HURRICANE IRENE
Rarely does a major hurricane venture up this way. The big storms fancy the Caribbean, where the weather is nice and the water is warm. Who can blame them? But every once in a while we get slammed, and scientists get together with meteorologists and ask themselves: “Why the hell would anyone live so goddamn close to the Passaic River?” Then the meteorologists ask themselves: “Why are we wasting so much time studying meteors when there are friggin’ hurricanes out there?”
MUCH more fascinating than the weather event itself is the television coverage leading up to it. Of course there is the obligatory interminable Bloomberg press conference, where the mayor asks himself questions and then correctly answers them. Would it be much more interesting if he used “true/ false” questions? True. Does he often ask/ answer the same question more than once? Yes and yes. Does he have a very nasal twang as if a moth flew up his nose? Doh questiod aboud id. Would the moth make a more interesting press conference subject? Uh-huh. Does New York City have the finest policemen/ firemen/ sanitation workers/ street sweepers/ hot dog cart guys in the world? Of course.
Ever since that one snowstorm where Bloomberg refused to come out and plow everyone’s driveway the human suffering and loss of life just from the press conference is immeasurable. In Ocean City, Maryland, they stopped selling alcohol, hoping people would leave, and I am not making that up. By contrast Governor Christie came out and DEMANDED that no one leave their homes. He implied that he would be waiting outside if you did, and that he would kick your ass. It is more than a week later, and I never actually heard him say that you were allowed out of the house yet.
Back at the weather center, the local TV news girls are looking grim. The storm is 72 hours away and the stage manager is making the hand signal for “Fill! Fill! Fill!!” Luckily there is a correspondent occupying every square cubit of the Earth, waiting to interview someone who is in a hurry. They chased one guy all the way to the hardware store, where he finally lost them by hiding under a storm door.
At the Doppler Rader terminal, everyone is putting together the weather models, and that glue is making them a little goofy. They are carefully tracking the movements of the storm, as it collects off shore. It hurtles towards the Outer Banks, throws a couple jukes to try and lose the trackers, does a spin move and careens toward North Carolina, where it spins its wheels over a McDonalds to gather strength, sucking up all the Big Macs and Apple Pies before heading to a local stripper club.
The coverage dragged on into the small hours as we all waited for the damn thing to get here. The weather girls had to make their splash now, because by the time we actually needed to hear what they had to say, there would be no power to about a fifth of the country. The sideways reporters stood by the beach and derided the irresponsible surfers. Brian Williams showed up, and he seemed drunk. Sue Simmons looked stoned. The experts were making up phrases like "cone of uncertainty." They had greatest hits from past hurricanes, which all look pretty much alike.
At our house we heeded the warnings: we filled our tub with Hawaiian Punch in case the stores were sold out of it. We stocked up on batteries, lest we need to remove them from small appliances that will remain nameless. We put together an emergency kit that included a radio (the Yankees are only a game out of first place), Scrabble (plus the dictionary, since no one ever believes me that “qat” is a real word), a candle (not for light so much, more to annoy my wife by singing the chorus of “Candle In the Wind” to it, with much emotion) and a bic lighter (if Bloomberg comes on one more time I can light myself on fire).
We lost power, and could not find it again for two-and-a-half days. During that time we did a crossword puzzle or two, went for a walk with our dog, played some crazy windblown post-hurricane tennis, held a cook-out at home…. Monday, with no way to get to work, we went for a motorcycle ride into the calm August sun to visit the churning, debris-laden Hudson River. It hearkened back to a time as a college grad when my Mom and I would hop in the car with no particular destination, point ourselves in a direction and enjoy the ride and each others’ company. Monday night was so quiet that all you could hear on our street was the low hum of gas-powered generators and the sounds of people hearkening. They hearkened with their children, they hearkened with their friends, they hearkened with their wives. We hearkened with our neighbors, who never seem to tire of saving our ass in one way or another. The next day the power returned, the TV returned, the IPads returned and our camping trip to nowhere was over. It served as a reminder of how nice nostalgia used to be.
Incidentally, an average of six storms escalate to hurricane status each year. Two of these will hit the U.S. coastline, and four will result in gnarly waves. A weather event added to a tropical environment with warm water and light winds for an extended period of time can result in a hurricane. It is a form of cyclone and in the Northern Hemisphere results in a storm system that turns in a counter-clockwise direction. This means that if the winds blow fast enough, they can turn back time to a much more innocent period when generators were still available at Home Depot.
Thursday, September 8, 2011
Thursday, August 18, 2011
SECOND CAREER
SECOND CAREER
I don't know much about rap music, other than that I never hear the term anymore except when uttered by people who don't know much about rap music. It seems to be called "hip-hop" now, which could give a person the serious misconception that it is written and performed by bunnies. The lyrics don't bear this out, since they deal in very un-bunny-like themes, such as self-glorification, cop-killing, drugs and fornication with large rear-ended women. It's all part of "hip-hop culture," and how those two words found themselves in the same sentence is one of the great mysteries of the world.
Live performances of these artists rarely result in actual music being played by actual people. Luckily, there is singing. Well, not exactly singing, but there is lip-syncing during the parts where a tune is in danger of forming. It's as if the artist considers himself extremely fortunate to have hit the correct notes one magical time when they were recording the song, and doesn't want to press his luck at the concert. If the singer is feeling brave enough to attempt to actually sing, the microphone he uses is always a "pitch-correcting" device that figures out the closest note to the one he is trying to hit and nails it! A less gifted singer myself, I tried a pitch-correcting mike, and when it actually shrugged its shoulders I got the hint.
You don't need to know how to play instruments, as long as you know how to play records. The "DJ" can usually be seen wearing a pair of headphones on one ear only. If you talk to an off-duty DJ, make sure you stand on the non-deaf side. The DJ is the one who makes those god-awful scratching sounds incessantly during a perfectly good song. Another piece of advice, don't lend him any of your records.
If the group does not have a DJ, odds are that it will instead employ an "MC," or Master of Ceremonies. Most of the ceremonies include self-glorification, cop-killing, drugs and fornication with large rear-ended women. The foremost MC that I can think of was MC Hammer. The ceremony that he is most famous for mastering was the pilferage of Rick James' "Super Freak," which he took credit for writing, since he yells out "U can't touch this!" (he wrote that!), smack in the middle of the chorus.
Rap music has spawned an entire industry on the creation of beats. You can now buy a beat, if you don't have any of your own. When I found that out my heart skipped a beat, and I had to buy it back. The service comes in handy if you use the "rhythm method" of birth control. You can now even lease a beat, provided you return it in good condition. Back in the olden days there was a device called a drummer that provided much the same service, but it was unreliable and was expensive to lubricate.
If there are no instruments or live singing, you are probably wondering what all those people are doing onstage. Those are professional gyrators. If the rap artist is a male, there are at least five female gyrators with large rear-ends, and if the artist is female there are a minimum of five male gyrators, hoping to at least pass for bisexual.
And it works: all the dancing is infectious, and without an antibiotic it is impossible not to dance to some of these tunes. One time I busted a move out on the dance floor, and since no one could fix it I was forced to return to my seat.
There are certain bands that perform a mixture of rock and hip-hop, like Linkin Park, for instance. These hybrid bands are intriguing in the way they cross over socio-artistic boundaries, and also because they save on gas.
I didn't know who Usher was when he first burst on the scene, but I knew he was much more talented than those others who didn't make it: Valet, Gas Station Attendant, Electronic Integrated Systems Mechanic, none of them had what it takes.
But I think I do. In every rap song, during the un-rapped parts, there is always a guy going "UH-UH-UH" in the background, as if someone was repeatedly dropping a D-cell battery on their foot. Sometimes he repeats what the rapper says, in case you didn't realize how important it was. I am mastering the art of ceremonies, including the posturing. I made the mistake of practicing those rap hand gestures outdoors, and a plane landed right next to me.
I will need a name. "Lil'" this or that is popular, "Lil'" being short for "Litl'." I am not small enough for that: "Me'm" would be better. Anything with a "Q," "J" or other high-scoring Scrabble letter is good. If your name sounds goofy, change it: Puff Daddy thought his rap name sounded foolish, so he adopted the much more intelligent-sounding "P-Diddy." Work the word "ice" into it if possible, to symbolize street toughness. You never know when you might encounter death on my street, since deer are not as swift as one would think. Use "z" at the end of anything plural and "K" to replace anything that starts with a "C." So call me "MC DJ Kool Ice Q-bez," especially if you are the I.R.S....
Incidentally, some historians believe that rap music came to the U.S. from Africa, and others contend that it arrived from the Caribbean. Either way, it's doubtful that it had a valid passport. The "hip-hop lifestyle" is said to include four elements: rap, graffiti art, break dancing and DJ-ing. For me, any type of dancing is considered break dancing, and my orthopedist will back me up. So if you ever hear that "MC DJ Kool Ice Q-bez is in da house," den itz time to change da lockz.
I don't know much about rap music, other than that I never hear the term anymore except when uttered by people who don't know much about rap music. It seems to be called "hip-hop" now, which could give a person the serious misconception that it is written and performed by bunnies. The lyrics don't bear this out, since they deal in very un-bunny-like themes, such as self-glorification, cop-killing, drugs and fornication with large rear-ended women. It's all part of "hip-hop culture," and how those two words found themselves in the same sentence is one of the great mysteries of the world.
Live performances of these artists rarely result in actual music being played by actual people. Luckily, there is singing. Well, not exactly singing, but there is lip-syncing during the parts where a tune is in danger of forming. It's as if the artist considers himself extremely fortunate to have hit the correct notes one magical time when they were recording the song, and doesn't want to press his luck at the concert. If the singer is feeling brave enough to attempt to actually sing, the microphone he uses is always a "pitch-correcting" device that figures out the closest note to the one he is trying to hit and nails it! A less gifted singer myself, I tried a pitch-correcting mike, and when it actually shrugged its shoulders I got the hint.
You don't need to know how to play instruments, as long as you know how to play records. The "DJ" can usually be seen wearing a pair of headphones on one ear only. If you talk to an off-duty DJ, make sure you stand on the non-deaf side. The DJ is the one who makes those god-awful scratching sounds incessantly during a perfectly good song. Another piece of advice, don't lend him any of your records.
If the group does not have a DJ, odds are that it will instead employ an "MC," or Master of Ceremonies. Most of the ceremonies include self-glorification, cop-killing, drugs and fornication with large rear-ended women. The foremost MC that I can think of was MC Hammer. The ceremony that he is most famous for mastering was the pilferage of Rick James' "Super Freak," which he took credit for writing, since he yells out "U can't touch this!" (he wrote that!), smack in the middle of the chorus.
Rap music has spawned an entire industry on the creation of beats. You can now buy a beat, if you don't have any of your own. When I found that out my heart skipped a beat, and I had to buy it back. The service comes in handy if you use the "rhythm method" of birth control. You can now even lease a beat, provided you return it in good condition. Back in the olden days there was a device called a drummer that provided much the same service, but it was unreliable and was expensive to lubricate.
If there are no instruments or live singing, you are probably wondering what all those people are doing onstage. Those are professional gyrators. If the rap artist is a male, there are at least five female gyrators with large rear-ends, and if the artist is female there are a minimum of five male gyrators, hoping to at least pass for bisexual.
And it works: all the dancing is infectious, and without an antibiotic it is impossible not to dance to some of these tunes. One time I busted a move out on the dance floor, and since no one could fix it I was forced to return to my seat.
There are certain bands that perform a mixture of rock and hip-hop, like Linkin Park, for instance. These hybrid bands are intriguing in the way they cross over socio-artistic boundaries, and also because they save on gas.
I didn't know who Usher was when he first burst on the scene, but I knew he was much more talented than those others who didn't make it: Valet, Gas Station Attendant, Electronic Integrated Systems Mechanic, none of them had what it takes.
But I think I do. In every rap song, during the un-rapped parts, there is always a guy going "UH-UH-UH" in the background, as if someone was repeatedly dropping a D-cell battery on their foot. Sometimes he repeats what the rapper says, in case you didn't realize how important it was. I am mastering the art of ceremonies, including the posturing. I made the mistake of practicing those rap hand gestures outdoors, and a plane landed right next to me.
I will need a name. "Lil'" this or that is popular, "Lil'" being short for "Litl'." I am not small enough for that: "Me'm" would be better. Anything with a "Q," "J" or other high-scoring Scrabble letter is good. If your name sounds goofy, change it: Puff Daddy thought his rap name sounded foolish, so he adopted the much more intelligent-sounding "P-Diddy." Work the word "ice" into it if possible, to symbolize street toughness. You never know when you might encounter death on my street, since deer are not as swift as one would think. Use "z" at the end of anything plural and "K" to replace anything that starts with a "C." So call me "MC DJ Kool Ice Q-bez," especially if you are the I.R.S....
Incidentally, some historians believe that rap music came to the U.S. from Africa, and others contend that it arrived from the Caribbean. Either way, it's doubtful that it had a valid passport. The "hip-hop lifestyle" is said to include four elements: rap, graffiti art, break dancing and DJ-ing. For me, any type of dancing is considered break dancing, and my orthopedist will back me up. So if you ever hear that "MC DJ Kool Ice Q-bez is in da house," den itz time to change da lockz.
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
SOLO VACATION
SOLO VACATION
Every year I go on a solo vacation to the Jersey Shore. I am a creature of habit, and I always stay at the same hotel in the same town. 200 million years from now they will find my skeleton in a tar pit and they will be able to figure out what a creature of habit looked like, but they will not be able to figure out what I was doing in that tar pit of all places, when there are so many good bars around.
I take Friday off, hop in my car and get in line: The Garden State Parkway on Friday in the summer is basically just a queue for the beach parking lot, and it's a long one.When I got there it was almost 100 degrees- so hot that people didn't even want to go to the beach. They seemed genuinely bummed that there was no air conditioning. There was a lot of talk on the radio about hyperthermia, and heat indexes, and hydrating and real-feel temperature. The real-feel temperature on Friday was two thousand degrees. By the way according to the weatherman they took the temperature that day anally. Citizens were told to stay in their homes and try to do things that would make them feel cool, like piercing their tongues. Little children and old people were warned that even opening the window could cause instant death. I remember when I was little Mom would say it's hot out there, then kick us the hell out of the house without even any sunblock. I should have had the wherewithal to call Child Protective Services.
I enjoy body surfing, and at the jersey shore body surfing means that there is often an actual dead body next to you. Sometimes the beaches are closed due to the washing ashore of assorted medical waste, and if you go at the right time you can window-shop for organs that people have generously donated. Usually there is just a jelly-fish here and there, at least you hope that's what they were.
Anyway, I caught a wave and it was so strong it turned me over in a somersault, then it continued on to force me into a perfect double axel. Since it was underwater nobody noticed, but I stood up and did a bow anyway, until I realized that there was snot coming out of my nose and a crab hanging from my suit.
Incidentally, I was thinking of bringing a hermit crab back home as a gift for my cat Porkchop, but I wondered: by giving the hermit crab a home, wasn't I essentially putting it out of a job? I don’t think it would have forgiven me for it as long as it lived, or two days, whichever came first.
I like to hit the bars at night, and my favorite one is Bar A. It's a lot of hot Jersey chicks with thickets of hair and brightly colored nails, and since they all talk with their hands it looks like a laser light show at the planetarium. Listening to them is enervating but watching them is certainly a noble pastime, although if they see me looking they shoot me a look of piercing disdain as if I was carrying a dead opossum. I don't even notice it. The look, not the oppossum.
The guys there are well-muscled, especially in the head area. They still say things like "awesome" and "bro," and if you get to talking to them for any length of time you sense that you will be involved in a tasing sooner rather than later.
Saturday I am back at the beach. I have my sun-shelter, my umbrella, my cooler, my knapsack, my beach chair, my towel selection, my radio, my crossword puzzle, my book. I'm sure I'm leaving something out. After everything is set up and in order, I pretty much go right to sleep until I wake up at about six, freezing my ass off.
Incidentally, I did not see any lionfish, but they are apparently taking over the entire Eastern Seaboard. The lionfish has no natural enemies because it couldn't be more polite, and also because its spines are venomous. But it will eat anything that swims in front of it- the opening of its mouth creates a vacuum, which is more than I can say for our vacuum. I can vouch for this because I have one in my fish tank; its name is Fluffy, because it's cute for a poisonous animal. Scientists have gotten together with ecologists, marine biologists and chefs, and have decided to eat them. If you remove the poisonous appendages, the lionfish can be a tasty treat. If you do not, don't bother to leave a tip. My only concern is, what if we give the lionfish the same idea? Man has no natural enemies either, except for some women. The lionfish does not even need to remove any nasty spines, either. Just some food for thought, or vice-versa.
Every year I go on a solo vacation to the Jersey Shore. I am a creature of habit, and I always stay at the same hotel in the same town. 200 million years from now they will find my skeleton in a tar pit and they will be able to figure out what a creature of habit looked like, but they will not be able to figure out what I was doing in that tar pit of all places, when there are so many good bars around.
I take Friday off, hop in my car and get in line: The Garden State Parkway on Friday in the summer is basically just a queue for the beach parking lot, and it's a long one.When I got there it was almost 100 degrees- so hot that people didn't even want to go to the beach. They seemed genuinely bummed that there was no air conditioning. There was a lot of talk on the radio about hyperthermia, and heat indexes, and hydrating and real-feel temperature. The real-feel temperature on Friday was two thousand degrees. By the way according to the weatherman they took the temperature that day anally. Citizens were told to stay in their homes and try to do things that would make them feel cool, like piercing their tongues. Little children and old people were warned that even opening the window could cause instant death. I remember when I was little Mom would say it's hot out there, then kick us the hell out of the house without even any sunblock. I should have had the wherewithal to call Child Protective Services.
I enjoy body surfing, and at the jersey shore body surfing means that there is often an actual dead body next to you. Sometimes the beaches are closed due to the washing ashore of assorted medical waste, and if you go at the right time you can window-shop for organs that people have generously donated. Usually there is just a jelly-fish here and there, at least you hope that's what they were.
Anyway, I caught a wave and it was so strong it turned me over in a somersault, then it continued on to force me into a perfect double axel. Since it was underwater nobody noticed, but I stood up and did a bow anyway, until I realized that there was snot coming out of my nose and a crab hanging from my suit.
Incidentally, I was thinking of bringing a hermit crab back home as a gift for my cat Porkchop, but I wondered: by giving the hermit crab a home, wasn't I essentially putting it out of a job? I don’t think it would have forgiven me for it as long as it lived, or two days, whichever came first.
I like to hit the bars at night, and my favorite one is Bar A. It's a lot of hot Jersey chicks with thickets of hair and brightly colored nails, and since they all talk with their hands it looks like a laser light show at the planetarium. Listening to them is enervating but watching them is certainly a noble pastime, although if they see me looking they shoot me a look of piercing disdain as if I was carrying a dead opossum. I don't even notice it. The look, not the oppossum.
The guys there are well-muscled, especially in the head area. They still say things like "awesome" and "bro," and if you get to talking to them for any length of time you sense that you will be involved in a tasing sooner rather than later.
Saturday I am back at the beach. I have my sun-shelter, my umbrella, my cooler, my knapsack, my beach chair, my towel selection, my radio, my crossword puzzle, my book. I'm sure I'm leaving something out. After everything is set up and in order, I pretty much go right to sleep until I wake up at about six, freezing my ass off.
Incidentally, I did not see any lionfish, but they are apparently taking over the entire Eastern Seaboard. The lionfish has no natural enemies because it couldn't be more polite, and also because its spines are venomous. But it will eat anything that swims in front of it- the opening of its mouth creates a vacuum, which is more than I can say for our vacuum. I can vouch for this because I have one in my fish tank; its name is Fluffy, because it's cute for a poisonous animal. Scientists have gotten together with ecologists, marine biologists and chefs, and have decided to eat them. If you remove the poisonous appendages, the lionfish can be a tasty treat. If you do not, don't bother to leave a tip. My only concern is, what if we give the lionfish the same idea? Man has no natural enemies either, except for some women. The lionfish does not even need to remove any nasty spines, either. Just some food for thought, or vice-versa.
Thursday, July 14, 2011
FINE DINING
FINE DINING
Every once in awhile I think, "What would it be like if I were rich?" Well for one thing I would have to change one letter in my nickname. come to think of it, if my nickname were Nick I wouldn't have to change anything. If I were a rich man, Ya ha deedle deedle, bubba bubba deedle deedle dum. What would I do all day? Of course there would be the usual biddy biddy bum, but seriously how long could that take? The rest of the day I would be playing polo, even water polo if I could find a horse that could swim; a seahorse if you will.
I would have to learn to drink wine and fawn over French names and pronounce them with that French sound that you make through your nose as if you just dove upside down into a vat of lemon juice.
Worst of all, I would have to eat things that I really would rather leave under a rock, where they belong. When Amy, Jamie, my wife and I went to a restaurant that I would consider fancy schmnancy, I realized what an awesome responsibility it is to be positioned so high on the food chain. Literally everything below you is open for your consumption, and if you don't go on about how great it was, you will end up looking like a schmuck.
I won't mention the name of the resaurant (I Trulli in Manhattan) because I don't want to embarrass them. You can look up the menu online if you don't believe me. This is the first time I have dished so literally.
You might start with a salad: Insalata Mista is a good choice. It contains baby mesclun, which I tried once in high school and didn't return to Earth for about 5 hours. Or try the Carciofini- shaved baby artichokes, which is hot! I don't remember them to be particularly hairy, but better safe than sorry. Pulpo couldn't be more aptly named. It's grilled octopus with endive. Where in the world they found an octopus with an endive I will never know. It could have been even worse had he been found with EIGHT endives, whatever an endive is. Salsiccia is a housemade grilled lamb sausage with beans, sun-dried tomatoes, mint. I wouldn't have bought it if it was in anything less than mint condition and you shouldn't either.
Apparently, this chef is all about eating anything that's really cute and adorable. Is that your new kitten?? Poof! Flambe! Are you going to eat that Teddy bear? Slice! Dice! I am! Look! Ming and Ying just had a new baby Panda! Who the hell is that guy in a chef's hat scooping it up and running towards that wok?? It's frigging Hannibal Lechter, that's who!
After the appetizer, how about some pasta? "Dora's handmade pasta" I believe to be actually made from peoples' hands. Try the ravioli- it's a sheep’s milk ricotta-filled pasta. How a lamb got old enough to become a sheep around here is a mystery. Malloreddus is sardinian saffron dumplings with sausage. I didn't try that since is sounds a lot like "malodorous." Maccheroncini Grano Arso boasts duck sausage. If the duck were still around he would boast about it himself. This chef can make a sausage out of anything that sits still for more than a minute or two. I saw a giraffe taking a nap at the zoo, and BOOM! This chef whizzes out of a eucalyptus tree and sausagizes him! I had the Orecchiette. It is an ear-shaped pasta in a rabbit ragu. Ear-shaped pasta? The whole meal I had to watch my language just in case my pasta could hear me. Ask me what it smelled like. Go ahead. You want to. YES! It smelled like nose-shaped pasta! The rabbit ragu was a little more troublesome. I thought they would grind up the little cottontail into a sauce of little teency bunny pieces, but I was wrong: it was big rascally rabbit chunks that you could almost reassemble like a jigsaw puzzle. I think I ate its foot, and was a little disappointed that my luck wasn't any better than usual.
Are you in the mood for seafood? Spigola is a wild striped bass with spring vegetables and herbs in umido. I don't know what umido is but you can stick it innuendo as far as I'm concerned. I asked the waiter how wild are the stripes on the bass, but he didn't know and when I asked how fresh are the spring vegetables considering it's July, he gave me a look like he was double-parked back in the kitchen and ran away so fast all of our napkins flew off the table.
Polletto Al Mattone is a whole baby chicken cooked "under brick." The cook uses the word "baby" no less than ten times on the menu. This guy will raid your Easter basket and saute anything that looks the least bit friendly. Would it surprise you if he popped your actual baby right into his mouth? Stopping of course to add some fresh dill, let's not get ridiculous.
For dessert: tiramisu mascarpone, cheese mousse layered with espresso-soaked ladyfingers. Don't ask, and keep your hands in your pockets.
Incidentally, the oldest restaurant in Manhattan is considered to be Fraunces Tavern. Here, George Washington gave his farewell address to his officers in 1783 following the Revolutionary War. Even though they had the address do you think they wrote him once? While the United States Capitol was located in New York until 1790, the building served as the headquarters for the Departments of War, Treasury and Foreigh Affairs, which believe me, there were plenty. In 1775 the British warship Asia launched a cannonball through the roof. Whereupon the chef shaved it, added some baby fawns and ate it.
Every once in awhile I think, "What would it be like if I were rich?" Well for one thing I would have to change one letter in my nickname. come to think of it, if my nickname were Nick I wouldn't have to change anything. If I were a rich man, Ya ha deedle deedle, bubba bubba deedle deedle dum. What would I do all day? Of course there would be the usual biddy biddy bum, but seriously how long could that take? The rest of the day I would be playing polo, even water polo if I could find a horse that could swim; a seahorse if you will.
I would have to learn to drink wine and fawn over French names and pronounce them with that French sound that you make through your nose as if you just dove upside down into a vat of lemon juice.
Worst of all, I would have to eat things that I really would rather leave under a rock, where they belong. When Amy, Jamie, my wife and I went to a restaurant that I would consider fancy schmnancy, I realized what an awesome responsibility it is to be positioned so high on the food chain. Literally everything below you is open for your consumption, and if you don't go on about how great it was, you will end up looking like a schmuck.
I won't mention the name of the resaurant (I Trulli in Manhattan) because I don't want to embarrass them. You can look up the menu online if you don't believe me. This is the first time I have dished so literally.
You might start with a salad: Insalata Mista is a good choice. It contains baby mesclun, which I tried once in high school and didn't return to Earth for about 5 hours. Or try the Carciofini- shaved baby artichokes, which is hot! I don't remember them to be particularly hairy, but better safe than sorry. Pulpo couldn't be more aptly named. It's grilled octopus with endive. Where in the world they found an octopus with an endive I will never know. It could have been even worse had he been found with EIGHT endives, whatever an endive is. Salsiccia is a housemade grilled lamb sausage with beans, sun-dried tomatoes, mint. I wouldn't have bought it if it was in anything less than mint condition and you shouldn't either.
Apparently, this chef is all about eating anything that's really cute and adorable. Is that your new kitten?? Poof! Flambe! Are you going to eat that Teddy bear? Slice! Dice! I am! Look! Ming and Ying just had a new baby Panda! Who the hell is that guy in a chef's hat scooping it up and running towards that wok?? It's frigging Hannibal Lechter, that's who!
After the appetizer, how about some pasta? "Dora's handmade pasta" I believe to be actually made from peoples' hands. Try the ravioli- it's a sheep’s milk ricotta-filled pasta. How a lamb got old enough to become a sheep around here is a mystery. Malloreddus is sardinian saffron dumplings with sausage. I didn't try that since is sounds a lot like "malodorous." Maccheroncini Grano Arso boasts duck sausage. If the duck were still around he would boast about it himself. This chef can make a sausage out of anything that sits still for more than a minute or two. I saw a giraffe taking a nap at the zoo, and BOOM! This chef whizzes out of a eucalyptus tree and sausagizes him! I had the Orecchiette. It is an ear-shaped pasta in a rabbit ragu. Ear-shaped pasta? The whole meal I had to watch my language just in case my pasta could hear me. Ask me what it smelled like. Go ahead. You want to. YES! It smelled like nose-shaped pasta! The rabbit ragu was a little more troublesome. I thought they would grind up the little cottontail into a sauce of little teency bunny pieces, but I was wrong: it was big rascally rabbit chunks that you could almost reassemble like a jigsaw puzzle. I think I ate its foot, and was a little disappointed that my luck wasn't any better than usual.
Are you in the mood for seafood? Spigola is a wild striped bass with spring vegetables and herbs in umido. I don't know what umido is but you can stick it innuendo as far as I'm concerned. I asked the waiter how wild are the stripes on the bass, but he didn't know and when I asked how fresh are the spring vegetables considering it's July, he gave me a look like he was double-parked back in the kitchen and ran away so fast all of our napkins flew off the table.
Polletto Al Mattone is a whole baby chicken cooked "under brick." The cook uses the word "baby" no less than ten times on the menu. This guy will raid your Easter basket and saute anything that looks the least bit friendly. Would it surprise you if he popped your actual baby right into his mouth? Stopping of course to add some fresh dill, let's not get ridiculous.
For dessert: tiramisu mascarpone, cheese mousse layered with espresso-soaked ladyfingers. Don't ask, and keep your hands in your pockets.
Incidentally, the oldest restaurant in Manhattan is considered to be Fraunces Tavern. Here, George Washington gave his farewell address to his officers in 1783 following the Revolutionary War. Even though they had the address do you think they wrote him once? While the United States Capitol was located in New York until 1790, the building served as the headquarters for the Departments of War, Treasury and Foreigh Affairs, which believe me, there were plenty. In 1775 the British warship Asia launched a cannonball through the roof. Whereupon the chef shaved it, added some baby fawns and ate it.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
REVISIONIST HISTORY
REVISIONIST HISTORY
Yes, it's true: Sarah Palin is a blogger's dream. Meaning that I have had a lot of dreams about her, some involving produce. Why is produce called "produce," when it is the only thing not actually produced, but instead, grown? In one of my dreams Sarah Palin meets Paul Revere and they sit down to lunch and talk about American History. Mrs. Palin asks him about his famous "midnight ride," and Paul Revere picks her brain about things that have happened in history since his death. Well, he doesn't exactly pick her brain, it was kind of assigned to him since it's my dream.
Sarah: What time of day did you go on your midnight ride?
Paul: I have no way of knowing since I was on the watch.
Sarah: What exactly did Paul Revere shout?
Paul: I cried, "The regulars are coming!" Well, I didn't actually cry or anything, come on, Sarah, I'm not a friggin baby over here. I didn't want to yell that the British were coming, since the British already knew that. They were all over the place, and they had big ears. Some of them had big noses too. So "the regulars" was kind of a code word. Those who suffered from irregularity, we didn't give a crap about them.
Sarah: Were you alone?
Paul: No. I was with Dawes. William Dawes. Great guy- I miss him. He has been dead for 212 years but it seems like only 133. William Dawes. For short I called him Willia Dawe. He was a tanner by trade and he-
Sarah: He did have a great tan. Why were the colonial militia known as "minutemen?"
Paul: Sarah, I don't think the answer would be pleasing to you.
Sarah: What do you think of the idea that you actually rode to warn the British that the colonists had arms, and that in their arms they would be holding guns??
Paul: No, that's a great idea, Sarah. Yes I agree with that. And why don't we actually take the guns and also shoot ourselves so that the British can take over and put their feet up and raid the refrigerator? Remember, sarah, if it wasn't for me you'd all be speaking English right now.
Sarah: So were you actually warning the guns themselves?
Paul: We were trying to prevent the British from getting their hands on our arms. We had four small cannon, about 3 inches or so, and stores of weapons in Concord that the enemy knew about.
Sarah: What about that whole "one if by sea, two if by land?" That's not it, is it. I never get that right, or "Fool me once, shame on me, fool me another time, and shame on me then, too."
Paul: We needed a way to let the colonists across the Charles River at Lexington know that the British were on the move. So in the steeple of the North Church we hung one lantern to let the patriots know that the British were coming over the bridge, and two lanterns to tell them that they were coming across the river by boat.
Sarah: What did NO lanterns mean?
Paul: That meant that we need two new lanterns over at the church.
Sarah: What were you wearing?
Paul: This sounds a little like a phone-sex call, Sarah.
Sarah: That's ridiculous. Did you have a shirt on? Was your horse nude??
Paul: I had on one of those colonial hats.
Sarah: And nothing else? Never mind. I once saw you in a band: Paul Revere and the Raiders.
Paul: Yes, that was me. The sons of bitches kicked me out and formed a football team.
Sarah: Speaking of sons of bitches, weren't you also in a group before then called the Sons of Liberty?
Paul: Yes. Me, Samuel Adams and many others organized protests and actions against the British, usually after quite a few beers. We were the ones who came up with the slogan, "No taxation without representation."
Sarah: Taxation even WITH representation kind of sucks. Did you know that Longfellow wrote a poem about you after your death?
Paul: Longfellow... Did you know his feet smell?
Sarah: Why, because of that little taunt?
Paul: What little taunt?
Sarah: Because of Longfellow's poem, everyone has all kinds of misinformation about you.
Paul: Like that I warned the British that the patriots were armed?
Sarah: Well that wasn't specifically mentioned. Mainly that you were the only one riding, and you were yelling and clanging bells and stuff.
Paul: By the way, what do you want to eat for lunch. I could eat a little Mexican, and in fact I have done so once on a dare.
Sarah: I would like a Caesar salad. And a Napoleon for dessert.
Paul: So tell me, Sarah, what's been going on since my death?
Sarah: Paul, you even can't begin to imaginate it.
Paul: No, but I bet YOU can. This should be infotaining....
Incidentally, Paul Revere and the Raiders was started by organist Paul Revere, whose name really was Paul Revere Dick. He kept the organ but eventually lost the Dick, and was joined singer Mark Lindsay. Their hit "Kicks" was reportedly written for the Animals, an anti-drug anthem ispired by Gerry Goffin's excessive lifestyle that cost him his marriage to Carole King, and his carreer as a songwriter.
Yes, it's true: Sarah Palin is a blogger's dream. Meaning that I have had a lot of dreams about her, some involving produce. Why is produce called "produce," when it is the only thing not actually produced, but instead, grown? In one of my dreams Sarah Palin meets Paul Revere and they sit down to lunch and talk about American History. Mrs. Palin asks him about his famous "midnight ride," and Paul Revere picks her brain about things that have happened in history since his death. Well, he doesn't exactly pick her brain, it was kind of assigned to him since it's my dream.
Sarah: What time of day did you go on your midnight ride?
Paul: I have no way of knowing since I was on the watch.
Sarah: What exactly did Paul Revere shout?
Paul: I cried, "The regulars are coming!" Well, I didn't actually cry or anything, come on, Sarah, I'm not a friggin baby over here. I didn't want to yell that the British were coming, since the British already knew that. They were all over the place, and they had big ears. Some of them had big noses too. So "the regulars" was kind of a code word. Those who suffered from irregularity, we didn't give a crap about them.
Sarah: Were you alone?
Paul: No. I was with Dawes. William Dawes. Great guy- I miss him. He has been dead for 212 years but it seems like only 133. William Dawes. For short I called him Willia Dawe. He was a tanner by trade and he-
Sarah: He did have a great tan. Why were the colonial militia known as "minutemen?"
Paul: Sarah, I don't think the answer would be pleasing to you.
Sarah: What do you think of the idea that you actually rode to warn the British that the colonists had arms, and that in their arms they would be holding guns??
Paul: No, that's a great idea, Sarah. Yes I agree with that. And why don't we actually take the guns and also shoot ourselves so that the British can take over and put their feet up and raid the refrigerator? Remember, sarah, if it wasn't for me you'd all be speaking English right now.
Sarah: So were you actually warning the guns themselves?
Paul: We were trying to prevent the British from getting their hands on our arms. We had four small cannon, about 3 inches or so, and stores of weapons in Concord that the enemy knew about.
Sarah: What about that whole "one if by sea, two if by land?" That's not it, is it. I never get that right, or "Fool me once, shame on me, fool me another time, and shame on me then, too."
Paul: We needed a way to let the colonists across the Charles River at Lexington know that the British were on the move. So in the steeple of the North Church we hung one lantern to let the patriots know that the British were coming over the bridge, and two lanterns to tell them that they were coming across the river by boat.
Sarah: What did NO lanterns mean?
Paul: That meant that we need two new lanterns over at the church.
Sarah: What were you wearing?
Paul: This sounds a little like a phone-sex call, Sarah.
Sarah: That's ridiculous. Did you have a shirt on? Was your horse nude??
Paul: I had on one of those colonial hats.
Sarah: And nothing else? Never mind. I once saw you in a band: Paul Revere and the Raiders.
Paul: Yes, that was me. The sons of bitches kicked me out and formed a football team.
Sarah: Speaking of sons of bitches, weren't you also in a group before then called the Sons of Liberty?
Paul: Yes. Me, Samuel Adams and many others organized protests and actions against the British, usually after quite a few beers. We were the ones who came up with the slogan, "No taxation without representation."
Sarah: Taxation even WITH representation kind of sucks. Did you know that Longfellow wrote a poem about you after your death?
Paul: Longfellow... Did you know his feet smell?
Sarah: Why, because of that little taunt?
Paul: What little taunt?
Sarah: Because of Longfellow's poem, everyone has all kinds of misinformation about you.
Paul: Like that I warned the British that the patriots were armed?
Sarah: Well that wasn't specifically mentioned. Mainly that you were the only one riding, and you were yelling and clanging bells and stuff.
Paul: By the way, what do you want to eat for lunch. I could eat a little Mexican, and in fact I have done so once on a dare.
Sarah: I would like a Caesar salad. And a Napoleon for dessert.
Paul: So tell me, Sarah, what's been going on since my death?
Sarah: Paul, you even can't begin to imaginate it.
Paul: No, but I bet YOU can. This should be infotaining....
Incidentally, Paul Revere and the Raiders was started by organist Paul Revere, whose name really was Paul Revere Dick. He kept the organ but eventually lost the Dick, and was joined singer Mark Lindsay. Their hit "Kicks" was reportedly written for the Animals, an anti-drug anthem ispired by Gerry Goffin's excessive lifestyle that cost him his marriage to Carole King, and his carreer as a songwriter.
Friday, May 27, 2011
LOUNGE MUSICIANSHIP
LOUNGE MUSICIANSHIP
After we had amassed what we deemed a sufficient amount of cat hair on our laps sitting around in front of the TV watching “Cops” on a Saturday Night, the wife and I were looking to get out of the house. We prefer to see live music- if the band is good there are no complaints, and usually they do not perform rap music or techno music, so we are spared at least that. If the band is horrible, it’s even better.
Last Saturday, the local Holiday Inn was just the place to go for cocktails and dancing. Dancing is a great way to stay in shape, so we avoid it, but the cocktail part appeals to us greatly. The band was a wedding-style combo with a female lead singer. They were fairly annoying, but on the whole not too objectionable for the genre. But then we noticed him: there he was, resplendent in a satin jacket with a red tie, his tastefully graying hair coiffed in a ‘70s mobster style. He did not sing, nor did he need to. He snapped his finger, elbow cocked at the same height as his head. He smiled in response to an imaginary joke. He pushed up air with both hands above his head to raise the roof. He cha-cha-cha-ed, he mambo-ed, he rhumba-ed, he samba-ed, all without the unnecessary bother of a partner. I knew this had all the ear-marks of a magical evening. Little did I know that my ears would actually be marked by this experience.
Then he sang. He piped into “Sugar Pie, Honey Bunch” with all the zeal and alacrity of someone test-driving a Lamborghini on a road with a bridge out. He was at least an entire whole-step sharp. No one in the band seemed to notice it, or they may have been used to it. No one on the dance floor noticed it; they had other things on their mind, perhaps like what might happen if the roof were to suddenly raise. My wife and I noticed it, and we looked at each other, wide-eyed and making the same face that signifies the presence of seafood that longs to go back to the sea.
He was undeterred. He pointed to fictional friends in the audience. He soft-clapped along to the music during the solos, with the microphone in his hand. He closed his eyes on the high notes, palm upstretched towards the heavens. He winked. My wife thinks he winked at her, but I think he winked at me. This guy could wink, and it’s not easy to pull off convincingly (when I try it I look as though I popped a contact lens). He did not ooze charm so much as he oozed ooze. He looked like Will Ferrell doing an impression. He was unctuous, fatuous and gratuitous all at the same time. When the song was over we clapped, because we enjoy music sung off-key. He asked us to tip the waitresses and bartenders, since they work so hard, even though they didn’t seem overly taxed by industry when I went to get a drink.
What was this man doing there? He did not play an instrument, although he may have at one time. And that one time was all it took for someone to take the instrument away from him. They did not even trust him with a tambourine. Seemingly useless band members down through the ages have always been given a tambourine, as long as they promised not to make any noise with it, and had big cans. From Suzanne Crough in the Partridge Family, to Wrangler Jane in The Termites, the tambourine has always been the traditional prop for those with little musical talent. Which makes me wonder that when Bob Dylan musically asked the Tambourine Man to play a song for him, would he have known which song it was? It’s awfully hard to tell on a tambourine.
When they finally called “last call” and turned the lights on I felt cheated, mainly because I had just ordered a drink.
Incidentally, Melody Patterson was only 16 years old when she played Wrangler Jane on F Troop the first season. I rank her second in the “Who is the Hottest 60’s Television Babe” contest: 99, Wrangler Jane, Jeannie, Mary Ann or Samantha?? The Indian tribe in F Troop was named the “Hekawi,” when they became lost one time and, after someone asked “Where the heck are we?” was misheard to say, “We’re the Hekawi!” What I did NOT know is that the name of the tribe was originally to be known as the “Fugawi,” but the censors nixed it once they heard the backstory…
After we had amassed what we deemed a sufficient amount of cat hair on our laps sitting around in front of the TV watching “Cops” on a Saturday Night, the wife and I were looking to get out of the house. We prefer to see live music- if the band is good there are no complaints, and usually they do not perform rap music or techno music, so we are spared at least that. If the band is horrible, it’s even better.
Last Saturday, the local Holiday Inn was just the place to go for cocktails and dancing. Dancing is a great way to stay in shape, so we avoid it, but the cocktail part appeals to us greatly. The band was a wedding-style combo with a female lead singer. They were fairly annoying, but on the whole not too objectionable for the genre. But then we noticed him: there he was, resplendent in a satin jacket with a red tie, his tastefully graying hair coiffed in a ‘70s mobster style. He did not sing, nor did he need to. He snapped his finger, elbow cocked at the same height as his head. He smiled in response to an imaginary joke. He pushed up air with both hands above his head to raise the roof. He cha-cha-cha-ed, he mambo-ed, he rhumba-ed, he samba-ed, all without the unnecessary bother of a partner. I knew this had all the ear-marks of a magical evening. Little did I know that my ears would actually be marked by this experience.
Then he sang. He piped into “Sugar Pie, Honey Bunch” with all the zeal and alacrity of someone test-driving a Lamborghini on a road with a bridge out. He was at least an entire whole-step sharp. No one in the band seemed to notice it, or they may have been used to it. No one on the dance floor noticed it; they had other things on their mind, perhaps like what might happen if the roof were to suddenly raise. My wife and I noticed it, and we looked at each other, wide-eyed and making the same face that signifies the presence of seafood that longs to go back to the sea.
He was undeterred. He pointed to fictional friends in the audience. He soft-clapped along to the music during the solos, with the microphone in his hand. He closed his eyes on the high notes, palm upstretched towards the heavens. He winked. My wife thinks he winked at her, but I think he winked at me. This guy could wink, and it’s not easy to pull off convincingly (when I try it I look as though I popped a contact lens). He did not ooze charm so much as he oozed ooze. He looked like Will Ferrell doing an impression. He was unctuous, fatuous and gratuitous all at the same time. When the song was over we clapped, because we enjoy music sung off-key. He asked us to tip the waitresses and bartenders, since they work so hard, even though they didn’t seem overly taxed by industry when I went to get a drink.
What was this man doing there? He did not play an instrument, although he may have at one time. And that one time was all it took for someone to take the instrument away from him. They did not even trust him with a tambourine. Seemingly useless band members down through the ages have always been given a tambourine, as long as they promised not to make any noise with it, and had big cans. From Suzanne Crough in the Partridge Family, to Wrangler Jane in The Termites, the tambourine has always been the traditional prop for those with little musical talent. Which makes me wonder that when Bob Dylan musically asked the Tambourine Man to play a song for him, would he have known which song it was? It’s awfully hard to tell on a tambourine.
When they finally called “last call” and turned the lights on I felt cheated, mainly because I had just ordered a drink.
Incidentally, Melody Patterson was only 16 years old when she played Wrangler Jane on F Troop the first season. I rank her second in the “Who is the Hottest 60’s Television Babe” contest: 99, Wrangler Jane, Jeannie, Mary Ann or Samantha?? The Indian tribe in F Troop was named the “Hekawi,” when they became lost one time and, after someone asked “Where the heck are we?” was misheard to say, “We’re the Hekawi!” What I did NOT know is that the name of the tribe was originally to be known as the “Fugawi,” but the censors nixed it once they heard the backstory…
Thursday, May 5, 2011
INTERNET COMMERCE
INTERNET COMMERCE
So the doohickey that I clean the dirty dinner plates with is apparently known as a dish mop. It looks a little like Phyllis Diller, only it's funnier. In our household, the wife cooks splendid meals every night, and the husband eats them, usually while yelling at the Yankees, an untidy combination. When I lift up the plate after dinner, there is a ring of salt and pepper that looks like a lunar eclipse. There are remains of a carcass (a zebra?) littering the table, and a brown-looking sauce that may have been once been red. Afterward the dishes go in the dishwasher, and the pots and pans fall under my jurisdiction. Lately my dish mop is resembling one of those over-zealous reporters who is too stupid to come in out of a hurricane. All the mop hairs are on one side, and only half of the pots and pans are clean.
My wife tried to get a new one at the supermarket, and there were none to be found. It's possible that there are politics involved, and somebody is not greasing the palms of our district's dish mop sales reps. We have run into this before with Cocoa Krispies. No one will stock them anymore- they are toast. Luckily we can still find bread, or bread would be toast. We looked at the hardware store, the drugstore, even the deli, no luck. Dish mops are just not in style anymore, possibly because people now do all their dish mopping online.
Which gave us the idea to look online for a dish mop. I told her to look for a "Dishmop Town," "Dishmop City," or any dishmop municipality. "DishMopsRUs.com." or a "Just Dishmops," or even "Just Dishmops, Too." We finally turned to Amazon. Yes, they had dish mops, but only in bulk. You had to buy 600 dish mops, at a total cost of $3,000. We kept looking, and eventually found one for sale, for $5.99. It was no Phyllis Diller. More like a Janeane Garofalo, not even in her prime, or a Moms Mabley. But we bought it, and with tax, shipping and handling, came to $19.29. We also got an extended warranty for $25.00, should anything go wrong within the first year. It should be here in a couple weeks, and by then I will have a lot of dirty dishes to clean.
There used to be a thing called the "Fuller Brush Man." It was a salesman who came door-to-door to sell cleaning products to a wife whose husband was not home at the time. The husband, as the theory goes, would return to find the house clean, and the wife would have a few new uses for brushes that would make your head spin. I mention this only because I would bet anything that the salesman would have had a dish mop in his sample case. But someone figured out that they had brushes at the store, and that was the end of the Fuller Brush Man.
Every time I turn around there is a new television ad for an innovative plug-in device that makes your house smell of something different than whatever it smelled like before. Now there is a motion-activated stink-swapping device that springs into action whenever you pass by, and releases a little volcano plume of potpourri into the air. I thought to myself that if the people in that commercial only had a dish mop, their house probably wouldn't smell so disgusting.
So I go on, making do with a pot scrubber, or playing dishwasher roulette, where I guess if an eating receptacle is dishwasher-safe. If I remove it after the dry cycle and it looks like it's from a Dali painting, I lose.
ps: The thing finally arrived, and because there was nothing else in the website photo to compare it to, we couldn't have known that it was only four inches long. Any five inch pots will have to fend for themselves. In all fairness, Phyllis Diller is also much shorter in person.
Incidentally, even though Alfred Fuller died in 1973, the Fuller Brush Company remains the largest employer in Barton County, Kansas. When we were young children our mother used to smack us on the behind with a hairbrush when we misbehaved, approximately 20 hours out of the day. As far as I know, the hairbrush was never used on hair, and photos of me during those years confirm this.
So the doohickey that I clean the dirty dinner plates with is apparently known as a dish mop. It looks a little like Phyllis Diller, only it's funnier. In our household, the wife cooks splendid meals every night, and the husband eats them, usually while yelling at the Yankees, an untidy combination. When I lift up the plate after dinner, there is a ring of salt and pepper that looks like a lunar eclipse. There are remains of a carcass (a zebra?) littering the table, and a brown-looking sauce that may have been once been red. Afterward the dishes go in the dishwasher, and the pots and pans fall under my jurisdiction. Lately my dish mop is resembling one of those over-zealous reporters who is too stupid to come in out of a hurricane. All the mop hairs are on one side, and only half of the pots and pans are clean.
My wife tried to get a new one at the supermarket, and there were none to be found. It's possible that there are politics involved, and somebody is not greasing the palms of our district's dish mop sales reps. We have run into this before with Cocoa Krispies. No one will stock them anymore- they are toast. Luckily we can still find bread, or bread would be toast. We looked at the hardware store, the drugstore, even the deli, no luck. Dish mops are just not in style anymore, possibly because people now do all their dish mopping online.
Which gave us the idea to look online for a dish mop. I told her to look for a "Dishmop Town," "Dishmop City," or any dishmop municipality. "DishMopsRUs.com." or a "Just Dishmops," or even "Just Dishmops, Too." We finally turned to Amazon. Yes, they had dish mops, but only in bulk. You had to buy 600 dish mops, at a total cost of $3,000. We kept looking, and eventually found one for sale, for $5.99. It was no Phyllis Diller. More like a Janeane Garofalo, not even in her prime, or a Moms Mabley. But we bought it, and with tax, shipping and handling, came to $19.29. We also got an extended warranty for $25.00, should anything go wrong within the first year. It should be here in a couple weeks, and by then I will have a lot of dirty dishes to clean.
There used to be a thing called the "Fuller Brush Man." It was a salesman who came door-to-door to sell cleaning products to a wife whose husband was not home at the time. The husband, as the theory goes, would return to find the house clean, and the wife would have a few new uses for brushes that would make your head spin. I mention this only because I would bet anything that the salesman would have had a dish mop in his sample case. But someone figured out that they had brushes at the store, and that was the end of the Fuller Brush Man.
Every time I turn around there is a new television ad for an innovative plug-in device that makes your house smell of something different than whatever it smelled like before. Now there is a motion-activated stink-swapping device that springs into action whenever you pass by, and releases a little volcano plume of potpourri into the air. I thought to myself that if the people in that commercial only had a dish mop, their house probably wouldn't smell so disgusting.
So I go on, making do with a pot scrubber, or playing dishwasher roulette, where I guess if an eating receptacle is dishwasher-safe. If I remove it after the dry cycle and it looks like it's from a Dali painting, I lose.
ps: The thing finally arrived, and because there was nothing else in the website photo to compare it to, we couldn't have known that it was only four inches long. Any five inch pots will have to fend for themselves. In all fairness, Phyllis Diller is also much shorter in person.
Incidentally, even though Alfred Fuller died in 1973, the Fuller Brush Company remains the largest employer in Barton County, Kansas. When we were young children our mother used to smack us on the behind with a hairbrush when we misbehaved, approximately 20 hours out of the day. As far as I know, the hairbrush was never used on hair, and photos of me during those years confirm this.
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