One From The Vaults: St. Patrick's Day Re-Post

Joaquin's been tending bar at the tavern longer than most of his customers have been alive.

"I haven't seen it all, but if you Venn Diagram what I've seen, heard, and smelled, you'll have a pretty fair subset of the whole," says Joaquin as he fidgets a battered black pipe around his mouth. He prefers his metaphors mathematical and his music indigenous. "I've seen Lola when she was Larry, heard avowals the morning would never cover, and smelled more rats than Pi has digits. I've even felt the presence of Lucifer one night at that end of the bar and the presence of the Angel Gabriel at the other end, simultaneously, but I keep my confidences so you won't be hearing that story."

One story I do hear concerns a young Irishman who walked into the bar one Thursday afternoon back in the late 1980s. "He was a young guy, with one of those spherical Irish faces. I'd have carded him, but you don't insult an Irishman like that. He sat down by himself on a stool about a third of the way down the bar and ordered three pints of Guinness. Polite. I draw the three pints and set them down, one in front of him, one on either side of him, then I had to go yell at Bunsen to switch out the Goebel keg. Next time I notice him he's finished his pint and started on the one to his left, still sitting all alone. I punch up some Flaco on the jukebox and go over and ask the guy if he wants anything to eat. 'No thank you, sir,' he says, with that beautiful hard T those Irish have: 'No tank you.' I liked him ever since I heard that. Anyway, time passes, Bunsen breaks another wine glass and I take the opportunity to kick his ass as he's bending over to whisk the shards, and when I notice again, the Irish guy's three-eighths through the last Guinness, still all alone. Now I see people get stood up all the time, but this guy took it all in stride. Just sat there peacefully taking his time drinking all three pints. Eventually he settles up, gives me a nice tip, and wishes me a good day. 'Giving up on your buddies?' I say. 'What's tat?' 'The two folks you were going to meet?' I say, lifting up the two empties on either side of him. 'Ah no. Meeting nobody. Just having a wee bit meself.' He smiled and walked out."

Bunsen comes out of the kitchen carrying two cases of Budweiser and starts loudly re-stocking a cooler. Joaquin works on his pipe with a sharp metal object.

"A week later, another afternoon, the guy walks in again, pleasant as before. Sits at roughly the same stool and orders three pints. Well, Bunsen had had to nip out to the track that day, so things were pretty calm in here. I said to the guy, 'I'll pour you one and keep my eye on you. Get you another fresh one when you're ready.'

"'Tank you, sir,' he says, 'but I prefer all tree at one time. You see I've got two brothers and we're all scattered. Seamus is back in Sligo and Declan's in Melbourne. Australia, not Florida. So every Tursday at the same time, tree for me, eight at night for Seamus, and seven in the morning for Declan--he works nights--we sit down where we are and have a pint for each of us. Keeps us together.'

"Well, let me tell you. I sponsor Bunsen and all his walk-a-thons, but nothing touched me like that. Three brothers drinking each other's health at the same time every week around the globe. A ting of beauty, you might say. So I pull the three pints, set them up, and I notice. The guy picks up the first one, offers a quick toast, and starts to drink. When he's finished with that he picks up the second, offers a quick toast, and starts to drink. With the third one, he picks it up, pats his heart, and starts to drink. When he's finished, he settles up, tips me good, tells me to have a good day, and walks out. Sure enough, the next Thursday, right at three, he walks in and I draw three Guinness. Every Thursday this goes on. I could set the clocks by him, if the clocks weren't all fifteen minutes fast. I get to know him. A cardinal number of a guy. Prime. Polite, funny, a true gentleman. Rory's his name, though he spelled it R-U-A-I-R-I. Ruairi. 'I don't know,' he laughed when he told me. 'Me mum was in a vowel mood when she had me.' This goes on for two years. Every Thursday, three o'clock. Never missed one. The week before Thanksgiving I'd give him a four-pack of those Guinness cans, because we're closed, tell him to have one for me. He tells me all about Seamus, the good son, takes care of the mother. He regales me with all of Declan's crazy antics. I teach him American football, he teaches me all about Irish music. No Clannad shit, the real thing. He makes some noise about his brothers coming over for a visit, and I tell you, I got misty-eyed thinking about pulling three Guinness for the three brothers, in the flesh, sitting at my bar. The guy even makes friends with Bunsen, which as you know, is like solving an equation with too many unknown variables. You put up with a lot of shit in this job,' Joaquin knocks his pipe on the bar, 'but a Ruairi here and there makes it all worthwhile. Yes.'"

Joaquin walks down to the end of the bar to tend to a couple college loudmouths. Then he jerks the peanut machine around, wipes a few imaginary spots off one of the taps, and comes back to me. "So one Thursday, a gray February, I'll never forget it, Ruairi comes in, sits down, and I start drawing the pints. 'Only two today, Joaquin. Tanks.' I fold like a square kicked into a trapezoid. I set the two pints down in front of him and slink away, feeling awful and then take it out on Bunsen for not keeping the bar napkins well-stocked. Ruairi's the only one in the bar, and I can't say anything to him the whole time. I keep myself busy cleaning things I never clean, bitching at Bunsen for being Bunsen. It's awful. Finally, as I see he's got just a fraction of the second pint left, I go over and say, 'Ruairi, I'm terribly sorry. My condolences.'

"He looked spooked. 'Don't tell me you're closing the bar, Joaquin.'

"'Close this place? Never, Ruairi.'

"'Then why so sad? You've been sulking all day today, Joaquin.'

'Well, you know. Every week, three pints. Today only two. One of your brothers must have died. I'm so sorry. Was it Declan?'

'No, Joaquin. Declan's fine. Nobody died. I've just given up drinking.'"

Amos Milburn-One Scotch, One Bourbon, One Beer

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

She's The One

Those hipsters over at NPR are having some poll to come up with the 100 greatest singing voices of all time. Piffle. You need context. If you're talking motivational purposes, you can't do much better than Joe Strummer; disdain, John(ny) Lydon(Rotten); grit, Levon Helm. Etcetera.

But let's face it, love, in all its convolutions, is really the only context for adequately assessing a singing voice. And while a few days ago I hailed Smokey Robinson's way with the word "baby," in the totality of love, one voice stands out for me, shoulders, head, and wig above all the rest. Years before the NPR braintrust got its act together, I wrote the following. I'll put it up against any list they or anybody else can concoct.



The Amorous Possibilities of Famous Singers and Musicians




I'll take Marvin Gaye's smooth strut of a voice to rub my back

And Nina Simone's frightful bellow on a late night phone call.

Joni Mitchell's giggle to tickle my feet 'neath the covers

And Leonard Cohen's dry rasp to share the post-cigarette with.

Give me Brian Wilson's falsetto to pet my neck

And Lucinda Williams's twang to rub my thighs through jeans.

I want Charlie Rich's cool despair to whisper in my ear

Captain Beefheart's yawp to neck in the backseat of a dark Buick

Smokey's sweetness to kiss

And Elvis's tender command to cuddle.

For a twilight gambol through knee-high weeds down to some

Deserted beach where we'll spar with seagulls and

Be hypnotized by the sloshing rhythm, I'll hold hands with

Charlie Watts's detached smirk.

Oh, let me swoon in Bob Dylan's hair and meandering vowels

Pant in Van Morrison's scowl

Submit to Roy Orbison's growl

Flirt with Melanie's sing-song

Blind date Rickie Lee Jones's purr

Roll over into Sandy Denny's huskiness

Fondle Sly Stone's jive

Throw an orgy with the Shirelles' corner sass

French kiss Christine McVie's angelic oohs

Nibble on Mimi Farina's high-c's

Waltz in the dark with Tracey Thorn's urbane doom

And be hugged deeply in the arms of Phil and Don's harmonies.



But to make love

To succumb

To merge

Well, there's only one voice.

One voice alone to shed myself in.

Aretha's.
 
George Jackson-Aretha, Sing One For Me

Grace

I remember it like it happened two hours ago, but it was more than a dozen years ago. Working in a bookstore, mired in some kind of a funk, and then out of nowhere, a woman walked by me perched at the register, on her way out of the store. Trailing her was a little girl, maybe six or seven, lost in her own world, not rushing to keep up with her mother. With no acknowledgment of my presence, just as she passed me, oblivious to everything in the world outside of herself, the little girl jumped up, executed some quick ballerina move, landed and kept on walking out the door. Instantly my blues evaporated, and I smiled deeply, in gratitude more than anything. A moment of grace indeed.

Similarly, the last two days have been long, tense slogs at work, but both days, from totally unexpected directions, appeared a couple small moments of grace, nothing as magical as a little ballerina in the middle of a mall, just smiles and nice words, but each helped light up a couple of dim days. 

It makes no sense. You can spend days, weeks, searching for a little grace, and nothing. Other days, just when you seem to need it the most, grace abounds. Gracious me.

The Dillards-Somebody Touched Me

Citizenship

Glorious, people. It was a glorious experience. Today, like millions of Americans (I assume and I hope) I exercised one of the most precious privileges of being a citizen of the United States. Yes, I voted, but that's not what I'm talking about. Let's face it, voting, at least at my precinct, is not much more than a standardized test (albeit with ballpoint pens rather than No. 2 pencils [and what's the deal with No. 1 pencils--what are they, where are they, and why do they get the shaft while No. 2's get all the glory???]), an excuse to drain your brain of all the platitudinous come-ons of all the ads and try to figure out things like the future of livestock farming or whether some guy named Kelly rather than another one named Corrigan gets your vote (this is Cleveland, after all). I actually recognized one name on the ballot and was happy not to fill in the oval next to it; not too many people have gotten on my bad side and stayed there, but this one would-be politician certainly did. Anyway, especially in an off off year, election-wise, I just can't get that worked up over the reality of voting, as much as I honor in it theory.

No, the exercising of citizenship that I'm talking about, the experience that made me feel so gloriously American today, was waiting in line at the post office. Ain't that America, for you and me, babe? For work I have to go to my local PO twice a week, and believe me, there are few regular small pleasures in my life that can compete with going to, standing in line at, and transacting business at the post office (Q-Tipping my ears, blogging religiously for you all, and celebrating the annual rite of the Browns bye week come to mind, not much else). Of course I'm biased; I'm a regular at the PO, my time spent there is time on the clock, so I'm actually getting paid to be there, and even if your personal PO experience is a dreadful one, you must admit that coming from holiday season (yes, Halloween is past, ergo, it's Xmas season) retail hell, even time spent waiting in line at the PO could actually be a step up in the psychological well-being department. Besides, "the ladies treat me kindly, and they furnish me with tape": I love the people who work at my PO. They're very friendly.

I don't know squat about Buddhism, but I think the key to appreciating your PO experience is to approach it as a walk-in Zen center. First of all, dismiss all notions of time (God I love the fact that William Faulkner, that genius of time analysis, once worked at--and was fired from--the post office). Most people, it seems to me, go to their PO already in a hurry. First and biggest mistake. In our go go society, let your trip to the PO be the one place where you willingly suspend all sense of time. If you happen to get in and out in a minute or two, don't walk away smugly thinking that's the way it always should be; rather, chalk it up as a random occurrence, not a privilege, like ho-hum voting. Bask in the "in-between time" waiting in line affords you. Variously I pray, try to recite (silently, usually) the names of the presidents in order, contemplate how my life would be different if I had pursued the hobby of philately (all the while smirking that nothing says faded dead celebrity more acutely than seeing one's face on a obsoletely-priced stamp: $.37? you has been! [my will stipulates that my heirs only agree to allowing my likeness to appear on a Forever Stamp, if Uncle Sam wishes to honor me postage-wise]), or if I'm feeling frisky, try to mind-meld with the other, irritated (notice the use of the comma there; no irritableness on me) people in line. Time is the one thing we all go to our graves wishing we had more of; accept humbly the gift of time that waiting at the PO presents you with (please don't foolishly assume I feel this way about waiting in line at the Bureau of Motor Vehicles; that's a hell Zen can never crack).

Think of it! For less than a cup of coffee, you can put a flimsy paper in a weird box and within a day or two or maybe three that paper will end up (just about) nowhere else except where you want it to, anywhere in this great country of ours. That fact has amazed since I was a wee lad, and it still does. Compared to how long I've waited for some spoiled millionaires to win a few games that matter in this city, a few minutes communing with my fellow citizens in a bright, friendly environment is paradise. Go postal? Don't mind if I do.

Marmalade-Wait A Minute Baby

Worst of the Worst

I believe I am a somewhat reserved man. My career as a visual artist notwithstanding, when it comes to making proclamations, I rarely if ever "color outside the lines." Sure, if the subject is Bob Dylan, bacon, covered in chocolate!, or the utilititarianism of the Q-Tip (and here I'll unabashedly embrace the brand--no generic cotton swab for me; it's Q-Tip or nothing), I will make the most extreme statements possible, because the truth requires I do so. But in most other cases, while I may not necessarily "hold" my tongue, I do not allow it to run pell-mell willy nilly all over the place. If I were Paul Revere, I probably would have shouted from the horse, "It appears some humans, perhaps men, Caucasian, perhaps European, maybe of Anglo descent, are in the vicinity, quite possibly moving toward us!" If I were Vince Lombardi, I probably would have told the boys in the locker room, "Winning isn't the best thing--I think we would all agree eternal salvation pretty much trumps everything, and of course a hot shower on a cold morning is up there, let alone a smart fitting black cocktail dress--it is the only thing, um, that will make us happy in the next three hours (unless of course the rapture hits before the final whistle, then we revert to the eternal salvation thing) because losing is kind of a bummer (not that we shouldn't still hold our heads up high) and a tie, well, a tie just looks awkward in the standings, and while I have nothing against looking awkward, cool your jets there Williams, God made you too, and God doesn't make junk, anyway, let's get out there and try our best to win" (I just now realized Lombardi's quote is "winning isn't everything, it's the only thing," but I take it you get my point). And if I were FDR, I would have said, "The only thing we have to fear is, well, let's be honest, a shitload of stuff, but God willing and the creek don't rise, and, well, just don't shriek if you do get scared. I can't stand shrieking."

All of that said, I've thought long and hard about this next statement, and I stand behind it, extreme as it is, 100%. The 2009 Cleveland Browns football team is not only the worst Browns football team in my life, not only the worst Cleveland sports team in my life, but the absolutely worst team of any kind I have ever rooted for (and I was at Northwestern when the Wildcat football team set the then-record for the longest Division I losing streak). I hear that even St. Jude is appealing to the Big Man Himself for help with this one. One of my favorite truck drivers got out of his rig a bit gingerly today. I asked him if he was okay. "I don't know, my butt's killing me today." "Must be a Browns fan," I said, and oh, we laughed away our woes for ten minutes over that one.

Anyway, this Browns team in its absolute worstness has got me thinking about other unequivocally worsts in my life. A sampling:

• worst fruit--grapefruit
• worst food--mushrooms (every and all)
• worst "classic" book I've read--Rabbit, Run by John Updike
• worst wurst--knack-
• worst Beatles song--"Hello, Goodbye"
• worst month--February
• worst pie--coconut cream
• worst letter--H
• worst number--734
• worst color--purple (or is that kind of teal?)
• worst Charlie's Angels episode--tie: all of the ones without Farrah
• worst type of hair--nose
• worst concert I ever saw--Cowboy Junkies
• worst movie--Forest Gump (or is it Forrest? Who cares?)
• worst actor--Robin Williams
• worst element--argon
• worst musical instrument--bagpipes (though one of the best jokes I've ever heard concerns an octopus amd bagpipes and has the punchline, "Play it? If I could figure a way to get its pajamas off I'd make love to it!"
• worst deli meat--bologna
• worst overused word--bespoke
• worst underused word--goiter
• worst fact in the world--the Browns still have eight games to play this season

The Rolling Stones-The Worst

Hey, Jude

Today is All Saints Day, a Holy Day of Obligation (HDoO) in the Roman Catholic Church. I was all set to muse on the notion of saintliness, but as usual, the web intervened, and now I must digress to more earthly concerns concerning the whole saint thing, namely Saint Jude, pictured above (looks a little like "Weird Al" Yankovic, don't you think?).

But first, I learned from the ever-fascinating folks at wikipedia that, for reasons not exactly clear to me, while All Saints Day is a HDoO in the United States, it apparently isn't in Hawaii. Okay, they've been a state now for fifty years, I think they need to get fully with the program. What, being obligated to go to mass might mess up a good surf day? Ooh, it's November, the temperature might dip into the seventies--can't risk pneumonia going to church, better stay inside? This is their compensation for having to get up at dawn to watch the early football games? Hawaiian Catholics are that much holier than their continental counterparts that they get dispensation on All Saints Day? Something smells fishy to me. Obama's Hawaiian, he must be behind it, right Rush?

If that weren't disturbing enough, then I found this news item on my favorite site for the universally disgruntled, the Grudge Report. It's too unbelievable to paraphrase and too incendiary to waste your time having to click on a link, so I'm just going to paste the verbatim Reuters story right here. May the venerable St. Fred, the patron saint (for a comprehensive list of patron saints, click here) of jaw-dropping balderdash, protect us in these troubled times.

Seemingly inspired by the recent attempt to recall Don Plusquellic, Mayor of Akron, Ohio, a small group of progressive saints has been entreating the Catholic Church here on Earth to launch a similar referendum on the performance of Saint Jude, the longtime patron saint of desperate cases (formerly known as hopeless causes). While the Vatican is typically keeping mum on the growing controversy, the recall effort has been gaining more support among Catholics worldwide, especially the notoriously recalcitrant American ones.

"Let's face it," says Monsignor Dennis "Rip" O'Toole of the Chicago Diocese, "the world is becoming more and more desperate and hopeless. Under Jude's watch things have only gotten worse. With all the Cub fans in my diocese, let alone those poor Cleveland sports fans, plus the state of the Republican Party and the dire situation in Afghanistan, let alone Sally (The Flying Nun) Field's career, everywhere you look it's just one desperate case after another. The time has come for change." O'Toole has been gathering electronic signatures on the website he and 12-year-old altar boy and web wunderkind Chuckie Tao unveiled last month, hopelessjudemustgo.com, and is lobbying the American Bishops Council to draft a letter to Pope Benedict XVI calling for an immediate synod to address the issue.

Under the heading "desperate cases make strange bedfellows," Grace Hunter, executive director of We Want Justice Done (WWJD), a not-for-profit organization advocating the ordination of women, based in Providence, Rhode Island, agrees with O'Toole's petition drive. "Our organization has been holding a novena to Jude for years and years now, and nothing. Zilch. Nada," says Hunter. "If anything, the situation's gotten worse. What have you done for us lately, Jude? You know? We demand a recall immediately." She says that WWJD is trying to draft Saint Matrona, presently the patron saint of dysentery sufferers, into running against Jude, citing "obvious reasons." "When was the last time you or anyone you knew suffered from dysentery, hunh? I rest my case."

"This is a textbook example of complacency," argues Hugh Sloat of the Yale Divinity School. "Jude figures the people who turn to him already feel hopelessly desperate, so what's the motivation? I hear he's spending a helluva lot of time on his golf game, speaking of desperate cases."

Cardinal Nardi Nessenio, official Vatican spokesman, would say only, through an interpreter, "Jude's been a steady patron saint in a, let's face it, pretty unglamorous job, for centuries now. He's still getting great press. Just look at the personals sections in newspapers across the globe. We've been very happy with his performance. You just don't go changing patron saints like football (real and American) coaches. That's poppycock."

According to unnamed sources in the Vatican, though, Saint Methodius, of the saintly sibling duo Saints Cyril and Methodius, is the driving force behind the recall movement. "He's a bottom-line, spreadsheet kind of saint," contends one of the unnamed sources, "and his charts find Jude's performance pretty lackluster, compared to many of his fellow patron saints. It's a compelling argument."

The source points to the recent successes of such saints as Gabriel (patron saint of telecommunications), Amand (winegrowers), and Barbara (architects), who have adapted to the changing demands of globalization and modern life in general. "If there's one thing all of our modern conveniences and advances should provide for us, it's freedom from desperation, hope, to put it bluntly, but the results just aren't there for Jude, or so Methodius argues."

"Methodius is just showing the strains of a long sainthood spent in the shadow of his brother, Cyril, who's actually the younger sibling and who changed his name from Constantine to the more beatific Cyril just before he died," retorts Fr. Horst Dower of Vienna's acclaimed think tank, the Freudian Union of Saint Study. "He feels he's been disrespected for centuries: no church named just for him, no patron saint duties just for him, yada, yada, yada. It's like Paul McCartney after all these years suddenly wanting the Lennon-McCartney credit switched on a few songs. It's strictly an ego thing, and I, quite frankly, find his behavior most unsaintly."

For his part, Saint Jude has made no public statement regarding the recall attempt, but Fulton Sheen, Jude's private secretary, on Sunday told Face the Cosmos, "The Saint is doing what he has always done: work tirelessly for his petitioners. He hardly ever sleeps. Right now, obviously, he's up to his eyeballs. I mean, somehow he wound up on Gary Coleman's speed dial."

While most church experts believe no recall will take place, several influential saint-watchers say the jockeying for position among the canonized has already started. "You've got opportunists in every walk of life," says Calvin Luther, professor of theology at Notre Dame University. "I've heard rumblings about Saint Dunstan forming an exploratory committee. And why shouldn't he? Here's a chance to move up from being the patron saint of blacksmiths. Who can blame him?"

Saint Matthew, always considered a mover and shaker with broad-based support, has already issued a pre-emptive statement saying he is not interested in the position, citing personal reasons, though many experts feel his recent track record (he's the patron saint of accountants) makes him unelectable at this time.

As usual, Hollywood is getting in on the act. Veteran actor and long-time outspoken Catholic Martin Sheen has hinted that he would be open to tossing his presumed halo into the ring. "I resurrected my son Charlie's career from drugs and strippers. I think I can do a little something for desperate cases worldwide."

Actor/director Mel Gibson is more forthright. "Hell yes I want the job," he said last week when asked about a possible candidacy while on location in Borneo shooting the next installment of the Mad Max series of movies.

As of last Friday, former New York Governor Mario Cuomo was still non-committal.

Los Lobos-Saint Behind the Glass