rules.”

“Exactly,” declared the Resident Curling Expert, “only more exciting.”

Without cheerleaders, I thought? Nah!

Is That Your Monkey?

After the conference call I commented that it would be really cool to have a real crystal ball and flying monkeys to do your bidding.

It would probably lessen the number of phone calls like the one we just had.

"Too bad we can't get a crystal ball."

"Or flying monkeys," I said.

We sighed.

Suddenly, I had a thought. "eBay!"

Yeah, definitely eBay.

Wash the Buzzard

In the house from a distant room far, far away…

“Wash the buzzard, OK?”

“OK!”

I paused in thought. Wash the buzzard? I didn’t even know we had a buzzard, but often I’m the last one to find out about things around here.

“Sorry,” I shouted back, “what was that again about the buzzard?”

The sound waves traveled back from the distant room past the Arrr-arrrrrrr of the garage door opener, across the Runga-clink runga-clank of the dishwasher and the Whoos-slursh of the washing machine to my straining ears:

“Wash the buzzard and push the flier with a broom. Over and out!”

And before I could get up and trek across the house for a closer explanation, the garage door closed and the Voice was gone.

Silence descended.

I Googled “buzzard recipes.”

109,000 hits. Hmmm, must be popular.

Just as I was settling in to a good read on how to stuff a buzzard for that special dinner party, the washing machine buzzed.

Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz!

Dutifully, I got up went into the utility room and put the wash in the drier. Then I took the basket of dry stuff from the previous load and took it into the bedroom for folding later.

I am becoming quite the laundry specialist if I do say so myself.

Now, back, to the recipes. “…no need to add garlic.” Well, that’s interesting.

The Deal

I lurched awake, startled. My mouth was dry, I was in a sweat and my heart was racing like a maroon Ford Fairlane fleeing from a crime down a dark, rainy alley in Gotham City.

Mostly, though, I was disturbed that I would even have a thought like that. Fortunately it wasn’t totally purple prose, only maroon.

The dream was always the same. I’m in the alley. Ragged, grey rats on the prowl for something fresh eye me with interest. I throw my arms out suddenly: “Boo!” But, the rats don’t move. Instead they look at each other, break out in gleaming white rigor mortis grins and hunch their little rat shoulders up and down in gleeful mirth. Some rear up on their hind legs, throw out their forearms and go: “Squeek!”

“Ha, ha, ha,” I think, “and the horse you rode in on.”

At that point I become aware of a figure in the shadows.

“You’re late, Doc,” the shadow says, “that wasn’t the deal.”

“What deal?” I croak. I don’t remember a deal. “What deal?”

“The real deal, Doc,” the shadow says, “the real deal. Remember? You promised the real deal. So, let’s deal. You do remember, don’t you?”

Panic awakens in my feet and climbs my body like a thousand scorpions being chased by a flamethrower. I was losing control like a ’38 Packard careening down Highway 1 in California after a night at Rita’s all-you-can-drink Margarita Cantina. I had to get a grip on myself! I had to get a grip on my prose!

I’m running down the alley, past the rats, stumbling over old boxes and trash cans, fighting scorpions and flamethrowers and Packards, oh, my! And at the end of a blind alley I find myself pressed up against a chain link fence like a groupie at a Bay City Rollers concert, shaking. Fortunately, I’m not wearing much plaid.

I woke up a second time having not realized that I had transitioned from one dream into a second. Wowzer, a twofer. What a deal. The real deal.

Still shaking I swiveled around on the bed and willed myself to stand. Sandy looked up from the end of the bed. The light of a full moon reflected in his dark eyes as he watched me attentively, but with utter distain.

“Yeah, you miserable fleabag,” I whispered sweetly, “it’s yours.”

Sandy uncurled himself, arched his back, executed a much practiced yawn and proceeded to nonchalantly occupy my pillow where he groomed his tail with much licking and nibbling before he settled down into Curl Number Two for the remainder of the night.

Sandy knew that I wouldn’t return.

I padded into the kitchen on my way to the patio outside pausing briefly at the liquor cabinet to grab a bottle at random. I didn’t even look at the label. “Danger” is my middle name, soon to be replaced by “headache” as I held up a bottle of ouzo. Ah, Zorba, we meet again.

I took a deep pull of ouzo.

As the fiery, sweet liquor plummeted to my stomach like a cinder from Vesuvius and spread like lava through my veins I fought the urge to dance on a table.

I had a vision of a small boy standing in a corral. A cowboy is riding off into the distance. Tears streamed down the boy’s face as he cried, “Shane! Come back, Shane! We had a deal.”

I took another pull of ouzo as this scene replayed in my mind once again. How many times? How many times have I regretted what I did to Shane, a boy who trusted me as his friend and mentor.

It was a long time ago…

“Hey, Doc, what should I major in when I go to college? I was thinking of writing or theater or history. I kinda of like that stuff. You know arts and arty things. Maybe catering, I’m a pretty good cook you know.”

I puffed on my pipe and thought deep thoughts. A not so deep but infinitely humorous thought bubbled to the surface like a pocket of methane and hydrogen sulfide in a bathtub.

“Physical biochemistry,” I intoned.

“Say what, Doc?”

“Physical biochemistry,” I said, trying to look serious, “with a minor in calculus. That’s my recommendation. That’s the deal. A real deal, I might add.”

“Wow, Doc, I was thinking maybe I could build sets for plays and stuff, but, what was that again? Physical bio whatzit?”

…and many years later…

I wondered what kind of heartless monster would set an art major out on a course of physical biochemistry and calculus. It was a joke, a harmless jest. Not the real deal! Couldn’t he see that?

It was real enough to me, though, with the endless cycle of dreams, random booze and purple prose which oozed out of my fingertips like a rich, dark molasses on a hot summer’s day, sinking into the cracks between the keys on my keyboard like dark molasses would on a hot summer’s day if you spilled it on your keyboard.

As dawn arrived I heard a truck in the street out front, then a thump on the sidewalk as the morning paper was delivered. I staggered out, retrieved the paper and glanced at the headlines. Ah, Nobel prizes awarded for Chemistry. With a slow recognition I stared at the picture of the Nobel laureate in chemistry and saw a small boy. The article read in part…

…and I owe my success to my childhood mentor, who’s name escapes me at the moment, for suggesting that I major in physical biochemistry instead of theater. I owe my success to that probably long-deceased idiot savant who saw qualities in me others didn’t. But, you can’t take the theater out of the boy and I’ve written a play about a mentor who had faith and insight and who undoubtedly went into Science himself because he was such a bad writer cursed with Purple Prose Syndrome. I’m calling it “The Deal.”

I put the morning paper on the counter, corked the ouzo, and headed back to the bedroom.

“Beat it,” I said to Sandy who hustled off the pillow and back to the foot of the bed, “I think I’ll catch up on some lost sleep.”

Sushi Hoe Down

The first 50 times we went to our now favorite Japanese restaurant for lunch it was like going to the ballet; a choreographed meal.

We seek sanctuary in our Japanese restaurant where our corporate care-worn souls will be refreshed as our corpulent bodies are, er, recharged.

Nourishment for soul and stomach.

A perfect lunch place
Nourishes bodies and soul
With today’s special

We are often guided to a place by the front window where sunlight plays a pattern on the wooden table. Everything is in its place, and a place for everything.

Chopsticks are centered and soon so are we.

We are regulars and green tea is brought to us, served with a slight bow. Unbidden, a portion of ikura, our favorite treat, arrives. The waitstaff glides around silently and nearly invisible. Food appears and we can’t remember it being placed in front of us.

Arigato

Miso soup is next, followed, in time and discretely, by a small salad. Finally, our main course is delivered and oriented just so, as pleasing to the eye as to the palate.

Each course is staged to fit our conversation and to enhance the joy of our stay. Slow, but deliberate. Timed to perfection.

As each course arrives our table is reset artistically with spoons, bowls, dipping sauces and whatever is required. Simply contemplating the laid-out table can be a mind-expanding experience.

Finally, we are presented with our bill, almost apologetically. We pay, leave a generous gratuity and depart amongst many arigatos and good-byes, see you soon, have a nice day, ciao and thankyouverymuch.

We return to the Industrial Complex and, shielded by our renewed bodies and souls, we fend off the Morlock tendencies of our fellow workers until we are released from our shackles at 5.

Ah, so.

Thus was the story I related to my out-of-town guest who was to join me for lunch and I suggested Something A Little Different. It is not lunch, I intoned gravely, it is life renewed.

Word to the wise. Never tell anyone…ANYONE…about a special restaurant because it’s a jinx! A JINX I tell you!

Enter restaurant
Expecting peace and quiet
Unwelcome surprise

At first everything looked normal. The Special of the Day was laid out for us to contemplate, patrons were engaged in food and banter, the sushi chefs were busy behind the counter.

It looked normal.

Looked. Normal.

We were ushered to a table away from the window; to a corner of the restaurant. Although soul-nourishing tables were available, we were hustled to the back, into the gloom, into a corner. I laughed nervously.

“Howdy! I’m Ray. Y’all want something to drink?”

I nearly fainted. Speaking, someone is speaking? What are they saying and why? What is this the Spanish Inquisition? I looked up into the bovine brown eyes of our waiter, Ray. Not Ray-san or Rayamura. Just Ray.

“Green tea. Two,” I replied quickly.

“Greenteetoo? I’m sorry but I don’t know what that is? Can you point to it on the menu?”

I glared, “Green. Tea. For. Each. Of. Us. Green. Tea. “

“Oh, green tea! I’m so used to iced tea. I got it. I’ll be back to take your order.”

I was in shock. My guest was nonplussed. “What?” she asked.

“The waiter. Not the usual,” I fumbled.

“He looked like a waiter to me,” my friend offered charitably.

“Yeah, but not here. Not here.”

Ray returned with our tea and remained, pencil in hand, to take our order.

“Two lunch combinations with salmon, steamed rice there, fried rice here, spicy tuna rolls there and California rolls here.” I closed the menu and looked up.

Ray wasn’t writing. He was looking at the folded menu on the table.

Ray looked around. He was sweating a bit. “Uh,” he stammered, “it’s my first day here and the menu ain’t numbered. Bear with me but could you repeat that, real slow like?”

In fifty visits I had never heard uttered the phrase “real slow like” even in Japanese.

Cool moss. Cool moss! I unfolded the menu, pointed and repeated the order.

Ray, looking relieved, stomped back to the kitchen with all the grace of a water buffalo with a broken leg.

Shortly later amid lively conversation concerning a low slung sports car and a high slung fashion model our lunch arrived. All at once. Soup, salad and main course. No pause to enjoy. Just clunk it was slammed on the table as Ray “moved stuff out of the way” to make room.

“Looks like y’all got quite a feed!” Ray announced and clomped off.

I surveyed the wreckage. Bowls here and there, soup in the corner, salad on the edge. My guest had my California rolls, I had the steamed rice. We traded trays. We swapped rolls, half and half.

We ate. We talked. I stewed in silence. I was not centered. I was definitely becoming unbalanced.

After a while my guest looked up, satisfied from a great lunch and sparkling conversation and said, “When’s the ballet start?”

“Come again?” I was half in and half out of the conversation, thinking mostly about murder. I was not centered. No, not centered at all. I was very highly strung and “epped!” every time Ray passed the table.

“The ballet! You said this place had a ballet, so, where is it?”

I glanced at my watch, looked up and said, “Oh, that’s only on Monday. I lost track of the days and it’s Tuesday. How funny? No ballet today.”

“Awww,” my guest sighed in genuine disappointment, “we’ll have to come back here again ‘cause I’d really like to see Japanese ballet!”

“Whatever,” I thought.

Ray strolled by and pitched the check on the table without breaking stride. Uncharitably, I left him a tip less than my usual generosity, although his widow would understand, I'm sure.

As we made our way to the front door I turned and glanced at the sushi chef. He caught my eye, paused knowingly and gave me a respectful bow. I returned the bow with a wan smile and went out the door into the parking lot.

My guest was still going on about the ballet. “Yeah, my daughter took tap lessons, but I never heard of Japanese ballet. We got to come back for that, OK?”

I was lost in thought:

Ballet lunch for two
Trampled by Ray the cowboy
Soul under boot

Tag, You're it!

My first Meme which is not unlike my first root canal. Thanks Dooce I'll do my best.

Here’s the blueprint. A pal is given a bunch of questions to answer and at the end “tags” fellow pals to provide their answers and tag more fortunate victims. It’s the ultimate pyramid scheme.

So, to get into the mood I changed into my Pharoah outfit, demanded crocodile for supper and prepared to sally forth.

Where is Sally, by the way, does she have the day off?

Four jobs I’ve had

1. Busboy at Pepino’s Patio. Seventy-five cents an hour.
2. Construction laborer. Four dollars an hour.
3. Teaching assistant. Ten dollars an hour.
4. Programmer. Seventy dollars an hour.
5. Vendor Relationship Manager. Priceless.

Four movies I can watch over and over

1. Kill Bill 2
2. The Day the Earth Stood Still
3. Forbidden Planet
4. Predator

Four Places I have Lived

1. Shreveport, Louisiana
2. Scottsdale, Arizona
3. London, England
4. Houston, Texas

Four TV Shows I Love

Well, I don’t watch TV, but I once did. So, here are my all-time favorites:

1. Twilight Zone
2. Outer Limits
3. Star Trek (the original)
4. Leave It to Beaver

I guess I haven't watched TV for Quite A While! What's this color thing, anyway?

Four Places I’ve Vacationed

1. Bordeaux, France
2. St. Augustine, Florida
3. Leadville, Colorado
4. London, England

Four of My Favorite Dishes

1. Beef Stroganoff
2. Pho Tai
3. Smoked chicken enchiladas in chipotle cream sauce
4. Crème Brule

Four Sites I visit Daily

1. Dooce
2. The Queens Stories
3. Random Walk
4. Outside Voice

Four Places I’d Rather be Now

1. In the Spread Eagle Pub, London
2. Bottom of the Grand Canyon
3. South of France
4. McMurdo Station, Antarctica (Hey, Genvieve, chillin' babe!)

Five People I am Tagging

1. Beth
2. Bret
3. Pammer
4. Sarah
5. Foo