Grimly Fiendish

I have been humbled by something as ridiculously dainty as pastry. There's a blow to my machismo. While trying to make empanadas, I cooked up the filling with no issue, in fact, it is delicious-combined a few different recipe suggestions to come up with my own, and was feeling pretty pleased with myself-the white wine substituting for chicken broth came out very nice indeed. But then came the pastry...

Now I have had people tell me that pastry is tricky, and it's an art, and it requires a certain feel, and blah blah blah. In fact, at gourmet.com, they have this to say about pastry. "Pastry is notoriously persnickety and usually requires exact measurements and precise handing in order to turn out well." Well damn, Guess they were right. It was downright fiendishly "persnickity". One could almost say it was really f-in' persnickety. Stuck to the roller, stuck to the counter, then it was too dry and flaky, then it broke apart, then the egg wash didn't do what it was supposed to do so I could pinch the edges...I may have sworn a few times. Maybe.

Anyway, I salvaged a couple of them to bake tomorrow, but I can pretty much tell they're not going to be right. On the plus side, I have lots of filling left over, and am gonna have some kick ass burritos out of the deal-along with a cilantro/lime sour cream spread for it. And furthermore, after three or four mojitos, who's gonna care anyway?

But if anyone out there is good at pastry, and wants to give a neophyte a few pointers, I'm all ears...and flour and sticky dough.

Fever In The Funkhouse Now

More ruminations on my favorite recent re-release, as I listen to it for about the 20th time since it's street date....

How the hell does anyone even think about topping "Rocks Off" as a way to start a record? The guitar line comes in with a nice little riff, and then a quick "oh yeah", and Mr.Riff-hard grinds it out, the horns kick in, Nicky Hopkins and that sainted piano, Jagger at the high water mark of his abilities, both vocally and lyrically, and all the while being nailed down by the steadiest drummer in the world, period. If you can't shake your ass to that, give it up, you're dead. Kick me like you kicked before, indeed.

And then, because someone needed to demonstrate that there was a song that could make people jump around and act like a bigger idiots, they roll straight into Rip This Joint, which you know damned good and well was REM's inspiration for the End Of The World As We Know It...except they did it too slow. The frenetic pace, the word play-it is a gas, gas, gas.

Mister President, Mister Immigration Man,
Let me in, sweetie, to your fair land.
I'm Tampa bound and Memphis too,
Short Fat Fanny is on the loose.
Dig that sound on the radio,
Then slip it right across into Buffalo.
Dick and Pat in ole D.C.,
Well they're gonna hold some shit for me

And just why the hell didn't ZZ Top get the holy hell sued out of them for copping Hip Shake and calling it La Grange? I mean, it isn't the most original riff in the world, but Christ they lifted it pretty much note for note.

I met a little girl,,,in a country town
she say whaddya know...there's Slim Harpo
didn't move her head...din't move her hands
din't move her lips....just shake her hips

Anyway, the whole first side is just a buttshaking experience, even Casino Boogie, which is one of the weaker on the whole shooting match, is a rump moving riff machine. And then it's Tumbling Dice, and what a great way to end a side, huh? There are bands that spend twenty years trying to come up with one song as good as these, and the whole damned side is filled with'em. I'm not sure if that should be viewed as inspirational, or depressing for the aspiring musician!

All Down The Line

Batten the hatches, boys and girls. It's about as silly as can be, but I haven't been this excited about a new release since...well, since Some Girls in 1978. And this is just a reissue. I say "just", but as noted in a previous posting, it is this humble blogger's opinion that Exile On Main Street is the greatest start to finish rock and roll record ever made. It's big, it's sloppy, it's murky, it's dirty (very), it's mumbled, it's awash in a drug induced haze, it is everything I love about rock and roll.

Take your Abbey Road/Pink Floyd/technical perfection and tell it to Mozart. Rock and roll is a euphemism for sex folks, and as Woody Allen famously pointed out, sex is only dirty if it's done right. And let's face it, nobody is gonna think about sex with Comfortably Numb playing, now are they? ("Oh dear, I'm all numb..dead from the waist down, as it were")

So, onto the reissue. Thankfully, they didn't clean it up too much. And this is why I'm excited. Had an incredible fear that you'd actually be able to tell what Jagger was singing on Let It Loose, or for that matter any of the damned songs. He once said Fats Domino told him the only parts you should be able to figure out are the choruses (a la Blueberry Hill) and he stuck to it on Tumbling Dice. Hell he could be singing verses of the bible for most of the record, and you wouldn't know it.

So, yeah, the drum sound is a bit clearer, the bottom end a bit more forceful, but the mass of horns, the gospel choirs, Nicky Hopkins and that wonderful piano (just pounding on Soul Survivor) Mick Taylor and the slide, are all still just hitting you in the head, in all their massed (and massive glory). I don't even give a damn about the "bonus" tracks. As long as they didn't screw up the real deal, I am happy...and they didn't. Oh joy.

On a side note, it would be a mistake not to point out the one serious foul up. What's with the packaging? No postcards, the inner sleeves aren't reproduced. Might have to see what the Japanese do-they always do these things right!

Just Wanna See His Face

My religious views tend to be...oh, not quite the standard operational western variety. I mention this because I had a discussion last night about this very topic-and found that I had a hard time articulating exactly what it was I did believe.

So, here's me, religion, god (or if you prefer, God), spirituality, (ir)reverence, yin/yang, and perhaps a little hoo-doo thrown in, just to keep the hellhounds off my trail.

I was born a small black child...no that joke's been used already...I was actually born into the Church of England, though for the majority of my early childhood, we really didn't do much with church.

My first recollections of going to church were in South Carolina, at which time I was expected to go to Sunday School, and sing in the choir. I was prepared to sing in the choir, because they promised me free soda. Everything has a price.

To say I was unimpressed with my initial exposure is a bit of an understatement. Though I do remember going to a synagogue on some kind of cross-faith Sunday school venture, and thinking that Judaism might be the thing for me, as I wouldn't have to give up my Sundays. The notion that the Saturday trade off might not be a winner didn't occur to me at the time, I just knew that there had to be better things to do with my time than spending hours hearing about some chap no one could see, that supposedly went around fixing what to me, even then, seemed like a pretty messed up place. Frankly I felt this god fellow wasn't doing a very good job, and perhaps someone should start looking at either replacing him, or at the very least hiring an administrative assistant or something.

Fast forward a few years to England-I never actually attended church regularly at St.Wilfrids' (the local church in the village), but on the plus side, I did become a bell-ringer. I have to say, learning how to work the ropes in the belfry was great fun for a curious 12 year old. We learned how to strike the hour, and more impressively, how to do rounds. Très cool.

After my return stateside, there really was no further family push to get me into religion. I think they'd arrived at the conclusion that either the boy was going to find "it" on his own, or he wouldn't, but pushing him would just annoy him and cause the heels to be dug in harder. This was correct on the parental units part.

So I wandered forward in my godless, oblivious fashion, not asking too many questions, and not seeking any answers, until...and this is kind of funny...I got my first copy of Jethro Tull's Aqualung. I reproduce the liner notes for your pleasure (and certainly infringe on someone's copyright)

1 In the beginning Man created God; and in the image of Man created he him.

2 And Man gave unto God a multitude of names,that he might be Lord of all
the earth when it was suited to Man.

3 And on the seven millionth day Man rested and did lean heavily on his God and saw that it was good.

4 And Man formed Aqualung of the dust of the ground, and a host of others likened unto his kind.

5 And these lesser men were cast into the void; And some were burned, and some were put apart from their kind.

6 And Man became the God that he had created and with his miracles did rule over all the earth.

7 But as all these things came to pass, the Spirit that did cause man to create his God lived on within all men: even within Aqualung.

8 And man saw it not.

9 But for Christ's sake he'd better start looking.

Well this just changed my whole ballgame. Here was someone articulating a lot of what I felt, even if I had failed to explain it to even myself. The entire organized religion just seemed like a way to keep everyone in line, and really has f-all to do with the real meat and potatoes of god, a supreme being, spiritual truth or what have you.

The notion that an all knowing God would pick a small tribe in the middle east as his favorites, is silly. And while we're at it, so are the following. Having a son, so he can be whacked up on a chunk of wood, thus making everyone forgiven for the naughtiness, or talking to an Arab gent, and later having him ride a horse up a beam of light into heaven. It's daft. Eight armed gods in India, flying spaghetti monsters on the internet, sun gods pulling chariots across the sky *sigh*. It is all hooey to me.

But yet...if you ask me if I think there is some god, or spirit, I will answer in the affirmative. I certainly don't pretend to know it's nature, but I think it is safe to say that it is not a direct intercessor. I think that people are rewarded for good deeds, and ultimately, be it cosmically, or in the material world, punished for being schmucks.
In my conversation, we touched upon prayer, and whether or not I thought it was a good thing or bad thing. I think it can't hurt, particularly if it makes you feel better. I'm not sure that god is going to fulfill a wishlist, but again, with the karmic thing, I think if you are working hard enough, and hoping hard enough for the RIGHT thing, you just might find that things turn unexpectedly your way. And I suppose that is at least a mild endorsement for the power of prayer.

As I look back over what I've written above, I could go back and change a few things, but I'm not going to. I meant no offence to those who do believe in chosen people, sacrificed sons, or magical horse rides, but felt I have to be true to me, and express my own serious reservations about those things. I think they're fantastical stories meant to woo the masses with their miraculous nature. And I'm not buying at that deli counter.

On an unrelated side note, I've been listening to my blog's name sake LP while typing this. I must state it clearly: Exile On Main Street is the greatest rock and roll album ever. Period. No room for argument, cram your Beatles, Dylan, Nirvana, or anyone else you want to throw out there. They just aren't in the picture.

Merry Christmas

So, I was thinking again (dangerous, isn't it?), and the thought occurred to me that people are like Christmas presents. And the onus here isn't on the women/men being viewed as the presents, but rather it is on the men/women that think of them as such.

The prevailing thought process is that we're all adults, and we're all mature, and by gum, if you have the prettiest package in the world, or just a plain brown wrapper, it really doesn't matter, because what does matter is what's inside, right? And just about everyone loves to say that. You hear it all the time. "Great personality", "wonderful sense of humor", "insightful, intelligent rapier mind" and so on. To not say that the ugly duckling can be a swan-well by God, it's shallow! But the truth is, most people simply don't mean it. Hell, I don't, so I'm certainly not climbing up on some pedestal as a representation of what is good and righteous in the world. You simply can't blame people for this. All I'm pointing out is the God's honest truth, as opposed to the saccharin concept of inner beauty. Let's face it, if the box looks like one of Santa's reindeer gave it a good kick, most people aren't too interested in the present.

So there's the rub-we (as in most of us) are still mostly fascinated by what's on the outside. If you're looking under the tree, the package that gets your attention is the one with the right shape, the right wrapping, the right bit of heft...and then you open it to discover it's all wrong, or even worse, it isn't even remotely similar to what you'd expected. It's a deluxe box of Band-Aids, not an I-Pod! And it happens to us time and time again. Oh look, someone got me the new CD I wanted...nooooo, they got me a cut-price cd-rom computer game, that looked like a music CD when in its pretty paper...

And don't try to tell me that people and their expectations of each other are any damned different. We build this fantasy vision of what a person is like based on how much we like the way they look, or in this digital age, how much we like the way we THINK they look. And we do it over, and over, and over. Pavlov would be disheartened.

As noted, I'm as guilty of it as anyone-there's no stones being thrown. I was just driving in the rain the other day, pondering this human condition. Which is really quite a mess, methinks.

Regardless, I think a little honesty with ourselves would go along way. So next time you're congratulating yourself on how wonderful you are, and how you're really interested in someone new because of what a neat person they are, think about it. Would you really be as enthused about this "wonderful" person if they looked like Amy Winehouse or Karl Malden? The short answer of course is "no". The slightly longer answer is "hell no".





Sometimes I really am just a shower of the brown smelly stuff, it's true.

It's just that demon life, has got me in it's sway

Quick thought, before a grumble about the weekend: Dogs are better than people.

Consider: How often do you take a dog into your house as your lifelong (well at least his or her life) friend, and end up seeking a divorce? How long a grudge does a dog hold if you forget dinner? Or if you're late? What if you want to go out with another friend. Oh sure, they'll jump around at the door as you leave, but they won't give you the cold shoulder when you get home...for DAYS. And has the dog ever complained because you want to watch something else on the tube?

OK, so on the downside, they're lacking in conversational skills. But considering the inanity of a lot of human conversation, is that really such a bad thing?

Spent the weekend working around the house, doing a lot, and yet feeling as though more was just piling up behind me. A lot like quicksand-the more I would do, the more I seemed to uncover to do. On the accomplishment list, straightened up the garage (somewhat-still have some stuff being stored that will wander off before too long, I hope), jet-washed most of the back patio, weeded the back garden, put up a temporary fence to keep the aforementioned pooches off of the daylillies, picked up and planted a variety of hostas, ferns, astilbes, and junipers, as well as planting an array of other previously acquired plants, did the laundry, cleaned up the kitchen, bbq'd, hit the pool twice (including, and this did pump me up big time, completing a mile non-stop), began to clean out the music room...and ran out of time. And to be fair, energy.

My plea- I need someone to come over, rub my aching back and knees and feed me grapes-because aside from conversation, that happens to be another thing dogs aren't so good at!

Anyway, had a nice dinner with Mom (and Dad, and nephew and Bob and his mom, too) and I am now going to do more in the music room...maybe.

Love Minus Zero/No Limit

Random rumblings from a rough morning...

Big discovery this morning. Sleeping without my CPAP machine after an evening's libations is ill-advised. I feel like I have swallowed a cat. With it's claws intact. Did I mention the cat was in a bad mood at the time it was swallowed?

So, on that note, I must now concede the following to old age...losing weight isn't going to get me off that infernal machine.

And another thing...why is it I always end up with this malaise, kind of a feeling of slight regret after a night on the tiles? Don't get me wrong, it isn't strong enough to make me not do it again (and again), but it is an odd sensation. One I've had since my teens. Is this normal? Maybe it's just due to not having had the best night's sleep. Hmmmm

But, on the plus side of the equation, I am going to get Simon this morning. And pancakes. I've missed the little fellow, and I love breakfast. A good recovery from a bad start.

But it will be brief. After essentially taking a weekend off from being responsible diet-wise, I'm going to have to recommit (right after breakfast, that is) and regain focus. I've reached the 50lb mark, which means...another 70 or so and I'm there-now that's depressing to type!