A Hole in The wallet

Cost of Deep Tunnel in Milwaukee:  $1,000,000,000.

the cost of 5 Friggin days in Iraq.

For nothing but death.  Fiscal Responsibility Republicans my ass.  And those fool Democrats who supported them in haste, ignorance, and fear.  I think we may have to start with Feingold and Tammy Baldwin and build ourselves a new congress.

I start the New Year with a fresh, overflowing case of bile.

UPDATEE:  At the current rate, it's TWO days in Iraq.  Can't impeach these MFs fast enough for me.  Plus, the Republicans should be penalized Five Congresscritters and a Presidential Term to be named later.

Merry XMess

THE FIRST LAUGH
Recently, someone pointed me towards an online humor carnival. I didn’t throw anything into it, but it made me think about funny moments.

And one of the funniest moments I’ve ever seen personally was such a minor slapsticky moment, it didn’t seem worth it. It was a time when my girlfriend at the time walked full into a glass door. Did you ever see a Star Trek Blooper where Shatner charges into one of those Enterprise doors, expecting the stage hands to pull them aside in time for him to lunge through, and they don’t? Shatner makes a thwock sound and bounces back five or six feet. This was exactly like that except funnier, and I fell over laughing helplessly.

Well, for some reason that girlfriend didn’t immediately drop me as an inconsiderate buffoon; several years later after getting married, graduating, getting a job and finding a real apartment, it was a good time to show how much she meant to me; it was time to find The Perfect Christmas Gift.

---

THE SET-UP
My wife constantly lamented her family’s inability to afford a piano as a child. As a good husband, one only has to mention something 3 or 4 hundred times before I clue into it, so I struck upon the inspired idea of giving her a piano for Christmas. A Piano!

....uuhhh, how does one go about procuring a piano?

Let’s start with the Yellow Pages! (pre-internet, kidsos, keep up here.) Ahh. A place right downtown called the Piano Gallery. Good place to start. Could I BE a bigger idiot? It was a friggin’ GALLERY. With Pianos, beautiful, gorgeous pianos of spectacular finish and epic, gorgeous tone; pianos that could make you weep. Both kinds: Grand and Baby Grand. Reconditioned, starting at eight thousand dollars. Whoops! Maybe this idea won’t be going anywhere after all. Let’s look at calendars.

Well, after puttering around a couple of mall-style stores that seemed to specialize in automated piano-like organs with automatic beats aimed at little old ladies to jazz up rhumba night at the retirement home, I resorted to the For Sale ads. (These are like an analog version of Craig’s List for you kidsos. newspapers used to have them. Ask your grandfather what a newspaper was.) Finally I found an upright for sale right in the sweet spot of my price range. Oddly enough, when I came to look at it, the address was...a waterbed store? Weirder and weirder. I went in and asked for Mark, who was apparently the manager.

He took me back to the loading dock, and I asked... “Why are you selling it ? And... why in a waterbed store?” Mark replied that he had moved to town recently, their condo did not have room, and so it had to go.

The piano was an upright made in Chicago by Camp & Company around 1914; the wood had warm golden finish that was soft and deep. There were some carved and applied wood details, that were more of a crude craftsman style; they imparted an unassuming , almost home built character. The ivory on the keys was yellowed, but smooth, evidence of its age and the thousands of fingers that had played it. As an architect, I am always sensitive to the way built items age and acquire historic patina; the instrument appealed to me on an aesthetic level.

He asked me if I wanted to play it, and I replied that it would be a gift for my wife, that I didn’t really know how to play and knew nothing of pianos. So he sat on the railing of the loading dock and pounded out some boogie-woogie, and a little christmas music. Although the instrument was maybe a bit out of tune, it had a lively, ebullient sound. (Later I found that through dumb luck, we had acquired an instrument that was well built with a nearly-intact soundboard and a serviceable action). It was obvious that he loved the instrument, it sounded passable to my tin ears, and I said it was a deal.

THE ROUND-UP
Now here’s where things get intricate, and I maybe tried to be too tricksy. I wanted to deliver it on Christmas eve, which was a Saturday this year. Mark said he would be able to work with that on two conditions: First, it would have to be in the morning, because he would have to open the store to get it; and second, that I pay him in cash, because he and his family were leaving for a Holiday trip that day. This seemed workable to me; how vainly optimistic one can be!

I arranged for a couple of friends, Mike, Rory and Jack to help me out, and spent several days congratulating myself on achieving the Perfect Gift. I was just counting chickens, friends and guinea pigs, when the eggs were alligator.

THE HOOK
Saturday Morning, Christmas Eve. My wife got up and needed to do some last minute shopping; how perfect! I could barely keep from laughing and telling all in glee as I kissed her goodbye. My helpers were due to be here by 10 AM, so I had to get to U-Haul to get a truck. I have no compunction about mentioning the company here; you will soon see why.

The U-Haul store was a bit busy, but they had assured me they had a truck when I called. They certainly did: a nineteen foot delivery truck. NINETEEN feet. For a single piano. Of course, the advertised $19.95 rate was not available for this truck. The small truck with the $19.95 banner parked right next to this one? Not serviced; not available. Oh well, small concern, considering the cost of the gift. Gimme the keys. Took the truck home, to wait for my helpers.

9:30.

10:00

10:30

10:45. By now, i started calling them. Rory? no answer. Jack? No Answer. Mike? Finally an answer! Hoarsely, “I don’t think I’m gonna be able to make it....” Rory? Still no answer. Jack calls back. Jack! He wasn’t going to be able to make it either, unless we could be sure he’d be done by 2 PM. Oh, no problem! Come on over! Okay, fine, after you’ve had some coffee. I didn’t tell you to go drinking last night.

So, Jack and I -just half of the movers I had anticipated as necessary - finally got back into the truck by about quarter after eleven, and got on the road.

THE TALE
Hah. Fooled you. It wasn’t that easy, of course. The truck wouldn’t start. Not a dead battery; it was a gap in the flywheel. For you non-gearheads, this meant that the starter would just spin away without turning the engine at all. I looked at Jack; he looked at me. Ummm. After fooling around for ten minutes, Jack had a brainstorm - he disengaged the gear shift, which moved the flywheel - just enough - that the starter caught and the engine started.    Wooo! Here we go. Down the highway, back behind the waterbed store and back up to the loading dock, killing the truck and running in to meet Mark, who was very impatient by now.

Now go back and read that last sentence again, and see if you can catch our mistake. Let the adventure begin.

I went in and paid Mark, and while Jack and I were securing the piano, Mark closed the door and hit the road. Jack and I laughed to see the piano - just an upright - sitting in that cavernous truck, roped to the side.  We could have fit a whole CAR in there and never touched the piano.

Back to the cab, ready to go. As you may have guessed, the starter was whiffing again. We tried the gearshift trick, but this time were not so lucky, it didn’t help. The truck was in a loading dock depression, so we couldn’t push it . Now Jack and I looked at each other and had little in the way of ideas. You know, keep in mind that at this time cell phones were bigger than bricks and cost thousands of dollars.

Settle in now, this is getting interesting.

Hey, there’s a phone by the gas station across the street. (station closed, of course). But who to call? I can’t call my wife, besides the awful giveaway, she’s not home. Try calling U-Haul? They’re no longer open. Isn’t there an emergency number? If I ran U-Haul, it would be plastered all over the inside of the cab. After half an hour of searching, we finally find it, in the small print of the Operations Manual. So I give it a call.

And get an operator. In Arizona. Who wonders whether it’s cold in Wisconsin. Ha-ha, yes, and we’ve got snow. And I’m standing outside in an open phone booth, trying to get help for the broken-ass truck that I rented from a Local U-hauler. Ha-ha, yes it’s not a good day for it, is it? Enough with the levity, let’s start discussing how you’re going to help me. You what? You need to call the local 24 hour service, who will get back to me? Fuck me sideways with a christmas tree, did I mention I am standing outside an open phone booth? By a highway? Oh, yes, please do try and get him to call as quickly as possible.

I run back to the truck to tell Jack that I got somebody, but now I need to wait for a return call.

And run back across the road to wait. It starts to snow.

UNDER-SERVED
While I’m waiting, Jack comes over to give his sister a call. It is now after 1 PM, and he’s got to get on the road somehow. After he calls, we notice a bar across the highway that appears to be open. Hey, just the thing! A nice hot drink, some brandy certainly, maybe a snack... we can call Arizona Lady back and give her the bar’s number. This works! We dodge the traffic to get across and tumble through the door, savoring the warmth and the welcoming smells of a tavern ... aaaaahhhh.

“Hey, gents! Can we do something quick for ya? We’re closing down.”

Gaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhh...... A quick explanation, and no, we can’t hang around even if they’re closed, whattaya, nuts? Gotta get home to the family!! So - it’s back to the phone booth. And the snow.

BYPASS ON THE BYPASS
Now, this is the place where the Universe looks down and... decides to fuck with me. I mean more. As I stand and wait for someone, somewhere to dial this phone on an icy intersection in the deepening wintery gloom, there’s little to do but watch the cars go by. Lights change, cars go one way; the lights change again and they go the other. A fair amount of last minute shopping traffic, actually. The phone is close enough to the street to be able to see drivers clearly. Once in a while, one looks over at me; maybe one out of four looks at me in puzzlement, obviously wondering what in hell is possessing me to stand there. But most of them are just driving past, much more intent on finishing their shopping and getting the hell home. And as I am watching the cars, I see one at the next light that looks an awful lot like ours. At the time, we had a last-year-model Fiero, you see, and there were not that many of them on the streets. Kind of unusual. This one matched ours. I couldn’t make out the license plate, though, and as it swept around the corner, of course I saw quite clearly: my wife. In our Fiero. Driving blithely right past me. Stranded at an abandoned gas station, with her gift stranded in a truck across the street.

The impulse to try and wave her down came, but the car was gone before any frozen limbs could be cracked into action. She was one of the drivers who paid no attention, of course. If someone had driven by with an open window at that moment, they might have been able to hear a few cracked, desperate laughs through the wind and snow.

OVER THE WIRE
After some indefinable amount of time passed, the phone rang. It was Arizona Lady.

Well, things were going great down in Arizona. She had located the service company up in Milwaukee, and left a message for their driver....

“Hold on. Left a message?”

“Yes sir.”

“Your truck has left me stranded by a highway in the wisconsin winter, and you left a message?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I know it may not seem terribly urgent down there in Arizona, but did it ever occur to you that I am sitting here with a defunct piece of shit truck, freezing while I’m waiting for help, and that maybe it could use a bit more effort than leaving a message?”

“Sir, I have done what I can. Why don’t you run the truck heater?”

“IF I COULD START THE TRUCK TO RUN THE HEATER, WE WOULDN’T BE HAVING THIS CONVERSATION.”

“I AM sorry sir.”

“...yea, me too. Just....do what you can, OK? It’s not Arizona up here.”

The tow truck driver would be calling me at the pay phone number after he checked his messages; he would let me know when he was ready to come and get me. Thankfully and against all expectation, the driver called me within a few minutes, and after getting the location, let me know that it would likely be about 45 minutes, because he had another job to take care of first. Busy season, ya know. I agreed; next time I would plan my breakdown emergency better and schedule ahead.

Jack’s sister showed up soon with their car packed for their own holiday trip, full of clothes, gifts, and their two large dogs. Although cramped, we all piled into the front seat grateful for the warmth; the truck cab had gotten down to air temperature by now and we were chilled. Jack, his sister and I shared passed around.... well a little bit of holiday cheer, I guess you could call it; by the time they left for their own holiday gathering, most of my despair had been blunted, for a short time at least. It was three PM, and the sky was leaden gray, although the snow had mostly stopped.

 I walked across the road once again to use that cursed open phone to call home and leave a message.

“Hi, it’s me. I....well, I’m having quite a day. I will probably be home in an hour or two. Nothing’s wrong, really; I’m OK. It’s just....well, I’ll explain when I get home. Don’t worry.”

Then, I settled into the cab alone to try and stay warm and wait for the tow driver, hoping this wouldn’t be too long.

THE HOOK-UP
I was a little surprised when I saw the tow truck pull into the parking lot. I had forgotten that U-Haul had given me the 19 footer. The tow truck was a 6 wheel monstrosity with dual booms, as large as a semi truck cab. It was about 4:30, and it had gotten fully dark by now. I stepped out and Chris introduced himself. He asked me what was wrong with the truck, and then spent some time looking it over. After a few minutes, I asked if I could sit in the cab of the tow, because I had been out here in the cold for hours.

“Oh, sure! Go ahead! Why didn’t you run the heater?”

Grrmmph.

THE SHOVE-OFF
Chris came back and said that the truck was in pretty bad shape. No news to me, of course, but I was just thankful to be warming up. Now, he started to explain to me that he was on a 24 hour call cycle from the Milwaukee Police department, and that all weekend he would be on call to clear accident sites for them. I was concentrating on getting warm, and didn’t really register what he was saying, until something like this came out:

“...so I would have to leave you and your truck and take care of it...”

“...wait, what?”

“Well, if the police call with a tow request, I’ll have to dump you and your truck and take care of their needs first. I just want to be clear about that before I start towing you.”

“Um. What’s the alternative?”

“I could try calling one of the other towing services for you, but I don’t know anybody else on call this weekend. It’s a holiday, you know.”

“I’ve been made aware. I’m gonna take the chance. Just one thing; if you get another call, can I ride with you, rather than sitting in that broken-ass truck?”

“Well...I’m not supposed to. But maybe.... OK, but just stay in the truck when we do, OK?”

“Fine. Great. Let’s go.”

So Chris turned up the heater for me, and went back to disconnect the drive shaft and get the truck hoisted. He came back into the tow cab to fill out some paperwork, and then he got back out to check the connections.  And then he put the hoist back down, because guess what? Yes, he got a call from the MPD. And off we went to an accident site.

HOOKED
It was a pretty minor fender bender, all things considered, right outside of a gas station. I sat in the cab and watch Chris and the cops work, and looked into the convenience store to see a clerk waiting on people for gas, beer, and cigarettes. When Chris got back in, he mentioned that the car was probably drivable, but the driver was DUI, so he had to tow it to the impound lot. Now warm, I could even muster a bit of humor; “Someone who’s having a worse Christmas Eve than I am.” I said. I asked Chris if he’d mind if I stepped out to use the pay phone and call home. This time my wife was home. Now, will it be possible to not let the secret out?

“Hi. I’m still having a bit of , umm, delay . Adventure. But there’s progress and I should be home in a little while.”

“...okay...”

“Ummm, is Tom home upstairs?”

“...yea, I think so.”

“Could you ask him if he might be around a little later? I might need some help.”

“...okay....what kind of help?”

“just - umm,  help moving something. OK?”

“....okay...”

Chris had gotten the car hooked up and we were off to the impound lot. Which is not the holiday destination you’d expect it to be.

It was after 7 by the time we got back to ‘my’ truck. Chris just had to hoist it at this point, though, and were on the road relatively quickly. I almost cried....no, I did cry. A little bit. After all this time, to actually be making some progress, some distance, in the direction I wanted to go....it was too much.

After about ten minutes of travel, the radio squawked. I looked up, startled, Chris looked at me and answered - another MPD call. Chris was apologetic, but duty called first and we dropped the crippled truck in a closed mall’s parking lot. It looked abandoned, sitting alone in the middle of the paving under a single light, no other vehicle around it. I worried, briefly, about someone burglarizing it. But what would they do with a piano? As we turned the corner, I wasn’t sure I cared.

THE BIG ROLL
This accident was a good deal less significant than the previous, and Chris just had to clear the street. Another tow truck was coming for the vehicle. So amazingly enough, we were back on the road toward my abandoned truck within half an hour or so. It was 8:30.

Again, Chris hoisted the U-Haul truck, and we turned out onto the highway. Chris was conciliatory at this point, and he vowed that if he received another call, he would make sure he dropped me off before answering it. I wasn’t terribly concerned at this point; I was warm.

He didn’t get another call, though, and just after 9 PM on Christmas Eve, we pulled up in front of our duplex. Turns out I didn't need Tom from upstairs to help us move the piano. Chris was a large, guy, and being sympathetic to the effort it took for me to get this far, helped me unload the piano and get it in our apartment.

My wife, of course, loved the piano and still does; it took several drinks to tell the story and still is a holiday favorite.  But I always find myself thinking to what it must have looked like to my wife, keeping a watch for me to come home through our front windows.  Eventually, the tow truck turned the corner, with it's full array of running and flashing lights, and the lights of the U-Haul truck also lit up.  I have no idea what this 40-plus feet of contraption looked like, coming to a stop in front of our apartment.  Normally, it would be the results of some large, appalling accident.  But for this one year, at least, it looked like Christmas.

Epilogue:  THE STING
Chris helped me move the instrument into our apartment, and I insisted on tipping him all the cash I had left. He had performed above and beyond the call of duty. He asked whether I wanted him to drop the truck.

“I never want to lay eyes on that vehicle again. If I see it out there tomorrow morning, I’ll probably set it on fire; so you could leave it at the U-Haul store, their repair lot, or push it into the lake, makes no difference to me.” He said he’d drop it at their repair lot.

On the first business day after the holiday, I received a phone call from my favorite truck rental company.

“Sir, we have you on record as renting a truck from us two days ago.”

”Uh-huh.”

“Sir, we need to know where the truck is.”

Oh, let’s close the curtain on that scene; and you can just fill in the blanks for the rest of THAT conversation.

To all my friends and visitors, enjoy your own holidays, love your friends and family, and I hope someone brings you YOUR piano.

more...

Been A Long Time Since Rock 'n' Roll...

Dookie

For good or ill, Cookies of Pilgrim are done and packaged, along with supporting product from missus pilgrim and Zelmo.  For tease, I include a photo of Z's tasty treat here.  Clark Kent duties, as well as Zelmo's unwell state, prevented mailing until today;  If the creek don't rise, the packages should make it in reasonable time.

 

Up here in Milwaukee, it's about the BAKING, not the Video entertainment or Naked Pictures.  If we can't win it with the baking, we don't want it.

Maybe we'll never make the bigs with that attitude, but we prefer to maintain a certain level of integrity.  Bono knows what we're talking about; but when he stood for a photo op with George W. Bush without cock-punching him, obviously making a somewhat different choice.

So don't look for us in the Little Debbie package, or on a Car Commercial; we will keep the faith at the local level, delighting our friends and family with fattening sweet treats; Consumer Addiction will have to be tended by others, and Cornman may indeed join Ronald McDonald and Joe Camel in infamy.

We see Bakery as similar to a Martial Art;  one starts with a white apron, pure and without knowledge of the Bakestemological arts.  As one develops knowledge, the white becomes soiled, stained, getting darker with every passing day.  Representing one's increasing Power in the Kitchen.  

Eventually, the apron is dark, akin to black; at this point, One has gained the skills necessary to be acknowledged as a True Baking Artist.  To obtain High Rank, one must Practice; Learn; demonstrate Honor and Integrity and Self Control at all levels.  A Bake-Off is a meeting of Honorable Opponents; until one violates the Sacred Respect of the Oven, even in defeat a Baking Artist exhibits Grace and Respect.

But;  the Black Apron also realizes that the simplest efforts are also opportunities for excelling.  It is not necessary to bake a flaming moose cordon bleu ala Snag with Everclear-wasabi cornnut pate (a Third-Level challenge) to display Baking Art.

Take, for example, the  simplest task;  boiling water.  Many, not skilled in the Art, would simply put a pot of water over blast furnace heat, waiting impatiently for the water to boil.  But as an Artist once stated, "A watched pot never boils".  This is a zen puzzle, because you CAN watch a pot boil;  but if it is improperly performed, is it Boiling?  You see, as an artist, you must create a chi where the water wants to boil, is desirous of the Excited state.  Water in a microwave gets boiling hot, but never Boils, you see, because the enclosure is not conducive to teh Change of Phase; Gaseous Denial.  You must choose your boiling container for aesthetics and utility; the water gently added and the heat gently applied.  If using gas, you may apply heat somewhat more forcefully, but with electric heat, the temperature must be increased a bit slower to avoid boiling the water without Honor.

So it is with Bake.  The simplest dishes may indeed be done with more artistry than much more complex routines; imported spices and exotic procedures may in fact, hide a lack of mastery of the most basic of techniques.  Easy things, such as sauteeing or making toast, may be failures because of lack of Concentration and improper Preparation.  The Artist is always working to maintain perfect technique at all levels.

Thus, even simple cookies are never 'mere'.  Shayera referred to her entry as 'just' snickerdoodles.  A dreadful lapse of Baking Artistry.  'Just' Snickerdoodles?  The Snickerdoodle was a perennial favorite of my first sensei, the Maternal Pilgrim.  Although skilled at the highest levels of the Art, Sensei's Snickerdoodles were always used as demonstrations.  Seemingly simple, they were an epiphany;  light, sweet, crunchy yet tender on the tongue; the  flavors could be counted as they presented themselve to the Four Corners of Taste:  Cinnamon, Sugar, sweet dough!  Bliss!  A cookie to be meditated upon, while fancier pastries be a whim, a momentary dalliance.

This Bake-Off is but a momentary challenge; the judges may be corrupt, or not; A Lite-Brite may be all it takes to influence the decision.  Such as it always Has Been.  It is, at the end, another Lesson to be Learned and studied, as one studies the Recipe.  

The Art is presented on TV by Hucksters and shams (I'm not naming names, Rachael Ray), who have used ill-learned lessons to turn a quick buck, promulgating the concept that Baking Art is a Commercial Enterprise, and are supported by such as The Evil General.  As Artists, we are Duty-Bound to oppose such, wherever they may appear; though we assault the fortifications in vain, crying out at the  injustice, we rest and tend to our wounds, secure in the knowledge that It has been Brought; the Tyrannical Queens have been Opposed.

Mad World

Today's music goes out with all the good thoughts I can muster to blog-acquaintance BOSSY's daughter, who was mauled by an untrained and uncontrolled dog.

Words Fail.

But Pinko Punko says some important things here.

An awful, appalling, PREVENTABLE accident. I hope she can have the best surgeons.
[weeping for the girl]


1. Nesbitt's Lime Soda Song from the album "SST Acoustic" by Negativland a twisted little camping ditty by noted smart-alecks who have been sued by U2 and Pepsi.
2. Top-Dollar Survivalist Hardware from the album "Interbabe Concern" by The Loud Family
3. Zombieland from the album "The True False Identity" by T Bone Burnett T-Bone also produced the collaboration between Robert Plant and Alison Krauss. He's THAT good.
4. Dirty Bridge from the album "Middlescence" by Amy Rigby One of the great unknown artists. She makes Aimee Mann feel inadequate.
5. The Auld Triangle from the album "Red Roses For Me" by The Pogues I saw Shane on Henry Rollin's show the other night. He did "Dirty Old Town" while hanging on the mike stand, several drinks on a stool next to him. Through what appeared to be one remaining tooth, he muttered some preface that appeared to be an anti-Bush diatribe, but was unfortunately incomprehensible. The song itself was presentable; his musicians kept him moving, and the words were committed to deepest memory at this point. The band adjusted to keep pace with him, rather than the other way round. Considering the genius of Those early Pogues albums this was melancholy at best. I don't think I could stand watching a whole show by the man.
6. Little Babies from the album "Dig Me Out" by Sleater-Kinney Speaking of tough women...
7. Santa Claus Go Straight to the Ghetto from the album "Horny Holidays!" by Mojo Nixon & The Toadliquors Happy Christmas, Mojo stylee.
8. Selfish from the album "God Fodder" by Ned's Atomic Dustbin Remember them? Neither did I.
9. Where Are You Tonight? [Live] from the album "200 More Miles: Live Performances 1985-1994 [Disc 1]" by Cowboy Junkies
10. The Flandyke Shore from the album "Trad Arr Jones" by John Wesley Harding

Because this is for Bossy's daughter, we're going for a baker's dozen:

11. My Man from the album "Mink Car" by They Might Be Giants
12. Mr Limpet from the album "In The Spanish Cave" by Thin White Rope Remember them? Remember Mr. Limpet, at least? Don Knotts in a far-before-its-time mix of animation and live action. Great Voice Work. Hhhooooonnnnnnnk!!!
13. water and air from the album "I Command You To Dance" by Something To Do super-peppy Milwaukee SkaKids. A Very Good Up Ending.


Get well, Bossy's Girl.

With Pounding Hearts

Silent Mike and Zelmo, I said it a while ago and whattaya know, here we go:

The Figgs
Jan 4th
Linnemanns

Stay in on New year's rest up for the 4th!!

Return to Cookie Mountain

It's on.


Oh baby, it's ON!!!

AG has stepped up her taunting; the prospect of being banned is in the offing. Plus, the idea of losing to Snag and Chuckles is tempting, oh so tempting; the half-assedness ensuing will be nigh-intolerable.

Plus, I have discovered: MY WEAPON.

A custom-designed cookie recipe so foul in its unassuming demeanor, yet bearing ingredients which will make the judges bow down before the cookie goodness (or run screaming in fear). A mixture blessed by the Cookie Jesus T-Shirt him/her/itself!

The Cookie Gods are indeed smiling, for win or lose, this is amazing cookie-lore, unearthed from ancient recipes, closely guarded by local radio personalities and defended by indie rock bands. The return to earth has been foretold, and although Official Duties may interfere, half-assedness will not serve!

(Fridge Note to Snag: this recipe calls for mixing with a high-powered food processor; also expressly indicated is that this includes a METAL BLADE!!! One can only imagine what this might be for.)


(psst: here's a hint: the recipe calls for bacon fat!!!! Pork Snorkel Cookies cannot fail!!!!)

(Fridge note to AG: If necessary, I will also make a Snorkel-free version for Dietary Restrictions due to you being a Jewessa and all.)


Umm...what's the deadline again?

Tis The Season

Thanks to Steve from the Sneeze!

Hold Your Fire

Stupid blogging software ate my post.

I'm going to bed. Meanwhile, enjoy the Sadlies who are having a total party with Jennifer's favorite band, Rush, playing while the mega-popular Aimee Mann sings....

Toys In The Attic

Hi.

Haven't been around much, I know. Got read the riot act by Zelmo last night, and he never actually appears outside of his house anymore.

This season is the nightmare. Crazy inconsiderate and ungrateful clients, EOY activities, Holidays (bite me Billo) and a primary birthday, plus SNOW SNOW SNOW!!!! We've got 12" of the white crap - as Cecil Adams would say: kaniktshaq moritlkatsio atsuniartoq. Anaq.

I have a couple of good posts percolating away. Maybe nothing on the order of a Snagalicious 'Leave-It-To-Beaver-from-the-planet-of the-Vogons post; or even a Jennifer's Twisted Painting Grannies post, but they are bitter and hopefully a little funny, so I'm trying to get to them. Give me a break, willya?

Last night's Olbermann Special Comment was a doozy. Haven't seen him that visibly angry in a while. Sadly, Baby King George is so protected in his bubble and it probably won't touch him; the shame would prevent him from appearing in public through the rest of his term. "Mr. Bush, you HAVE NO BUSINESS being President." Not bad, not bad.


Let's sum up the week, shall we? George Bush is a liar, Giuliani is an adulterous cheating liar, Romney is a flipflopping opportunistic liar and moralistic hypocrite, and Huckabee is a rapist-releasing liar religious extremist. Bring in the B team, Repubs. Sheesh. I know that to the wingnuts it seems like the news media has a bias against the Republican candidates, but that's only because the transgressions are so egregious and numbingly obvious that only Maureen Down can ignore them. Let's get down to the level of scrutinising the amounts they tip at restaurants, or if they ever forgot to wear their fake-patriotism lapel pins in public...

Cloud Cult at Turner's tonight. Music now.

1. Barely Beating from the album "The Big One" by Jack Devine Don't know who this guy is. Got the disc free from CDBaby in an order. It's OK. Starts with a nice pulsing electronica sound. Nice big guitar slash in their, kind of like the accidental riff from 'Creep'. I'm starting to like it.
2. He'd Send In The Army from the album "Entertainment!" by Gang Of Four. Isn't that the fucking truth? Except first, he'd send in the bombers, because those are kewler. GoF were schoolmates of the Mekes, but were better at playing the label game and so saw a certain amount of success. In recent years, though, they have been reduced to hollow echoes of themselves, playing the oldies circuit for aging punks, while the Mekons have continued flying under the radar and making challenging, engaging music and continuing to explore new ways of expressing themselves. Which reminds me, I need to stop by the gallery and pick up the woodcuts I bought when they were in town. Good, slashing arrhythmic guitar stomp song though.
3. Help Save The Youth Of America from the album "Talking With The Taxman About Poetry" by Billy Bragg Another Billy doing another good one, as applicable now as when it was written twenty years ago....

Help save the youth of america
Help save the youth of the world
Help save the boys in uniform
Their mothers and their faithful girls

Listen to the voice of the soldier
Down in the killing zone
Talking about the cost of leaving
And the price of bringing him home

They're already shipping the body bags
Down by the rio grande
But you can fight for democracy at home
And not in some foreign land

And the fate of the great united states
Is entwined in the fate of us all
And the incident at tschernobyl proves
The world we live in is very small

And the cities of europe have burned before
And they may yet burn again
And if they do I hope you understand
That Washington will burn with them
Omaha will burn with them
Los alamos will burn with them

sing it, brother.

4. The Pass from the album "Presto" by Rush A non-screechy Rush song, Jennifer. Well, I guess it's just for Zelmo, brando and me.
5. Afc Song from the album "New Deal" by Waco Brothers "Alcohol, Freedom, and a Country Song." Rock it out, brothers. One of the best bar bands going. If you live in Chicago, you've probably seen them by now. If not, what are you waiting for?
6. Picture Book (Stereo) from the album "The Village Green Preservation Society" by The Kinks Heh. One for Nick to prove that they are out there, lurking within my iTunes. An oldie, from a remastered version; I especially like the designation 'stereo'. Old farts like me, AG, can remember when there were such things as vinyl LPs, and singles, and even 78s; there were ancient, clattering steam-driven players that would melt if presented with less than a single track signal, and would send pulses back through the ether to destroy FM stations that dared to broadcast in stereo. It would be necessary to 'press' different 'versions' of these 'albums' to correspond to this equipment. and to ensure you fully enjoyed the scraping, popping, scratchy and sensitive highest fidelity of these components, that usually cost 35 dollars at Radio Shack. It was a different time, children, and dinosaurs roamed the cities while the suburbs were still being formed from white-hot magma...
7. Birdhouse In Your Soul from the album "Severe Tire Damage" by They Might Be Giants we saw them. Zelmo didn't. This song rocked the Turner. What else would you want? except Ana Ng, of course.
8. You Don't Fool Me from the album "Made In Heaven" by Queen Last music from Freddy. This is a good one for a Winter's Morning, actually. This is a very fine album, even if it was posthumous.
9. In the Congo (Live In London) from the album "Drums Along the Hudson (Special Edition)" by The Bongos old skool pop-punk. somewhat like first-album XTC.
10. Helvetica from the album "Badger-A-Go-Go" by Couch Flambeau Blistering punk-metal classic from Milwaukee garage banders. Punks called 'em metal; metalheads called 'em punk. Screechy falsetto vocals, thundering bass, squalling guitar and trippy, weird lyrics. I loved 'em.

bonus number 11 (You are number Six!) : Crater Lake from the album "Whip-Smart" by Liz Phair
one more : I Remember You from the album "All The Stuff (And More)" by the Ramones

It's gonna be a good day. Be good to each other.