What I'm listening to now: Duck Rock

Malcolm McLaren’s real work of genius (creation of the Sex Pistols aside). It’s a blender of influences, mixing the call to prayer, Trevor Horn’s electronica, Bronx scratching and MCing, South African “growlers” and tight female harmonies, ever sort of Afro-Caribbean flavor, and a liberal dose of “found sound” thrown in for good measure. Lyrically and musically, it's all over the map -- a real, joyful mess. Duck Rock was a mash up before the term existed, and was one of the last moments when there was anticipation of some crazy sunny multicultural future.

Just hearing the words “Too much scratching is making me itch” will send me into a shiver of joy.

Note: The album cover featured art work by Keith Haring.

We get mail

From the DP:
For my edification, what was that line by Stocker Channing about "Cats"?

My response:

From IMDB - It turns out it’s Tess (the daughter) not Ouisa Kittredge (the mother, Stockard Channing) who delivers the line:

He offered you parts in Cats? I thought you hated Cats. You said it was an all time low in a lifetime of theatre going. You said, "Aeschylus did not invent the theatre to have it end up a bunch of chorus kids in cat suits prancing around wondering which of them will go to kitty-cat heaven."

The same can and should be said of the Bush Administration, the Constitution, and democratic Republics. But I digress.

Home Sweet Home

Just catching our breathe. More to report, including adventures in plumbing, and learning how to push a lawn mower again.

Super Sunday

Sometimes the best things in life are the simplest. One of our rituals – done most, but not every weekend – is to make pancakes from scratch. We found the recipe from Cook’s Illustrated, which I use as a standard reference for all recipes. That being said, I’ve made a couple of modifications that are indicated in italics.


Makes sixteen 4-inch pancakes, serving 4 to 6
1 tablespoon zest from one lemon
1 tablespoon lemon juice from 1 lemon
2 cups milk
2 cups unbleached all-purpose flour (10 ounces)
2 tablespoons granulated sugar
2 teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon table salt
1 large egg
3 tablespoons unsalted butter , melted and cooled slightly
2 teaspoons vegetable oil
1 cup fresh blueberries or frozen blueberries, preferably wild, rinsed and dried

1. Use a microplane grater to remove the zest from one medium to large lemon. Separate the zest into two equal parts.
2. Whisk lemon juice and milk in medium bowl or large measuring cup; set aside to thicken while preparing other ingredients. Whisk flour, sugar, baking powder, baking soda, salt, and half of the zest in medium bowl to combine.
3. Melt butter and add zest in a small pan over low heat.
4. Add melted butter to the milk. Stir gently until the butter is well mixed into the milk. Whisk egg into milk and melted butter until combined. Make well in center of dry ingredients in bowl; pour in milk mixture and whisk very gently until just combined (a few lumps should remain). Do not over mix. Allow batter to stand for 15 minutes
5. Heat oven to 200 degrees. Heat 12-inch nonstick skillet over medium heat for 3 to 5 minutes; add 1 teaspoon oil and brush to coat skillet bottom evenly. Pour 1/4 cup batter onto 3 spots on skillet; sprinkle 1 tablespoon blueberries over each pancake. Cook pancakes until large bubbles begin to appear, 1 1/2 to 2 minutes. Using thin, wide spatula, flip pancakes and cook until golden brown on second side, 1 to 1 1/2 minutes longer.

Place the cooked pancakes onto a serving platter, and put on the lower rack of the heated oven. When all the pancakes are cooked, bring serving platter to table.

It’s amazing how such a simple thing as a plate of pancakes can be so satisfying and so comforting.

The Fourth Squirrel of the Apocalypse

There really isn't any more to add.

Sunny Sunday

Editors note: This is a bit late to the press, but since it's been a night of bourbon and Joni, it seems right to go the archives and pull this out.

Joni Mitchell is a genius trapped in an artist's body. She's been making brilliant music and art since I was an infant, and has lived and loved more than five people.

So why was I so angry when I read this?

Picasso made a lot of shitty paintings. While some of Joni's music after "Mingus" doesn't hold up to the arc of albums from "Blue" to "Mingus", the reason is not her performance or songwriting, but her choice of collaborators and producers.

Strip Joni down to her guitar or piano, pair her with Wayne Shorter, Herbie Hancock, or Jaco Pastorius, and what happens is the purest and simplest music. While I'm tempted to blame Larry Kline (an adequate bass player, formerly Joni's husband and her long-time producer) Mitchell's personality is far too strong to be run roughshod by a martinet. Her artistic choices are hers alone, and while she may sometimes be poorly served by her assistants, the core of her work remains direct, potent, and cogent.

I’m willing to rate Joni with Shakespeare and Yeats as the finest poets in the English language. We don't fault their publishers for the paper their work is printed on. Enough said.

Holiday Bloggy Goodness

Brought to you from high above the Great Flyover, courtesy of Apple Computer and United Airlines (although there will be comment on the latter): a year-end recap of 2007, a year in which no one in my immediate family died, fewer people got sick, and there were no incidents of grievous bodily harm from accidents.

Buying a house is hard work. Buying a house in a crazy market is even harder work.

One falls out of the habit of business travel, and returning to those habits isn’t always agreeable.

When one’s partner and beloved is also a best friend is a gift beyond measure.

Disco is back, and better than ever (see Envoy). Disco and punk had children, and their names are LCD Soundsystem and Justice. The children were separated early in life, and grew up in the United States and France, respectively.

The Dead Kennedys and Carlinhos Brown had a child and its name was Bonde do Rôle (RIP).

Lydia Bastianich and Mario Batalia are training more great chefs than anyone might imagine possible. Great food in Portland, Oregon is easier to find than anyplace I’ve ever been.

It is amusing, if somewhat disconcerting, to find one’s name is on the TSA “Watchlist.”

The McMansion is dead. Long live responsible housing.

Losing post-holiday weight gain with a personal trainer: $1,000. Avoiding gaining holiday weight: priceless.

Food trend for 2008: Fennel.

United Airlines blows. JetBlue and Frontier Airlines rock. Enough said.

The key to good familial visits is to ensure one is relaxed and comfortable before one arrives. Good food and great hotels also help.

I believe in global warming. I’ve also never seen as much of the United States covered in snow as I’ve seen today.

That is all. Happy New Year!

Literary Lions

The other side of Fashion Week. Enough said.

We Get Mail

From our correspondence today:

To: scory
Subject: NYTimes.com: Sleuthing for a Danger in Toy Beads
This page was sent to you by: LWB
Message from sender:

For all of your south beach holiday shopping needs.

New York Times
BUSINESS / WORLD BUSINESS
November 8, 2007
Sleuthing for a Danger in Toy Beads

By KEITH BRADSHER

A biochemical geneticist's story demonstrates how recalls come about, in a time when they are becoming routine.


From: scory
To: LWB

I wonder if Tom Friedman counts this amongst the benefits of globalization?


From: LWB
To: scory
Subject: Re: NYTimes.com: Sleuthing for a Danger in Toy Beads

Being able to buy GHB at Toys R Us? Probably. Certainly lower costs compared to buying the stuff on the street -- and fewer American jobs. Makes those Babes in Toyland parties seem less absurd. Maybe there's pot in Holly Hobby Happy Bake Oven brownie mixes.

From: scory
To: LWB

We have gone to hell in a handbasket.

From: LWB
To: scory

We've been in hell in a knockoff LV clutch for seven long years now.

Manhattan, Food, Sightseeing, Shopping, General Magic

The DP and I celebrated my 7th 39th birthday in Manhattan. It was Manhattan done right: some work (though alas, not enough to write off the trip), seeing old friends, getting angry at the changes in the city -- and enjoying what still remains the craziest, coolest city in the world.

The highlights:

The best Italian meal we've ever eaten at Felidia. Modified traditional service (head waiter, busboys, sommelier, table service waiter) and stunning food -- house cured meats as antipasti, fresh lobster ravioli with butter, chives, corn and cream, and salt-roasted cod. Simple food immaculately prepared and served with competence and grace. I've rarely felt more comfortable or at home at a restaurant -- and given that it shares the block with the Bloomberg headquarters and Le Cirque 2000 in the UES, it's not a homey or comfortable neighborhood, unless you happen to be a billionaire.

The Top of the Rock. The observation deck at Rockefeller Center, at dusk, on a perfectly clear and still night. While I loathe programmed experiences with a passion, the view of Manhattan and the Mid Atlantic region was magical. There are pictures.



Shopping at Saks Fifth Avenue. I love my clothes. I hate shopping. I found exactly what I needed (and then some), with the help of young Mr. Alex.

Running in Central Park on sunny September afternoon. The park was full of people. It's possible one might see more different shapes, sizes, shaded, sexes and ages of people somewhere. But I can't imagine the collection framed by more beauty. I will never forget looking back at Midtown from the Great Lawn -- with, I should note, Blondie's "Rapture" playing on the iPod. It's also fun playing "rich person slalom" while running down Park Avenue.

Strolling in Brooklyn and back to Manhattan. I've gone to NYC more times than I can count or remember. I've been to Brooklyn three times, the Bronx twice, and Queens twice. After Sunday I think I can say that I prefer Brooklyn to Manhattan. It's retained what made NYC specials: a sense of place.

I'm trying to think of a better birthday, ever. But I can't. It was the perfect weekend, and the perfect gift.