Ramble With Me.

This Is Getting Out Of Hand And Hand And Hand…

My fascination with octopuses must be an inborn trait. It’s not something I learned because as far as I can remember I’ve considered them amazing creatures and if, with their remarkable intelligence and dexterity, they were to replace us—unlikely, I know, since their copper-based blood makes them tire easily, and true oceanic blue bloods—I for one would welcome our new octopus masters.

The first time I ever went to a library I wanted to find a book about octopuses and checked out Octopus Lives In The Ocean by William and Peggy Stephens. Then I kept renewing it so many times I wonder why the library didn’t just let me keep it. And it was a terrifically honest and detailed book that led to me explaining octopus sex in great detail to my grandfather. He was impressed but unsure what to say so I added, “That reminds me of a joke. What did John Lennon say to the octopus? I wanna hold your hand and your other hand and your other hand…” He chuckled and said he preferred The Rolling Stones, so we listened to Let It Bleed together, but that’s another story.

There wasn’t a lot of cephalopod swag in those days because you can’t always get what you want, but octopuses finally seem to have gotten a hold in the public consciousness. Almost every aquarium I’ve been to has an octopus t-shirt so I’ve built up quite a collection. And one of these was a gift from my mother. Yes, I have enough octopus t-shirts to wear one every day of the week without repeating.

shirt5 shirt4 shirt3 shirt2 shirt1shirt6


Thanks to the Aquarium of the Pacific, the Dauphin Island Estuarium, the Florida Aquarium, the Tennessee Aquarium, and my mother. I would thank the Oklahoma Aquarium but their octopus t-shirt was the same as one of the ones from the Aquarium of the Pacific and they also didn’t have a real octopus on display, but I do want to thank The Happy Octopus, also in Dauphin Island, even though they don’t have any real octopuses either. And now–true facts about the octopus.

The Romanians Of The Day.

romaniaThere’s getting off the beaten path and then there’s getting way off track which is what Snoop Dogg did when he posted to Instagram while visiting Bogota, Colombia, and, due to a misspelling, promoted the small Romanian village of Bogata. It was the biggest pop promotion of non-tourist destination since Iggy Pop’s tribute to the Sri Lankan city of Kandy, but that’s another story. Inhabitants of Bogata have been quick to capitalize on their accidental fame with a website that promotes the local stew, a few local attractions, and its natural setting as perfect for “chillin’”.

One commenter responded to Snoop’s error with “there is a lot of hemp there” according to Balkan Insight but the attractions of Romania may be subtler than that. As a country it’s had a difficult history. When the dictator Ceaucescu was overthrown it was the poet Marin Sorescu who was asked to make the announcement because Romanians have a profound love of and respect for poetry. And the TV show Dallas, which the country’s communist leaders broadcast in the hope that it would create disgust with western decadence, may have helped foment rebellion. Ordinary Romanians fell in love with the glamour of the Ewing clan. What I’m getting at is that rap and Romania have some surprising things in common.

Snoop Dogg may or may not take the next flight out of Bogata to the other side of the globe, but if he doesn’t I’d like to make this offer: bring me over there and I’ll promote Bagata. I’ll sing the praises of the local attractions, rave about how perfect the countryside is for chillin’, and, seriously, that stew sounds delicious. Even if we can’t work this out please send me a recipe.

I’m not famous but why should that stand in the way of what could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship?

I understand if we can’t work it out, but the offer stands. And if anyone from Bagota comes over here let me know. I know some great places for chillin’.


Please Drink Responsibly.

guinnessIt’s St. Patrick’s Day, a day some Americans commemorate by dyeing beer green and drinking it, as opposed to the other 364 days when they just drink un-dyed beer. I’m tempted to make a cheap shot about the poor quality of American beer but I’m not going to because American beer is not what it was when I was growing up. When I was growing up it was all thin, watery pilsners. The joke “Why is American beer like sex in a canoe?” wasn’t funny because it hit so close to the mark.

When I was four or five my father let me try a sip of his beer and I said I liked it because I thought beer was a grown-up thing to drink, sort of like coffee, which I also pretended to like because I thought it was a grown-up thing to drink. At least with coffee I could get away with adding three or twelve heaping spoonfuls of sugar but if you try that with beer the guys look at you kind of funny even though deep down we all know it would improve the flavor greatly.

I’m a fan of beer now as my friends and waist can attest, and for once in my life I was actually slightly ahead of the curve. It was Ireland that made me love beer and specifically Guinness that started it all. I was in a pub in the fair city of Dublin and a friend who’d been exasperated by my avoidance of beer said, “Chris, you’re in Dublin, capital of Ireland, the emerald isle, home of Yeats and Oscar Wilde, of Cuchulain, a land of sweeping history, great beauty, of magic and fairy tales, and some pretty damn good beer.”

This was the same guy who, earlier that same day, convinced me to go into the Judge Roy Bean Tavern—which is apparently still a going concern in Dublin–and eat nachos and drink tequila, but that’s another story. I like to think it was the Guinness that made him change his tune from Home on the Range to Molly Malone.

Anyway I tried a sip it tasted like very bitter, burnt coffee. I was looking for the sugar when he said, “Take a large drink.”

I took a gulp and it was good.

For weeks afterward I only drank Guinness. I still labored under the impression that there were only two types of beer in the world: Guinness and thin watery pilsners. I was oblivious to the fact that Britain and Ireland had done for beer what the French did for cheese. Not to mention what Britain and Ireland have done for cheese. Seriously. Stilton is delicious.

Then one night the same guy and I were in Edinburgh, in a pub. They didn’t have Guinness.

“Chris,” he said, “you’re in Edinburgh, capital of Scotland, land of the kilt and thistle, of Robert Burns, the Scottish crown jewels, of your own ancestors the Murrays, sweeping history, great beauty, magic and fairy tales, and some pretty damn good ale.”

He handed me a pint of Scottish ale. And it was good. My eyes and throat were opened. After that my answer to the question, “What’ll you have?” was usually, “Whatever I haven’t tried yet.”

So I’m thrilled with the whole craft beer movement, and happy to be in one of the top ten cities leading the way.

Today, though, out of respect for Irish tradition, should be celebrated with Guinness.

Or coffee, if you want something you can add sugar to. Or some cheese. You can have anything you like, really, as long you don’t need to add dye to it.

Guinness posters adorn JJ's Coffee Shop. You can also get beer there.

Guinness posters adorn JJ’s Coffee Shop. You can also get beer there.

It’s Just A Phase.


Source: Weather Underground

It’s still dark in the mornings when I get up, but the days are gradually getting longer at both ends. In a few weeks I’ll be getting up after the dawn rather than before it. And Venus is getting harder to spot as it drops closer and closer to the horizon in the southeast but for now when the sky is clear I can still pick it out through the trees. Soon I won’t be able to see it at all. And maybe that’s not a bad thing.

I wonder sometimes what the ancient Greeks and Romans were thinking when they named the planets. Was it just a lucky guess that they named the largest planet in our solar system Jupiter? Maybe not—it’s the fourth brightest object in our sky, after the Sun, the Moon, and Venus. But since Venus is brighter why didn’t they call it Jupiter? I guess they named it after the goddess of love because they thought it was so beautiful. Looks can be deceiving. If they knew about the nightmare landscape below those clouds where the temperatures average more than four-hundred degrees Fahrenheit and there are blizzards of sulfuric acid snow they might not have thought it was all that beautiful. In Arthur C. Clarke’s Rendezvous With Rama almost every planet in the solar system has human colonies. Even Neptune has an outpost on its moon Triton. The exception is Venus. Oh, and Pluto, since it was still considered a planet when the book was first published, but that’s another story.

That’s science fiction. Here’s a little science fact: when Galileo turned his telescope toward Venus he noticed it, like the Moon, had phases. That was his first clue that the Earth revolves around the Sun rather than the other way around, something that was a slightly controversial idea at the time.

Anyway as our own planet spins around the Sun and the mornings come earlier Venus will disappear from my morning sky and I won’t think about it so much anymore. I’ll have to think about other things, like maybe putting on some pants in case the neighbors are looking.


We’re Not Idiots.

So the B-52’s are playing at the Schermerhorn Symphony Center here in Nashville on February 4th and 5th, which is really cool in many ways. I remember when the song Love Shack appeared on MTV as a “smash or trash”. This was back in the day when the “M” in MTV stood for “music” and not “an odd assortment of reality shows and other garbage and hey, kids, come back!” At the time “smash or trash” was also something radio stations did, back before the local DJ’s were replaced by robots in a facility deep in a Wyoming mountain. They’d play a song–or in the case of MTV a music video–and ask people to call in and declare it a “smash” or “trash”. It was a groovy thing, so much better than the robots who now say, “We’re gonna play this and you’ll like it!” Other notable smash or trash songs included Bobby McFerrin’s Don’t Worry, Be Happy and She Drives Me Crazy by Fine Young Cannibals, but that’s another story.

The Schermerhorn is an amazing building and I love that the B-52s are playing there, but it also reminds me of this commercial for the Nashville Symphony. I really dig this commercial except for one part that annoys me so much it ruins the whole thing for me.

Did you spot it? Maybe you had the same reaction. If you’re not sure it’s at the 12-second mark, when Giancarlo Guerrero is demonstrating what the symphony isn’t and one of the things it isn’t is…

symphony2Really? The guy speaks about thirty languages. Or at least two. Surely he knows what “soporific” means. And that makes me think they’re making fun of the audience, chuckling and thinking, “Hey, these rednecks couldn’t possibly know what that word means, so let’s make a joke about it.” And maybe most people–even educated people–don’t know what it means. It’s not a word that comes up in everyday conversation unless you hang around with S.J. Perelman even though most of us sit through soporific meetings and sales presentations regularly. And that’s okay. Why not turn it into an educational opportunity? Oxford English Dictionary, help us out here!

symphony3Yeah, seeing Guerrero stretched out snoozing on the stage would have been both educational and funny. But then the commercial goes from trash to smash when he chugs a Yazoo Dos Perros.

symphony1Clearly the man has taste. I’ll bet he’s gonna dance this mess around.

Going Local.

chickenGoing to KFC for Nashville Hot Chicken is like going to McDonald’s for Japanese sushi. That’s the first thought that came to me when I saw KFC’s new offering and then I wondered if “Japanese sushi” were redundant. Aside from the difference in certain ingredients what differentiates sushi in Japan from the sushi I get here in Nashville?

If the recipe’s the same would it still be Nashville (Tennessee) hot chicken if it were made in Nashville (Indiana)? It’s not like KFC—formerly Kentucky Fried Chicken—is really from Kentucky, at least not anymore.

Nashville hot chicken, by the way, is spicy fried chicken that, I think, really started to come to prominence with the 2007 start of an annual festival, although it also got a mention in 2002 on Dave Attell’s show Insomniac. He stopped and got some of the very hottest chicken at Prince’s Hot Chicken Shack–where hot chicken is generally believed to have been invented–and sweated through several bites.

And that got me thinking about the fact that I can stand in my backyard and throw stones and hit restaurants that describe themselves as Thai, Vietnamese, Indian, Mexican, Chinese, and Korean. Although I wouldn’t do that. If I’m going to stand in my backyard and throw stones I’m going to throw them at the squirrels and chipmunks that insist on chewing up the wiring under our cars, but that’s another story.

It’s amazing to me that I live in a neighborhood—and that, for that matter—we live in a world—where such a wide variety of cuisines are available. I love being able to go just down the street for some pho, although it frustrates me that they won’t let me order the jellyfish salad. Admittedly I understand. The waiters don’t know I’m an adventurous eater and that even though I’ve never tried jellyfish salad and can’t say whether I’ll like it I’m willing to give it a try. But I’ve been in restaurants and seen somebody of my particular ethnic group order something exotic only to start yelling, “Yuck, I can’t eat this! Take it back!”

I’m sorry to say that’s a true story. And it’s why I don’t blame the waiters when they look at me and tell me, “No, you don’t want the jellyfish salad” and bring me chicken with lemongrass instead.

This also brings to mind another pet obsession of mine: eating locally. I’m not a locavore, but as much as possible I stay away from chain restaurants. When I visit friends in other cities I sometimes drive them nuts. “Let’s go to [GENERIC CHAIN]!” they’ll say, and if you’ve ever heard anyone speak in brackets you know how disconcerting it can be. And I’ll say, “No, no, no, let’s do something local!” When I’m in an unfamiliar place I don’t want familiar food. If I could get the same thing at home what’s the point of traveling?

And yet travel is a luxury that’s not available to everyone, nor is it possible for most of us to go everywhere we’d like to go. As much as I would like to I’ll probably never get to visit Sri Lanka, but a Sri Lankan restaurant is one way to experience the culture. Or is it? Is a Sri Lankan restaurant in the middle of a US city an authentic representation of the culture? And given the increasing interconnectedness of the world and the ease of travel it’s hard to say what authentic culture really is. Going to and from work every day I travel farther than most of our ancestors would in their lifetimes. Being able to share so much with the rest of the world is a wonderful thing but I also wonder what’s being lost. Should some things be kept strictly local?

Alternative title for this post: "This is a local blog for local people! There's nothing for you here!" (Source: BBC)

Alternative title for this post: “This is a local blog for local people! There’s nothing for you here!”
(Source: BBC)

Bring Back Some Beer.

hipsterbeerLast year my wife gave me a bottle of Black Belle Imperial Stout for my birthday. I saved it for a special occasion: this year’s birthday. It aged well–or maybe it didn’t age at all. Let’s just say it tasted fine. Better than fine, really–it was really, really good, but usually I don’t let any beer sit around for that long. Neither does anyone else, as far as I know, since beer isn’t supposed to be aged like wine or whisky, but recently scientists sampled a beer that could be as much as 143 years old. Jon Crouse was scuba diving near Halifax, Nova Scotia in November. In a rainstorm. Sometimes being a glutton for punishment pays off: he found a really old bottle of Alexander Keith’s Beer and now scientists have tasted it. For science, of course.

In spite of the description, or maybe because of it–“a little tree fruit note, a cherry note in there somehow — certainly a lot of sulphur, kind of rotten egg stuff going on” I would try it if I could. Hey, I’ve tried Edmund Fitzgerald Porter. It’s dark and rich, very malty with strong flavors of chocolate and coffee and it gives you a nice sinking feeling.

There’s also the time Jacques Cousteau and his crew found and tried some wine that was approximately 2200 years old. It “tasted disgusting”. Lucky for me I don’t like wine.

In spite of being kind of a beer geek, in case you couldn’t tell, I’ve never tried any of Alexander Keith‘s brews. Maybe I should take a trip north of the border. For science, of course.



The Story Goes On.

image1Christmas is all about stories. Whether it’s A Christmas Carol or ‘Twas The Night Before Christmas or A Christmas Story or, well, you know, the original Christmas story the holiday is shaped by the stories we tell about it. One story I keep coming back to is Dylan Thomas’s A Child’s Christmas In Wales. I have a little copy that’s very special to me because I purchased it in Laugharne, the Welsh town where Thomas spent the last years of his life and did some of his best writing. The book was in my pocket when I stopped in Carmarthen, a Welsh town between Laugharne and Swansea, and attended the lighting of the town Christmas tree, so the story of how and why I went to Dylan Thomas’s home has, in my mind, become entwined with his Christmas story. I haven’t been back to Carmarthen since then but in the pictures I find on Google–something I couldn’t have imagined at the time–it looks very much the same. The Old Priory Guest House where I spent the night is still there, and still next to a graveyard. And when I read the story I still enjoy it as much as I did the first time, especially when young Dylan and his friends go caroling. Or maybe it’s the fire. Or the uncles. Or Auntie Hannah who has a few drinks because it’s only once a year and

So what’s your favorite Christmas story?


Kindness And Cruelty.

A friend of mine named Alex worked as a radio DJ back when radio stations were still run by people who lived in your neighborhood and you could call them up on a landline back when they weren’t called “landlines” because no one had cell phones and when you talked to the DJ you could request a favorite song or just chat with them for a while which some seemed to appreciate. One local radio station had a running gag of playing the call of the Tookie bird from George of The Jungle over a song and if you were the first caller you won something. One day my friend Jeff was talking to a DJ at that station and heard the Tookie bird in the background. He said, “Hey, I guess I’m the first caller. What did I win?”

But that’s another story.

One December day when Alex was working he had to play the hour’s news. When it was done there was a space of about thirty seconds before he could start playing songs so he filled it in by saying, “And we have some sad news from the North Pole. Santa Claus was badly injured when he fell out of his Norelco shaver. More on this as it develops.”

If you’re confused by that there was a long-running commercial of Santa Claus riding around the North Pole on a Norelco electric shaver. There’s a version of it below. It was cute although a little misleading. As soon as I got a chance I turned one of those electric shavers on and put it on the ground but it didn’t move. It didn’t even tear up the carpet which is probably a good thing, but I was hoping it would leave some trail marks.

Anyway the “joke” about Santa being injured or even killed while piloting his Norelco shaver was one I remember adults regularly told kids and it even inspired an Onion article, but I never did understand why it was supposed to be funny. All I got from it was that adults could be cruel. And weird.

For some reason though I found it hilarious when Alex did it on the radio because, well, because I’m weird.

A short time after Alex made his “announcement” he got a call from the radio station owner who just said, “Don’t do that again.”

That made me laugh too. That must be the cruel part.

Perdu Et Trouvé.

eiffel“Parisians are the rudest people in the world.”

“Paris would be a great city if it weren’t for the people.”

“Don’t bother asking for help. Even if you try to speak French they’ll just ignore you or laugh in your face.”

I try to keep an open mind but everyone I talked to about Paris had something negative to say about the people. There were no exceptions. Most of the people I talked to had never been to Paris themselves and were just repeating what they’d heard so it was easy to dismiss them but when I talked to people who’d been to Paris I heard the same thing. And they were speaking from experience. So when I stepped out into the streets of Paris I kept to myself as much as possible. If I had to buy something I kept my eyes down and if I had to speak I spoke quietly and in French, or at least the best French I could muster since I’d never actually learned the language.

I had done my best to master a few words and phrases I thought might be helpful, or at least help me avoid getting yelled at: “sil vou plait”, “merci”, “excusez-moi”, “cruddite”. From reading I’d picked up a little bit of French even if I couldn’t pronounce any of it. I memorized “Je ne parlez pas Français. Parlez vous Anglais?” even though I was sure it was going to get me yelled at for being a typical stupid American tourist. And I also made sure to memorize “Je suis perdu. Ou est les…?” I knew it would also get me yelled at but I was pretty sure I’d get lost and I figured it was worth a try. Since I thought it was only polite to try and speak the native language the one thing I was determined to do was not speak English to anyone unless they offered to speak it first.

I spent the first day checking off my Parisian wish list. I’m crazy about art history, especially the Twentieth Century with all its Isms, so it felt like I was breathing in greatness just walking around Le Bateau Lavoir where so many famous artists worked alongside each other. The building had seen so much history–I’d heard a story about the intersection of art history and global history that may have happened there. At the height of World War I Picasso and Braque stood in the doorway watching soldiers march by. Picasso noted the camouflage they wore and said to Braque, “We invented that.”

It was amazing to go to the Louvre and the Musee d’Orsay and stand in front of paintings and sculptures I’d only seen in books, to see the real things. I also tracked down Milan Kundera’s apartment building and actually met his wife, but that’s another story. Other than that I’d managed to avoid people for most of the day but I’d fallen in love with the city itself. My mind was buzzing with famous names and famous events. As I just walked the streets I knew I was following the footsteps of artists and writers and philosophers who’d also come to Paris, people whose art I’d seen and whose words I’d read, even if only in translation. Or in the original in some cases. Gertrude Stein lived there. So did James Thurber. Edward Hopper studied art in Paris.

Late in the evening I decided it was time to stop wandering and turn in. As I stepped out of a Montmarte Metro station I suddenly realized I had no clue where my hotel was. I’d set off without bothering to make any mental notes. Or physical notes. I’d been too excited to get going. It could be in any direction. There I was in the City of Light and literally and figuratively in the dark. At least I had a card with the name and address. I was terrified but I approached an older woman waiting to cross the street.

“Pardon. Je suis perdu. Ou est les…?” and I held out the card. She looked at it then gave me a half smile. Then she started pointing and rattling off directions in French. The light changed and she motioned for me to follow her. So I walked alongside her. A light rain started to fall. She asked me something I only partly understood–at least I got the word “parapluie”. “No,” I said, and she popped out an umbrella and held it over both of us. We crossed the street and walked a block. She then pointed and said something. There was my hotel.

“Merci beaucoup,” I said. She gave me a little wave then said something and was gone.

Why hadn’t she yelled at me, laughed in my face, or just ignored me? Well, I thought, even in Paris there must be exceptions.

The hotel lobby had the obligatory stand with pamphlets of touristy things. One caught my attention: a Dali museum. I had no idea there was a Dali museum in Paris but I was a huge fan. I grabbed the pamphlet and set off. Two Metro stations later I stepped out and started climbing a long flight of stairs. It seemed like the right way to go but the map was kind of confusing. There was an old man coming down the stairs so I stopped him.

“Pardon, ou est le Place du…” I stopped, afraid I’d mispronounce the name.

“Tertre” he said matter-of-factly.

“Oui.” I pointed up the stairs and also showed him the pamphlet.

“Oui, oui,” he nodded. “La haut.” He pointed up the stairs and then motioned off to the left. He said a few more things. Then he set off.

“Merci!” I said. He just waved and kept on going.

As far as I could tell the Dali museum was right where he said it would be.

This pattern continued over the next couple of days. I’d get lost or I’d be unsure where I was going. I’d ask someone on the street for help and they’d help. I started to look people in the eye. I smiled. People smiled back. I went into cafes and ordered food without just pointing at the menu. For all I knew the waiters called me a stupid tourist but they seemed friendly. I spent most of a Metro trip talking to a young woman with a guitar who’d overheard me asking for directions. She told me she was thrilled to be able to practice her English. I was happy to have a conversation where I could understand most of what the other person was saying. I bought a cassette of her music. I wish I still had it. She’s probably famous in France now and I could say I met her back when she was still busking for centimes.

My interests can be somewhat esoteric but I also love doing the typical tourist things. I’d been to all the major landmarks at least once but the one I kept going back to was the Eiffel Tower. It was incredible to stand underneath it. Pictures just can’t convey how big the damn thing is. And I went to the top three times: once during the day, once during the night, and one more time on my last day, just because. And then I went for a walk through a nearby neighborhood. I really didn’t think about where I was going. I figured as long as I could see the Eiffel Tower I’d know how to get back. I wandered down narrow cobblestone streets past apartment buildings. And then I looked up and realized I couldn’t see the Eiffel Tower anymore. It’s over a thousand feet tall. How could I possibly lose it? I wandered around looking up and only looked down just in time to avoid stepping in dog shit. Then I heard laughter. I turned around and there was an old woman in a brown dress. She laughed again and said something. Although I think I picked up the word merde I didn’t know what she said so I laughed too and said, “Oui.” And there we were both laughing.

Then I said, “Je sui perdu. Ou est le Metro?”

She laughed again then pointed and started giving me directions. I watched her hands and got the gist.

“Merci beaucoup madame” I said. I bowed. She laughed and then waved her hands at me, the universal gesture for, “Yeah, yeah, get out of here!”

As I was leaving the Metro station for the last time to go catch my tour bus I still had a dozen or so tickets. There was a guy coming in and I stopped him and handed him the tickets. He looked baffled, then he said something to me that I’m pretty sure meant, “This is too much. I can’t take these.” It was less than ten dollars-worth of tickets, but it still must have seemed pretty generous. And I guess I understand. How often in any big city does a stranger stop you to offer an unexpected gift? I said, in English, “I won’t be needing them anymore” and walked on. I don’t know if he understood me but I hope he used the tickets.

I’m sure there are rude Parisians. There are rude people everywhere. I just didn’t meet any of them. Maybe I was just lucky. Maybe I had some downtrodden look that made people take pity on me. I don’t know. Maybe it’s because I was polite and when I needed help from Parisians I put aside everything I’d heard about how they were supposed to be and just approached everyone with an open mind that they were kind to me in return. People are individuals which is why broad assumptions always break down at the personal level. It’s true everywhere.

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