The Afro-Cuban All Stars concert was excellent, but we were disappointed at not seeing the octogenarian founders of the group. We drank a great deal, and we spent money. Luis and I were still wandering around at 2 am, after having a gin and tonic at some downstairs bar in the Gaslamp. There was no sign out front, and none of the other patrons knew the name of it when I asked. Luis named it "Fifteen Steps to Freedom" after having counted the steps it took to get down into it (or get out of it, depending on your perspective). The walls were crimson, it was crowded, and we sat on mismatched velour furniture. A good place. I wrote this journal entry the next morning. I was feeling fine, but Luis and Charlotte were deeply comatose. They would no doubt curse their existence upon awakening. I went for coffee and a walk. The hotel coffee sucked, and the lounge where the fabulous continental breakfast was laid out was appointed and populated like the dining area of a retirement home. I went for a walk. It was a stunning morning. It was sunny and crystal clear. Most importantly, I was in the mood to be where I was. I think that's essential to enjoying an idyllic moment.
Journal Excerpt, dated May 10, 2003
9 am-- The Spice House Cafe, Ash & 9th Street
What a beautiful morning. I have never been to this particular area before. Tall apartment buildings, semi-quaint small apartment buildings. And here I am in a restaurant that has not been redecorated since 1970. Perfect. Naugahide seats at the counter. This place is open 6 am to 3 pm. It's an idyllic moment.
This omelette is as big as a fucking armadillo. Gyro meat, feta, and tomatoes. Goodass crap.
I like downtown. I suppose I'm in the mood for it. Old places- places with personality. More cracks for people to fall through. That's a drawback--lots of homeless people.
Sunday, May 11, 2003
Journal Excerpt, dated May 9, 2003
Comfort Inn, 719 Ash Street, downtown San Diego. We are going to see Afro-Cuban All Stars at 9. We have been drinking beers here in the room since 6. We ate at La Gran Tapa. Livers in cream/sherry sauce (higadillos al jerez), grilled octopus (pulpos a la plancha), sausages, lamb en brochette, chicken empanadillas. Not bad. The sausages were pretty much charred, it was a bit pricey, and the waitress was utterly devoid of personality, to an extent that surpasses what I would expect at a Denny's at 3 am. The sangria was good, however.
The late evening sky is a purple to pink to blue gradient. There is a crane in the distance. The old El Cortez Hotel has been restored to grandeur; it blocks out much of the sky with its big-shouldered mass.
Luis's camera is on the tripod at the window.
Charlotte is playing music on her laptop computer.
My Boont Amber Ale is very tasty.
Writing here is so refreshing compared to writing Informed Consent forms and study reports at work.
Comfort Inn, 719 Ash Street, downtown San Diego. We are going to see Afro-Cuban All Stars at 9. We have been drinking beers here in the room since 6. We ate at La Gran Tapa. Livers in cream/sherry sauce (higadillos al jerez), grilled octopus (pulpos a la plancha), sausages, lamb en brochette, chicken empanadillas. Not bad. The sausages were pretty much charred, it was a bit pricey, and the waitress was utterly devoid of personality, to an extent that surpasses what I would expect at a Denny's at 3 am. The sangria was good, however.
The late evening sky is a purple to pink to blue gradient. There is a crane in the distance. The old El Cortez Hotel has been restored to grandeur; it blocks out much of the sky with its big-shouldered mass.
Luis's camera is on the tripod at the window.
Charlotte is playing music on her laptop computer.
My Boont Amber Ale is very tasty.
Writing here is so refreshing compared to writing Informed Consent forms and study reports at work.
Tuesday, May 06, 2003
Feliz seis de mayo. The sky is grey, one of the things I dislike about San Diego. Sure, it's often sunny and glorious, but there are a great many days covered with a monochromatically grey sky. Give me snow, thunderstorms, extremes! This place is a petri dish for yuppies. I need to explore the grimy underbelly of this town and sit in some dangerous bars, ones that resemble the cantina in Mos Eisley.
Saturday, April 19, 2003
Here's something from English 294, back in college----
Ambiguity Sandwich
Two male students walked into the noisy University Center cafe. "Hmm." The taller of the two surveyed the numerous selections. "I don't know what I'm hungry for," he said.
"Definitely a BLT for me," replied the other as he started toward the cash register. His friend stopped him with a hand on the shoulder and pointed to the menu board.
"Wait--ambiguity sandwich?" he wondered aloud, "What's that?"
"Which?"
"Right after the Italian Sub Combo--Ambiguity Sandwich with Chips, $2.85." Seeing it, the shorter student's brow wrinkled. "What in...?"
"Beats me; I've never heard of such a thing. What do you s'pose is on it?"
"Let's ask," offered the shorter one. He stepped up to the register and politely asked, "Excuse me, exactly what's on that Ambiguity Sandwich on the menu up there?"
"Oh, it's real good," answered the nondescript sales girl, "It's sliced like real thin, with this real good like sauce on it, and you get potato chips, and you can have it on white, wheat, or rye bread." She concluded her explanation with a loud pop of her bubble gum, looking as if no one could possibly have answered the question more clearly. After a moment of contemplation, he ordered,
"Okay, then, I'll have one on wheat with a Coke, please." After his transaction, the taller ordered the same on white bread with a glass of milk. They took their trays to a vacant table and sat down. As he peeked under the top slice of bread on his sandwich, a look of confusion came over the tall fellow's face. "What is this?" queried the other as he inspected his own.
"I have no idea." He peered, puzzled, and poked at it, but was unsuccessful in identifying the substance on his sandwich. It was not bologna, bacon, beef, bananas, butter, chicken, cheese, turkey, tuna salad, egg salad, seafood salad, chicken salad, three-bean salad, lamb, Spam, ham, jam, jelly, Jell-O, caviar, cake, corned beef hash, succotash, goulash, shark, fried egg, salami, pastrami, possum, peanut butter, watercress, watermelon, meatloaf, nor any other form of victual known to the two college students. It was utterly nondescript. However, it looked good. It did not appear non-edible, toxic, hairy, or threatening in any way. "Only one way to find out," he said matter-of-factly as he hefted the sandwich. His short friend watched intently. After having swallowed a bit, he leaned back, looking into space as if he were contemplating epistemology in his head. he shrugged. "I can't place it."
"What?" the other disbelievingly rasped, "Wait; let me try mine."
"Try your what?"
"Sandwich," he said, annoyed.
"Oh."
He tried his ambiguity-on-wheat and went through a good deal of chewing and cogitation before he directed an incredulous stare at his lunch. "I'm at a loss," he conceded.
"At a loss for what?"
"At a loss for what's in this."
"Who's at a loss for what? What's in it?"
"I'm at a loss! I don't know! That's just it; I don't know what this is!"
"What are you referring to?" the tall one asked stupidly.
"What's the matter with you, man?" jabbed the other, quite annoyed and nonplussed.
"What do you mean, 'what's the matter with me?'"
"I don't know. All of a sudden you're sort of-" he finished his statement with a meaningless hand gesture. Instead of trying to answer, the tall student made another attempt at his sandwich. Upon swallowing, he reflected,
"It kind of reminds me of that one time in high school."
"What one time?"
"You know; when they had those-" he waved his hands, "-things for lunch."
"God knows what you're talking about," the other replied, clueless and annoyed.
"Those square things with the little whatchamacallits on the side, moron," answered the equally annoyed tall one.
"Listen-" seethed the other, but he directed his anger into a bite of sandwich. "Maybe you're confusing this with that one Italian place," he offered.
Also chewing, the other mumbled, "We've been to a million of 'em."
"A million whats?"
"Italian places, dunce!"
"Are you trying to start something, assface?"
"W-what would I be starting?" he shook his head dumbly.
At that, the shorter fellow made a grab for the other's collar, but his hand was slapped aside. He tried again, and the flurry of movement attracted the attention of many other diners. This defused their altercation, but the short one continued verbally, "You're really pissing me off, man."
"What is it that's pissing you off?"
"Ever since we sat down here, I've had to explain everything to you five damned times!"
"Same here. But everything you say is so... I mean I wish you'd be more..."
When that half-statement reached the short one's ears, he made a profound statement in return. "AMBIGUITY SANDWICHES!" he said, staring at the half-eaten lunches. "These things make everything you say kind of...umm-" he trailed off in a series of gestures.
"Yeah; I see what you're saying. Once you eat some, you...umm; -yeah."
They finished their lunches, occasionally exchanging vague, nearly unintelligible statements, heavily augmented with use of hands. Every time one opened his mouth, the point of his statement became hopelessly lost. They both slumped in their chairs with clueless expressions on their faces. Finally, with the last bite of his sandwich, the tall one remarked, "Tastes sort of like chicken."
"Yeah, sort of."
Ambiguity Sandwich
Two male students walked into the noisy University Center cafe. "Hmm." The taller of the two surveyed the numerous selections. "I don't know what I'm hungry for," he said.
"Definitely a BLT for me," replied the other as he started toward the cash register. His friend stopped him with a hand on the shoulder and pointed to the menu board.
"Wait--ambiguity sandwich?" he wondered aloud, "What's that?"
"Which?"
"Right after the Italian Sub Combo--Ambiguity Sandwich with Chips, $2.85." Seeing it, the shorter student's brow wrinkled. "What in...?"
"Beats me; I've never heard of such a thing. What do you s'pose is on it?"
"Let's ask," offered the shorter one. He stepped up to the register and politely asked, "Excuse me, exactly what's on that Ambiguity Sandwich on the menu up there?"
"Oh, it's real good," answered the nondescript sales girl, "It's sliced like real thin, with this real good like sauce on it, and you get potato chips, and you can have it on white, wheat, or rye bread." She concluded her explanation with a loud pop of her bubble gum, looking as if no one could possibly have answered the question more clearly. After a moment of contemplation, he ordered,
"Okay, then, I'll have one on wheat with a Coke, please." After his transaction, the taller ordered the same on white bread with a glass of milk. They took their trays to a vacant table and sat down. As he peeked under the top slice of bread on his sandwich, a look of confusion came over the tall fellow's face. "What is this?" queried the other as he inspected his own.
"I have no idea." He peered, puzzled, and poked at it, but was unsuccessful in identifying the substance on his sandwich. It was not bologna, bacon, beef, bananas, butter, chicken, cheese, turkey, tuna salad, egg salad, seafood salad, chicken salad, three-bean salad, lamb, Spam, ham, jam, jelly, Jell-O, caviar, cake, corned beef hash, succotash, goulash, shark, fried egg, salami, pastrami, possum, peanut butter, watercress, watermelon, meatloaf, nor any other form of victual known to the two college students. It was utterly nondescript. However, it looked good. It did not appear non-edible, toxic, hairy, or threatening in any way. "Only one way to find out," he said matter-of-factly as he hefted the sandwich. His short friend watched intently. After having swallowed a bit, he leaned back, looking into space as if he were contemplating epistemology in his head. he shrugged. "I can't place it."
"What?" the other disbelievingly rasped, "Wait; let me try mine."
"Try your what?"
"Sandwich," he said, annoyed.
"Oh."
He tried his ambiguity-on-wheat and went through a good deal of chewing and cogitation before he directed an incredulous stare at his lunch. "I'm at a loss," he conceded.
"At a loss for what?"
"At a loss for what's in this."
"Who's at a loss for what? What's in it?"
"I'm at a loss! I don't know! That's just it; I don't know what this is!"
"What are you referring to?" the tall one asked stupidly.
"What's the matter with you, man?" jabbed the other, quite annoyed and nonplussed.
"What do you mean, 'what's the matter with me?'"
"I don't know. All of a sudden you're sort of-" he finished his statement with a meaningless hand gesture. Instead of trying to answer, the tall student made another attempt at his sandwich. Upon swallowing, he reflected,
"It kind of reminds me of that one time in high school."
"What one time?"
"You know; when they had those-" he waved his hands, "-things for lunch."
"God knows what you're talking about," the other replied, clueless and annoyed.
"Those square things with the little whatchamacallits on the side, moron," answered the equally annoyed tall one.
"Listen-" seethed the other, but he directed his anger into a bite of sandwich. "Maybe you're confusing this with that one Italian place," he offered.
Also chewing, the other mumbled, "We've been to a million of 'em."
"A million whats?"
"Italian places, dunce!"
"Are you trying to start something, assface?"
"W-what would I be starting?" he shook his head dumbly.
At that, the shorter fellow made a grab for the other's collar, but his hand was slapped aside. He tried again, and the flurry of movement attracted the attention of many other diners. This defused their altercation, but the short one continued verbally, "You're really pissing me off, man."
"What is it that's pissing you off?"
"Ever since we sat down here, I've had to explain everything to you five damned times!"
"Same here. But everything you say is so... I mean I wish you'd be more..."
When that half-statement reached the short one's ears, he made a profound statement in return. "AMBIGUITY SANDWICHES!" he said, staring at the half-eaten lunches. "These things make everything you say kind of...umm-" he trailed off in a series of gestures.
"Yeah; I see what you're saying. Once you eat some, you...umm; -yeah."
They finished their lunches, occasionally exchanging vague, nearly unintelligible statements, heavily augmented with use of hands. Every time one opened his mouth, the point of his statement became hopelessly lost. They both slumped in their chairs with clueless expressions on their faces. Finally, with the last bite of his sandwich, the tall one remarked, "Tastes sort of like chicken."
"Yeah, sort of."
Here's another tidbit:
Pre-albic Image #2
4-98,10-98
I close the dark house like a box.
Carpet, blankets,
Sleeping people and creeping cats
Are inside; I leave them.
I walk into the bigger silence
Where the interstate breathes like a sleeping giant,
Just audible.
Clouds are blue under a waxing gibbous.
These are low in the west, and the rest is speckled black.
Cars sleep along the street, staring with unblinking eyes.
My shoes scratch on gravel, and the trees rustle.
Streetlights light the street for no one,
And a traffic signal
Signals no traffic to stop and none to go.
By the market,
Bread trucks prowl and wait.
Bundles of newspapers adorn the doorstep of the bookstore.
Dark shop windows are like turned-off television sets
With clothed mannequins and set tables trapped inside.
The moment is cool and quiet, and it is all mine.
I caress it, roll in it, and look at it
Until I punch in and surrender it.
Pre-albic Image #2
4-98,10-98
I close the dark house like a box.
Carpet, blankets,
Sleeping people and creeping cats
Are inside; I leave them.
I walk into the bigger silence
Where the interstate breathes like a sleeping giant,
Just audible.
Clouds are blue under a waxing gibbous.
These are low in the west, and the rest is speckled black.
Cars sleep along the street, staring with unblinking eyes.
My shoes scratch on gravel, and the trees rustle.
Streetlights light the street for no one,
And a traffic signal
Signals no traffic to stop and none to go.
By the market,
Bread trucks prowl and wait.
Bundles of newspapers adorn the doorstep of the bookstore.
Dark shop windows are like turned-off television sets
With clothed mannequins and set tables trapped inside.
The moment is cool and quiet, and it is all mine.
I caress it, roll in it, and look at it
Until I punch in and surrender it.
I wrote this a while after my Dad passed away, and I just dug it up the other day. I hadn't looked at this in a long time.
Still Here
September/October 1993
In my room, I sit in a lamplight pool
surrounded by shadow. On my desk is
a less than full glass of scotch and water.
Mister Vaughan Williams' The Lark Ascending
ethereally hovers in the air.
Night has just taken over the clear sky,
and the autumn breathing is light and cool.
I am alone with my Dad. We listen
to the velvet surges and cadences
of the strings, savoring our bitter drink.
My work lies untouched as we sit and muse,
but it seems unimportant at this time;
my Dad and I are in conversation.
Our rapport is always getting better.
I have a picture of him hugging Mom;
the momento reminds me of parents
I do not see as often as I would.
Especially Dad--especially Dad...
I have not seen him in a span of time.
But as if he never left, here he is.
The rest of the world, its little concerns
leave our minds for a time, and it is nice.
Such moments do not happen every day.
I think he is happy to be with me,
and I appreciate this time with him.
His body failed quite some time before this
night of a scotch and a hovering Lark,
but we can still talk and drink together.
In such times, we are just closer, that's all,
because everything he was, is still here.
Still Here
September/October 1993
In my room, I sit in a lamplight pool
surrounded by shadow. On my desk is
a less than full glass of scotch and water.
Mister Vaughan Williams' The Lark Ascending
ethereally hovers in the air.
Night has just taken over the clear sky,
and the autumn breathing is light and cool.
I am alone with my Dad. We listen
to the velvet surges and cadences
of the strings, savoring our bitter drink.
My work lies untouched as we sit and muse,
but it seems unimportant at this time;
my Dad and I are in conversation.
Our rapport is always getting better.
I have a picture of him hugging Mom;
the momento reminds me of parents
I do not see as often as I would.
Especially Dad--especially Dad...
I have not seen him in a span of time.
But as if he never left, here he is.
The rest of the world, its little concerns
leave our minds for a time, and it is nice.
Such moments do not happen every day.
I think he is happy to be with me,
and I appreciate this time with him.
His body failed quite some time before this
night of a scotch and a hovering Lark,
but we can still talk and drink together.
In such times, we are just closer, that's all,
because everything he was, is still here.
Thursday, February 06, 2003
Bacon Wrapped Water Chestnuts
(hors-d’oeuvre)
2 cans whole water chestnuts
2 packages sliced bacon (preferably from Trader Joe’s)
1 bottle barbecue sauce
Toothpicks
Two glasses good red wine
Drain the water chestnuts. Cut the bacon strips in half crosswise. Wrap each water chestnut in a piece of bacon and run a toothpick through it to keep it in place. Put the wrapped water chestnuts in a pyrex casserole dish with the toothpicks pointing up. Bake in a 375° oven until the bacon is light brown, removing grease periodically with a turkey baster. Drink one glass of wine. Add barbecue sauce to the casserole dish and return to the oven until heated through. Serve. Drink the other glass of wine.
(hors-d’oeuvre)
2 cans whole water chestnuts
2 packages sliced bacon (preferably from Trader Joe’s)
1 bottle barbecue sauce
Toothpicks
Two glasses good red wine
Drain the water chestnuts. Cut the bacon strips in half crosswise. Wrap each water chestnut in a piece of bacon and run a toothpick through it to keep it in place. Put the wrapped water chestnuts in a pyrex casserole dish with the toothpicks pointing up. Bake in a 375° oven until the bacon is light brown, removing grease periodically with a turkey baster. Drink one glass of wine. Add barbecue sauce to the casserole dish and return to the oven until heated through. Serve. Drink the other glass of wine.
Friday, January 31, 2003
Tuesday, January 28, 2003
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
