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This week I had a chance to go to a third Turkish restaurant in NYC, Ali Baba. There's another one, Dardanel, specializing in fish, right around the corner from me. And yet another, Taksim, is not far away. If I said they all have the same food, that would make it sound bland--this food is anything but! They all have the same dishes, the same high caliber of cuisine, and the same freshness factor. Every one is worthy of a splurge--or even brunch when you can get it; Dardanel has brunch on Sundays and I might just have to pop in tomorrow.

*Movies*

This week my mother and I went to see Julie and Julia. Though it presses some simple buttons, it's complex enough to redeem itself. The most interesting part of it was the part about Julia Child's actual life, shot in a period-piece style. Meryl Streep's performance, as is to be expected, is simply staggering in its authenticity, evocativeness, and sheer acting bravado; she does not ever call attention to the fact that she's playing a role, and doing a phenomenal job at it; by the end you feel as if you've just been watching the real Julia Child for a couple of hours. And you love her, and her husband. The other part of the story, about a blogger who takes Julia Child's famous cookbook to be her model and task, is only serviceable, especially compared to Streep. I highly recommend this movie just to witness another timeless classic from the muse of Meryl Streep.

*Poem*

Peace for Cal

Off into that place

from which we never return

she's surely gone by now.

She might have been

Vietnamese or

Laotian or

even Korean;

I'm sure none of us

in the apartment complex

knew or even ever

thought to ask.

But she was our saviour.

Every single person

in that complex.

For when it comes to

infants, no American

really has a clue.

It's a cultural,

and historical,

and familial failing

(like not knowing what

constitutes a good diet).

Any young parent

within miles who had

a screaming infant

that they couldn't handle

brought the child

to Cal's apartment

and within minutes came

silence and sleep.

You might think she

fed the babies laudanum

or some other narcotic

but I spent many hours

at Cal's when I was young,

watching, learning, amazed,

and she never used any medicine.

Her first trick was

to lay the baby on its back,

speak softly,

and place her hand firmly

on the baby's belly.

Sleep usually came

within a minute.

For the tougher cases

she made a gruel

of various ground grains

(oats, rice, barley, etc.),

fed it to the little one,

and away it went to

never never land.

What gets me most

when I think back on Cal

is that none of us ever

really thought much about her,

what her husband was like,

how she grew up,

where she learned her tricks,

and Cal did not care one bit.

All she wanted was to help

babies sleep, and so,

in many cases,

to save marriages,

and sanity,

and restfulness.

To this day I am convinced

she was an angel

who came from nowhere,

gave what she could,

and disappeared into the ether.

In my heart of hearts

I want to believe dear Cal

has finally found her own peace.

*Taiwan*

Three areas of my life collided toward the end of my stay in Taiwan and I was compelled to leave to save my life: I had become a very successful private English tutor; as such, all the money I was paid went directly to my pocket, and I could charge considerably less than language schools (bushibans) did because I didn't have to split the money several ways. Great for me, bad for my long-term health. All of my white friends (all 10) taught at bushibans and so earned a fraction what I did. None of them ever asked so I didn't tell. One day after I'd been doing my thing in Hualien for nine months or more, one of my ex-pat friends came over with an urgent message: he had just spoken with his boss (mafia connected as most business owners were) and he had been sent to give me an ultimatum: raise my prices to match the bushibans...or else! I wasn't about to raise my prices (I'm stubborn like that), but I wasn't much interested in finding out what the 'or else' part would mean. It became clear I would soon have to skedaddle.

Around the same time, the worst typhoon in 50 years hit Hualien. I had just moved into a two-story apartment right on the river--bad place to be in a typhoon. Novice that I was with such storms, I stayed right there; I hadn't unpacked yet and all of my belongings (my doomed belongings) were strewn about on the concrete floor. I watched as the storm grew stronger and the river began to rise. Then cockroaches, big river bugs, began storming into my abode through every crevice they could find. Numbskull that I was insistent on being, I actually sat there with a hammer smashing roaches for several minutes before it dawned on me: if the cockroaches were escaping to higher ground, I probably should too. I tried calling a friend who lived on top of a hill but the phone lines were already dead. I made a run for it. I pulled my motorcycle inside, locked up, and fled on my Vespa. I was driving through a torrential downpour, dodging flying tree branches, barely able to see where I was going.

When I got to the top of the hill, I found that several other friends had already sought shelter at this same house whose proprietor, my friend, was a kindly, mild mannered, soft spoken New Zealander (something of a rarity?). Seeking refuge as I was also were a pair who were relatively new on the scene there in Hualien, a married couple, the man a New Zealander (the more hot-tempered variety) and the woman Australian by way of Holland; I'd only known them a couple of weeks and they seemed like decent enough folks. I suppose they were in the end, but I can't say the way they ended up with me was exactly fair, or just, or reasonable. Their combined impact on my life was to change it drastically (they and the several other threads I'm discussing here). I was stagnating a bit in my comfortable life as a private English tutor in that small town; the truth is I was greatly in need of a change.

The next day was unbearably hot and we came to terms with the wreckage: the whole center of town was flooded and wouldn't be cleared for days if not weeks; the damage was incalculable. I went to look at my apartment and what I saw was life changing: the river had risen to above the first floor--in other words every single one of my possessions on this earth had been soaked and forever sullied by river mud; an entire wardrobe gone, my most dear photos turned into a pile of undecipherable sludge, all of the little trinkets I'd collected in Taiwan ruined. My motorcycle, fully flooded like everything else, was the only thing I was able to salvage The apartment was a stinking mess so there was no way I could sleep there--I hadn't even gotten to enjoy it for a single day! Back to the top of the hill I returned.

[To be continued....]

*Veselka*

This week I went to an old favorite restaurant of mine, Veselka, a Polish restaurant that's been around forever, and had bigos, which they served only in winter in the old days. My mother sent me the following description of the dish:

"A famous Polish dish, bigos, is very controversial. No two Poles agree about bigos, which is known as 'hunter's stew', and has wound up in some cookbooks as a leftover dish. Bigos was originally cooked during the great hunts on the estates of the aristocrats, kings and princes. It was always prepared in large quantities, and what wasn't eaten was reheated after the next day's hunt and added to on subsequent days. Recipes for bigos have a Rabelaisian quality: 'Take beef, bison, venison, hare, pork, kielbasa, duck, lamb, chicken [or other game from the hunt]' and that is just the beginning. Bigos is Poland's contribution to the galaxy of celebrated stews. Cabbage or sauerkraut (or both), onions, mushrooms, spices, even prunes or apples, may go into it. Strict traditionalists claim that freshly made bigos is not fit to be eaten but should be left standing and reheated over several days before it acquires the mysterious flavor that freshly made bigos does not have. Could be. It's not a culinary but a metaphysical problem, and there is no point arguing with a Pole anyway."

--Joseph Wechsberg

I can attest to the fact that in general we of Polish descent are stubborn as all hell. There is definitely no point arguing.

*Quotations*

There even are places where English completely disappears.

In America, they haven't used it for years!

--Lerner/Loewe (My Fair Lady)

[Amazing Grace] took the most out of me and was the hardest to write, because it was the hardest to live through these experiences. I felt it would initially be seen as discouraging but, ultimately, sensitive readers would see the resilient and transcendent qualities, that it would be seen as a book about the elegant theology of children.

--Jonathan Kozol

The thing about democracy, beloveds, is that it is not neat, orderly, or quiet. It requires a certain relish for confusion.

--Molly Ivins

That's free enterprise, friends: freedom to gamble, freedom to lose. And the great thing--the truly democratic thing about it--is that you don't even have to be a player to lose.

--Barbara Ehrenreich

The survival of democracy depends on the renunciation of violence and the development of nonviolent means to combat evil and advance the good.

--AJ Muste

The surface of American society is covered with a layer of democratic paint, but from time to time one can see the old aristocratic colours breaking through.

--Alexis de Tocqueville

Democracy means simply the bludgeoning of the people by the people for the people.

--Oscar Wilde

The best argument against democracy is a five minute conversation with the average voter.

--Churchill

A democracy is nothing more than mob rule where fifty-one percent of the people may take away the rights of the other forty-nine.

--Thomas Jefferson

The spirit of democracy is not a mechanical thing to be adjusted by abolition of forms. It requires change of heart.

--Gandhi

*Music*

A record any jazz fan must own is New York Stories Vol 1, featuring the late Danny Gatton on guitar, Bobby Watson alto, Roy Hargrove trumpet, Joshua Redman tenor, Frank Amsallem piano, Charles Fambrough bass, and Yuron Israel drums. This is the last recorded work of Gatton, one of those phenomenal guitarists who straddled genres and inspired other guitarists to expect more of themselves. (He drove off the side of the road a few months after this album was recorded, in one of his vintage American racers). All the players on New York Stories clearly saw a master in Gatton and pretty much let him do as he saw fit. The first track, called Dolly's Ditty, was definitely called by Gatton (rooted as he was in country) and it sets the tone for the rest of the record: an aging but stratospheric guitar player leads a group of jazz's young lions through an epic set of highly memorable originals (from each member of the band). This recording is a rarity. If you like really good modern jazz and/or incredible guitar playing, you simply must dig this record.

_____

A few years ago I came across a song called The Best Deceptions by Dashboard Confessional. If I had know this song when my ex-wife deserted me, I would have made her listen to it. A few days before she walked out, I was pouring adulation over her, as I had done every day for almost five years; I was kneeling on the floor; I went to give her a kiss and grabbed the back of her head gently, the way lovers do, and she smacked my hand away. I was shocked. I stood up, stepped back, and thought about it. I suddenly realized the truth and I said it out loud, "You haven't let me give you a real kiss in at least six months." She didn't say a word and was gone within a few days. This song was written for Janna Tuck:

"Don't you see, don't you see?

The charade is over.

And all the Best Deceptions

and the Clever Cover Story awards

go to you.

So kiss me hard

'cause this will be

the last time that I let you.

You will be back some day

and this awkward kiss

that tells of other people's lips

will be of service

to giving you away,

TO GIVING YOU AWAY!"

--Dashboard Confessional

[The only difference I see is that Janna never came back.]

Peace love and ATOM jazz