Green Hell

Yellow Dock, Animal Guts and Chinese Soups

“In the 1920s medical licensing boards in all the Appalachian states began enforcing new standards for medical education based on the new biomedical method. Thereafter, local medical associations were vigorous in their efforts to identify quacks, including folk healers, and prosecute them in court for practicing medicine without a license…It must be noted that the increasingly powerful medical establishment was, as today, as much interested in increasing its hegemony over the health care sector and protecting its proprietary interests as it was in protecting the public from the menace of alternative medicine.”

 

-- Anthony Cavender, Folk Medicine in Southern Appalachia

 

With “Obamacare” looming large on the horizon and presented as the sole alternative to rising health-care costs, it occurs to me that it’s high time the “menace” of alternative medicine reared its ugly head anew.

 

I’m preparing a typically long-winded, digression-ridden rundown of my reasons for adding this section to the blog, but for the time being, you’ll have to settle for a typically long-winded, digression-ridden disclaimer.

 

I’m not a doctor, and I don’t even portray one on late-night television commercials. (“And the aneurysm, orchitis, vertigo, scrofula, kidney failure and five-days of priapism I got from a single dose of BoneZyte? Well, that was kinda fun, too…”) The closest I’ve ever come to attending medical school was when I volunteered to take experimental pills for fifty bucks a day (fifty bucks could buy a lot of booze back then…;-).

 

I learned what I know over a fifteen-year period, studying martial arts, collecting folklore, exchanging pointers with other “alternative” practitioners, “field testing” the information I’d collected (using myself as a guinea pig…) and, since 2005, studying the common threads that link European herbalism, Hillbilly and American Indian folk medicine, reflexology, and traditional Chinese medicine – and the seemingly unbridgeable gaps that separate them.

 

As the aforementioned traditions frequently contradict each other on the theoretical level, and as Western allopathic medicine either flatly denies their effectiveness, or grudgingly invokes the ever-vague “placebo effect” when a certain technique or formula produces the desired results, I’ve opted to suspend theory and adopt the old-fashioned empirical method: I may not know why, it works, but I know that it works. (This, incidentally, reminds me of a cutesily smartass Discordian aphorism: “Science and magic are both just ways of saying, ‘Look! It did it again!”)

 

The law forbids me to claim that any given method in this section is an effective remedy for any given ailment. I probably shouldn’t even refer to myself as a “healer,” although others do.

 

What I can do is relate a few personal anecdotes (and formulas), present my own “lab notes” and share the information I’ve gathered on various non-standard healing methods. I can also allow the people I’ve asked to sample certain remedies to provide firsthand testimony, as the First Amendment still permits some forms of free speech.

 

As, however, I don’t charge fees for poking and prodding various “pressure points” (although I was once fined for attempting to do so surreptitiously on subway cars and elevators…;-) or administering foul-tasting herbal soups to those who request them (hopefully, my 4x Great-Grandfather, Isaac Wright, would be proud of me), I suppose the following paragraph is the only relevant portion of this disclaimer.

 

All material in this section of the blog is presented for information/entertainment purposes only. The reader assumes sole responsibility for acting upon it.

 

Having gotten that out of the way, I’ll get to the “meat” of today’s piece.

 

Yellow Dock

 

Like several people I know, my wife has psoriasis. Over the years, she’s tried numerous treatments (both prescription and over-the-counter), none of which has provided permanent relief. In some cases, the “cure” proved worse than the ailment itself, thereby underscoring the truth of yet another rustic saying. One drug, for example, reduced the cracking, scaling, and itching – but significantly weakened her immune system in the process. (And by what inexplicable alchemy, by the way, does today’s “miracle cure” invariably become tomorrow’s “silent killer”?) Other remedies (including a ridiculously overpriced, “big name” Swiss product) provided only temporary relief.

 

Needless to say, this simply wouldn’t do. As the “American Dark Ages” are nearly upon us, economically speaking, tossing good money after bad (if, indeed there is any such thing as “good” money these days…) on ineffective snake oil was self-evidently foolish. I therefore looked for cheaper, more effective ways to treat her.

 

Of the “alternative” healing methods I’ve explored, the Chinese has proven most effective. I’ve sworn by dit da jow for years, and the “Iron Palm” liniment a friend sent me (I’d like to provide a link, but I’d best consult him first. He’s a very busy man, and doesn’t suffer fools gladly) was eye-poppingly effective. Two days after my wedding, another friend whose understanding of traditional Chinese medicine surpasses my own tenfold plied me with an herbal preparation that completely healed a broken bone within three weeks -- and I’m a smoker!

 

Having seen so many positive results from Chinese medicine, I looked to it first when it came to treating Maggie. After several days of reading, I opted to try two simple remedies and see if anything noteworthy came of either. One consisted of chopped, crushed ginger root, macerated in alcohol for two days, the other of whole cloves steeped in the same medium.

 

I know very well that ginger and cloves, while native to the Orient, have figured prominently in the Western herbal tradition since the late fifteenth-century. I resorted to clove oil to numb an abscessed, impacted wisdom tooth (even when, as a self-initiated acolyte of the Order of St. Rosenbaum the Rational, I refused to accept its effectiveness intellectually), and have used ginger to ease other complaints, as well. In this case, though, neither worked as well as we’d have liked.

 

The ginger tincture reduced the scaling and the extent of the patches – but only so far. Furthermore, Materia Medica advises that ginger can actually exacerbate certain skin conditions, so I might discontinue the treatment entirely and see what happens. The clove extract eliminated the itch on contact, but did little else. We have yet to try the direct application of rice vinegar, the extracted oil of dry-fried egg yolks, or ointment made of garlic and lard -- for what I suspect are obvious reasons. Materia Medica lists a member of the dioscorea family (D. bulbifera) as a treatment for psoriasis, but that form of dioscorea is very toxic and can cause liver damage. Even when a tincture is applied topically, some of it is certain to enter the bloodstream, so I consider it too risky to use. For that reason, I thought something a little gentler and a little closer to home was in order.

   

The plant in question is yellow dock:

 

Family: Polygonaceae Genus: Rumex  Species: crispus

 

Yellow dock is also known as curly dock, curled dock, bitter dock, sour dock, narrow dock, and garden patience. It’s a very common plant in Georgia, where it’s considered a weed. (Two other plants often used to treat psoriasis, mountain grape and dandelion, also grow on our property. I’ll be trying them soon, and will post the results in a future piece.)

 

In his 1832 book, Wright’s Family Medicine, my ancestor says:

 

“Dock narrow – grows in fields and flowers about the middle of summer. The roots bruised have been applied with efficacy in the cure of obstinate ulcers, and hard, cancerous tumors. A decoction of them will cure the itch. The seeds will check a dysentery. The root, it is said, is mildly purgative.”

 

It’s also an ingredient in his “vegetable unguent”:

 

“Take narrow dock, poke (Phytolacca americana) and hellebore (NB: I’d imagine he means American hellebore – Veratrum viride or V. album, both of which are poisonous, but which Wright, interestingly enough, recommends for treating manic-depression ) of the roots of each half a pound, beat them fine, put them into five gallons of water, boil it down to a pint, pour it off, then add two pounds of hogs lard, stew it down to a pint. Let the oil then stand until it settles; add of common turpentine, and sweet gumwax, each a piece as large as a hen egg. Apply sufficient heat to melt in the last two ingredients, and the unguent is ready for use.

This unguent is an excellent medicine in most cutaneous diseases, and in the hands of the author, has never failed to cure the itch.”

 

The leaves are astringent, rich in iron (although soil conditions will modify this characteristic), and used as poultice for sores and hives. The juice is a very effective remedy for “close encounters of the worst kind” with sting-weed  (a.k.a. “nettles”). The leaves are edible after cooking in one or two changes of water, but I find them unpleasantly sour; rather like bad-tasting French sorrel. The seeds were ground and eaten by many Indian tribes, while the roots stimulate bile, clear toxins, and are used internally to treat psoriasis and constipation. They also provide a yellow dye which can be used to color cloth or buckskin. The mildly laxative root also benefits the liver and gallbladder (which actually makes sense in both the Chinese and Western herbal models).

 

Its widespread use in the treatment of skin conditions, though, is what first caught my eye. In Appalachia, the locals soak it in vinegar and use it as a wash for fungal infections. Farther north, the Ojibwa (Chippewa) called it ginjojewûkûn. They dried and powdered the root, then moistened it and applied it as poultice for itching, ulcers and skin eruptions.

 

Yellow dock was recognized in 1928 U.S. Pharmacopoeia and National Formulary as astringent, mildly tonic and alterative. Modern herbalists consider it an astringent, alterative, cholagogue, hepatic, laxative, and tonic. The active ingredients consist of Anthraquinone glycosides and tannins.

 

The topical application of most herbs (and I’m guessing this one will be no different in that respect) only results in temporary relief of psoriasis, eczema and similar ailments. For this reason, we’ve decided to use it internally, as a decoction or “tea.” In this case, the dosage consists of 1 or 2 teaspoons of dried yellow dock root, simmered in one cup of water for fifteen minutes, administered three times a day – probably for the rest of one’s life.

 

Now you don’t want to sashay out into the nearest meadow (or your backyard), yank the stuff out of the ground and use it as-is. Plants, like animals, have lifecycles. The quality of any given herb depends not only upon the kind of soil in which it’s grown, but the time of year and state of maturity in which it’s harvested. (Young pokeweed shoots, for example, are edible, but the plant becomes toxic as it matures.) The best time to harvest yellow dock is from late September until the winter solstice. In loose soils, the roots can become very large and tenacious (you should have seen Maggie and me sweating, puffing and cussing whilst trying to remove one that had “colonized” one of our raised beds this summer…), so the Gentle Reader would do well to take a shovel, spade, mattock or E-tool when collecting it. Dig in a circle 3” or so from the root, then pull the entire “core sample,” if you will, from the ground. Brush the soil away from the roots (if you live in Georgia, this can take some doing, as we have heavy clay soil), then wash it thoroughly, separate the root from the stem, split it in half lengthwise, and hang it or dry it on racks made from 1” x 1”s and window screen.

 

So much for yellow dock.

 

Nasty Ingredients: Animal Innards

 

Last year, a friend of ours sent Maggie and me a copy of Materia Medica (essentially the last word in traditional Chinese medicine) as a wedding present. At over a thousand pages, it’s quite literally an encyclopedia of the various substances employed in the Chinese pharmacopoeia, and covers everything from common herbs to such exotic ingredients as abalone shells, dried gecko, seahorses and dogs’ peckers. The same year, our own Aaron (forgetting that he was at a wedding and not a catch-as-catch-can wrestling match) managed to crack one of my ribs. (Now you know why body punching is so popular in Asia – it doesn’t take much force to break a rib, especially when the intended target has conveniently raised his arms…).

 

Broken ribs are nasty business, because it literally hurts to breathe when so injured. Moreover, unlike broken arms or legs, elevating or immobilizing the injury is impossible. The pain makes even sleeping difficult, and if you’re a dumbshit ridgerunner like me, you’re sure to exacerbate the condition by hiking up a fucking mountain with a 30-pound pack the day after you sustain the injury. Even worse, if your wife is a heartless psychopath like mine, she’ll make you drag a huge suitcase the entire mile-and-a-half from your hotel to MacYoung’s house despite your condition.

 

 As I hadn’t counted on being injured, I’d left my “toy box” (the collection of “weird shit,” as my wife calls it, that I use to treat various ailments) in Georgia. There was an herb shop just off the main drag in Castle Rock, but I couldn’t remember seeing boneset or any of the other herbs I’d have used on their shelves. Besides, it was Sunday morning, so the place would have been closed.

 

Fortunately, a friend of ours had brought his “toy box” with him. Part of his stock consisted of a true “miracle drug,” an internal version of dit da jow called hsiung tan tieh tah wan. (The name is Mandarin, but the Kanji “tieh” and “ta” correspond to “dit” and “da” in Cantonese). It’s a mixture of angelica, Chinese rhubarb, amomi fruit, turmeric, Inula, Carthamus, pseudoginseng and bear’s gall. It tastes like warmed-over shit, but it works like a charm. Our friend gave me three doses, but since one of the TSA Stoßtruppen (“If you want to professionalize, you must federalize…) or baggage handlers at either Hartsfield or DIA stole one of them from my suitcase (the knuckle-dragging mouth-breather probably thought it was the Chinese equivalent of crack), I was only able to take two. Our friend recommended taking them with red wine, but as said libation was ridiculously expensive at DIA, I took the first dose with water and the second with beer. Even under these less-than-ideal conditions, the medicine was remarkably effective.

 

Now I’m sure to have every tree-hugger and squirrel-hugger on the planet excoriating me for having partaken of bear’s gall – but to hell with ‘em. The stuff works, and that’s all that matters to me. On the average, it takes a broken bone six to eight weeks to heal. When using these pills and a twice-daily application of jow, though, it only takes three. According to Materia Medica, bear’s gall acts on several of the major meridians (liver, gallbladder, heart, spleen and stomach), and is used to relieve spasms and convulsions. That makes perfect sense, as the muscle spasms one experiences whilst nursing a broken bone are often un-conducive to the healing process.

 

What I found most fascinating about the substance, though, was that the Chinese aren’t the only people who use it medicinally. 

 

According to the Forty-Fourth Annual Report of the Bureau of American Ethnology (1926-7), p. 333, the Ojibwa used a 50/50 mixture of dried bear gall and hazel or cedar charcoal to treat “dizzy headache,” rheumatism and neuralgia. The gall and charcoal were mixed then pricked into the skin with wooden needles. Hmmm… Two vastly different cultures; two broadly similar uses for a substance Western medicine won’t even acknowledge…

 

Soup du Jour

 

Before I finish this piece and knock off for the evening, I’d like to provide a pair of soup recipes. These two are unusual, in that they’re both tasty and medicinal. As many of you know, some Chinese herbal soups and brews could put a fly off a cowflop. (You should see the look on Maggie’s face when she takes her angelica elixir…). These two, though, aren’t just healthy; they’re delicious.

 

The first is a variation of the Chinese wolfberry stew recipe I posted a few weeks ago. There are no shiitake mushrooms in the original, and it’s really more a soup than a stew. It’s made with oxtails rather than stewing beef, and is a little light on the wolfberries. I gather that it was slightly modified in the interest of pleasing the palate rather than fortifying the chi, and have therefore “corrected” it to the best of my ability.

 

1 lb oxtail, sliced, trimmed and blanched

Water to cover

2 scallions (preferably with roots), cut into 3” pieces

2” piece ginger root, crushed and chopped

½ cup “yellow” rice wine

2t sea salt

½ oz. Chinese wolfberries (Lycium barbarum or L. chinense)

White pepper to taste

10 reconstituted shiitake mushrooms (optional)

A few drops of sesame oil (optional)

 

Place oxtails, salt, ginger, scallion, salt, and wine in a pot (preferably a clay pot or double-boiler) and add water to cover. Heat to boiling, reduce heat and simmer for one hour, covered. Quickly lift lid and add wolfberries and mushrooms (if desired). Simmer for an additional 30 minutes to an hour, until oxtails are tender. Serve in individual bowls, seasoned with white pepper and sesame oil. I’ve discussed the reputed health benefits of the various ingredients in an earlier post, so for now, I’ll simply add that oxtails are considered a blood tonic, while ginger (as per Materia Medica) is considered acrid and slightly warm, and said to act upon the lung, spleen and stomach meridians.

 

(Notes: 1.) Hardcore herbalists may prefer to use freshly ground black pepper, as the berries haven’t been stripped of their outer layer, and are thusly “whole” herbs; 2.) I don’t recommend checking on the soup while it cooks. Lifting the lid allows many of the volatile constituents of the herbs to escape, thereby diminishing its health benefits.)

 

The next recipe appears to be completely legit (i.e., traditional), so I’ll post it almost as I found it. It appears in a fifteen-year-old book called The Food of China, which I picked up in a used bookstore a few years ago. I’ve tried to ferret out other titles in the series (which highlighted the cuisines of Bali, Singapore, Indonesia, Malaysia and Thailand, respectively), but as I can’t find them anywhere, I assume they’re out of print.

 

1.5 lb. duckling

1.5 quarts homemade chicken stock

1T sliced lesser galangal (Alpinia officinarum)

¾ oz. Korean ginseng (Panax ginseng)

¾ oz. Cordyceps sinensis (a.k.a. “caterpillar fungus”)

¾ oz. Chinese wolfberries (Lycium barbarum or L. sinense)

2t sea salt

1t white pepper

 

When preparing duck or goose, I usually dip the bird in rapidly boiling water and then dry it for an hour or so. The recipe recommends soaking it in tepid water for half an hour, so I do both. Duck is very greasy and, depending on the quality of the bird’s diet, sometimes inclined towards muskiness. If using wild duck (which a die-hard practitioner of Chinese medicine would undoubtedly applaud), the blanching/soaking is an absolute necessity.

 

The original recipe calls for steaming the duck with the other ingredients, but I prefer the time-honored double boiler or clay pot, kept covered for the entire two hours it takes to prepare this dish.

 

Duck, according to Henry Lu, is a yin tonic (chicken, on the other hand, is an energy tonic). It’s sweet, salty, neutral, and acts upon the lung and kidney meridians. Chicken, by way of comparison, is sweet, warm, and affects the spleen and stomach meridians.

 

There’s no sense in reviewing wolfberries, so I’ll put Cordyceps, lesser galangal and ginseng in the spotlight.

 

Of the three ingredients, Cordyceps is undoubtedly the most revolting to Western sensibilities. Essentially “arthropod jock itch from hell,” it’s a parasitic fungus that attacks certain caterpillars – eventually killing them – while leaving its victim’s corpses more-or-less intact. Yes, this means you’ll be treated to the sight of bugs floating in your soup, when and if you use it. (If, however, you’ve ever eaten lunch in a Fulton County Public School System cafeteria, you’ve probably long since become inured to seeing such things…) Cordyceps, according to Materia Medica, enters the lung and kidney meridians, “…tonifies kidney yang, augments the essence, tonifies the lungs, settles coughs and wheezing, stops sweating.” It’s also used as a remedy for impotence, so I suppose you can flush that Viagra down the crapper – just eat mo’ bugs! When combined with duck, chicken, pork or fish, it’s a remedy for lassitude, dizziness, and weakened protective chi.

 

Alas and alack, I’ll never get my wife (who occasionally suffers from all three) to touch the stuff. She has a horror of even jellyfish and nameko mushrooms while steak and kidney pie gives her and my long-suffering mother the dry heaves. (“Oh, no! He’s not cooking that again, is he? The whole house is going to smell like a pissoir…”)

 

I suppose it’s just as well, as Cordyceps is becoming difficult to find in the Lower 48, and correspondingly pricey. Once upon a time, one could purchase pre-measured packets of cordyceps, wolfberries, dioscorea and other herbs at Asian markets, but those days are long gone. And since I now know what to look for, I’ll mention that the larvae weren’t of the highest quality either; they were too small, and the stromata had been removed. MM mentions that some exporters have been passing along “counterfeit caterpillars,” as it were, so I’d recommend buying it at a reputable, established Chinese pharmacy unless you know what you’re looking for.

 

If Cordyceps is the most disgusting ingredient; then ginseng is the most famous. Along with cocaine and “megavitamins,” it became America’s de facto “national aphrodisiac” during our collective, post-Vietnam nervous breakdown in the early- and mid-‘Seventies. (So much so, that ginseng-popping health-freaks and “swingers” are almost clichés.)

 

When taken in moderation (large doses are carcinogenic and have other undesirable side effects -- although small doses, ironically enough, actually inhibit the growth of cancer cells), ginseng is an all-around tonic and chi-builder par excellence. Several years ago, a U.C.L.A professor named Ronald Siegal identified an ailment he called “ginseng abuse syndrome, the symptoms of which were surprisingly similar to those associated with overuse of caffeine or even amphetamines: insomnia, irritability, anxiety, rashes, diarrhea and high blood pressure. So once again, use in moderate quantities.

 

 Among its effects are: “tonif[ying] the primal qi of the five organs, nourish[ing] the yin, reviv[ing] from collapse, stop[ping] heavy bleeding.” American ginseng (Panax quinquefolium) is gentler in its effects and might prove an acceptable substitute. Both, however, are terribly expensive, although they’re readily available, fresh or dried, in most oriental groceries. Those lucky enough to live in the Atlanta area can obtain it at the Buford Highway Farmers’ Market. 

 

Lesser galangal  (Alpinia officinarum) is used in much of Southeast Asia to treat gastric ulcers and dyspepsia. In China, it’s used for everything from nausea to hiccups, owing to its ability to “warm the middle,” disperse cold, lower rebellious chi and alleviate pain. It’s considered hot and acrid, and is said to enter the spleen and stomach meridians.

 

The Koreans eat a similar rejuvenating soup, called samgyetang. It consists of a young chicken stuffed with glutinous rice and then stewed with red dates, scallion, garlic, sesame seed, ginseng and pepper. Each of those ingredients is used in traditional Asian medicine, but I’ve written enough for one day.

 

G’night and God bless.

Fine Dining With Bill and Dave, Part II

“Your Luddite leanin’s is cause for concern,” said Bill, as we flounced into the car.

 

“Better a Luddite than a ‘gear queer,’” I retorted. “Besides, my revolvers never jam. Can you say the same of your faggy, Eye-talian shootin’ irons? I think not, sirrah! Since mine ain’t recoil operated, I can reload with any propellant I want when the zombies an’ Martians an’ Triffids an’ illegal Mexican Body Snatchers infected with that-there Andromeda strain of drug-resistant VD invade. An’ Patton didn’t carry no damned pearl-handled Beretta, by God!”

 

I struck my right thigh with a hammerfist and jammed my left index finger into his face, hoping to approximate the rhetorical style and stage-presence of an Old Testament prophet.

 

“Ye’re hopeless,” he grumbled. Then, without warning, his pitch contour departed from the contralto-to-baritone Finno-Ugric model, switched gears, and rocketed into something more akin to the rising wail of Mexican Spanish.

 

“Rollerblader! Rollerblader! Rollerblader!” he caterwauled, snapping bolt upright and pointing frantically at the rearview mirror. I shouldered the passenger’s side door open with all my might as Bill flung the car into reverse, clothes-lining the hapless skater in the process. Laughing and high-fiving each other, we pulled away from the curb and merged into the flow of traffic.

 

“I don’t know why,” said he, “but for some reason, that just never gets old.”

“Couldn’t agree wi’ ye’ more, bubba. There’s something fresh and new about every one of ‘em. There’s them that somersaults over the door, an’ them that slides under it. There’s some what goes red in the face, an’ others what goes blue in the face. There’s some as shrieks like fishwives, and others as gets knocked cold without even a grunt. The number of combinations, permutations, and even fantasias – if you will – on the general theme is practically infinite. Forrest Gump was right, you know: Life really is like a box of chocolates. A music box of chocolates, even!”

 

“I reckon that particular chocolate had raspberry filling, me bucko. An’ look! It’s a-leakin’ all over the pavement-like!”

 

“What did Bonaparte say about omelets?” I asked (the question being purely rhetorical).

Just get our asses out o’ here, will ye’? Now let’s see…Whom to make the beneficiary of our next didactic-yet-whimsical jest? So many to deliver from metaphoric reincarnation in the lower realms; so little time…”

 

I opened a local “swinger” magazine and thumbed through it, scanning it for likely candidates.

 

“Wow!” Bill exclaimed, leaning perilously far to the right. “I ain’t never seen an Asura with a lingam that big before! Bet he’s havin’ trouble stayin’ on the Eightfold Path, damn skippy! Hell, he prob’ly trips, every other step he takes! I sure as hell don’t envy him his ‘journey of a thousand miles,’ though I might envy -- ah, never mind. I don’t think modern psychology accepts that notion anymore. But look at the knockers on that-there blonde preta! Wonder iffen she’s hungry for a bit o’--”

 

“Just focus on the road, Bill. Life is a journey, not a destination, after all. And leave the selection to me.”

 

“The waiter was Kasapa, Bill was Ananda, but the snippy li’l peckerhead was just I,” said he, mimicking my voice. He stuck out his tongue, but to no effect.

“Did you hear me?” he demanded, after a moment of not-so-reverent silence.

“Yeah. Get back to me when you finish ‘Jataka-ing off,’ Bubba. It ain’t your medium.”

 

“Can I run over a bum?” he asked several minutes later, as we cruised along Peachtree Road.

 

“Do what?” I asked. I’d become so immersed in the twin streams of my own reverie and the tunes coming over the car’s stereo; I hadn’t heard him. Bill scowled and repeated himself. Gazing out the window, I took in the high-speed museum/movie that was the sidewalk, frame by mortar-and-concrete frame – tramcars and taxis/ like a waxworks on the move… I didn’t see any vagrants -- but then again, Bill’s definition of “bum” was rather a loose one.

 

“I’d really prefer you didn’t,” I replied. “It’s powerful hot today, and them suckers is damned hard to scrub off the grill as it is. That means a lot of work, and in this heat, the leavin’s will be ripe as rotten eggs by the time we get home. Besides, we ain’t had dessert yet, and I simply cannot countenance running over bums -- or even neocons -- on anything but a full stomach. Somehow, it just doesn’t feel right.”

 

“You artistic types is mighty peculiar,” said Bill, fishing for his hip flask and swerving well over the median.

 

“It’s both a gift and a curse,” I sighed. “Kinda like those rock-hard, rubber Super Balls, you see? It’s fun to bounce ‘em off people’s heads, but you know that somewhere out there, some other sick freak’s packin’ one with your name on it.”

 

“Good googly-woogly! Look at the rack on that one on the corner!” Bill exclaimed.

“Oh, she’s certainly built like brick shithouse,” I said. “But she doesn’t strike me as a Super Ball-packing psycho at all. Looks downright innocuous to me -- if somewhat conceited. I wouldn’t worry about her, Bill. I do hate that purse, though. Gives me prickly heat and indigestion just looking at it.”

 

“You know what I mean, you purse-evaluatin’ closet case” he said, scowling and slamming on the brakes. “If yer gonna be a faggot, ye’ kin fuckin’ well walk to the mall.”

 

Something impacted the rear bumper with a crash. A wail followed, and a fraction of a second later, a bicycle courier slid down the windshield and tumbled off the hood.

 

“Now that, Bill,” I said, “Is why following too closely is a moving violation. It’s ‘unsafe at any speed,’ as Nader would say. Of course, it’s also a breach of the law to refuse to stop and render assistance at the scene of an accident. This presents us a moral and legal quandary of sorts – and throws letter of the law into no-holds-barred conflict with the spirit thereof. Technically, we’ve stopped – as the law requires.”

 

“But what if the accident happened because we stopped?” asked Bill.

 

“I was just getting to that,” I said, raising a finger. “Having given the matter due consideration--”

 

“Ye done considered it that fast?” asked Bill, wide-eyed.

 

“Yes. Being a twisted genius confers certain benefits – and I hang out with innumerable twisted geniuses. It rubs off after a while, you see? Now quit interrupting. It’s uncouth and it pisses me off to no end. As I was saying, we’ve obeyed the letter of the law by stopping. And our stopping, incidentally, didn’t cause the accident. His following too closely did. Remember that asshole back in Gilbert?”

 

“Ohhhh yeahhh…” he said, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand.

 

“Identical situation. Now as for rendering assistance: therein lies the quandary. Clearly, the man lying on the street before us is a criminal, insofar as he’s broken the law. Therefore, if we stop and render assistance, we’re aiding and abetting a criminal -- thereby violating yet another law. That defeats the entire purpose of the law in general, and possibly undermines our own Constitutional guarantee against self-incrimination. There will be questions, Bill. There will be questions. There always are… Do you see where I’m going with this?”

 

“Hmm,” he replied, stroking his chin and staring at the sun visor, “Now that there’s a pickle.”

 

“A vicious Catch-22, Billy-O. We live in a hard, cold, cruel, Machiavellian world. A single misstep could be our last – and besides, if we render assistance, we’re not only endangering ourselves, we’re rewarding antisocial behavior. I’ll leave you to ponder that for a moment. Hey! That siliconed Barbie doll on the corner is staring at us now. Didn’t anyone tell her it’s rude to stare? And yes, it was you who pointed her out to me in the first place. I haven’t forgotten.”

 

Dutifully, I rolled my window all the way down.

“That must be jelly, ‘cause jam don’t jiggle like that!” Bill and I roared in unison.

 

“I thought jaywalking was illegal,” Bill mused, passing me the flask as we nosed around the prostrate courier. “She didn’t even wait for the light to change.”

 

“Some people are just inherently lawless,” I replied “There’s no helping it, and our culture actually encourages it. Now do you understand why I was so adamant about not helping the tailgater? Oh! And where, I ask you, are the cops when you need ‘em? Did you see anyone jacking that overdressed strumpet up against a wall and frisking her -- or even looking at her cross-eyed? Do you have the faintest idea of how often I’ve been lectured by the ‘blue meanies’ for crossing against the light? I tell you, Bill, I’m starting to think I’m a victim of an insidious form of discrimination. ‘SWC,’ I think I’ll call it: ‘strolling whilst Celtic.’ That’s the red-haired stepchild (no pun intended, of course) of the infamous ‘DWB’. This is good moonshine, by the way. We should have had it earlier, as an aperitif of sorts.”

 

“You sayin’ you didn’t like the Mr. Boston and kiwi-strawberry Kool Aid?” he asked, a note of hurt in his voice.

“Oh, it was wonderful,” I said. “And I’m still amazed that you were able to get it in such an expensive restaurant. Maybe there’s something to be said for pointing firearms at people, after all. Somehow, it makes them more cooperative.”

 

“I just like it when they wee-wee in their pants,” he said with a nasty grin.

“Speakin’ o’ pants: Will you look at that?” I exclaimed. “That jogger must have a full two inches of ass-cheek hangin’ out o’ them shorts!”

 

“No shit!” he squalled. “Now that’s downright indecent -- in a boner-inducin’ kind o’ way.”

 

“My sentiments exactly, me boyeen. Displays of worldly sensuality like that serve only to rob the sangha of impressionable and weak-willed novices. Now pull a little closer to the curb. We must needs instruct her in the Dharma, and I can think of no better way than the time-honored Zen method. We must make her and her experience one!”

 

“Her and her? How much you had to drink, bubba? Who else’s ass you gonna make experience a grabbin’?” asked Bill in a puzzled tone. “I only see me one jogger.”

 

“Aaagh! I mean that I intend to make her one with her experience, you dolt!” I said. “Now hug the curb, Billy-O. I’m about to find out what the sound of one hand clapping actually is, thereby elevating my own consciousness, as well as hers. I’ve long maintained that instruction benefits teacher and student equally, you know…”

 

“So how beneficial did your eye find that whole instruction bit?” asked Bill, as we turned into the parking lot at Lenox Square.

“Not very,” I said, still holding a ten-pound bag of service-station ice to it. “But how was I to know she’d see my shadow on the sidewalk, or that she’d have such astonishing reflexes – or so much fast-twitch muscle, for Christ’s sake? Maybe there really is something to be said for that ‘cardio-kickboxing’ shite. P’raps I should reconsider my dependency on Fairbairn, Funakoshi and that bunch. I might even cancel my subscription to Black Belt.”

 

“Nah. Stick to what works. An’ leastways you found out the sound of one hand clapping,” he said with a snicker. “And two ways, at that: Your palm clappin’ against her ass, an’ her backhandin’ you in the eye. There’s jes’ gotta be some kind o’ profound, yin-yang symbolism there.”

 

“I hate to admit it, but you’re probably right – and let’s not mix Asian philosophies, OK?”

“Whoah there, Bubba-Jack! You was the one what made the Zen reference! If Zen ain’t syncretistic as all hell; I don’t know what is!”

 

“Point conceded,” I said glumly. “And damn, but I’m glad you were going slow!”

 

“Unlike that baw’bag over yonder,” he said, pointing at a Jag convertible painted an especially infuriating shade of red. “Fuck me dead iffen that kind o’ os-ten-tatious dis-play o’ material well-bein’ don’t piss me off to no end! And why does every one o’ these assholes seem to think the parking lot’s his personal Dixie Speedway?”

 

“Bill,” I said, checking my eye in the rearview mirror, “has it occurred to you that we’re in a Lamborghini?”

 

“Damn skippy!” he exclaimed. “An’ the onliest Goddamn Lamborghini in the YOO-nited S of fuckin’-A with a trailer hitch, to boot!”

 

“Ah, yes, of course. Very proletarian of you.”

 

“Hey, I side with the workin’ man, by God! If not for the trust fund, I’d be one of ‘em!”

 

“Speaking of that, how far will your next check go towards building that castle you were talking about?”

 

“Not very,” he pouted. “ No thanks to Mott and Bailey, Attorneys at Law. They’re real assholes sometimes.”

 

“Well, bubba, a full-scale replica of Neuschwannstein is a tad extravagant. Perhaps something a bit simpler? Something early Norman, for example?”

 

His shrug was both noncommittal and disappointed.

“Don’t want me no goddamn square keep!” he finally huffed, folding his arms tightly across his chest and sticking out his lower lip.

 

“My ma used to say your face would freeze that way,” I informed him.

 

“So says the man what’s holdin’ a ten-pound bag of ice to a shiner,” he snorted.

 

“It was the smallest bag they had!” I protested.

 

“You coulda got a fuckin’ cup of ice for somethin’ like twenty cents,” he snorted again.

 

“Yeah, but it woulda melted too quickly. It’s hot as a fiddler’s bitch today.”

 

“Melted too quickly for what?” he asked with yet another snort.

 

“Too quickly to relieve the inflammation, you dunce. An’ I’ve thought of other uses for it, as well.”

 

“Ohh, I jes’ bet you have,” he said, searching his breast pocket for a cigarette. Eventually, he found one. Despite the stillness of the air, he cupped his hands around his Zippo as he lit up.

 

“Like what, f’rinstance?” he asked, looking at me sidelong and puffing jets of smoke from the corner of his mouth.

 

“Well,” I said, “consider thermal exchange and mass. This big-ass bag won’t melt as quickly, and since there’s so much more of it, it’ll stay cold a mite longer, even after it does.”

 

“Shit on a shingle, Dave-O! Ye’ only got ye’ a black eye -- not a goddamn nuclear (he pronounced it “new-cue-lur”) flash burn! How long ye’ need it to stay cold?”

 

“Just until we spot another saucy, underdressed jogger, Billy-O. Do the words ‘wet t-shirt contest’ mean anything to you?”

 

“Ohhhh!” he said, his eyes widening in comprehension. He then leaned in and, in a conspiratorial whisper (for all that we were on the far edge of the parking lot, with nary a soul in earshot), asked: “Say, do you reckon them sports bras can keep ye’ from gettin’ a glimpse o’ some…?”

 

I cut him off with a raised index finger and nod, which, while intended to appear sage, probably just looked pretentious. (It is, after all, difficult to nod sagely whilst holding a ten-pound bag of ice to one’s face.) At that moment, Rosie and the Orginals’ “Angel Baby” came over the speakers.

 

“Bill,” I said, “I’ll get back to you in a sec.”

 

“Yeah,” he said. “Best not be talkin’ to each other ‘til it’s over. That would look pretty queer.”

 

“Queer as a football bat, actually.”

 

“Maybe we should just turn off the radio.”

 

“Fuck that noise! I love this tune.”

 

“Yeah, me too.”

 

We sat in silence until the song ended.

 

“I just had me a horrid thought,” I said. “What if us sittin’ here listenin’ to that tune looked even queerer than us talkin’ while it was playin’?”

 

Now there’s a goddamn conundrum!” he said, pushing his baseball cap up and scratching his head.

 

“Well, the nearest person is something like a hundred yards off. I’ll bet nobody noticed.”

 

“Oh, no!” he exclaimed, shaking his head furiously. Staring directly through the windshield, he poked his cigarette at the HO-scale figures entering and exiting the mall.

 

“Now we could run nekkid through this-here parkin’ lot an none o’ them motherfuckers would notice. Hell, we could run nekkid through this-here parkin’ lot, handin’ out crack an’ PCP-laced joints by the Hefty Cinch Sack-ful -- and wheelbarrer’ loads o’ porn involvin’ fat broads and farm animals -- and still none o’ them motherfuckers would notice. But if we sit here talkin’ – or even not talkin’ – with a song like that playin’; every swingin’ dick in Atlanta gon’ notice, an’ conclude that we’s a couple o’ butt-hounds. It’s jes’ the way o’ the world.”

 

“Well, it probably didn’t help that you backed into the friggin’ space…”

 

“Aww, shit!” he exclaimed, slapping his forehead. “I didn’t even think o’ that!”

 

“An’ here I am, holdin’ a bag of ice to my face. Ever’body probably thinks we’re Tinkerbells, and that you’re an abusive sumbitch, to boot!”

 

“That’s jes’-plain ridiculous!” he howled. “What a ‘magination you got! An’ here you was jes’ sayin’ maybe nobody noticed!”

 

“Goddammit, I jes’ don’t wanna be seen as the submissive type!” I roared back.

 

“eep talkin’ that kind o’ fudge-packer bullshit, an’ I’ll black your other eye!” Bill thundered, clenching and brandishing his fist.

 

“Jes’ keep talkin’ your bullshit, ‘Bigtime,’” I said with a sneer, turning to spit out the window in disgust. “I’ll put both fists an’ both feet up yer ass, mark my words.”

 

The bag of ice had effectively halved my peripheral vision. Therefore, I was taken completely aback when I noticed that my “lung-oyster” had landed perhaps six inches to the right of a pair of hideous maroon pumps. As my gaze traveled ever upward, I inventoried (silently, and with a mounting sense of horror): support hose sagging beneath swollen ankles; near-cylindrical calves, their varicose veins barely visible, like raw shrimp seen through a glaze of caramel; the hem of a floral-print skirt; and then a purse.

 

Like the pumps, it was colored a hideous maroon – all the more hideous for being slightly mismatched.

 

And if pumps and purse were the focal points of a still life rendered in shades of pure horror by a latter-day Goya; their owner was a vision of hell that would have driven Hieronymus Bosch stark, raving mad.

 

She towered and tottered above me, her left hand (sheathed in a faux-silk glove -- yet another shade of maroon) clapped to her left jowl. Rheumy, green eyes glared at me from sockets both purple and puffy. A mouth -- a rough-dug pit, guarded by a palisade of long, yellowed shoe-peg teeth, the dissolution induced by braces having continued well beyond their removal; its perimeter demarcated by two impossibly maroon, slug-like lips -- hung open and undulated wordlessly, like an elliptical Jell-O mold set upon an idling dragster. Beneath it, adipose “stem cells” – the unformed (but somehow malformed) embryos of both wattles and multiple-chins, each a tumescent promise of grotesquerie yet to come -- jiggled like the throat of an outraged, epileptic (and horribly mutated) Tom turkey with goiter.

 

A too-pink, too-smooth spot above and to the left of her (recently waxed) upper lip left me in an ever-descending, Gollum-like spiral of morbid speculation: Moles! Moles, it was, my precious! Was it dark, my precious? Was it unsightly? Hairy? Unflattering? Cancerous?

 

Topping it off like a plastic maraschino cherry plunked atop a rancid, freezer-burned sundae was a surreally awful “Prince Valiant” hairdo. Where age -- like its overused, metaphoric counterpart, winter -- might have left its hoarfrost, thereby lending her a kind of dignity; cosmetic science had only glazed her with faded patina of whoredom.

 

Staring in revulsion at her immobile, faux-auburn “helmet” – which glittered back at me like the eye of a malevolent serpent, from beneath a sun-hat woven by Donatella Versace on a bad acid trip -- I half-screamed, half-vomited the words: “Jesus Christ!” even as she shrieked, “Oh! How disgusting!”

 

“Ye’ kin say that again!” howled Bill as he yanked me away from the window. “I’m sure you got acute angina an’ all that, lady, but you got the scariest tits I even seen in m’ fuckin’ life! Hell, I’m surprised one o’ them suckers ain’t already crawled up yer ass of its own accord, an’ come a-bustin’ through yer ribs like somethin’ outta Alien! Now leave us alone an’ go eat strychnine or somethin’! We’s havin’ a bad day, an’ ye’s only makin’ it worse! Fuck me runnin’! Ye’ even done made Dave blaspheme!”

 

“Frankieeeee!!!” she caterwauled.

 

“Jis’ shaddap an’ git in da caaaaah, Alice,” said a short, thick, New Jersey voice -- which, unsurprisingly, came from a short, thick, New Jerseyite. Bald as a pickled onion and stout as a fireplug, with a chin as aquiline as his nose, he wore his demeanor (and his outdated, pin-striped suit) in a way that suggested a comfortable pension, stoic resignation to his fate, and utter stupidity, in equal measure.

 

“It’s jis’ a coupla faggots ah-gyooin’ wit’ each udda,” said he. “Don’t pay no attention to ‘em. Ya jist gonna encourage da bastids, an’ dey’re brazen enough dese days. Whole woild’s goin’ ta hell, I tell ya. Two growed men sittin’ around tawkin’ about dat ‘fistin’ or whatevah dey cawl it -- in broad daylight, even. An’ climbin’ all ovah each othah, ta boot. Nauseatin’. Jist nauseatin’.”

 

He shook his head, even as I raised the middle finger of my right hand at them.

 

“Fit subjects for a latter-day Juvenal,” I sneered, shoving Bill aside as they drove away.

“Fucking silly crone! And why are you wearing a leather jacket with metal vambraces in this heat? Have you taken leave of your wits, for fuck’s sake?”

 

“Ye’s wearin’ one, too,” he said.

 

To be continued…

Success Stories

2009 was a tough year for gardeners in Roswell, GA.

 

Excepting the ten-day deluge in late September, we had only nine days of good, ground-soaking rain this summer. And since there are only two or three other vegetable gardens within half a mile or so of my house, it quickly became the preferred “soup kitchen” of every moochin’ rabbit, squirrel, squash bug, cucumber beetle, hornworm, earworm, Mexican bean beetle, aphid, vine borer and cutworm in town. I’ve even found deer tracks in the “back forty,” for the love of God!

 

Critters and droughts notwithstanding, Maggie and I pulled in quite a bit of chow from our 3600-square-foot patch. The following is a list of cultivars that did especially well, despite the adverse growing conditions.

 

Winter Squash: “Burgess Buttercup,” “Sweet Lightning*,” “Bush Delicata.”

 

Summer Squash: “Early Golden Crookneck*,” “White Bush Scallop*,” “Greyzini,” “Cocozelle,” “Butterstick Hybrid*,” “Burpee Golden Zucchini*” “Fordhook*”

 

Gourds: “Bottle,” “Italian Edible Gourd,” “Autumn Wings,” “Spoon,” “Ornamental Mix”

“Luffa*,” “Thai Angled Luffa”

 

Cucumbers: “Picklebush*,” “Sumter*,” “Marketmore,” “West India Gherkin”

 

Beans: “Masai,” “Bush Romano*,” “Chinese Yard-Long*,” (Burpee’s mung beans also did very well.)

 

Eggplant: “Turkish Orange”

 

Peppers: “Anaheim,” “Habanero,” “Hungarian Black,” “Red Cherry*,” “Jalapeno TMR*,” “Poblano”

 

Corn: “Early Sunglow,” “Ornamental Indian*”

 

Tomatoes: “Rutgers*,” Super Sweet 100*,” “Yellow Jubilee”

 

Okra: “Clemson Spineless*”

 

Kale: “Vates,” “Nero di Toscana”

 

Lettuce: “Royal Oak Leaf,” “Ruby Sails*,” “Salad Bowl*,” “Prizeleaf,” “Little Caesar”

 

Other: “Roquette” arugula*, “Kyoto” mizuna*

 

Many of said are consistent performers, as indicated by the asterisks.

 

When I say “consistent performers,” I mean cultivars that have yielded abundantly for five or more consecutive seasons. These consistent performers are the varieties I plant every year, whether or not I plant very much else.

 

This year, as I’ve noted, was especially difficult. We had yet another April frost and received only nine days of real rain (not counting a ten-minute sprinkle here and there) all summer. This prolonged drought, combined with the extreme heat we experienced, caused many of our crops to drop their blossoms, thereby reducing overall yield.

 

The dearth of water drove the bugs to desperation: so much so that even weekly spraying didn’t deter them. The insecticides we applied killed them in droves, but they just kept coming. We often had to resort to handpicking to keep their numbers down. Even our usual companion-planting strategies were largely ineffectual: the creepy-crawlies were so desperate for food and water; they completely ignored plants that usually repel them.

 

The cultivars I’ve mentioned impressed me because of their ability to produce under such horrid conditions. I’d unreservedly recommend any of them to home gardeners – especially those unfortunates trapped in drought-plagued north Georgia.

 

I hope this article proves useful to someone.

 

Our favorite suppliers:

 

Livingston Seed Co., 830 Kinnear Road, Columbus, OH 43212

 

Ferry-Morse Seed Co., P.O. Box 1620, Fulton, KY 420419 (www.ferry-morse.com)

 

Botanical Interests, Inc., 660 Compton Street, Broomfield, CO 80020 (www.botanicalinterests.com)

 

Pinetree Garden Seeds, P.O. Box 300, New Gloucester, ME 04260 (www.superseeds.com)

 

Burgess Seed and Plant Co., 905 Four Seasons Road, Bloomington, IL 61701 (www.eBurgess.com)

 

R.H. Shumway’s, 334 W. Stroud St., Ste. 1, Randolph, WI 53956-1274 (www.rhshumway.com)

 

Totally Tomatoes, 334 W. Stroud St., Randolph, WI 53956 (www.totallytomato.com)

 

W. Atlee Burpee & Co., 300 Park Avenue, Warminster, PA 18974 (www.burpee.com)

 

J.W. Jung Seed Co., 335 S. High St., Randolph, WI 53957-0001

 

Gettin Medieval on Yo' Ass

Here's one for y'all to check out.

He's a bro of mine from "across the pond," and he takes his sharp, pointy objects very seriously.

His site has the "Green Hell Seal of Approval."

Don’t Try this at Home, Kids: We’re Trained Idiots!

The last Friday in August was a typical, lazy summer day. A little sun, a little rain, a decent breeze, and relatively few mosquitoes, thanks to the recent drought which – contrary to the bullshit one hears on WSB – is anything but over. (Yes, we had a flood a few days ago, but lake levels are still below normal, and there's no reason to expect next year to be any different from the last three: late frosts, too much rain in spring, no rain during the summer, and yo-yo winters.)

In short, it provided an ideal atmosphere in which to sit back, crack open a few beers, and have an intellectual discussion with an old buddy. Said buddy and I discussed martial arts, "Jedi mind tricks," writing technique, philosophy in general (and Ayn Rand in particular), aesthetics in general (and Rand's "Romantic Realism" in particular), psychology (during which portion of the conversation, we concluded that humanity would have been better off had Nathaniel Branden and B.F. Skinner dueled to the death – with Browning M2 machineguns and remote-detonated fuel-air bombs), sex, death, politics, religion, economics, friendship and anything else that came to mind – except the fucking weather. However diverse the topics we discussed; the underlying thematic unity (or perhaps these seemingly discreet subjects' interconnectedness) evoked a sense of wonder within both of us – and we're cynical old fucks.

Our level of rapport was likewise amazing – "mirrored" posture and gestures quickly gave way to finishing each other's sentences, saying the same thing simultaneously, and correctly anticipating each other's associative trains of thought. We began chatting around noon, and before either of us knew it, the sun had set. By the time we took our leave of each other – and somewhat reluctantly, at that – night had fallen.

On the surface, none of this is surprising or even noteworthy. One might even expect something of the sort from two good friends with broadly similar experiences and broadly parallel lives. What I haven't mentioned, however, is the fact that we're both utter gobshites. Yes, Gentle Reader; in the demolition derby of life, we're the ones driving the little school bus with tinted windows.

Like those of a bitchy, perpetually PMS-ing, drama-queen girlfriend, honesty's demands are both incessant and severe. And like a pussy-whipped boyfriend, I've little choice but to knuckle under to them. Our primary reason for having a stimulating, halfway civilized conversation was pain, plain and simple.

As it happened, we were only behaving like civilized human beings because we were recuperating from bruises, abrasions and stupidity.

Engaging in randori without a mat is rather foolish, you see. Engaging in randori without a mat – on concrete – is extremely stupid. Engaging in randori on concrete, without a mat, and while drunk is downright moronic. Engaging in randori on concrete, without a mat, while drunk and over forty years of age is the mark of a drooling, "welcome-to-spaz-hall-and-let's-just-nickname-you-'Special-Ed'-while-we're-at-it" fuckwit.

Yeah, I know. Just get it out of your system, Gentle Reader.

On the count of three: One, two, three – TIMMY!

In the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn, William Butler Yeats's motto was Demon est Deus Inversus. Arthur Machen's was Avallaunius. Aleister Crowley's was Perdurabo. Algernon Blackwood's was Umbram fugat Veritas. Were I inclined to play dress-up, chant in extinct languages and otherwise subscribe to such heathen horse-puckey, I suppose mine would be "How do I keep getting myself into this shit?"

I haven't the foggiest idea of how to say that in Latin, by the way – and my ma's missal was especially un-helpful in that respect-- but I'll bet it sounds pretty bitchin'. It's gotta sound more bitchin' than the telltale "pop" of a joint exceeding its natural range of motion, at any rate…

I'd say, "Funny how these things happen," but that would be utter bullshit. I should have known damned good and well that it would happen. It all began on a typical Thursday evening. After an especially horrid workday, I'd just polished off a hunk of very tasty broiled salmon (it wasn't quite as good as the sashimi-grade salmon Mags and I picked up at the Buford Highway Farmers' Market a week before -- but then again, what is?), a plate of acar ketimun made from homegrown vegetables; and a few small, store-bought, turd-like objects that tasted vaguely of potato. No sooner had I uncorked a mega-decibel rumbler that rattled the windows in their frames and sent the cat and dog scurrying for cover (in some countries, it's considered a compliment to the chef…) than someone knocked at the door. As it happened, it was my old buddy, John.

He, Mags and I adjourned to the sitting area at the head of the driveway, where we discussed the 'zine we intend to unleash on an unsuspecting world. Now all that thinking and jawing makes for thirsty work, so Johnny-O and I hopped into the car, drove a short distance up the main drag, and picked up a case of "beaner beer" (Corona). Margarita likes the stuff (although if memory serves me correctly, she's more partial to Dos Equis or Tecate), I love it almost as much as I do LaBatt's or Rolling Rock (I'm anything but a "beer snob"), and Johnny-O seems to enjoy it as well. The conversation and booze flowed with equal rapidity and smoothness, and a good time was had by all (as certain anal-retentive English teachers insisted I write -- instead of "everyone had a good time").

Around twilight, it began pissing down rain. The three of us grabbed our chairs, scurried into to garage like stewbums fleeing a rousted speakeasy, and continued the discussion. By nightfall, Johnny and I had gone from having a good time to having a great fucking time. We were enjoying ourselves so much ("Hey, dude. What's the first thing a woman should do upon checking out of a shelter for battered wives? The dishes -- if the bitch knows what's good for 'er. Git it?"), as a matter of fact; Mags finally got sick of us and went inside to watch a movie.

Now I don't know what, exactly, is wrong with me (except for the manic-depression, which has long been a bother). For the last two months, though, my resting testosterone level has been through the roof. Given the sheer volume of sprouts, tofu, miso/denjang, tempeh, etc., I consume, this really shouldn't be the case – but it is. For every hair that falls out of my scalp, ten more pop up on my torso. If I don't shave every fucking morning, I look like Rip Van Winkel. My weight has plunged like a stone, and I've become markedly more aggressive. I can't speak for Johnny's emotional state at the time, but the conversation eventually turned to "guy stuff," including hunting (we'll soon see how well Kimber compares to Parker-Hale when it comes to dropping hogs) and martial arts.

Eventually, one of us suggested "playing." I can't, for the life of me, remember which of us birthed this particular brainchild, but I know that neither of us was at all keen to abandon it on the steps of the nearest church. My next recollection is of being clinched. For some perverse reason, I've lately been hung up on avoiding arm-locks, and I thusly convinced myself that he was going for a "key lock." When we went to the ground, I had him in my guard, at which point the dirty, underhanded bastard apparently suspected me of trying for a triangle choke. (I was, in fact, trying for a triangle choke -- although I'd have gladly settled for juji gatame -- but shame on him for being so base and callow as to suspect a friend of such treachery.)

Going for the triangle necessitated "unlocking" my guard, so he simply went backwards and put me in an ankle-lock. This wouldn't be so bad, had I not won a few informal matches with that very technique. (My jujutsu sucks, but the ankle-lock, the "gooseneck" wristlock, the old-fashioned hip-throw, the armbar yclept juji gatame, and the "key lock" have proven very reliable in the past. So has hitting people with pipes, chains and radio aerials -- "the poor man's fencing foil" -- but that's beyond the scope of this discussion.) Besides, I was only tangling with an asshole buddy – not that coonass degenerate, Trahan…

Now if there's anything good to be said of me (and I am, admittedly, the kind of guy who scratches in public, mocks "artists" who've decided that their "vision" exempts them from working for a living; listens to Elvis Presley, Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens, Merle Haggard, both Hanks, Chuck Berry, John Lee Hooker, Motorhead and the Sex Pistols, and enjoys making explosives/incendiaries), it's that I can get a woman off 2-7 times before succumbing to la petite mort , can drink most gents under the fucking table, can stomp the living shit out of a fair-sized chunk of the competition without breaking a sweat, and that I don't cheat on my taxes – for all that I oppose taxation on principle. And I'm a modest bastard, too... I'm also gettin' pretty good at acupressure and composing run-on sentences. Unfortunately, I'm also stubborn, bull-headed, and gifted with a fairly high pain-threshold.

So here we are, rolling on the ground. He'd already put the lock on, so short of putting a bullet into him or getting in a lucky ball-shot (I'd never to either to a fried, for the record – and Johnny-O kept "the goodies" pretty well protected, anyway), I was shit out of luck. Now I was damned if I was going down without a fight (I suppose I figured that if I concentrated really hard, I could shoot laser beams outta my ass or something…), so I took my time tapping out.

Well, let me rephrase that. As John later reminded me, I didn't tap out. Next thing we knew, the stillness of the night was rent by a loud popping noise. It very nearly qualified as a "Roseanne Roseannadana moment": Did dat come outta you?

He released the lock immediately, and we took stock of the situation.

"Dude, I think I busted your knee."
"Nah, it's just sprained. I've had a busted knee before. They hurt a lot worse. I'm not screaming, crying or puking -- so it ain't busted."
"True, but you didn't scream, cry or puke when Aaron broke your rib."
"See what I mean? That hurt a lot worse than this, so I must be OK, right?"

(Now we both have more than our fair share of Irish ancestry, so that was a real "head scratcher" of a moment. There we stood, amidst the chirping of crickets and the hooting of night-birds; both of us bleary-eyed, bleeding and so full of beer; the odd, foolhardy mosquito that dared bite us immediately went into delirium tremens. Eventually, we arrived at a consensus of sorts.)

"Uh, that sounds almost logical. So what do you want to do now?"
"Well, since my leg's fucked up, I think we should practice arm-bars, wristlocks, and escaping from the mount. I really need some work on that one."
"Cool."

And we went right back to it… Now sprains and broken bones are nasty injuries. If one practices martial arts long enough, though, one will encounter them at one time or another -- end of story.
The next morning, we were really a sight. I was limping like Long John Silver, while he was sporting a few nasty patches of "road rash" -- hence the civilized discussion I mentioned in the first paragraph.  

Aside from the pain, the worst part of an injury of that sort is the lost training time. You spend 6-8 weeks sitting around with your thumb up your ass, vow never to behave that stupidly again – and then do it all over again six months to a year later. A few days later, we admitted that we'd behaved very stupidly. I don't compete formally, but John informed me that in the over-40 division, many of the moves we practiced aren't even legal. The damage, however, was already done. Live and learn…

There are, however, ways of "cheating" when it comes to recovering.

I understand that traditional Chinese medicine isn't widely accepted in this country. Hell, it isn't even widely accepted in China these days, but it works. Granted, I should have ceased "playing" immediately, then iced and elevated the leg. I did just that the next day, but it would have been better to have done it right away, to gain the maximum benefit from doing so. Instead, I did the next best thing – which would have been the best thing, had I done it in sequence: I applied a liberal dose of ten-year-old dit da jow I'd made when I fragged my right knee years ago. I used it twice a day, every day, and the injury healed – in only three weeks.

Now there are many, many recipes for various forms of jow, each intended to remedy a certain ailment. Mine is essentially "general purpose," contains Asian, European and Native American ingredients. The formula follows.

1 liter vodka or Chinese "fire wine."
1 bottle over-the-counter oil of wintergreen
½ cup witch hazel
1t Mentholatum ointment or a few drops essential oil of mint
2-5g each:
stick cinnamon
ginger root (chopped and crushed)
turmeric root (chopped and crushed)
whole cloves
garlic
yarrow stems and flowers
Chinese angelica root
European angelica root
licorice root
rehmannia glutinosa
rosemary
juniper berries
basil
tobacco
marjoram

Place all ingredients in a large glass jar. Pour over alcohol, cap, and shake to break up mentholatum. It will work after six weeks, but it's best when aged six months to a year. This particular formula is good for bruises, sprains, strains and muscle aches. My wife (who thought I was a little crazy when she discovered my "odd" interests) swears by it, and I have several friends who ask for the occasional batch.

Had I known what I know now at the time I made it, though, I'd have used the following recipe:

1 liter vodka or "fire wine"
5g each:
Turmeric root (chopped and crushed)
panax ginseng
Chinese Angelica root
rhubarb root
Inula root
Amomi fruit
safflower

From what I can tell, this is simply an external version of a traditional Chinese pill. The only thing missing is bear gall. Said pill, incidentally, works like a charm -- even on broken bones – as I know from personal experience.

I was toying with the idea of making the pills last year, but hunting bears in Georgia requires a special (and expensive) permit which is issued in very limited numbers. A friend of Mags' and mine (who's far more knowledgeable than I when it comes to Chinese medicine; and who provided me with the formula in the first place) told me that pig gall was sufficiently similar in its action and properties to serve as a substitute. There's certainly no shortage of wild hogs in Georgia, but the traditional method of preparing the gallbladder has me worried about contracting trichinosis.

Materia Medica mentions that cow gall is used as a substitute nowadays, but if I'm not mistaken, beef and pork have slightly different properties. If I can figure out a safe way to process the pig gall, I'll whip up a batch and post the results.

G'night and God bless.

Even More Uses for Luffas

Yeah, the Gentle Reader is probably sick of reading about luffas by now.

"Bean," shouts he, all indignant-like, "I wish ye' had them-thar luffas shoved whar th' sun don't shine!"

This, of course, serves only to remind me of another use for 'em. You see, my granddaddy once told me that in the old days, some people kept a supply of corncobs in the outhouse… (Come to think of it, it's a good thing recycling wasn't the rage in those days: "Dagnabbit, Junior! Bring the luffa back in here! Yer maw needs to wash the dishes, an' Uncle Leroy's due for his weekly bath!")

I reckon that image will about put the Gentle Reader right off his lunch – and possibly leave him wanting a red-hot poker for his mind's eye…

In all seriousness, though, luffas are good for more than grub and making sponges. They're excellent for both, mind you -- and I especially recommend them as food. They tolerate miserable growing conditions and yield prodigious amounts of fruit. Once they get going, two vines are enough to feed an entire family. Beyond their culinary and household value, though, they also figure prominently in Chinese and Ayurvedic medicine.

The rough luffa, so-called for its fibrous interior, but, oddly enough, also called the smooth luffa to distinguish it from the angled luffa (are you confused yet?), is also known as the "dishrag gourd." In truth, though, it isn't a gourd at all. The small, yellow-blossomed hard-shell gourds sold as Thanksgiving ornaments are of the species Cucurbita pepo, while the larger, white-blossomed varieties (bottle gourds, birdhouse gourds, dipper gourds, etc.) are members of the genus Langenaria.

Like all squash, pumpkins, cucumbers and melons, they're members of the Cucurbitaceae family, but as they're all of different genii, they can't cross-pollinate.

So here's the lowdown on the luffa: 1.) Family – Cucurbitaceae; 2.) Genus – Luffa; 3.) Species – cylindrica.

Nearly all parts of the plant are edible: flowers, leaves, fruit and shoots. In India, the juice is used to relieve rashes, while an infusion of flowers and fruit is used to treat sore throats, coughs and lung ailments. The dried, fibrous interior is also administered as a remedy for hemorrhoids.

(I've never used it this way, but it makes perfect sense. Hemorrhoids are often the result of straining to move the bowels as a result of constipation. The luffa's high fiber content would tend to resolve the latter condition, thereby easing the former. Chinese sources, though, warn that too much of the young fruit can induce diarrhea -- and personal experience leads me to agree.)

The third edition of Materia Medica (edited by Dan Bensky, Steven Clavey and Erich Stöger) also attributes the following characteristics to the plant:

Its properties are sweet and neutral (although some argue that it's slightly cooling). It enters the lung, stomach and liver meridians, and is said to resolve toxicity, "enter and unblock the channels and collaterals," to "transform phlegm, dispel wind, and invigorate the blood." This gibes with the Indian application, especially with regard to its purported action on the lungs. The dried fiber is administered in doses of 6-15 grams, raw or prepared by dry frying or charring. Materia Medica classifies it under "herbs that reduce heat," but interestingly enough, Henry C. Lu's Chinese Natural Cures doesn't mention it at all.

Next time I get 'rhoids or bronchitis, I'll give it a try and update this post.

Another AirTran Ripoff

Caveat emptor: Latin for "Buyer, beware!" or "We live in a post-9/11 world – airlines can do whatever they want!"

I despise AirTran.

Beyond its history of wretched customer-service and incompetence at elementary arithmetic (if x= the number of seats on a plane; the number of tickets sold must be ≤ x, as x – x = 0), its penchant for dishonesty leaves me colder than most of the Kennedys.

For whatever reason, AirTran sees nothing wrong with promising and accepting payment for services it doesn't provide. Apparently, the notion of contractual obligation is every bit as alien to them as are restraint and decorum to a coke-addicted Midtown hair-burner. As they're an American company, I'm sure they adhere to the "Let your 'yes' be your 'yes' and your 'no' your 'no,'" or "My handshake is my bond" schools of business ethics – in their own minds. Outside the Rove-ian Wonderland of "creat[ing] [one's] own reality," though, I suspect that they learned of yes's, no's, handshakes and bonds at Jonathan Pollard's feet rather than at The Savior's or even Donald Trump's.

AirTran first pissed me off in July of 2007, in an unprovoked assault on my "personal economy" (to nick a term from a local neocon pundit). I'd booked a morning flight to Denver's hideous, Lovecraftian airport, wherein I'd arranged to meet "Animal" MacYoung between noon and 13:00. Being a naïve, dewy-eyed lad of 39, who had yet to divest himself of the Randian "value for value" myth, I'd assumed that paying AirScam the price they requested to get me there between noon and 13:00 would prove as mutually beneficial as any transaction between two rational, consenting adults.

Unfortunately, rational adults don't make AirTran's policies. That responsibility, it seems, devolves to a roomful of malevolent, sticky-faced, sticky-fingered "special needs" children who arrive at work every morning in a faintly brimstone-smelling Blue Bird Handi-Bus.

Arriving at the gate, I was told that my flight was overbooked – but that for eighty dollars more, I could upgrade my ticket to business class. Resisting the urge to tell the obsequious attendant (there's nothing I hate more than the kind of pantywaist who waxes apologetic whilst picking my pocket on behalf of his handlers) that he could kiss my rosy Scots-Irish posterior gratis, I politely asked the gent whether he was a crack baby or merely illiterate. I showed him my printed confirmation (and empty wallet), offered to help him with his ABC's ("Bean," I said, patting him on the head, "should be near the top of the list, Sparky!") and politely inquired as to the exact nature of the fucking problem. Just as politely, he informed me that AirTran had sold more seats than were actually available, and that catching that particular flight would cost me another eighty bucks.

Having no real choice, and having been refused a refund (although I still need to research his claim that federal law allows airlines to breach contracts with impunity -- it sounds a tad fishy), I submitted to this extortion.

Had it been a matter of business ("Be at the meeting at 14:00, sharp…") I'd have sued AirTran. As it happened, though, I only risked angering a close friend who had driven 25 miles to pick me up, and who had better and more profitable ways to spend his time. As I care more about my friends than AirTran does about meeting its obligations ("We got our money, so up yours! Avaritia bona est!"), getting there on time was worth the additional eighty bucks. (It also occurred to me that standing MacYoung up wasn't a very bright thing to do…)

I was, however, pissed-off at their failure to notify me in advance. I'd given them my email address, snailmail address and telephone number, but to no avail. Apparently, the ten or so cents it would have cost them to tell me that arriving in Denver on time would set me back another eighty bucks was better spent on warm milk, (sugar free) cookies and Ritalin for the incompetent, thieving baw'bags on the board of directors.

AirTran next flew (no pun intended, of course) to the top of my shit list in July of last year. Being a semi-pro photographer (more semi- than pro, admittedly), I'm willing to fork over a few extra shekels for a window seat – as AirTran requires – for the sake of a good shot. Having gladly paid the fee for the chance to get a few interesting aerial photos, I noted, upon locating my seat, that an honest-to-God hag -- straight out of European folklore -- had taken it.

I'll grant that I'm a foul-tempered asshole. But I'm not enough of a foul-tempered asshole to roust an old lady out of my seat – especially an old lady who mutters in strangely corrupted Latin to a rat-like creature named "Ba'alphegor," and who could probably turn me into a frog, werewolf, or worse.

The matter was eventually resolved, but only because the flight crew was polite and accommodating above and beyond the call of duty -- or investor confidence. (For whatever sick reason, companies that treat their employees like shit and swindle and mislead their customers induce blue-vein, diamond-cutting priapism in speculator-types -- but that's for another post.) When I explained the situation to them, they cheerfully agreed to spot Mags and me a beer each in compensation. AirTran got their ten bucks, Black Annis got a window seat for free, and I got my ten bucks' worth. Everybody won, but it's sad that the boardroom bozos will spend millions on PR campaigns, while "the help" does a better job at customer relations through simple courtesy and honesty.

I spent the next few days getting drunk and married (in that order), and thought little more of the matter -- until Mags and I tried to make it home the following Monday.

When we arrived at the "Dog Bra," my wife and I were told that our flight had been overbooked…

It's a cute l'il story in and of itself, so I'll tell it elsewhere. Suffice to say that it was Mags' first time riding a MARTA train after 23:00. We'd have preferred an afternoon flight, because MARTA trains are chock full of stoners, panhandlers, bums and other barking moonbats from nightfall until the line shuts down at 01:00. I'll also mention that I'd like to see an AirTran exec ride a MARTA train any time after sundown…

The next outrage occurred the day after Thanksgiving.

My mother-in-law is getting up in years. She's 85 and suffers from Alzheimer's disease. This isn't AirTran's problem, naturally. Their problem was getting Mags to Michigan on time, which (of course) they failed to do. Her flight was scheduled to leave at 18:00, so at 15:00, I drove us to North Springs Station, whence we took the train to Hartsfield.

From start to finish, the train ride took roughly 45 minutes. Check in and lunch at a franchised greasy spoon (AirTran's in-flight meal consists of a bag of pretzels small enough recycle by using the empties to sell single "rocks" of crack inconspicuously) took another 45, but Maggie still had to run the TSA gauntlet. Therefore, we thought it best to get her to the checkpoint by 17:00.

As it happened, the Allgemeine SS to whom we've become accustomed had the day off – or perhaps they were all in Grady Hospital, recovering from overdoses of crack sold in AirTran pretzel bags. The point is: this bunch was friendly, polite, and (Dare this aging, hardcore "anarcho-reactionary" even say it?) downright helpful. Mags made it through the security checkpoint in a jiffy, and reached the concourse without incident.

No, the incidents only began flying thick and fast after she reached the concourse.

I caught the train (and probably hepatitis-C from the gent who shared my seat and identified himself only as "Junkie Jones" when he mistook me for an undercover narc) and made it back to Maison Ridgerunner at 19:00 or thereabout.

Snatching a cold one or two (or six, to be honest) from the refrigerator in the garage, I stomped into the den and slapped a copy of Axis of Evil XXXVIII: Syrian Showdown into the DVD player. I then taught the dog to make IED's, WMD's and lawn darts; to read Arabic; and to ignore the possibility of Oliver North and Bill Clinton having a few coke-dealing mutual acquaintances.

No sooner did my favorite action hero, Chuck-Claude van Warmerbruder, commence to beating RPG-toting cabbies to a bloody pulp than the phone rang.

"Woohoo! 'At's right, Chuck!" I bellowed, taking a huge gulp of beer and toasting the TV screen. "Ye' gon' stomp a mudhole in some raghead ass an' then walk that sucker dry!"

Filled to brimming with armchair warrior spirit and sunshine patriotism, I sucked in my modest, holiday beer gut, scratched my nuts once or twice, thrust out my chest and swaggered to the phone, stopping only to strike a few kung-fu poses before the hallway mirror. Unfortunately, it wasn't the president calling to commend me for bugging the phones of suspected Seventh-Day-Advento-Fascists, Mennonite suicide bombers, or their un-indicted Quaker co-conspirators… It was my wife.

Momentarily forgetting that we'd been married a little over four months at the time (she sometimes accuses me of forgetting that I'm married, period…) and had lived together for more than a year, I reflexively hissed: "I thought I told you not to call me here!" into the receiver.

After declaring that she'd call me here whenever she damn well pleased (and then calling me everything but a white man), she said her flight was delayed and that she wouldn't be leaving Atlanta for quite a while. I consoled her as best I could, roundly cursed AirTran, and went back to watching my movie.

An hour or two later, the phone rang again – and again 'twas the spousal unit. Now a bit grumpy, she said she had no idea when her flight would depart – and that apparently, neither did anyone else. She had, however, found a few other Detroit-bound "refugees," and, being every bit as gregarious as I am surly and antisocial, had talked to them. As it happened, they'd all been given different reasons for the delay. Mags had been told that the plane needed urgent repairs of some sort; hence the "bum's rush" to a different concourse and the multi-hour wait.

Some had been told that a big, scary dinosaur had risen from the depths of Lake Erie and was rampaging through Detroit.

Others were assured that Osama "Blind Kibbeh" bin Laden had been seen brandishing a Semtex-laden Epiphone Sheraton in front of City Hall, screaming: "Where this 'Hastings Street' is? John Lee Hooker was no-talent, infidel kaffir! I playing you fucker-of-mother some badass blues. I playing real deal! Boo-yah! How you liking me now? And it going little something like this!"

Some were told that Goldman-Sachs had just purchased every square inch of Eight Mile Road, and their army of insurance assessors was too busy to be disturbed; and others that Elvis, Jim Morrison and the Lindbergh baby had come out of hiding and were discussing our nation's uncertain future with Eminem, Ted Nugent, the reanimated corpse of Les Bangs, and Lee Iaccoca's little-known twin brother, Binky.

Yes, that's a joke – but so is AirTran's idea of customer service.

Eventually, the victims concluded that AT had probably overbooked again, handled its customers on a first-come, first-served basis, and effected a quiet (and early) departure. As each customer was fed a different line of bullshit, though, we'll probably never know the truth.

What I do know is that Mags didn't reach Motown until 03:00, Central Time. I also know that the AirTran's CEO didn't exactly pull up in a limo, apologize for his underlings' incompetence and offer her a ride to Troy.

Needless to say, by 03:00, Budget Rent-A-Car was closed, so my wife was unable to obtain the vehicle she'd booked a full three weeks in advance. (I'll cover the matter of Budget billing her for a car she never received in another post, although that was irritating, as well.) Fortunately, Avis was open and had a car available. This solved one problem, but left her with another: driving through Detroit at zero-dark-thirty -- alone. Hell, I'm a guy and I can't say that I'd be eager to try my hand at that. The entire fucking city is exactly like the Bankhead Court Apartments during the late '80s and early '90s…

Luckily, everything worked out – no thanks to AirTran.

Now lest anyone think I'm completely down on the greedy, incompetent shit-weasels; I'll admit that I'm not. To be sure, I despise them, and they're beyond awful in many, many ways. To their credit, though, they offer the lowest fares in the business -- period. Bearing in mind that one gets what one pays for, I'll give 'em a thumbs-up for ticket prices. They also service a respectable number of major cities (always a plus) and even one airport each in Mexico and Puerto Rico. Oh! And many of the stewardesses are Grade-A eye candy.

Ultimately – for all the nasty things I've said about them – I'll probably still use them when I want to fly somewhere for next-to-nothing. Make no mistake, Gentle Reader – AirTran is a bad airline, and that's that. But even bad airlines have their uses. If, for example, you decide to pull up stakes; tell your boss, ex, etc. to pound sand; and start over again in another town, a one-way ticket on AirTran is just what the doctor ordered. If you live like I did during my late twenties and early thirties (work a few months, put a few shekels in the bank, then fuck around until the money runs out; or work part-time and take numerous weekend road-trips), AirTran is a great way to see the country. In short: As long as you have more time than money, AirTran is the way to go.

If, on the other hand, you're adhering to a strict timetable (a wedding, funeral, Christening, job interview, hit, heavy dope deal, etc.), stick to the real airlines.

G'night.

Note: Since I finished this piece, AirTran has done it again. When, last July, the swindlin' peckerwoods offered us free tickets in exchange for taking a later flight, its representatives failed to mention that certain dates were "blacked out." As it happens, we'd meant to use the free tickets to fly to the 2009 Animal List BBQ in Colorado. Unfortunately for us, (and yes, you've guessed it, Gentle Reader), those dates were (drumroll…) "blacked out." Apparently, the seats we were offered for our trouble were to be held for (in their rep's words) "paying customers." I suppose this means that AirTran intended to overbook its July flights to Denver, bilk a few more saps out of their hard-earned cash, "bump" them to later flights, and continue the scam indefinitely.

I also found the flunkie's choice of words insultingly amusing. Now let me get this straight: AirTran – once again – fails to provide service as promised. By way of making amends, they offer us yet another non-existent service. And yet they have the temerity to act as if we and not they were the ones trying to obtain something for nothing? Good Lord, folks! They sold our seats TWICE! They doubled (at the very least) their profits by failing to provide the service for which we paid -- and then acted as if they were the aggrieved party!  Moreover, they insulted our intelligence. As any frequent flyer knows, last-minute tickets are far more expensive than those reserved in advance. I don't consider the nabobs at Airtran very bright, but since they're on the board of directors (as opposed to humping baggage or handing out Band-Aid-sized bags of pretzels), they must have a few functioning brain-cells between them. As the "overbooking" bit happens so frequently, I can only assume that it's deliberate. They know as well as we that airline tickets aren't refundable. Therefore, they have nothing to lose when "bumping" a passenger with a less expensive ticket in favor of some gobshite who waits until the last minute to purchase his/hers.

As neither of us was satisfied with the arrangement (or AirTran's dishonest policies), we hounded them relentlessly. Finally, they made good on their promise and provided us with tickets. This meant we ended up flying into Denver more-or-less on schedule – after a layover in (and I shit thee not, Gentle Reader) Milwaukee, Wisconsin. This, as my late father would have said, was a case of "going 'round your elbow to get to your ass" if ever there was one.

And yet the story has a happy ending. Our "redeye" flight out of Denver wasn't overbooked, for once. additionally, the AirTran employee working the desk that night was one of the sweetest, most gracious ladies Mags and I have ever met. The flight attendants were likewise the salt of the earth; and the pilots managed to put us one the ground in "Da ATL" safe, sound – and slightly ahead of schedule.

Just when I resolve to give a poorly managed company the heave-ho for good, the "grunts" – through "mere" honesty and professionalism – save their bosses' arses once again…

Weird Culinary Science

Howdy, folks.

"All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy," as the saying goes. Now personally, I always thought Jack was a bit of an asshole. Selling his ma's cow for a handful of beans, murdering giants (and probably sleeping with their wives – I often suspect the story of having been "sanitized"…), jumping over candlesticks, building houses that aren't up to code…

Any way you look at it, Jack was a borderline sociopath at best, and a barking moonbat at worst. "All work and no play?" What the faaaaaaa? Sounds to me as if Jack's never done an honest day's work in his life. (Not to mention that a little dullness might actually improve the li'l peckerwood's disposition.)

I, on the other hand, have done more honest days' work (and a few dishonest – or at least borderline-shady -- days' work, for the record) than I can recall. And because I'm on vacation this week, I thought I'd post a few photos and have a little fun before bashing out the reams of spiteful, profanity-laden invective to which the Gentle Reader has grown accustomed.

As most of you Green Hell "oldtimers" know, I'm an avid gardener. (During a bad trip, I once fancied I was Ava Gardner -- but the less said of that, the better.) I planted my first "serious" garden in 1990, at the age of 22, and have done so every year since. In 1995 my father and mother reconciled after an eight-year de facto separation, and for the next decade, Da and I gardened together, until his chemotherapy left him too weak to continue.

Despite droughts, bugs from hell (we have everything from Mexican bean beetles to tomato hornworms in this state), I see a net profit every year, and usually have enough produce to foist upon the neighbors. My wife, Maggie, moved in with me back in '07, and has since developed a passion for gardening that nearly equals my own. As she's a little more adventurous than my father was, she doesn't go ballistic when I employ Mel Bartholomew's "square foot" method, companion plant, or otherwise ignore the rulebook. And she's remarkably tolerant of my penchant for planting "weird shit."

Whether it's Turkish orange eggplant, garden huckleberries (an edible form of nightshade), West India Gherkins, Indian corn (which I use for meal rather than ornaments) or luffa gourds, my garden is a veritable cornucopia of "weird shit."

It used to drive my Da (God rest him) nuts.

"Jesus Christ, Jeff! What the hell is that?" he roared, when I lugged a two and a half foot, thirty-plus-pound cushaw squash into the garage. My uncle Laszlo -- who'd probably never seen anything like it in his native Hungary -- just stared at in silence for a seeming eternity (and probably wondered what kind of family he'd married into). Mags, though, doesn't mind a bit. She's still subject to the "Holy shit!" reflex when I pull something really odd out of the back forty, but on the whole, she's far more tolerant of my "Hey! I wonder if _______ will grow down here?" approach to planting than was my father. In some respects, she's a little more adventurous when it comes to cooking and eating our produce, as well.

Now Da was nobody's "culinary coward." He introduced me to oysters on the half-shell, calamari, octopus, cuttlefish (to Daddy's mind, one couldn't make a proper paella without including at least one species of cephalopod) and any number of other foods Ma Bean wouldn't even look at -- let alone eat. When it comes to animals, I can't even bribe Maggie to try jellyfish – to name only one "exotic" dish. But when it comes to fruits and vegetables, she's usually a little bolder than Da was.

An interesting exception to the general rule – and pardon the digression -- is durian. Several years ago, I brought one home from the Vietnamese farmers' market at the corner of Buford Highway and Clairmont. After halving it with a blow from one of my swords, I toted it into the kitchen.

"Pardon my ignorance, O fruit o' my loins," says Da (who'd probably had a few -- whenever he spoke that way, it meant he was at least halfway "in his cups"), "but what the hell is that?"

"This, father dear, is a durian," says I, matching his tone. "Care to try a bit?"

"What, pray tell, is a durian, good sir?"

Ignoring the fact that he was obviously trying to piss me off (one of his grandmothers was a Kraut, and I suppose he inherited the exaggerated-formality-as-insult tactic from her), I answered his question.

"It's a big-ass tropical fruit. It's considered a delicacy in Southeast Asia."

"Rotten fish is considered a delicacy in Southeast Asia," he reminded me.

"Fermented fish," I corrected. "So y'awn try this sucker or not?"

"I think you got screwed, m' bairn. It smells a little off."

"Nah, it's s'posed to smell that way, Da. If it doesn't; it ain't ripe."

At any rate, he finally tried it and remarked that is wasn't bad – once one learned to ignore the odor. In retrospect, I shouldn't have found this surprising. Daddy was a cheese connoisseur, and thusly, comfortable eating foods that (as the saying runs) "taste great -- once you get 'em past your nose." He could eat Stilton, Roquefort, Tilsit, Liederkranz, Handkäse and even Käse "mit Musik" (Limburger, marinated in olive- or sunflower oil and served on rye bread with a sprinkling of minced raw onion) without so much as wrinkling his nose – let alone shedding a tear. I should have known that the smell wouldn't put him off.

Even Ma Bean eventually tried a bit – but dubbed it "garlic custard" and indicated that it was something she could live without. My wife, in sharp contrast, wouldn't even sample the last one I brought home. A single whiff of the slightly fetid, cheese/garlic/onion aroma durian fans come to adore was enough for her. When it comes to vegetables, though, she's more courageous than ever Da was. He loved zucchini, crookneck and pattypan squash, for example, but I actually had to trick him into trying luffa, edible gourd and chayote. By now, Mags eats all the above – plus a few of the other oddities we grow. This is good, because we've been exchanging exotic and heirloom seeds with our friend, Tim, for the past two seasons, and I hate seeing anything go to waste. This year, in addition to sending us a longer, thicker cultivar of Chinese yard-long bean (a.k.a. "asparagus beans"), Tim plied us with a bag of luffa seeds.

Now I've grown luffas (Luffa cylindrica), a.k.a. "dishrag gourds," for years. Elsewhere on this blog, I've written about using young luffas as food. The older ones, of course, can be peeled and used to scrub anything from dirty dishes to dirty hides. For the past six or so years, though, I've been growing the cylindrical or "rough" luffas we all know and love from overpriced tree-hugger catalogs.

This year, Tim sent us a different kind: the Thai angled luffa. The Thai angled luffa (Luffa acutangula), a.k.a. sze gua, muop or "Chinese Okra," is heavily ridged, and star-shaped in cross-section. Widely cultivated in Southeast Asia, it's available only in specialty markets in the U.S. Its crisp-tender flesh makes an excellent addition to soups and stir-fries, and with its sweet, nutty, squash-like flavor (best described as a cross between Italian Edible Gourd and "Cocozelle" zucchini), I'm surprised that it isn't more popular in this country.

Before I call the Gentle Reader's attention to the specimens we harvested yesterday (see photo gallery), I'll mention that the angled luffa isn't for small-space gardeners (ours devoured over 25 paces' worth of trellis) or impatient gardeners, as they're much slower to bear than the familiar "dishrag" luffa. At 90-120 days from planting to harvest, growing them in short-season areas is a fool's errand unless one owns a greenhouse. We planted ours in late May or early June and just began picking them last week – a mere four weeks before our first anticipated frost.

Once they do come in, though, cooking them is simplicity itself. When harvested at 9-12" long, they need only be cut crosswise into half-inch-thick slices before being added to soups, stews, stir-fries and/or curries. I don't think the uncooked flesh is toxic, but for some reason, they're never eaten raw. I gather that like chayote, it's simply too tough to eat uncooked. In the case of larger specimens (and those grown under adverse conditions) the prominent ribs become very tough, and must be peeled away. (This, incidentally, increases the vegetable's "eye appeal," as the alternating green/white stripes are quite attractive.)

Here's a dish of my own, adapted from a traditional Vietnamese recipe.

Curried Luffa and Mushrooms

1 angled luffa, sliced crosswise into ½" pieces
2T peanut oil
1/2 t sesame oil
1 cup mixed, sliced mushrooms (shiitake, oyster mushrooms, straw mushrooms, etc.)
2 cloves garlic, minced
½ red onion, minced
½ tsp ground turmeric
1 habanero or Scotch bonnet chile, seeded and minced
1" ginger root, galangal root (or both), peeled and minced
1T soy sauce
1/3 cup chicken stock
1T nuoc mam, nam pla, or tuk trey (fish sauce)
½ t shrimp paste
1t sugar
Salt to taste
Shredded cilantro and thinly sliced scallion, to garnish

Heat oil in a skillet or wok. Mix soy sauce, fish sauce, sugar, shrimp paste, chile and turmeric Stir-fry garlic, onion ginger and/or galangal until soft and fragrant. Add luffa and chicken stock, heat to boiling, reduce heat, cover and steam 2-3 minutes. Increase heat and add mushrooms and soy sauce mixture. Stir-fry another 2-5 minutes, until mushrooms are cooked and luffa is crisp-tender. Serve hot, garnished with cilantro and scallion.

As I've mentioned, the Thai luffa's "dishrag" cousin has more than one use in the kitchen. When picked small, it can be cooked in any number of ways. When fully ripe, though, it makes an excellent scrubber. The easiest way to remove the spongy interior is to allow the luffa to dry (or rot, in rainy weather), peel the skin, cut to the desired length, and shake out the seeds. Unfortunately, this necessitates bleaching them, and causes the fibers to become stiff, rough and brown.

Generally, I pick them while they're still green, but when the skin has begun to separate from the fibers. This requires a practiced touch, but the skill is easily acquired within a single season. I then peel them under running water, squeezing out the seeds and pulp as I go. I soak especially tough specimens in a tub of water until the skin sloughs off. (The latter procedure also necessitates bleaching, but only to sanitize and deodorize the finished product. I use a 10:1 or 20:1 water/chlorine bleach solution, incidentally.) Peeling them in this manner results in softer, more flexible white sponges. (See photo gallery for the step-by-step process.)

Once again, luffas aren't the only "oddball" plant we grow. We also raise ornamental gourds, "birdhouse" and "dipper" gourds, and even an edible variety of Langenaria. As it's white-flowered, and has brown, lozenge-shaped seeds, it's definitely a Langenaria – but that's all I can say for certain.

One source claims that it's an edible form of L. siceraria, while another dubs it L. longissima. The names under which it's sold are equally confusing: "New Guinea Butter Vine," "Italian Edible Gourd" and "Italian Climbing Squash." Whatever it is, it's pale green, covered with "peach fuzz" that needs to be scrubbed off, and has a delectable, squash-like flavor. I pick them at 1.5" or less in diameter (12-18" in length) and sauté them with butter, olive oil, garlic, tomatoes and various herbs – or use them in tempura. This particular gourd, like the luffa, is a long-season plant (90+ days), but a single fruit is equal to several zucchini, and the exquisite flavor makes it well worth the wait.

As with most vegetables, the more frequently one harvests the edible gourd; the more the plant bears. I'd been picking them since late August, but a trip to North Carolina last month took me away from the garden for a few days. When I returned, there were only two gourds on the vine – but what gourds! They were well past the edible stage, so I thought I'd save them for seed. When I showed my wife the larger of the two, her eyes got as big as horse turds, and she exclaimed "Holy shit!"

Naturally, we just had to photograph it, and the shot is also in the gallery.

Food as Medicine

Mags and I had a ball during Aaron's and Vanessa's last visit, and look forward to seeing them again. I suppose the Chinese medicinal soup recipe I gave them was a tad abbreviated, as I wasn't sure how much time I had to leave the voice-mail – not to mention that I was probably talking a mile a minute. A few days later, one of them called back, asking me to leave it again – but it slipped my mind. This is the complete, detailed recipe. I'm glad they liked it, I'm glad it did the trick, and I'd be just as glad to post the recipe if anyone else can benefit from trying it. I eat a bowl or two whenever I need a "pick me up," and J.R.'s fiancée, Kelly, can also vouch for its effectiveness.

1 lb beef trimmed and cubed.
10 dried shiitake mushrooms, soaked in one cup boiling water for twenty minutes, then drained (reserve water) and halved or sliced.
½ oz. dried Chinese wolfberries (Lycium chinense)
½ cup rice wine. For best results use Chinese "yellow" wine (9-10%) -- not Japanese sake, the cloudy, Korean stuff (granted, it tastes great, but it leaves an unattractive yeast residue at the bottom of the pot), or that Godawful "cooking" rice wine.
½ pint distilled water
½ cup reserved mushroom liquid
Sea salt or rock salt, freshly ground black pepper, and toasted sesame seed oil, to taste

Brown beef cubes in a little oil. Drain and set aside. (If beef is especially greasy, immerse in warm water; then pour off water and excess fat.)

Heat water to boiling. Add beef, wine, wolfberries and ½ cup reserved mushroom liquid. Return to boiling, reduce heat to low and simmer until beef is tender; 2-2.5 hours. Ladle into individual bowls and add sea salt, pepper and sesame oil to taste.

A few notes, comments, etc.:

1.) It's pricey, but I recommend using USDA certified organic beef. A typical American cow eats swill that could gag a maggot, and is so full of growth hormones and whatnot; I've heard one can end up like Lyle Alzado merely by making eye contact with one of the poor critters. I don't trust imported beef at all, and wouldn't touch it with a ten-foot pole.

2.) Chinese wolfberries (Lycium chinense) are obtainable at most oriental groceries, and are always available from Chinese herbalists. Mags and I can also provide them for a very reasonable price.

3.) If you have the choice, purchase a package of fresh shiitakes from an oriental grocery or well-stocked farmers' market and dry them yourselves. Maggie and I dry our herbs in the tool-shed (it serves the purpose wonderfully), but in a pinch, the oven works nearly as well. Simply set it on "warm" and prop the door open half an inch or so, to allow the water vapor to escape. We buy our dried shiitake in bulk packages at the Buford Highway Farmers' Market or the Hong Kong Supermarket, as we save a bundle in so doing. Dried shiitake, however, often contain sulfites. Neither of us reacts adversely to them, but some people do. This poses a problem. In order to reap the full benefits of the soup, you should add the water used to reconstitute them. If you're sulfite-sensitive, you'll want to pour off the soaking liquid. If, on the other hand, sulfites don't bother you; it's smooth sailing.

I'd also caution you against pissing away your hard-earned denarii on Dynasty, Ka-Me and other overpriced brands unless you have no choice. If there's anything to be said for so-called "globalism" and (chuckle) "free trade," it's that that we're no longer at the mercy of rapacious, American specialty companies… If you don't have an oriental market in your neck of the woods, we can also provide dried shiitakes.

4.) Rice wines come in many varieties. What you'll need is Chinese "yellow" wine, i.e. simple, fermented rice wine. Chinese "white" wine (a.k.a. "fire wine") is a distilled spirit, more like vodka or whiskey than wine, per se. In a pinch, I suppose you could use sake, but the dish doesn't taste as good.

Now as for the theory behind it all…

I can't vouch for the myths surrounding this recipe, but supposedly, one Taoist sage or another ate the stuff every day and lived to be 250. Personally, I wouldn't want to spend 250 years on this shithole of a planet, but I suppose it's best to be healthy whilst serving one's sentence.

Beef is a blood, stomach, spleen and energy tonic. It regulates energy circulation, and is neutral (neither hot nor cold,) sweet and mildly yang.

Shiitake mushrooms (lentinula edodes) are a yin and stomach tonic, and regulate both sputum and energy circulation. They're also neutral, sweet and mildly yang. They're also believed to lower blood fat and cholesterol levels, while experiments conducted in Japan suggest that the enzyme lentinan shows anticancer activity.

Dried wolfberries (lycium chinense) are a blood, liver and kidney tonic. They're said to raise the spirits and slow aging by improving muscle growth and retarding grey hair and rough skin. They're sweet, neutral, and said to act upon the kidney, liver and lung meridians. They're also used to treat dizziness and blurred vision.

I don't think the recipe does much for hairy palms, so I guess you're shit out o' luck, John.... Heh heh heh…

More Soup

My bro, John (he of the hirsute hands), bought me one hell of a birthday present – a ticket to the Motorhead gig at the Fillmore in Charlotte, NC the weekend of the eleventh. The show was fantastic (I'll have more to say about it later), and as always, I had a great time. Yeah, we acted like a couple of drunken assholes, but what do you expect from two Celts who never really grew up? Besides, no animals, immigrants or epileptics were harmed during the proceedings (we didn't even hijack the little school bus with tinted windows and crash it into a retirement home), so what the fuck? We were so well-behaved, as a matter of fact; the only injury I sustained was a twisted ankle whilst negotiating his backyard in the dark. (The "Jimmy Riddle" was occupied, and I really had to go…)

Mags, unfortunately, didn't fare so well. She's not what you'd call a Motorhead fan (and I can't imagine her putting up with King's X for any length of time), so she enjoyed a quiet (read: husband-and-his-asshole-buddies-free) evening at John's place while he and I compromised our self-respect with a vengeance and otherwise enjoyed the show. Now we're the ones who were out tanking up, headbanging, otherwise lowering our resistance, and exposing ourselves to God-alone-knows what kind of microorganisms at the show, OK?

Care to guess who gets sick the next morning, though?

Yep -- the wife. I dragged my ass out of bed sometime between sunrise and noon, had a little "hair of the dog" (and it was a reg'lar pit bull, lemme tell ye'…) and went to check on the spousal unit. Needless to say, she wasn't doing very well. I spent some time observing her and noticed that her symptoms were disturbingly flu-like. She was clammy, sweaty, nauseous, and had a nasty, rumbling cough. Now I've had bad experiences treating females with influenza, so I very nearly had a "flashback" – before remembering where I was.

Back in '84, my girlfriend came down with the flu. Her folks were out of town, and she was supposed to spend the night at her best friend's house. Unfortunately, that was nearly half a mile away, she was sick as a dog, and it was a rather cold winter evening. Not being as much of a prick as I'd like people to believe, I promptly called Ma Bean and had her pick us up. Ma called her parents and explained the situation to them, and we spent the rest of the evening babying her. For my pains, I came down with the flu a couple days later…

I caught it once more in 1997 – the same year I stopped going to doctors and took up "alternative" medicine, by the way. And I haven't had it since – knock on wood. Mags, though, has rather weak chi (we're working on it…), and is more susceptible to certain illnesses than I am. Now I understand that there's no scientific basis for alternative/Chinese/Amerind/Ayurvedic medicine, yadda yadda yadda. I also know that it works, so I'll let the scientists worry about the apparent paradoxes.

In some ways, I'm a bit more robust these days than I was at seventeen or even thirty, so I was more worried about the wife than about myself. Not being quite the prick I'd have people believe (to reiterate), I explained my predicament to dairlin' Johnny-O. Being a hell of a bro, he had us on the road in no time. Unfortunately, Charlotte's Asian population ain't as large as Atlanta's – and I'd left my "toybox" at home. I should have learned my lesson in Colorado in '08, when I suffered a fractured rib and had to mooch some tieh tah wan (it tastes awful, and merely reading the ingredient label serves as a mild emetic, but it works like a charm…) from a friend, but I didn't. Since I couldn't obtain the herbs I needed, I opted for nutritional therapy and acupressure.

Now Harris-Teeter ain't the best supermarket chain on earth. They charge Publix-level prices, but only offer Wal-Mart- or Ingles-level service, but beggars can't be choosers. I found most of the things I needed and made the soup for Mags. After feeding her some, prodding a few pressure points, resorting to a bit of reflexology and an ancient Muskogee healing ritual that's been handed down for generations (just kidding about that part – I'm less than 1/200 Indian, and am probably the whitest white guy on earth) I had her on her feet again in a couple hours.

This "miracle food," incidentally, was nothing but an Asian version of "Jewish Mothers' penicillin": chicken soup. The complete recipe follows.

1 lb chicken parts, minimum – preferably with bones, although breasts also work very well
3 quarter-sized slices ginger root (unpeeled)
1 stalk celery, with leaves
1 carrot (unpeeled)
½ bunch parsley (preferably flat-leaf)
3 cloves garlic, crushed
3-4 whole scallions, with roots
1 dried chile
½ head Savoy or Chinese cabbage, chopped (optional)
6 shiitake mushrooms, reconstituted and sliced
2 medium portabella mushrooms, sliced (optional)
½ cup button mushrooms, sliced (optional)
water to cover
sea salt to taste
few drops sesame oil

Bring water, chicken, chile and herbs to the boil. Reduce heat and simmer one hour, skimming foam as it rises. Remove carrot, celery, parsley, garlic and scallions. Remove chicken and cut from bones. Return chicken to soup, along with mushrooms. Return to boiling, reduce heat, cover, and simmer 20 minutes. longer. Add cabbage, simmer five to ten minutes longer, add sesame oil and salt to taste, then serve.

Bars, Schools and Gobshites

In December of '08, the wife and I had yet another of our screaming fight/heartrending makeup scenes -- all in the space of two hours. Said drama, while irritating, portended neither the end of the world as we know it (God is entirely too displeased with me to do me a favor of that magnitude…) nor of the relationship. It was just a predictable consequence of Latin and Celtic tempers meeting head-on and engaging in the ultimate "communication breakdown." By the time the tears (and blood) dried, we'd effected a meeting of the minds (exposed grey-matter is especially conducive to that end, by the way) and renewed our commitment to a project that had long been a bone of contention between us.

Since there's no better way of letting bygones be bygones than hoisting a tankard at the local boozer, we did just that. A pint or two of Miller Lite and Bass Ale later; all was well with our world – for all that we waxed exceedin' dismayed over the fucked-up state of the world in general. (Waxin' exceedin' dismayed over the fucked-up state of the world in general is our favorite pastime, by the way...)

As we backed out of the driveway en route to the watering hole, I noticed a folded piece of paper taped to our mailbox. Aquiver with curiosity, I retrieved and opened it. Scurrying for the shelter of our pickup truck, (it was colder than a witch's tit that Friday), I perused the contents aloud, the better to share them with Mags. What I read was as hilarious as it was nauseating: an urgent bulletin from the homeowners association, summoning all and sundry to a pitchfork-and-torch session in defense of local property values – and the chiiiiiilllldren, of course.

As if I give a flying fuck about either – especially the latter.

The late W.C. Fields perfectly expressed my attitude towards children: "Go away, kid. Ya bother me."

  Children are annoying, expensive, and an acute pain in the ass. If I had a dollar for every time some hyperactive crib-crawler made an already miserable flight doubly so by kicking the back of my seat; for every time some squalling brat's temper-tantrum upset my digestion (the very sight of an ankle-biter in a restaurant is enough to send me screaming into the night); and for every shopping trip upon which I've barely avoided colliding with some sticky-faced, skate-shoe-wearing, Ritalin-popping pork-pie, I'd be richer than George Soros (but less of a power-crazed, sociopathic, narcissistic baw'bag, I hope).

Beyond these (and other) glaring character flaws, children are – well -- nasty. They belch, break wind and pick their noses at inappropriate times and in inappropriate places – and they do so unconsciously. Situational context notwithstanding, they behave in ways that would shame a six-month-old puppy or kitten – but for no apparent reason. I can tolerate (nay, applaud) mooning, streaking, or farting into megaphones at politicians' funerals as forms of social protest. I can't, however, abide some rugrat mining for nose-gold while I'm trying to polish off an already unappetizing, extortionately overpriced wad of unagi.

The last straw for me, though, was when most Roswell bars banned smoking. Granted, children weren't to blame (they can't hold public office, thank God…), but no sooner had the ink on the bill dried than local parents began dragging their genetically blighted progeny with them when they went out on the town. Needless to say, this obnoxious trend took a king-sized corn- and peanut-studded shit on my riff. The few times a year I play (bar)fly on the wall, it's to focus my bloodshot, multifaceted yeën on the darker elements of the human condition – not to watch a veritable sounder of five-year-olds play tag amongst the stools and tables, upend the jukebox, or play Hyperkinetic Refined Sugar Power Rangers with the fucking pool cues.

(Beyond the "annoyance factor" -- if the Gentle Reader will pardon the digression -- I wonder what the fuck goes through whatever passes for their parents' "minds." Why would any reasonable person want to take a child to a bar in the first place? Is there some semi-secret timetable, according to which kids should be exposed to substance abuse, profanity, off-color humor, informal gambling, chemically induced/enhanced violence and casual sex by a certain age? And if so, isn't that why we have public schools? Just curious…)

"Well, l'il Brandon's nearly seven now, hon. And Brittany's six. I suppose it's high time he got into his first real knock-down, drag-out and scored a piece of ass. And she might as well learn to fend off Jarquecius 'Thunderbird' Washington and the local chapter of the Hog-Ridin' Rumpkins in the meantime."

At least there's still Mazzy's – thank Dionysus. A true bar in the best sense of the word, it's dim, smoky, cavernous, and has no shortage of dartboards, pool tables or interesting characters. Sadly enough, it's a near-anachronism in this sick, sorry, smoke-free, politically correct day and age; a game preserve for that most endangered of species, the North American Blue-Collar Barfly, with nearly all the features of its natural (and vanishing) habitat – and I'm glad it's that way. In short, the only thing missing is the hardwood floor – and the kids. It'll probably be a cold day in hell before I see any in Mazzy's – knock on wood. And have I mentioned that I don't like kids?

In addition to being killjoys (even if inadvertently), children are cruel. Whether pulling the legs off insects, tying cans to dogs' tails, or singling out other children for abuse and ostracism, rugrats' blood-thirst leaves mosquitoes, hagfish, leeches, chupacabras and Elizabeth Bathory's ghost pea-green with envy.

Hopefully, eight paragraphs of anti-rugrat invective have established that I ain't over-fond of the little bastards. When they get their collective shit together and take my quality of life into account, I'll reciprocate. But not a nanosecond earlier.

Quid pro quo, folks. Quid pro fuckin' quo. 'Nuff said?

This brings us to the matters of property values and the homeowners' association's call to arms. This degenerate, bastard descendant of the Anglo-Saxon folcmod -- like the degenerate, bastard descendants of Anglo-Saxons who authored it – didn't even bother to do its own dirty work. Pale and limp as a post-2006 necocon's dick, it simply flapped in the wind, hoping to be noticed. Mistaking it for some poor, self-employed slob's bid for work (and thus as a courageous act of defiance against the homeowners' association and a few draconian local and federal laws), I gave it the once-over.

By way of repaying my courtesy, it "gied me a scunner."

Apparently, the Fulton County Board of Education's latest redistricting scheme had tied many an upwardly mobile pecker in a knot, and placed many a nipped-and-tucked tit in the wringer.

Lest I appear too flippant or dismissive, I'll concede that in Alpharetta -- which faced the same problem – many parents were justifiably concerned. In a move nastily reminiscent of the '70s busing fiasco, the BOE planned to "fix what [wasn't] broke" by shipping children willy-nilly to schools miles away from their neighborhoods. In the cases of the Coventry and Gatewood subdivisions, both of which are within walking distance of Cogburn Woods Elementary School, this thinly disguised social engineering project was especially sickening: local children would be bused to distant Manning Oaks Elementary.

As is usually the case when treating with the government, obtaining the whys and wherefores required the services of the Delphic Oracle, a visit to Mimir's Well and a metric shitload (that's 1.2 Avoirdupois shitloads) of crystal balls, ouija boards, and tarot decks. Apparently lacking these resources, the local catbox liner (The Alpharetta-Roswell Revue and News) sent one of its intrepid staffers to chat with board member Katie Reeves.

According to the ARRN: "Reeves said the system's redistricting plan is based foremost on hard data, thereby removing arbitrary changes. Planning staff considers four primary criteria when drawing lines, then considers secondary criteria when a clear outcome is not present."

As the esteemed Ms. Reeves neither cited the "hard data," nor delineated the "primary and secondary criteria," her statement was – well – rather arbitrary, if not downright tautological: ("We use undefined criteria and unspecified data to prevent arbitrary changes.")

Thanks, sweetheart. That's ever so fucking reassuring…

Three more Reeves "gems" were especially noteworthy:

"We do not have a vote on the maps from the community, we have comments." (Translation: "Fuck you. We, the local government, know far better than you what's best for you, your communities and your children.")

"The Planning Department is making the maps –not me." (Translation: Don't bother me with this shit. It isn't my problem. I'm passing the buck.")

And I've saved the best for last:

"It is kind of a slap in the face to everyone who participated in the process to have a board member go in and change things."

Como se dice, "What the faaaaahck?"

Heaven forefend that any board member should receive even a slap on the wrist, let alone a slap in the face. No, in Katie's elitist world, the li'l duck feelings of silly, pretentious nabobs are far more important than the "petty" concerns of the parents whose children are the Almighty Board's lawful prey and property, to be disposed of as its members see fit.

Care to run that one by me again? Who, exactly, is slapping whom in the face? Jesus Christ! A psychologist could have a field day with that one…

"projection (prə -jĕk'shən)n. 7. Psychology. The naïve or unconscious attribution of one's own feelings, attitudes or desires to others." -- American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language

Having admitted that my own feelings, attitudes and desires parallel the Alpharettans' in this case, I'll turn my attention toward Roswell and the HOA's bulletin. Had the HOA voiced the same concerns, I'd have been equally sympathetic. Unfortunately, the "God-Bless-Our-Investment-doormat-crowd" chose hysteria and cheap shots, which I'll address in order.

Hysteria materialized as the dread spectre of plunging property values. Apparently, the fact that property values were already lower than snake-shit – nationwide-- somehow eluded this fuckin' "brain trust." Its members (who often remind me of the "member" danglin' 'twixt m' front pockets) are likewise oblivious to the fact that the laws of the market preclude perpetual growth as absolutely as the laws of nature forbid perpetual motion or free energy. When a house becomes a mere investment instead of a home, its "real-world" value fluctuates according to the laws of supply and demand. All investments entail risk, as a result of which some result in gain, others in loss. Houses are no exception to the rule.

End of fuckin' story -- and welcome to Economics 101.

Moreover, since all systems tend toward entropy (welcome to Physics 101, Heisenberg, Punk Rock and public schools…), the current situation was predictable. And does any rational person truly believe that redistricting will be any more detrimental than overbuilding (which began in the '90's with those jerry-built Torrey subdivisions -- each a slum waiting to happen), failure to keep infrastructure apace with growth, or the wholesale conversion of Crabapple Road to strip-malls and "assisted living" communities?

Pardon my Tocharian-B, but gimme a fuckin' break.

Having dismissed the hysteria as just that, I'll tackle the cheap shot – which I suspect is the heart of the matter.

Apparently, the HOA's real worry is the fact that ESL (English as a Second Language) students will be bused in from beyond the Alpharetta Highway "Pale." In their own words: "One of the options currently proposed would overcrowd our elementary school, bring a large number of ESOL [sic] (English as Second Language) students and significantly lower our property values." (Emphasis mine.)

Given local demographics, the HOA obviously doesn't mean the Hmong, the Amish, the Seminoles or Gaelic-speakers from the Outer Hebrides when it says "ESOL [sic] students." The cunts are employing a mealy-mouthed euphemism for "wetbacks," and we all know it.

Having no children of my own –and no reason to give a rat's ass about the local propaganda mill's ethnic composition, I've no idea (and once again; no reason to give a rat's ass) as to which kids attend which schools these days.

When I was a larva (a very, very long time ago), Roswell had 8,500 inhabitants and four or five elementary schools. Roswell Elementary took in the riff-raff from Frazier Street, Oxbo Drive and the tiny cluster of gub'mint housing off Oak Street. North Roswell Elementary served the MMC and UMC kids from Hollyberry, Saddle Creek, Northgate, Greenway Hills, Land O' Lakes, etc. – and the odd, mentally gifted cow from the farms north of Etris Road. Mimosa catered to LMC and MMC children from the Warsaw/Old Roswell Road area, and Mountain Park was the preserve of the insufferable snobs from Brookfield West.

(I haven't the foggiest notion of where the kids from the Dickensian/Swiftian world of Raintree and Martin's Landing went to school – if they did at all. Perhaps they attended hedge- or mission schools, or were sent off to workhouses to die of silicosis or brown lung. Perhaps they raided the RIF Bookmobile when not otherwise occupied by begging for bread in the streets or waylaying passers-by… Just kidding, of course -- the area east of GA 400 was "Indian Country" until I got my driver's license at seventeen, so I can't comment.)

As the population has since increased tenfold, I'm sure more schools have been built -- although I know neither where, nor who attends them. The elementary school nearest my house is Sweet Apple, on Crabapple Road – quite a walk from "Little Tijuana." If I'm not mistaken, there's another not far away, at the corner of Elkins and Hembree – although that one might be a middle school. Having (to reiterate) no children, I don't really care.

And speaking of not caring: I don't plan to sell my house, but rather to will it to one of my younger kin (or a deserving, decent family) when the Grim Reaper comes 'round for me. Therefore, its resale value is irrelevant. In a way, I might even benefit from lower property values, as they'd lead to lower property taxes.

You make your investments and I'll make mine, fellow citizens…

Leaving my "personal economy" (Thanks, Herman! I like that term…) aside, I'll return to the matter of the "ESOL [sic] students."

When I read the line aloud to Mags, who is both Hispanic and ESL (until the age of five, she spoke only Spanish), neither of us knew whether to laugh or barf. Since she's created more wealth than most of the HOA wankers could ever hope to, their half-assed, "Nazi lite" appeal to racial purity pissed both of us off.

"Heaven forefend, dear!" says I, "Next thing you know, they'll demand that we rent to the Irish, share our drinking fountains with Negroes, admit Jews to the Country Club, and allow tradesmen the use of the front door! The horror! The horror! Whatever is the world coming to?"

Now I'm the last guy on earth to bleat the "R-word " -- and with good reason. Nowadays, the term "racist" is utterly meaningless. In modern, real-world parlance, a putative "racist" is simply a Caucasoid who offends the "delicate" (Gwine shub mah fo'ty up da ho'bag a-yuss) sensibilities of his darker brothers. Should one truly suspect a recently arrived cabbie who reads neither his/her own native idiom -- nor an English-language roadmap -- of leading a rich, fulfilling intellectual and/or spiritual life, I'd invite said worthy to befriend the critter.

No takers? I didn't think so. And I think even less of using the "racist" tag to demonize personal tastes insofar as "acceptable" behavior is concerned.

"Racism?"

Please…

Ask a recently arrived Haitian Voodoo priestess not to change her kid's diaper on the salad bar at Ryan's, for example, and presto! You've just become a "racist." (Interestingly enough, my wife doesn't call me a "racist" when I get on her nerves -- she just calls me an asshole.) Furthermore, some of the most blatantly racist (in the old, literal sense of the word) behavior I've ever seen has been non-white on non-white. This neatly shit-cans several the left's cherished myths – unless one lacks sensory organs and a measurable IQ.

By now, I hope I've made it clear that I'm anything but a touchy-feely, multi-culti, starry-eyed pinko. I reject the asinine "villains & victims" model of history, for the most part. I don't buy into "cultural relativism," I don't believe we can "all just get along" (most of human history indicates otherwise), and I'm convinced that like good fences, good borders make good neighbors.

But this just takes the fucking cake. As nearly as I can tell, the HOA is upset over having Latin American kids bused in from nearby apartment complexes. They weren't, I note, reluctant to have these children's parents mow their lawns and paint their houses on the cheap. They didn't oppose the immigrant tide when it only lowered hourly wages and/or put native-born labor out of work. They turned a blind eye to the increase in crime and the decrease in quality of life – as long as neither impacted them directly. But the worm has apparently turned. Distraught at the prospect of li'l Brandi and Dylan rubbing shoulders with li'l Juanita and Enrique, they'd now deny the latter the "better life" they once assured us their parents were seeking.

Given the prevalence of Bush- and McCain-worship in this part of North Fulton, this isn't surprising -- just disgusting. It's one thing to tout the alleged "benefits" of diversity on the letters page of The Roswell Neighbor, and another entirely to experience it firsthand, it seems. Bluntly put: these opportunistic wankers would have applauded the abortive McCain-Kennedy amnesty coup – provided that their own little, lily-white ones could be kept away from Bush's "little brown ones."

Racism and hypocrisy rolled into one steaming package, unmistakably redolent of bullshit. I suppose they've somehow forgotten that "Family values don't end at the border." (And it's possible that they don't -- I'll ask the next vato I find loitering behind the bowling alley how he defines "family values" and then get back to you.) I suppose they've forgotten that our burgeoning immigrant community exists only to do "jobs Americans won't do," as our retardate of a former president incessantly reminded us. And I further suppose the HOA is a passel of fucking hypocrites.

Now hypocrisy is natural. No human being – including Yours Truly – is immune to it. Therefore, I exercise patience when confronted with the milder sorts.

My patience, however, ends at the border of principle and pragmatism. This brings us to the matter of illegals' alleged contribution to the economy. Until redistricting became an issue, the typical North Fultonite was content to parrot the Tweedle-Dee/Tweedle Dum party line: importing unskilled foreign labor benefits the economy, and diversity is our strength. How, exactly, large numbers of poor, semiliterate foreigners are good for the economy as a whole –especially given its current state – was never specified. As no one has yet explained how diversity will make us any stronger than Rwanda, Lebanon, Northern Ireland or Yugoslavia, I don't imagine it ever will be specified.

Accepting on faith that our annual $13,000,000,000.00 cash hemorrhage (most of which flows into Mexico) is, in fact somehow good for us, I'll return to the matter of our "guests'" contribution to the economy and add a little personal history.

Owing to choices I made twenty years ago (I sometimes regret reading Atlas Shrugged immediately after being dumped – but not that often…), I've been in intimate, daily contact with the 43% of the population that, according to various talk-radio luminaries (all of whom are quite popular here in North Fulton), doesn't pay income taxes.

Among this chunk of the Great Unwashed (bear in mind that 20% of the populace, as per the 2008 Time Almanac, is under 15 years of age and can't be expected to pay income taxes) are many illegal aliens -- and some of the legal ones, as well. Granted, I'm the smartest redneck in the trailer park, but even my inbred neighbors understand that if these people use tax-funded social services without paying taxes themselves, they constitute a net drain on the economy. The HOA, however, didn't understand it – until redistricting reared its ugly (and melanin-laden) head.

So I'll leave it to them (and to Mort Zuckerman) to hash out, and stick to actuality, as opposed to the "reality" the neocons once claimed to create. I'm bound to trouble my beautiful mind in the process, but then again, patriotic duty has ever been a thankless task…

As my own earnings have never exceeded $25,000 per annum, barring one year in which a SWAG ("Scientific, Wild-Ass Guess") of an investment paid off 10:1 and kicked me into the next tax bracket, I honestly pity the poor, immigrant bastards; their children -- and the country as a whole.

My wife made seven grand last year, from which she paid 10% in federal income taxes. Just federal, mind you: this didn't include Social Security, Medicare or state income taxes. I made ten, from which I paid 11.1%, excluding the same built-in mordidas. (We don't just preach the simple life, by the way. We fucking well practice it…).

Unless the pundits are fibbing, nearly half the country – native and immigrant alike -- lives on $17,000 a year or less. Odd, as the total population is an estimated 299,330,000. That 299,330,000 is subdivided into 109,270, 000 households with an average number of 2.6 persons (amputees – ya just gotta love 'em…) per household.

By my primitive long division, incidentally, this makes for 2.73 persons per household – and reinforces my distrust of statistics. (I mean; what happened to the other fifteen million poor souls? Does a single-occupancy room in the Mogen-David Arms now constitute a "household"? If not, the combined population of several Baltic and Scandinavian countries has apparently fallen through the cracks, for the love of God! And that's just the tip of the iceberg.)

I'll try reconciling the claims of the chattering classes with available – and frequently contradictory -- stats in another post. How, for example, 43% of a 109,270,000 household country with a median income of $42K, a per-capita GDP of $37,610.00 and an average household size of 2.6 can avoid paying income taxes is incomprehensible.

Bear in mind that a median figure is the midpoint in a distribution of values, with equal values to either side. If, for example, we take Oprah Winfrey (we'll be very conservative and assume she makes $10,000,000.00 a year), a single real-life "Dilbert" at $42,000.00 a year, and ten thousand winos, each of whom panhandles a grand a year (presumably from Oprah and Dilbert), we conclude that median income is $42,000.00.

It's mathematically true, but not a reflection of the real economic situation. In actuality, we have one multimillionaire, one cubicle-bound Babbitt, and ten thousand chemically dependent "urban nomads" chipping into the post-Locke pot. This renders median figures every bit as misleading as mean figures (by the mean method, everyone winds up with roughly $2,000.00 -- thereby delighting pinkos who've never tried to live on $2,000.00 a year), and probably explains why statisticians love both.

"Figures don't lie, but liars figure," as the saying goes…

So I'll leave them to lie and figure to their hearts' content.

Mags and I have old-fashioned values (mine are downright Elizabethan…), above-average IQs, and a knack for handicraft, bartering and bargain hunting. Therefore, living on next-to-nothing is easier for us than for others. Being halfway decent people (well, my wife is, at any rate…), we actually pity the 43% of the population -- native and immigrant alike -- who make even less than we do. Who are we to deny their children an education – especially when they're living on less than $17,000 in metro Atlanta, in which a cheap apartment costs nearly ten grand a year?

Moving beyond Atlanta, 299,330,000 x 0.43 ≈ 128,700,000. 128,700,000 x .20 leaves us roughly 2,574,000 downtrodden rugrats – presumably of all colors and ethnicities -- to educate, nationwide. Among these, to reiterate, are the children of many of our Gastarbeiter. As it happens, many of them live right here in Roswell, and many of them no-speaka-da-Eenglish.

Granted, educating them will be expensive, but no more so than ladling out welfare and having them use emergency rooms as de facto clinics for the rest of their lives. And it'll certainly prove cheaper than "winning hearts and minds" abroad by plying every Iraqi and Afghan tot with copies of Daddy's Roommate and Free to Choose.

So much for mathematics and abstractions: when pink fairy and neocon troll alike stop spinning data to "prove" their own predetermined conclusions (and stop pissing on my leg whilst trying to tell me it's raining), I'll stop calling bullshit on them.

If the 43% figure North Fulton's "achievers" so love is correct; there are quite a few desperately poor, underachieving immigrants in our fair city - many of whom will do anything to ensure a better life for their children. Since Roswell, as a community, didn't mind spending its taxes on free health care for 'em in exchange for their "lowball" labor, it shouldn't mind educating their kids. Consider it an (admittedly shaky) investment in the future.

Given the IQ and income gaps (see IQ and the Wealth of Nations, by Richard Lynn and Tatu Vanhanen) between North Fulton's "Minions of Honk" and our rapidly multiplying immigrant community, the latter group of children will probably benefit more from contact with the former than vice versa – assuming that they assimilate. I don't think we'll approach economic or educational parity within the next few decades, though.

Heredity, culture and the demands of survival are unforgiving masters. Should the Gentle Reader doubt this, I'd invite him to study the survival/success story of the Ashkenazi Jews -- the most intelligent human beings on earth, as a whole. Legally barred from farming and similar occupations in much of Europe, many turned to education, finance and the arts and sciences -- with predictable results: survival of the smartest."

But the shtetl and the barrio are very different places. Separated by time, culture, geography and genetics, it's unlikely that they'll develop along parallel lines. Moreover, the "jobs Americans won't do" are largely menial, requiring little abstract intelligence. In all probability, we'll end up with yet another disenfranchised, unassimilated, permanent underclass. Said underclass is already here, as a matter of fact. And they aren't going anywhere. That particular horse has long since escaped, and it's much too late to close the barn door. Roswell's choice, then, is not whether the new underclass remains, but whether or not it remains unassimilated and permanent.

Exposing these children to the hard, cold world of intellectual competition would only benefit them – and us, in the long run. To restate an earlier point: The pool of cheap labor is here to stay. The "anchor babies" said pool produces are American citizens, and entitled to the same "rights" as the rest of us – even as their non-citizen parents are apparently entitled to certain social services, the "nickel and dime" nature of which prevented most North Fultonites from perceiving them until it was too late.

When they did, though, the HOA needed my Mexican-American wife and me to act against the children of the competition they had forced us to subsidize (broke as we are, we're still part of the 57% who pay taxes…). To say that the prospect neither inspired her to unprecedented levels o' hyphenated patriotism nor rocked my hairy, Scots-Irish balls is an understatement. Worse still, the shit-weasels wouldn't even admit that they'd fucked up, or that their addiction to ultra-cheap goods and services was part of the problem.

In a way, they reminded me of the tech-geeks who began pissing and moaning when their jobs were either outsourced to India or given to H-1-B Visa-holders. I'd have felt sorry for them – had I not heard so many of them smugly declare that blue-collar slobs facing a similar problem should just accept that we live in a changing world and find new lines of work. Needless to say, the attitude hardly warms my Grinchy li'l Hillbilly heart.

And neither does the HOA's. I have no patience with those who protest when their own oxen are gored, but don't give a shit for their neighbors'. To continue with the livestock metaphor, my oxen have been gored so often; they're long dead. The bitter irony is that I'm not the one who's been demolishing the fences in order to open the pasture to donkeys and other, less expensive beasts of burden. Therefore, I sure as hell ain't gonna help the erstwhile vandals rebuild 'em -- especially when they're only being built to keep Hispanic children out of "our" (the HOA's term, not mine) schools.

"Attend the final redistricting meeting to stand with us and voice your opinion. Wear a light blue shirt," read their flyer.

"Blue shirts," says I to m'ownself. "They were popular in Ireland a few decades ago, if memory serves me correctly." I then made a wisecrack about brown and black shirts to my wife. She laughed, and in the end, we did voice our opinion – by tossing the flyer into the trashcan (where such dross belongs) and going to the bar.

G'night.