Uncle Mortimer the Tang

At a very early age (and even now) when I heard voices, sounds, or sound effects, I usually felt compelled to try to imitate or mimic them. As it were, the sound of the Road Runner was particularly memorable and challenging; MEEP-MEEP, followed by that springy sound effect--you know, MEEP-MEEP-pa-TANG....

So young Bean could often be found wandering about, sputtering cartoon voices and sound effects, a Tourette's-like cavalcade of happy sounds... MEEP-MEEP-fffffffffssshhhhhhwooooop-pa-TANG! tang! TANG!.
Well it wasn't long before my brothers picked up on the "tang" suffix, adding it to various words and phrases--such-and-such-the-tang. One such concoction was the regular ice cream truck driver, known, creepily I now think, as "Uncle Marty"; Uncle Marty quickly evolved into Uncle Morty, which wasn't far from Uncle Mortimer. Well, Uncle Mortimer was OK, but he really needed a bit more, after all, we weren't shortening things at that point. So Uncle Mortimer became Uncle Mortimer the Tang.

EPILOGUE: ironically, in spite of all my linguistic twists and silly mimicry, I still couldn't bring myself to say the name of the ice cream treat which came in a paper cone and had a gum ball at the bottom. I remember walking up to Uncle Mortimer the Tang and asking him for that particular item, knowing full well what it was called! I just couldn't say it...




(You can google it if you want. I'm still not going to say it.)

Hail Mary, Full of Face

The unimpeachable bane of the western woman, the god-mother and self sacrificing servant, the unlikely and unbelievable figure of 2,000 years of devotion, is represented in the both perfect and devilish number of 18 panels by Beth Mastroianni in an installation at Brandt Gallery through April 12, 2008.

The Hail Mary, as much a prayer as a mantra, is treated to a personal representation by Ms. Mastroianni in this series portraying family, friends, and even a politician, in each of eighteen phrases of the invocation.

(Closing reception Friday, April 11, 2008)

Love (over Virtue or Fortune)

The struggle of the gods is played out by the earth-bound emperor Nero, his lover Poppea, her spurned fiancé Ottone, and the Empress Ottavia, in one of Monteverdi's final operas. In a haunting production by the Oberlin Conservatory's Opera Theater this past week, the wishful notion of the triumph of love turns startling and brutal.
Brutal in the reality of spurned lovers turning murderous, startling as the virtue of loyalty ending in self destruction. And sad in the joy taken in so much pain.

This dark and twisted comedy premiered in 1642, but it's theme is strikingly contemporary--or so we may think, as the gauzy scrim of nostalgia might suggest (wrongly) that times were ever "better", that art was ever more "uplifting". In reality, Monteverdi, the godfather of opera, plumbed the depths of emotion and human frailties in this masterwork, leaving no heroes and no one unscathed.

Immoral Fate, Hail Mary, etc.

I regret that I've been under the weather and rather busy the past couple of weeks, and as a result have not posted. But I'll have some thoughts on The Coronation of Poppea, and the Hail Mary as well. Soon...

7:41 AM

That's the time it was when he started laying on the doorbell. On a Sunday. Not one ring or two, but a dingdingdingdingdingdingding of continuous jabbing at the switch. And again. And I started from bed--do I get dressed? What? Socks? Who?

dingdingdingdingdingdingding

Henry--we'll call him Henry--is apparently homeless, and frequents the neighborhood because of the church up the street which feeds and ministers to the homeless. Henry will do stuff for money--rake leaves, shovel snow, haul trash, anything you got.

This time Henry had a snow shovel in hand; he "borrows" these tools, like rakes and shovels, from other neighbors to do the job, unless you want to "lend" him a shovel. But it hasn't snowed in two days, and even though I didn't shovel when it did, there wasn't much, and most of it has melted down. But Henry is here, shovel in hand, at 7:41 on a Sunday. The fact is, there's no beer or wine sold on Sundays until after 12 noon, so Henry's got some time to hustle. Henry needs cash.

Henry drinks. He probably does other things as well, but he drinks. He can rake a yard and fill four bags with leaves, powered by a Colt 45 "Tall Boy". He just sets it on the porch, in a bag, and gets to work. Henry hustles.

I don't know how old Henry is; he looks 55, but he's probably 33. Henry's got nothing much, nobody cares where Henry is this morning, at 7:41, on a Sunday. Nobody cares how old he is. Henry's mind is focused on too few things; he doesn't care what time it is. He's long past caring as those around him are long past caring about him. He just needs some cash.

Spaghetti Aglio e' Olio for lunch

The simplest of all pasta traditions, but also very easy to fuck up badly. Here's the lowdown on that simple yet elusive preparation:

Pasta
Olive Oil
Garlic
Red pepper flakes
(that's it!)

You already know how to cook pasta, right? Don't make me tell you to add salt to the water or make sure it's boiling before you drop it in, and if you rinse it I'm gonna break your neck. Anyone heard of Al Dente? No? If you overcook it I'll send Al down to break your neck, too!

Now, get yourself a big ol' pan and some good extra virgin olive oil ("extra virgin", that was me in high school).

Chop up a bunch of garlic (at least a half dozen cloves--don't make me come down there!)
NO, you cannot use garlic powder, paste, or that damn garlic press... Get out your big knife and make a scene!

Put the pan on some heat, put oil in the pan (half a cup, more or less--it's good for you, so shut up and pour!)

Go ahead and throw the garlic in the pan--here's the thing--we're not browning it, we just want to get it translucent and slightly sizzling. As soon as you hear a sizzle, TURN THE DAMN HEAT OFF!! Then, toss in a pinch or three of red pepper flakes. The residual heat will continue to develop the the garlic and pepper flavor. If you brown it, it will go bitter on you.

Drain the pasta when it's ready, and immediately toss in the pan with the oil. Throw it in a bowl and eat it, then continue to eat out of the pan until it's gone.

Serve with slightly chilled leftover red wine from previous night--preferably in a rocks glass or ceramic mug. Chase it with an apple or pear and you have the perfect lunch.

The Super Bowl Miracle

She knew New York would win, she said, it was the feast of St. Blaise', after all. Blaise was her brother who passed away more than twenty years ago, leaving a family of 12, and the oldest boy, also named Blaise, died too young not ten years past. In her mind, you somehow become the saint for whom you're named when you pass, like a giant continuum.

She left the TV on but didn't watch, only listened, as she cleaned out the refrigerator which had more years of filth than you care to know. Three hours it took, she said, cleaning and scrubbing, and in those three hours they won. So she knew...

It wasn't only the refrigerator, though. When I walked into the cramped apartment she grew up in, there were large, black trash bags stacked on the floor, a dozen or more, and I could see the kitchen table-top for the first time in all those years. The thick, gray dust was gone, clothes were hung up, boxes were packed. The dusty, sour smell was finally dissipating...

The patron saint of throat ailments and wild animals turned his attention to an underdog team and a poor old woman trying to reclaim her world. She listened to the plays, but never watched, not until the work was done.

She knew her brother and nephew would watch and wait for her.