the future of cars?

I've loved two BMWs -- the 2002 and the Alpina 3.0 CSI coupe. In the last thirty years they haven't made a car that I've even been tempted to buy or drive.

I would buy and drive this in a heartbeat. It's the first radical rethinking of the automobile in a very long time.

Editor's note: I completely forgot that the Mini Cooper is a BMW product, and that I both love to drive, and would love to own, a new Mini Cooper, particularly in the S version.

Music Friday

Originally meant to be two posts, I'm combining them into one

Chamber Punk
Vampire Weekend is one of the cool kids' indie bands of the week. Four Columbia University students and their friends turn their record collections and educations into homemade music that is alternately funky and arch. The alleged Afro-pop influence and connection is more name and timbre checking than real and deep, but its still refreshing. Also, any band that uses cello with a South African walking beat and steel guitars wins my vote.

If David Byrne had a sense of humour, the first Talking Heads album might have sounded like this.

Disco redux
Bought and have been listening to Moby's "Last Night". Moby is far from a cool hunter, in the sense of identifying and popularizing trends before they become huge. But in the same way he captured something of the spirit of house music in a way that made it accessiible with "Play," he does the same with new disco and "last night." No, it's not a cocaine and poppers filled tribute to Studio 54 and the Paradise Garage, but lights at a moment around 1984, after Joy Division had become New Order and released "Blue Monday" and Annie Lennox was inventing the sound of the disembodied Diva, when the Pyramid Room and Danceteria and Limelight were serving up the first syncretization of disco and punk.

Of course, the release of a compilation of August Darnell's work (not just as Kid Creole) makes Moby a moot point. Darnell, Giorgio Moroder, and Bernard Edwards and Nile Rogers (Chic) pretty much defined disco in the 70s and 80s.

Cooking, Gardening, Galactica, Julips

Some random thoughts -- hell, even musings.

Crock pots allow for very long, very slow cooking, turning tough cuts of meat into something extraordinary. Not quite sou vide but very, very good.

Gardening is a tremendously cathartic activity. One is able to actually accomplish something visible and measurable. And you feel something at the end of the work.

This season of Battlestar Galactic is going into some very strange, very dark places. I'm not sure I like it.

On this Derby day, I made and drank my Mint Julip.

The Anti-Christ in the Supermarket

The DP and I had dinner with his sister and brother-in-law over the weekend, and our conversation included a riff on how famous – or famous for Washington, DC – people can move around the city in relative anonymity. Mention was made of seeing LeBron James at Sequoia enjoying a drink at the bar, unmolested by anyone.

I didn’t think anything of this, and went on my usual weekend business of shopping, including a stop at the Temple of Yuppie Pulchritude, also known as Whole Foods. While perusing the organic, cruelty-free meat, I overheard this comment:

“Thank you for all you’ve done for the Republican Party! We’ll see how well we do against the Democrats in the next election cycle.”

I turned and saw a syncophantic woman giving Karl Rove a metaphoric blow job.

Now, my initial reaction was fury, followed by nausea. I knew that if I did what my rage was driving me toward – decking Karl Rove, in the middle of the Tenleytown Whole Foods – I would likely end up in jail, and on my way to Guantanamo Bay for a long term vacation with waterboarding, and not windsurfing, as my recreation. I would also end up on the front page of the Washington Post, possibly above the fold, which is a level of celebrity and infamy I have never sought or desired. I thought about asking Rove how his math was doing now, but realized that it would have violated the rules of public anonymity described above.

So I chose plan B: I pulled out my mobile phone (why did I forget to take a picture?) and called the DP.

“Hello,” he said.

“I’m standing next to the Anti-Christ at the meat counter at Whole Foods,” I responded. Rove shot me a cold look from the pig eyes stuck in his potato face, looking like a living, breathing Mr. Potato Head

“Cheney shops? At Whole Foods? I though he only ate kittens and babies?”

“No, not Cheney. Rove”

“Oh. Ewwwww.”

“Yeah. I feel dirty now.”

“I bet.”

“Love you. ‘Bye.”

“Love you too. ‘Bye.”

And that was it. Rove had wandered off. I saw him in the checkout line, and was glad I wasn’t immediately in front of or behind him.

What I want to know is how, in the spectrum of famous and famous for Washington people, do I get to see both Karl Rove (hideous) and James Carville (extra hideous in a shorty bathrobe with his pipe cleaner legs)? Not George Clooney. Not Angeline Jolie. Hell, not even Barack Obama. No, I get Rove and Carville. Hell, I tell you. A circle of hell.

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.