Peace on Earth and Good Will Toward Men.

Any gift I buy for Xmas tends to be food. Why? Because you can't really go wrong with that. If you know the person you are purchasing for, you don't have to wrack your brains to find “the right gift.” A few packs of Klondike Bars may just be the ticket for someone. 

There's a local butcher nearby where I was shopping today. I needed a pile of Italian cut meats for a PigFest we're having tomorrow. There's no pig. We're the pigs. We're shoving fat, salt and grease into our mouths in celebration.

When I'm in a line, I tend to drift, let my mind go visit old movies, silly fantasies and what not. I keep that 20% of my brain online in order to hear the butcher's help call out, “Serving 22, Who's 22?” This time my peaceful un-mindfulness was disturbed by an altercation that turned out humorous.

“Whaddayamean you don't have pearl onions?” says the irate customer. She is about 50, overdressed for a butchery and has a slight smell of Anglo/Protestant/Barrington/Long Island to her. I could smell the haughtiness to her though, that stunck.

The teen clerk was trying to be as helpful as she could but couldn't get the fact that the butcher shop does not specialize in groceries to this angry women. The little teen girl was of slight build and probably didn't have too much experience in the way of dealing with idiot customers. “But you could go to Stop & Shop...it's not even a couple of miles from here in Seekonk.” The girl sheepishly says.

“But I'm HERE NOW.” the women says. She was putting her foot down!

We in the line are goofing on this women. Every now and then, we shoot knowing looks to one another about the imbeciles you meet in life.

Finally the owner comes out. I think all butchers are required to wear white aprons, to show you the blood they've been dealing with all day. “See? My meat is fresh!” It was bleeding on me just ten minutes ago!”

“Can I help you” says the butcher. This guy has a look of exasperation on his face. These past few and next day will be hell for him as everyone shows up demanding their Xmas crown roasts and tenderloins. He was schlepping cuts of meat as fast as he could these past few days, I'm sure.

We hear the repeated request for pearl onions, to which the butcher replies he stocks meat and meat products in his store, not veggies. He then vouches for the girl's idea of going to the Stop & Shop down the road. All of two miles.

“I want to talk to the manager!” the bitch threatens.

“I AM THE OWNER!” the butcher replies, losing his cool. “IF YOU WANT PEARL ONIONS, GO TO GODDAMN STOP & SHOP AND GET THEM THERE! THIS...IS A BUTCHER SHOP!”

The women stands there shocked, unable to move or respond.

“FORGET IT! GET OUT OF MY SHOP! IF I SEE YOU IN HERE AGAIN, I'M HAVING YOU ARRESTED!”'

She finally gets the message and quickly beats an escape out the door.

You've met these people and I hope you aren't one of them. Those who love to Lord their “The customer is always right” power over others. Well, for once, I got to see one of these little Napoleons get their faces rubbed in the dirt.

Anyways, I got my greasy mortadella, salami and other great stuff. On the way home, I started robbing it already, popping slices of salami in my mouth at the red light.

Slinky

 

Click the Toy and See

 

 

 

I've probably told of all of the Christmas stories I can here. So I'm going to try to remember every damn Christmas I can since I was born.

I'll start at five since I can't remember any before hand.

Five was great. I came down the stairs and the living room was piled high with gifts. I do have to remind myself I was a little under four feet tall then so the perspective made it seem like a huge haul.

I got the latest tech toy then available, Lite Brite. To me at the time, it was a Star Wars light saber. I can remember sitting in the dark, shoving those plastic pegs into the black pattern you snapped into place under the frame. Pretty colors! Simple things for simple minds!

I also got a Slinky. They still make them I have found out. Of course I tried to make it go down the stairs like you saw in the commercial but all I got was a clattering sound of spring steel crashing down the stairwell. I kept at it, thinking I'd get the hang of it eventually, till the noise pissed off everyone in the house and told me to stop. The old commercial for it used stop motion photography but when you're five, you believe all you see on TV. I had no clue as to what scam was being pulled over me. Even so, Slinky was still fun in other ways, like twisting it into odd shapes and making it bounce. In the late 60's, there were no real regulations to control the safety of toys. Slinky was made of spring steel that wasn't entirely polished. This became a problem as that Christmas night I had gotten the Slinky stuck in my hair from rolling it around on my head. Hey, this is how five year old boys experiment! Mom's scissors saved me.

In college, we were sitting around, between classes and we'd come up with ditty's from old songs, just to make ourselves giggle.

The old Slinky commercial lyrics went:

What walks down stairs, alone or in pairs

and makes a slinkity sound?

A spring, a spring, a marvelous thing!

Everyone knows it's Slinky.

We re-worked it.

What falls down the stairs

when pushed from his wheelchair

and makes a crotchety sound?

It wheezes!

It sneezes!

It's full of diseases!

Everyone knows it's Granpa!

This is what bored 20 something college kids, who are working towards various degrees, laugh at.

My sixth Christmas I can't remember too well. I do remember a friend coming down the street in his new hockey ice skates. There was no ice on the road so he was crunching the steel blades, dulling and probably bending them the whole way to my house to show me. I was standing by the picture window, hearing him gloat over this gift when his Dad showed up, bitching that he “spent GOOD money on those” and not to have him ruin them by walking on concrete and tar with them.

7,8.9,10,11 go by with a blur.

Twelve and Christmas eve had my family in East Providence's Palm Restaurant. The motif was palm trees and a sort of Magaritaville-esque set up. I thought it odd my Dad wanted to eat there as it was a very tacky place to be at on Christmas Eve. Oh well. We came home and I saw, what I thought and out of fantasy, was a Bethlehem Star in the East. As I awaited for Mom to unlock the kitchen door, I looked at it and wondered. In all rights, it was probably just the star Sirius rising. But when your a kid and it's Christmas, you are allowed to let your mind wander.

13-14...another blur.

At fifth-teen I was well past the age of receiving toys. Though a tiny part of me wanted to have something fun. You give up the last remnants of your childhood hard. But at 15 I discovered something else, adult gifts were killer too.

I had received a real Merino wool sweater. Not only that, it was a cool color and pattern. I understood at once what this meant: “I didn't have to pay for it!” Grown-up lesson #234/b4...clothing, gift certificates and plain CASH was a great gift, even though the era of getting toys was over.

I can remember giving my brother the two album set of Joe's Garage by Zappa for Xmas that year. It blew me out of my money too. Just released two album sets were damned expensive back then. No matter, he played along with it for two months straight I came to find out.

16,17...blur

At eighteen I told you already somewhere in the past on this blog. It was the Night Jimmy Keough Terrorized Our Neighborhood with his 1972, 500cc clunker station wagon with no exhaust.

Nineteen was damned interesting, for it's adult nature. I spent that day in the lobby of Butler Hospital admitting my Mom due to a vicious, spiraling attack of severe depression. What was weird, I wasn't the only one there admitting family members that day. This was Destroyed Christmas #1 I experienced. I wasn't really thrown for a loop, I saw it coming. It was the timing that was odd. Seeing psychiatrist's stop each other in those halls to wish one another a “Merry Christmas” was bizarre to me though. But this is their garage, they're used to it

20-23 was a blur except for discovering that Asians couldn't give a damn for Christmas and they keep their bars open that night. My friend M and I discovered this and duly got looped on these occasions. I also found out what the Jews do on that day too, the very same thing, as the Christian world comes to a complete HALT on Christmas. Where else to go but to pagan Chinese restaurants?

24 to..damn 31..another blur...no particular memories. Though somewhere in there I gave Kathy a good container of raw shrimp, along with other gifts for her. She held up the plastic container of shrimp, then at me, kinda funny, when I said, “But you LOVE shrimp...you adore it! You talk about it all the time!” Sheesh...some girls can't appreciate it when a guy pays attention to the little details of their lives, and purchase the appropriate gift! Ha! Or the time I gave another Kathy a few bags of Doritos, along with the other gifts. “Dammit Ron! I'm on a diet...you KNOW I can't help but eat the whole BAG!”

Once again: “But you LOVE Doritos....etc.”

At thirty-two for some reason I can remember blaring Roger Waters “In the Flesh” CD my brother had given me. It was also that day when I had concocted a Robert Sauce for the tenderloin I was cooking. Robert Sauce was demi-glace, Dijon mustard, scallions, white wine. Simmer it down to near nothing and it's velvety stuff. My brother wanted to use a straw to suck it up with. He asked, “Can I get some more GRAVY?” I thought: “God...gravy he calls it...”

After that, the Christmas's became pretty pedestrian, except for a few notable differences in the people that have come and gone from my life. Newer ones come, older ones go and some remain. I like the lights, the competition some of my neighbor's have trying to outdo one another. The boxes of Chocolate Cherries with liquid centers that are pretty disgusting in their own sweetness. Ditto for ribbon candy. I like some of the Christmas music as long as I'm not saturated with it. Instead of C7 Christmas light bulbs, we have gallium-arsenide LED ones that are computer controlled. That and a simple game of Monopoly costs over $30 now.

So the years tick off and the Christmas's tick off as well. The people I've known are another year older, grayer and perhaps more fine lines in their faces. At this age, a Christmas Eve means we pull out the “good” stuff and sit, drink and stuff our faces with food. That ain't bad.

But, Christmas as a five year old, when you come down the stairs and see the proof that Santa WAS there, was great. Even if the Slinky was a bit of a BS toy, everything else was perfect.



Goddamn Kids!

Not too long ago I was talking with M.V. about local restaurants. We were purposely making ourselves hungry thinking of the various foods we could eat. It was self temptation, much like looking at porn. One place came up was the East Side Checker Club that was run by Ray Mathieu. 

 

Ray Mathieu finally retired from it at 95 years of age. He started it when he was 30. That means the Checker Club was long in operation even before I was born.   MV said he had gotten tired of the place, as it still looked the same as it did in 1969 and still had the same menu. “Not only that, I feel as if I'm walking into the Q-Tip Club when I used to go there.” he said.

“Q-Tip Club?” I thought. Then I got it. The restaurant was a favorite for retirees for years. The elderly just love predictability. Then I took a slight insult at that nickname...I have had a head of blinding white hair since I was 35. In a sense, I've been a member of the Q-Tip Club since I was that age.

MV didn't seem to notice the off handed remark. Once again I was reminded of how this mop on my head makes me look much older.

As a kid my family would go to the Checker Club. I hated it. The food was far too spiced for a five year old kid and my parents would always order for me the same damned dish, half a chicken with pasta. Today, I can shove Tabasco covered popcorn into my mouth but that's from eating and experiencing highly seasoned foods for years. As a little kid, adult seasoned food was like a grenade going off in my mouth. Too much!

I'd sit there and pick and slowly eat that chicken, trying to find ways to not eat it. No such luck. Parents are there to cajole you into eating it all. I did find one way of getting out of it. I'd deftly sneak the half eaten chicken into a gap between the booth and the wall. I managed this several times when we went out on Fridays.

Ray Mathieu usually stood at the entrance to greet any guest that arrived. One time, he directed my family to an open table on the other side of the restaurant claiming the “booths were full.”

After being seated, my Dad, peering to the other side, noticed some booths were open and wondered aloud why we were seated here.

As usual, I had to go to the men's room, if just to move my legs. I hated sitting still for any length of time then. I passed Ray who was standing guard at the entrance and I guess I reminded him. He said to another employee, in not a quiet enough voice: “That's him. He's the one that's been hiding the food.”

As I was in the men's room, I was sort of shocked he had nailed the right person who was putting half eaten chicken into the booth's gap. I went back to our table after acting as if I never heard a word. I then figured out why we were put in the open area. There's no way in hell I could sneak food anywhere there.

I gave myself a private laugh as we rode home after. I tried to imagine Ray, searching high and low for that awful, rotting chicken stink that must've permeating his restaurant. You really had to look hard because those gaps in the booth were just about two to three inches wide and very dark. I guess Ray decided to follow his nose on that one. Whew!

I'll admit to this one too. I once managed to lock the private stalls in the men's room. I found myself alone in them and it was the perfect set up. I'd go into one and act as if I was using it and and slide the dead bolt lock on the door. I then slithered out underneath the foot wide gap at the bottom of the partition, but I never did release the dead bolt lock. I did the same for the next stall. I was probably eight when I did that one.

I chuckled to myself when I imagined customers who were ready to burst and couldn't get the stall open. After about ten minutes, Ray was being summoned to the men's rooms. I overheard one customer say, “Ray, I can't figure it out. BOTH doors are locked!” Ray goes in and I suppose he tries to slide under but no go. I then see him get the dishwasher, a smallish teen to do the job.

As my family went to the coatroom to get our coats, I swear Ray shot me a look for half a second.

 

**

Checker Club was closed down on Ray's retirement but then was bought out and rehabbed. I plan on going there tonight. A warning to the new owner. I will hide food and lock your men's room up if I don't think the food is of high quality.

 

 

Poor Ray. He never did me any harm in  his life and I manage to torment him.

Disco Sucks!

 

 

Soul Train Logo

...or as my brother used to call it, “Soul Bus.”

I can pinpoint the month when all of radio sucked. That was February 1978. Every station in this area had switched over to Disco. The only other FM stations available were classical or some odd parallel broadcast of AM talk radio. 94HJY hadn't been born yet and WAAF out of Worcester barely came in. It was a dark time.

We had on the latest stereo system, a Radio Shack Realistic where you spun the dial and the needle would go up and down the radio spectrum. There was channel surfing even then. I can remember, sitting in disgust trying to find something. I'd eventually settle for the least offensive disco song and try, try to groove out to that.

“Groove out to that...” God, I still speak in 70's lingo sometimes. I still even say, “Can you dig it?”

 

 

Soul music was born in Motown, which was enjoying a resurgence in the early to mid 70's after all the doo-wop bands had run their course in the 60's. WPRO which has always played Top 40 Chick music, played soul constantly. I know, it was of the few stations that came on my pocket radio. I'd get my balls busted for listening to it if out in the street with my friends. I'd then demand to find a station that came in that had music, besides f'ing 55 WGNG.

The TV show Soul Train used to come on after the cartoon line up on Saturday mornings and I'd roll my eyes. Soul Train signaled the dearth of decent TV programming for the rest of the day. But I'd watch it anyway, or at least as background noise. Once in a great while, I'd stop and pay attention to a song I actually enjoyed. What I didn't know then was that this was setting up the Disco invasion once whites started to steal it. (An aside: I have nothing but disdain for Deney Terrio, the MC for Solid Gold. I used to shout at the TV, along with my brother, about what a greasy spaccone he was. God, I can remember his horrid 70's disco haircut, the widow's peak feathered job. “Shut up! You Greaser! Get off the TV!)

So, out of Soul comes Disco...thanks LA recording industry...anything for a buck, right?

Now looking back on it, with some maturity (I hope) many of those songs in Soul genre weren't bad at all. Yes, like all new movements in music, there's a ton of schlock and a few gems, precious few gems. Too bad Soul Train and soul in general was morphed into half a decade of sickening Disco dance music. I was no major lover of New Wave when it came in, but it's greatest feat was to push Disco off the radar screen.

I actually like this song now...and I did then too, even with that Disco beat sneaking in. Like I said, some song were OK by me.

 

Rock Your Baby! Click and Groove!

And if you think I hated Disco..watch this: Disco Demolition Night

 

 

 

 Watch Comiskey Park Lose it.

“All moments, past, present and future, always have existed, and always will exist.”

-Slaughterhouse Five

 

 

Across that water there is Seekonk. It's dawn, 28 degrees, windy and my nose is running from the cold. I haven't changed in decades. My nose ran then and will still do so in the cold. In a couple of weeks, I'll wake up with great nosebleeds due to the low dewpoints. I've always have done so. My pillow cases can look like Lincoln's head rested on them.

I haven't been on a health kick since two years ago when I peddled all over this area on a bike and I figured, “Let's see if I can still at least climb over tree trunks, scramble up some hills and down escarpments to the lake.” It turns out I can still. Heart rate and breathing didn't climb as I thought it would. It will one day though.

So, I enjoy it for now.

I enjoy the stillness at dawn, here in these woods, the last vestiges that at one time, covered all of Pawtucket. The only thing you can hear out here is the wind, sparrows, your own foot falls in the leaves and perhaps the occasional plane overhead curving it's way to approach TF Green. Out here, all you have is yourself and if you stay long enough, and I mean long, you lose that too. But for now, the quiet morning is enough. I came out here as a kid probably just for that reason alone, but was unaware of it.

I've walked these woods since I was a kid and fell in love with them. Today as I walked on, I saw fields, paths and old structures I played around when I was a child. The same WPA work project that walled in the river, the old pumping wells for East Providence water and the 1863 railroad that passes through. They are an anchor, a tangible, fixed spot where I can see myself when I was a boy. That past hasn't melted and blended away into nothingness yet. There are markers still.

There's one marker I came across I designed myself then, a rather naughty one but typical of 12 year old boys. I had forgotten it was there as I don't think of it till I come across it every few years or so. You have to navigate some wetlands to get to it. The maker? I had carved a tree with a profanity.

 

 

Thirty-eight years ago (38)..Jesus! I had carved the tree above with the word “Fuck.” The diamond pattern above that? I have no idea now why I carved it. Whoever Tim 'n' Shannon are I don't know. That came not too long after my masterpiece.

1976. I had purchased a small jack knife from Pinault's Pharmacy on Armistice and Newport Ave with a fake bone handle. The blade perhaps was three inches in length. I had no practical reason to have one, except to be like the other boys that owned one. My parents didn't know so it was nice secret to have to myself. Barring your parents from parts of your life means you own that part of you, not them. A burgeoning independence? Sure! So was carving FUCK onto a tree with my secret jacknife. Pre-teen rebellion starting it's career, to be followed by near felonious behavior by us boys in the years to come. Real rebellion comes at sixteen.

In my walk this morning, I searched for this tree. I knew it was hard by a small stream but other trees like it had sprung up over the years. I'm not sure of the type but the bark is thin, smooth and the tree seems to want to live right on high water tables where the mud could swallow you up to your knees. Today it was dry enough to walk on. I kept looking among others that had sprouted up through the years for the one tree. No luck. All these newer trees made things confusing. I then searched for the oldest and tallest and I found one. I scanned the bark and no carving. I began to think that the bark, over the decades, healed itself over. “Ah well, things pass...everything does.” I said to myself.

But, lower on down the stream I found a lone, large tree of the same species. As I moved around it, there it was. My work of art.

I saw that twelve year old boy who carved it. Long, 1976 hair to his shoulders, wearing wire rim Elton John type glasses you'd see from his Honky Chateau album (Yes, I had them) dressed in Sears Wrangler jeans and a LOUD Beach Boys-type stripped button down shirt, tails un-tucked of course, I'm twelve!

I remember that day. It was a brilliantly hot May afternoon. I was with Jimmy and we were enjoying the after school time we had by screwing around these woods. Carving, trying to catch the frogs in the stream and knowing school was going to be over in a few short weeks. Freedom.

That boy...me, as he was carving, never once stopped to think a 50 year old version of himself would be there to look upon it in the future.

But that 50 year old did.

If the tree isn't cut down, or diseased, perhaps it'll last another 38 years...and perhaps that insulting carving will too.

*****

I'm not alone in making monuments to myself. Further south in these woods are large “pudding stone” boulders. Theses giant rocks were pushed by the ice ages past and dropped wherever they may. One I found years ago, that has chiseled into it, “F.R.B. - 1909.”

Whoever FRB was/is I don't know. But he spent some time with his chisel set to let the world know he was there, that he mattered, for a while at least.

And finally from Kurt's Slaughterhouse a bit of advice...

“That's one thing Earthlings might learn to do, if they tried hard enough: Ignore the awful times and concentrate on the good ones.”

 

 

Good Grief!

Back in 1999, 60 Minutes Steve Kroft had an interview with Charles Schulz, the creator of Peanuts. It was one year before he'd retire the 50 year old comic strip and gave a surprising revelation as well. I saw it and Schulz looked and acted like I expected him to, an elderly Midwestern man, with all that simple forthrightness they have there in middle America. What you see, is what you get. Compare that to us Yankee New Englanders, who are as calculating and wary as hell.

Any decent interviewer will play armchair psychologist as he explores his mark. Kroft was no different. Kroft finally asks, after saying most cartoonists are drawing themselves, is Charlie Brown really Charles Schulz? Schulz stalls, his eyes getting glassier and glassier, and with almost that first tear ready to drop, responds with a crackled, “y-yes.”

Kroft gets Schulz to admit he was that Charlie Brown as a kid.

Schulz apparently had no happy childhood. He sucked in school and managed to fail every subject in the 8^th grade. He sucked at sports, but joined the school's golf team and blew the only game that mattered, the season's final, greatest match. Afterwards, he managed to lose the consolation golf match too.

He had relatively few friends in school and once said he'd be astonished if anyone of them said “Hi” to him after school hours, should they meet by chance. He wasn't a bullies target then, just completely forgotten as a dull, nearly transparent mediocrity.

Schulz's only saving grace was that he could draw and even with that, his younger contemporaries thought it uninspired. Well, we all knew what happened after that. He created probably, for it's time, the most popular strip ever.

*****

Nothing changes. As kids and as adults, we're always jockeying for position on that hierarchy of the social ladder. For myself? I've been up and down it and stayed relatively in the middle now for decades.

I once knew, as all of you did, one of those kids who seemed perpetually on the lowest rung. The one I knew back in 3^rd grade was Kevin. It seemed he could do nothing right and when he did manage a “win” and expected laurels for it, everyone else dismissed it as insignificant. Kids are bastards! So are some adults now that I think of it.

As I remember him, he wore to school a lot of those Hanes tee shirts. He didn't have a collared shirt or anything on top of it. Plus, those Hanes shirts weren't white but a grimy gray. I guess Mom or whoever did the laundry never did learn about Clorox. He also wore what we called Janitor's pants. Those old army olive-drab green Dickies. The only guys who wore them were metal machinists we'd see around town. Old WW2 veteran guys with crew cuts, chomping cigars, dirty and their work clothes smelled of 3-in-1 oil.

Add to that, Kevn's skin wasn't too fun to look at either, it was layered with dead skin cells and dirt.

When we all left 3^rd grade and moved onto 4^th, usually the previous class was held together for the next grade. We were surprised to find out that Kevin wasn't with us again. We find a bit later he had moved away. Kevin was forgotten quickly as dead.

I saw him again without recognizing when I was just about to enter high school. This guy comes up to me, holding out his hand and saying “Hi.” He remembered me easily though. He looked well dressed, clean and he had to remind me of who he was.

He had told me he did move away back then and later moved into his Uncle's family. I had asked him why he was in this field where we teens would hang out and he said he was there to scout out locations for the next radio controlled airplane race/contest. He belonged to the Rhode Island chapter of it and was rated in the top ten fliers. He then went onto say he did very well with math and was hoping to join the Air Force one day. He probably did.

As I was talking to him, I did what everyone else does when meeting someone from the past, you pick up where you left off. I was initially scornful but that was melting fast as he told me his story. Inside myself, I felt I was becoming defensive against this rising star, or already risen star who had a list of accomplishments. The kicker was that I realized this kid had crawled out of the pit he was in and was now sitting on whatever top five rungs of the social ladder he belonged too. It was threatening to me. This guy was now a viable competitor.

He left after looking around and I wondered how he went from LOSER to a confident young teen. I was impressed and a bit dumbfounded by his transformation. The feeling inside of me was, “How did he manage that?”

Good for him. Good for Schulz too.

Night Train

Do you drink wine? I didn't for years because the Irish have no history of wine making, just stump whiskey. I grew up around Jameson's and beer, both made from grain. When I first tried wine it reminded me of bad vinegar. Yuck!

To tell the truth, I had no idea how to buy it, what to buy as there were a million brands and all claimed to be the best. The ones I did purchase at times were awful. If I drank half of it, I usually ended up with a whomping headache the next day. I ended up using the rest of the wine for cooking and if I didn't use that, I poured it down the sink.

I finally learned about wine at J&W many years ago. We were required to take an introductory enology class taught by this guy named Bartlett Poury. I have to admit this guy did know his wines as he was a sommelier for high-end restaurants in Europe and the US. He was one of these guys, if you put a flight of varied wines before him, blindfolded, could tell you the variety, vineyard and the maker. It's a hell of a talent to have.

He also was a master at something else. He was excellent at snobbery and contempt. I'm sure he learned that pouring wines for the rich and famous during his career. At times during the class, he'd manage to offer his disdainful opinion on people, ideas or political leanings. with his nose properly turned up. He called democracy “mob rule” once. I figured he missed his calling as a faithful servant to British aristocracy when it ran America back then. The only thing that mattered to him, were Classical music, Classical literature and Old Money. New money was disgusting and any time spent with you was wasted.

We began to tire of his up-snoot ways and started to bust his balls some. One of us asked him:

“Mr Prouty, if wine had no alcohol in it, would you still drink it?”

He fails to answer for a full second when he nearly blurts out, ”yes...YES I would!”

Bullshit.

“Mr Poury, what's the difference between a wine connoisseur and wino?”

He was perplexed by that one

The answer comes: “A paper bag!”

We laughed. I think he was a bit miffed by that one.

Finally, someone nailed his coffin shut by asking...

“Mr Poury, you must've made some money in those Berlin and Parisian restaurants when you did work there? Yes?”

He said he did well.

“But...did you make more money than the people who ordered you around when they came to the restaurant?”

No answer.

“So you were just another working stiff...a peasant...a servant?”

It was sort of fun reminding this guy that was not, nor ever will be, part of that 1%. And that's the joke of it too. This guy aping, believing the views of the very people would never allow him to walk in the front door of their homes. Servants go around back.

However, he did know wines.

*****

During the class we drank some of your better wines as J&W had the cash to buy them. I tried various ones and most were better than the crap I bought. Though, most of the red wines I am not in love with because they do something with it that gags me, the age it in oak barrels. I cannot stand the taste of oak nor the tannin's in them. I do not eat oak trees, cook with them or lick them. If I want tannin, I can drink tea or slurp from one of the motionless ponds by the river that's choked with last year's leaves.

Finally, I came across one I fell in love with and had no idea it had existed, Riesling.

It's a white German wine and before you start going, “Ugh! Yucky sweet,” there are a whole bevy of different Rieslings. The trick to German wine is not the grape, but when it's when it's picked. The later you pick 'em, the sweeter they'll be. The other added perk to Riesling is that they never age it in goddamn oak.

True, there are a ton of sweet, sweeter and insulin-sweet German wines, but there is a regular one too called Kabinett. Kabinett (just like your kitchen cabinet) is a dry white wine that packs a wallop in certain cases. What's great too, it's not expensive.

The funny thing about Rieslings is that when you open the bottle, the first whiff you get is that of a burning tire. It really does have a burnt rubber smell. When you pour it into the glass, that initial scent dissipates and you pick up the flower scent. If you want more of that flower garden explosion in your mouth, go with the sort of sweeter ones. They are ranked according to harvesting times.

The sweetest one, the one that'll rot the teeth out of your head is called Eiswein. They leave the grapes on the vine till they harden with the first freeze. By that time, most of the water in the grape is solidified and all that's left is the sweet syrup and they press that out. When they ferment it, they barely let the yeast do it's job. If you buy some, bring $$$ and realize you're going to get a eensy-weensy bottle.

But what do I usually drink 99% of time if I do? Crap Budweiser. Yep, rice beer. Shitty, watery, no taste at all Budweiser.

I add that as a caveat to my fermented beverage tastes and choices.

*****

There's an old Australian joke about American beers:

“American beer is like having sex in a canoe” an Aussie will say.

“How so?” the other Aussie asks.

“Because it's fuckin' close to water!”

 

 

 

A Sommelier

 

 

 



A Raving Wino

This Ain't a Game of Checkers

Why didn't I get a PhD in history and float over all of the world in the Navy? I would've gotten to see weird foreign places like Helsinki, Minsk and...Moscow? Anyway, here's another piece from Plymouth that gives a cute look inside at the goings on in the Kremlin.

But first, you must be ejemucated and here's how it was explained to me:

 

When the US desires to get rid of a particular cabal/gov't in a country, it tries to use the subtlest means possible. Loud, destructive revolutions that include gunfire, bombs and nightly news coverage are far too messy and invites inspection. It is far more brilliant to do it on the sly and without much fanfare. What you do is find all the unhappy people in the government make it known to them that you're on “their side” and you provide them with all sorts of things like money, frequency-hopping/encrypted cell phones and promises of a nice job in new gov't If you can't entice them, you black mail them into doing your bidding. They might be still unhappy with their homeland gov't but not motivated enough to do much, so you pressure them into action by telling them you have evidence of their contacting Western intell or some other ugly criminal things the gov't there would be very unhappy about if they knew.

“We've been trying to unseat Putin and install a pro-Western guy...but it ain't working. Putin knows the game and he's acted on one part of the plan. He's gutting from gov't those he knows are planning to stab him in the back politically. The guys he's gotten rid people that were, perhaps(wink!) working for us.” says my friend.

**

Putin's Discovered Check Mate: The King Hunt Move.

In recent weeks, rumors that Russian Interior Minister Vladimir Kolokoltsev will be replaced have been circulating among Russian media and pundits who watch Moscow. We have been monitoring the Russian government's coherence and the strength of its leader, President Vladimir Putin, as the country faces a series of crises involving its faltering economy and tensions with the West over Ukraine. Although Kolokoltsev is of little consequence as a personality, the office he holds oversees one of the most powerful tools for anyone seeking political power in Russia: a significant part of the country's internal surveillance apparatus.

Analysis

Rumors that Kolokoltsev has been forced to resign first appeared Oct. 29 on Russia's Dozhd (Rain) television and were picked up by Pravda, RIA Novosti and other Russian media outlets before becoming a topic of chatter for Russian pundits. Dozhd cited sources within the Defense Ministry, though the exact status of Kolokoltsev's position was not made clear. Dozhd is one of the last independent television stations in Russia (which is allied with Western intell) and has reported such rumors before. But even when the details of Dozhd's reporting have been off, the television station's coverage of leaks from inside the Kremlin have pointed to actual problems.

Presidential spokesman Dmitry Peskov acknowledged the rumors but did not confirm or deny them. However, this week Kolokoltsev attended the Interpol General Assembly in Monaco as Russia's interior minister. There, he acted as if his situation were normal, giving interviews on Russia's willingness to help combat various global issues such as cybercrime. After Kolokoltsev's appearance, the Russian media are now speculating that he will resign in the near future, possibly after Russia's Day of Police on Nov. 10 -- a holiday celebrating the country's police, which Kolokoltsev oversees and from whose ranks he was promoted.

On a technical level, Kolokoltsev has been one of Russia's better interior ministers since taking office in 2012, understanding the operations of the police forces and interior troops. His reforms of the various forces have been viewed positively in Russia. But Kolokoltsev himself is not important, and whether he resigns will have little impact on the country. What is more important is the actual position of interior minister -- and which of the Kremlin's power circles wields influence over that official.

Russia's Interior Ministry is one of the most powerful ministries in the country. As with most European interior ministries, it is responsible for internal security, overseeing local and federal police forces, paramilitary units and investigations. The ministry's paramilitary troops -- which number around 200,000 -- are some of the best-trained and best-equipped armed forces in Russia. They have ample combat experience, with an excellent record of service in various conflicts in the North Caucasus, most notably in the Ukraine. They were exceedingly effective at decimating the pro-western forces that sought to overthrow it. These are the military types you want backing you in you're in power in the Kremlin.

Russian Intelligence Services and Responsibilities

Traditionally, Russia's intelligence services have been aligned with or have overseen the Interior Ministry. During the Czarist era, the ministry controlled the gendarmes and the secret police. In the early Soviet period, Felix Dzerzhinsky -- founder of the feared Cheka secret police, the precursor to the KGB -- became the first Soviet interior minister and head of the secret police.

This arrangement has led the Federal Security Service, or FSB, to view the Interior Ministry's forces as its own armed wing, so it does not have to rely on the Russian military -- which is overseen by competing factions -- for influence. However, the FSB's control over the ministry has wavered in recent years.

Kolokoltsev's predecessor, Rashid Nurgaliyev, was in charge of internal affairs at the FSB before becoming interior minister. Thus, he ran the ministry and its forces with political motivations instead of a domestic security strategy. Kolokoltsev, on the other hand, was a police officer and later Moscow's police commissioner before stepping into the ministry. He was seen as a technocrat who was not involved in the Kremlin clans' power struggle. Because of the change in leadership, the FSB -- and other security factions, such as the Investigative Committee -- have been struggling with the Interior Ministry in recent years over several choice prizes, such as control over the Main Directorate of Economic Security and Anti-Corruption, which comes with more tools for investigating economic crimes. Thus, Kolokoltsev's premature withdrawal could be part of the FSB's efforts to re-exert control over the Interior Ministry.

However, the rumored choice for Kolokoltsev's replacement points to an even more important and dangerous struggle involving Putin. Leaks to the Russian media have indicated that First Deputy Interior Minister Viktor Zolotov will be chosen as Kolokoltsev's replacement. Though Zolotov is already in the Interior Ministry, he is also the former head of the Federal Protective Service, Putin's personal security detail that is the Russian version of the U.S. Secret Service. Zolotov was the personal bodyguard of Putin's mentor, Anatoly Sobchak, in St. Petersburg, where he met Putin. Zolotov is directly loyal to Putin and not part of the other security circles in the Kremlin. He is not known to have been “turned” by Western intelligence and would be difficult to do so, knowing his personality profile.

Such a replacement would put a Putin loyalist directly in charge of one of the most important security forces and mechanisms in the country, keeping it out of the hands of the other various security circles, such as the FSB.

At a time when Russia is facing a series of crises that could erode Putin's popularity and leadership, this possible reshuffle has heightened importance. If more indications emerge of an impending change at the top of the Interior Ministry, they will reveal Putin's awareness over the ability of the security circles, particularly the FSB, to influence the ministry, which, in turn, have been influenced by mostly German/NATO agents. A reshuffle will also highlight Putin's desire to shore up his direct control over some of the country's most powerful tools. If successful, we will have lost a an angle we've been working on that could have given us control over Putin's succeeding elections as President.

**

Another Fly in the Ointment:

Since the US was found to have been directly behind the uprisings in the Ukraine, Putin has responded by dusting off and practicing the country's nuclear response. This has included the restarting of the old “practice runs” at the US by the latest Backfire and older Bear bombers. These planes do not have to get over the US nor reach it's borders in order to be effective. They carry nuclear tipped cruise missiles that can penetrate 2,000 miles into US territory. Shooting down an antiquated Bear bomber is not much of a problem IF it is close enough to the US. If it's 1,100 miles away over the Atlantic, it becomes a major problem then. As for knocking down a hyper-sonic cruise missile, the US has yet to develop technology to do that.

The other and more tangible reason for these flights are that these planes are packed with electronic warfare equipment that is able to collect a ton of useful information (radar station frequencies, locations, communication channels of the US defense network and response times).

A few months ago Putin paid a visit to few Latin American countries. On that trip, Russia wrote off some 90% of Cuban debt. What does he get in exchange of that move? Simple, Russia will restart the Lourdes SIGINT station in Cuba. Yes, a spy station 90 miles away from the US plus refueling stations for the Russian Air Force to continue these flights.

 

 

This isn't one of ours.

 

Ace in the Hole, Lean on Me, I’m Your Guarantee

Once I was crazy and my ace in the hole

Was that I knew that I was crazy.

So I never lost my self-control.

I just walk in the middle of the road and

I sleep in the middle of the bed.

I stop in the middle of a sentence.

And the voice in the middle of my head said

“Hey, Junior, where you been so long?”

“Don’t you know me

I’m your ace in the hole?”

Paul Simon

So what's your ace in the hole? What's your talent that gets you through the day, through your life? What's up your sleeve that works pretty much all the time?

 

Up until I was about eight, I had none. Unless incurable cuteness is considered a talent? That I could use but it was restricted to non-parental adults and that was only if they were in a good mood. Try and get out of trouble on cuteness alone after you've purposely sprayed the cat with a garden hose.

 

Child psychologists stage childhood development along milestones and phases. Erik Erickson's “latency period” is also known as the “5-7” shift. By the time you're 8, you've pretty much know what's right from wrong and you are just starting to understand logic. Even the Catholic church understood this for over a thousand years. You don't give a kid under 8 First Communion...he's not old enough to understand sin yet.

 

Erickson posited a question that kids face at that age: “Can I Make it in the World of People and Things?”

 

Can you? If you're reading this, you must be able to...since you've made it this far. But we all have a few personal tricks up our sleeves that work great.

 

I said I didn't have my Ace in the Hole until I was 8. That's when I finally rocketed off with my brain and learned how to properly use it. Things gelled, fell into place finally. I'm no Einstein but I can be a smarty when in the mood and if I know anything about the problem I face. It's never really failed me. Usually it involves getting out of shitty situations, finding landmines in life. Most of the time at least. It also alerted me to ridiculously profitable situations that I abused silly.

 

Here's what I know of myself today. I know my learning curve, when acquiring knew ways, looks like this: Sorry for the shitty graphics.

 

 

I know myself enough NOT to invest heavily in the beginning where I can lose dreadfully, like learning how to use a band saw the very first time or bet my life savings on a stock I know nothing about. The cost is a bit high if you fail at the start. So I begin very slow with things that aren't going to bite my ass too hard should I fail. As I go along, get confident, I up the ante. Jumping into the deep end of the pool might motivate me to the nth degree, but it does not guarantee I'll learn the skills needed. There's not enough time.

 

The other Ace in the Hole I like I can thank the deaf for and that's watching body language. Since the deaf can't communicate via voice or hearing, they rely heavily on vision. The deaf watch closely! Body language gives away soo much it's amazing really. If you want a good deal from a car dealer, take a deaf person along with you, they'll spot the lies and manipulation in about 2.3 seconds. They're also great for sizing your personality up in the same amount of time too. I've managed to use this when needed and also use it as a needed weapon too. Think I'm evil for using the Dark Side of it? Ha! ALL of you use your personal skills in not-so-honorable ways. I know. You've used them on me!

 

**

 

You've all seen this and women are lucky because this skill is generally theirs, which is the ability to flirt their way though. Since girls, from day one, are taught interpersonal skills in depth, they whip any male out there usually at this game. There are a few of boys who learn this but examples are rare. They're also the cause why a lot women hate men. These guys use that particular male charm to use, abuse and finally burn out women to all men in general. I can think of a particular lawyer I personally know who had a Genie's ability to charm the panties off women. It was like watching a snake charmer play his flute as the cobra came out of the jar. Though, these very women he captivated hated his guts in about one week after they found out how sly he was. But, these guys are rare and most of us boys still have to be reminded to chew with our mouths closed.

 

At 18, I was once drawn into a magazine subscription w/o my knowing it till a few hours later. That's how slow I am at times. The salesgirl looked similar to Kristy McNichol, which meant my brains oozed out my ears and within a few minutes, she had my money and I had a subscription to Hod Rod Magazine. I didn't like Hot Rods. I never even went to Seekonk Speedway till I was 19 and that was to see the fireworks.

Her eye contact, the small and subtly done compliments, the brush of her hand on my arm a couple of times and I found myself cutting a check. Like I said, about an hour later I sat there on my front steps, wondering “how the hell she managed that?”

What a deadly combination, to fall on the Earth pretty and with these people skills. You should be outlawed! No fair in beating up on the weak!

 

 

How's this for an Ace in the Hole? The "Over The Shoulder Glance."

We're All Gonna DIE!

Yep, we're all gonna suffer and die in the most horrific of ways! Again!

 

WJAR probably still has a “comment” section on their weather site. A while back, after RJ Heim ranted on and on about...SNOW for an upcoming forecast, all we ended up getting was a dusting. The reason for this storm was that a warm front had pushed through and at first, they flurry a lot then...nothing occurs as it's as WARM FRONT.

 

This didn't deter Heim who had probably been ordered by management at WJAR to hype the shit out of this event for ratings. So I can't really blame him.

I once commented to WJAR about this and my response was from no other than John Gihorse. He was sarcastic as hell at first about my ranting about the “desperate sounding” forecast. When I mentioned to him that this front had pushed itself all the way to the Canadian border, promising us nothing but warmer temps, he responds with; “Well, I can make no comment about various personalities here at WJAR.” He dumped this into Heim's lap.

 

I gave it up as it wasn't really an issue to push further. I did it out of peevishness about the new tact weathermen were taking. Every weather “event” was a 9-11 now...and it's not done to warn us...is it?

 

Recently, WBZ was great for this. Over the past two summers, every time their radar finds a bit of rotation in a thunderstorm out in western Massachusetts, they pre-empt their regular television so weathermen can scare you with probabilities on tornado growth. It's usually good for thirty minutes of Fright Night television...and the tornado doesn't form. Or if one does, it's an F1 and not those mile-wide F5 bastards that rip across Kansas.

 

Now we have a dreaded Polar Vortex. Guess what? There's always a polar vortex. I come to find out there's one over the North pole...always! It can deform and send an eddy down our way and we get mighty cold...but not FOREVER and EVER!

 

When news cycles get so boring they have to bring in weather doom stories...

 

Whatever happened to the head line: “Man Bites Dog?”