In The Meantime ...

Dearth of inspiration of late, which only means a 1500 word, geniusly amusing, digressive screed is imminent. In the meantime, taking my clue from some other blog, here are not one but three songs that never fail to make me happy.



(didn't know that about Marilyn Monroe, did you?)



(onions)



(actually I was looking for a good clip of Joni Mitchell's "Carey," but this, which I never knew existed, is much better; tell me after seeing this you wouldn't want to have a beer with Cass Elliot over discussing art with Joni or politics with Mary anyday)

As One Mad Chef Said To The Other...

You cannot wassail me with your vichyssoise
For I'll tiramisu you with flagons of bitters
And stuff your turkey breast with cod liver oil.
Paella Paella Paella!!!
Cleave me with pinches of thyme to your taste and
Boyardee I'll sauté your organic monkey brains
With gourds of mincemeat and spatulas of wet cornucopias.
I have friends in the Gazpacho, you unripened piece
Of kumquat rind.
Preheat this you drive-thru gourmand
And quiche my asparagus with your chickpea melon balls.
Mah fondue!
Shut your clam you bouillabaisse fruitcake.
Oyster your gravy with sardine scraps and
Punch your Hawaiian and bake your Alaska 'til your
Eskimo Pies are burnt to Krispy Kreme of Mushroom Fruit Loops.
You couldn't shuck corn in Covington without Ms. Crocker
Kneading your Swedish meatballs, you side order chopstick man.
You and your sushi maitre d' can pierogi du jour all you want.
A la mode, a la carte, al fresco your sticky buns with
Tartar sauce that's been left to simmer on the beach in Morocco.
Now, omelet you stew in bacon grease 'til you scream
Uncle Ben and Aunt Jemima and Colonel Sanders
To take-out customers who filch all your toothpicks.
I'm smörgåsbord with your crème brulee threats and
Your coq au vin ca ca.
Your chop suey is mere fricassee to me.
You are the bratwurst
Greasy spoon line cook in Hell's Kitchen.
I'll wok your cherry cheesecake crepe Suzette 'round the chopping block
And make fermented guacamole out of her Italian wedding soup dressing.
Enchilada cauliflower rutabaga beet.
I sirloin your butt steak and tapas your head of lettuce
With my marinated leeks.
Tofu you and your grouper French fried tomato cans.
Go home and zap your TV dinner you culinary quack.

The Beach Boys-Gettin' Hungry

Of Nader, Hawaii, and Wally Cox

You never have to look far to find proof of rampant absurdity in our world. Today at the bookstore, I was shelving a new novel written by Ralph Nader. Yes, that one. See what I mean? This struggling scribe certainly doesn't want to plug that book, so no title, but it is very thick and sports a brightly garish cover. What really is absurd, though, it ended up being shelved right next to Nabokov's Lolita. Say what you will about politics, but literature (real or alleged) makes for some really bent bedfellows. Reminds me of the fact that early in their careers, Marlon Brando and Wally Cox were roommates.

No wonder this life-long Cleveland boy is thinking about Hawaii tonight. I've never been there, probably never will go there, and to be honest, I don't really have much desire to go there. Any place that seems perpetually sunny gives me, a pale redhead (there's some redundancy for you) the fantods. Something tells me I'd be allergic to a lei, too. I don't think I've ever watched an entire episode of Hawaii Five-O, either, but I've sure heard "Book 'em, Danno" enough for one lifetime.

Two months ago I was at a party and started making small talk with a European woman who had just moved to Cleveland after about twenty years of living in Hawaii. On this particular night she was cold. In July! I was waxing poetic about the wonderfully unique four seasons we experience every year in Cleveland, she was waxing nostalgic about how every day in Hawaii it's 84 degrees. I asked her if Hawaii had any kind of a discernible winter. "Yes," she said. "It only gets to 82." Well, that's been about the funniest retort I've heard in months.

Anyway, I can't explain why I love these three songs, other than the fact that life is absurd, and so are these three songs. The singing, from Brian Wilson's heavenly falsetto, to Warren Zevon's simpering, voice-breaking loser, to Bruno Wolfe's (who he?) side-of-the-mouth world-weary leering, is a three-course absurdist's delight.

Two months from now I could be shovelling snow and reading Ralph Nader's novel for my book club while throwing a ukulele at the TV set during a Browns game and in the process somehow switching the channel permanently to the Hawaii Five-O channel. Who do you think cleaned the bathroom, Marlon or Wally?

The Beach Boys-Hawaii

Warren Zevon-The Hula Hula Boys

Jim Kweskin & The Jug Band-Ukelele Lady